"Good morrow, my lord."

"Good morrow, captain."

Denethor and Ælric greeted each other briskly, sparely, as was their habit. And as Ecthelion's son bent a measuring stare upon the other, Ælric met it; for a lengthy few moments, he returned the look, and then deliberately averted his eyes. It was an exquisitely calculated gesture, precisely executed with just that combination of ease and deliberation that Denethor knew quite well that it was not accidental. Indeed, he could hardly mistake it after a month's acquaintance with it, for Ælric was nothing if not consistent: each time their eyes met, he would turn away just so. My lord you are, but take no liberties with me, for I am not a servant-- so said that veiled, carefully neutral and impenetrable look, and the heir to the stewardship felt a thin smile curve his lips. Few could have managed such an artistic evasion without sliding over the boundary into defiance, yet thus far Ælric kept both his composure and his confidences, demurely denying his captain any glimpse of his thoughts. It amused Denethor, and so he never commented upon it, for that would have been... inelegant. And so it was on to the next step:

"Have you that analysis I set you?"

"Aye my lord," Ælric handed a respectable sheaf of paper to him. Denethor received it, flipping through the pages and skimming the rows of graceful script, absorbing the main matter in silence. And while he read, he felt the pressure of the other's eyes as Ælric did his own reading, though there was no text laid before him. After a short while, the heir to the stewardship gave a soft grunt and looked up again, once more meeting his aide's eyes. Ælric made no effort to pretend interest elsewhere, only endured his searching look for a time ere he once again shifted his gaze slightly without ever admitting defeat. "I see," Denethor said after a moment, his voice enlivened with a note of sharp humor. "Your conclusion is more or less my own: until one, or both, of us tours Poros, no satisfactory assessment can be made of its problems, nor of the extent of Umbar's control in that area. I might have spared myself the trouble and left the matter to you." And how shall you respond to that, I wonder, Ælric of Rohan?

"I know too little of Gondor yet to have earned such trust, my lord. When think you that we might obtain permission to make such a tour?" The other asked, pushing past that difficult compliment with singular disinterest.

"True enough," Denethor acknowledged, and watched the other's eyes narrow ever so slightly ere he, too, let drop any attempt at praise or flattery. "Unfortunately, I suspect we shall be forced to leave the matter aside for a time, much though I would prefer to move ahead with an inspection. Especially given reports that some Haradrim garrisons appear to have gained suddenly in numbers," he tapped another report that lay before him and leaned forward, bracing his hands on the edge of his desk. "However, I believe my lord father has other plans for us. We are to meet with him this morning, and I doubt not that it has somewhat to do with Rohan, since he especially wishes you to be present." For although Ælric might not be ready to command independently in Gondor, other than the Rohirric ambassador and his staff, there was no other so knowledgeable in matters pertaining to the House of Éorl. Thus had the newest captain of Gondor found his place amongst the steward's numerous advisors, surprising many with his eloquence. And his boldness, Denethor thought. Of course he has served as a captain in Rohan, and from what Breald said, he was one of Thengel's champions. More, he was the king's confidant. That will accustom a man to be easy when dealing with those of high rank. And yet...

"This summons does not appear to please you best, if I may say it," Ælric said at length, and his slight smile reminded Denethor that he was staring once more.

"As I said, I would rather concentrate on Poros' activities. For that matter, as we both know, Pelargir may be another troubled outpost, and South Ithilien already is. But Rohan is our best ally, and we must do all in our power to maintain friendly ties, even if efforts on the Mark's behalf delay the resolution of other problems," Denethor replied somewhat sourly.

"Then shall we turn to Pelargir for a time, since we have exhausted Poros?"

"Nay," Ecthelion's son straightened and offered a smile of his own this time. "We shall away to meet with my father, for he commanded us to appear when you arrived." Ælric blinked at that, and Denethor's smile broadened a bit at the other's momentary discomfiture. "So, since you have just arrived, let us not force him to wait upon us, mm?"

***

In the days when Ecthelion was lord of Minas Tirith, few were they who could not recall the days when Mordor, though a land of peril with a fell name, still slept. For it was late in Turgon's reign that the Shadow of the East returned, declaring itself in its pride and taking shape once more. Indeed, it was not yet fifteen years since the first messengers had arrived: terrified steaders of Ithilien, bearing with them naught but the clothes on their back, and sometimes not even that. To Poros they went, or found passage over the river, and thence to Minas Tirith, where they spilled the tale that had made them Mordor's first and most unwilling heralds: orcs and Easterlings of unknown origins stormed through the land. All had come boiling out of Durthang, which nestled at the edge of the Black Land, and they had turned south to bypass Cair Andros. There had been no warning, for the enemy had been too swift and fierce, and the border patrol had been swept away, as grain scattered in the wind. The attack had ravished Ithilien's remaining northern population, yet for all its wantonness, a number of traumatized survivors had been allowed to flee west with the message ringing in their ears: Sauron, lord of the earth, has returned to Mordor! Bow to him, or fall to him!

With the passing days, as more and more refugees arrived at Poros or trickled across the Anduin to the White Tower, it was learned that Sauron had taken shape again: not as mortal being, but as the Eye of Wrath before whom all must in time be revealed. Such was the horror of that gaze as it focused upon Ithilien that few could endure the dread, and all but a pitiful handful of steaders had fled west, seeking safety in Lebennin, in Morthond Vale, in Belfalas, or in Minas Tirith itself. From that day forward and for three bloody years, it had been a running battle. The forests of Ithilien became one vast graveyard, from one end to the other, and Gondor's forces, if not precisely in disarray, were certainly strained as Ecthelion, then in the earliest days of his reign, had scrambled to find the men to meet this and other threats. When, three years after Sauron's proclamation, Mount Doom had erupted, raining ash as far as Halifierien, the Citadel had been blackened with the soot, as if mourning the desolation of the people of Gondor. For the last of the Ithilien steaders had been forced from their homes-- sometimes at the hands of Gondor's own men, who had been charged to evacuate them at sword-point if necessary-- and the land of moonlight lay in thralldom to Mordor's malice.

That had been a blow to a young man's pride and also to his heart, but Ecthelion of Gondor liked to think that he had learned something from those chaotic years. Not least of which is humility... I hope! In the steward's dayroom that served as his office, he stood by the window and gazed out at the bright new day-- at Ithilien and the confines of Mordor. As it whistled past the tower, a northern breeze pulled and teased at his hair-- dark locks streaked with grey throughout, and when he frowned, his brow furrowed and the lines that had cut deeply into his face creased. He had aged since that day; even before his father's death, the suddenness of the attack and the desperate conditions had marked him. For he had helped to evacuate the last steaders east of Anduin, had watched orcs and Easterlings come screaming from beneath the trees to fling themselves into the defenders' faces...and he had watched his people fall. For three years, he had fought in Ithilien, and in the midst of a military crisis, his father had died, leaving him quite suddenly steward of Gondor. But he could not simply leave to return home, and so he had remained, delaying the formal rites, and instead had watched the Enemy whittle away at every regiment he threw against Mordor until Gondor was gasping. Fortunately, it seemed that even as the Dark Lord had grievously reduced their ranks, Gondor's soldiers had bled their enemies white as well. A year after Turgon's death, a weary and much changed Ecthelion had returned to Minas Tirith to take up the rod and rule of the land.

And now here I stand and watch from afar as the Enemy moves all about us, and try to prevent another blood-bath that would prostrate us! Fourteen years ago, we were surprised, but today we see too clearly what lies before us. I know our strength is not what it once was, though at least our ranks are not nearly as depleted as when I became steward. But Gondor was still in a precarious position, and it would be so for as long as it remained alone in this fight. And that was why Ecthelion had gone elsewhere for men and advisors, seeking allies and commerce to the north with the Bardings, or to the west among the Rohirrim. Even south, in the northernmost reaches of Harad and Umbar, he sought secretly information and dealt with some of the smuggler lords. Had he stopped there, his council might not still howl with dismay, but Ecthelion had gone further than any before him save Cirion-- rather than simply affirming treaties, he had, over the protests of many, opened Gondor's ranks to outsiders five years ago. Because there is no other way! Gondor is too isolated, and we can no longer command loyalty south of Poros, in the disputed regions! We have even grown away from the Rohirrim, and have had too little contact with them, though we shall need their strength when the pinch comes. True, the foreigners among them were few still, but their numbers increased yearly. It helped that Thengel was king of the Rohirrim, and advocated service in Gondor as a way of seasoning younger warriors. But it was not enough...

Just then, a knock on his door sounded, and his esquire scurried quickly to answer. "Father," his son's voice came ere the lad could announce him properly. Ecthelion turned from the view to see Denethor enter, followed by Ælric at a discreet distance.

"My son. Ælric." The steward greeted them with a nod and a smile, indicating that they should seat themselves on the chairs drawn up for that purpose. When they had done so, he stood gazing down at them for a moment. Denethor was his only child, for Nirthel, his wife, had proved unable to bear any more after that difficult birth. Yet did I not know better, I would say that indeed he has a brother, so alike are these two! Set side by side, it was quite uncanny how similar his son and his newest captain were. Both were of an age, with slender builds for their height; both had the purely grey eyes and finely shaped, almost severe, features that were hallmarks of Dúnedain blood; and both had coal-dark hair. Denethor's was cut much shorter than Ælric's, who had let his grow according to Rohirrim custom, but as the latter had it pulled back much of the time, the difference was hardly noticeable face to face. Even beyond simple appearances, their mannerisms bore a certain resemblance: there was a precision to their movements that favored economy, and both could radiate intensity when working on some problem. But Denethor's body language was subtly different from Ælric's, being more tense, sharper, less easy-- in other words, it took one of great fortitude to approach him casually, and Ecthelion sighed inwardly once more. Well, there is naught I can do about that at the moment, and that is not why I called them here in any case! Clearing his throat, he turned to the business at hand, "Ere I begin, I would know your opinions of Poros. What are your conclusions?"

"Poros is stretched too thin, and its organization seems oddly inefficient, its territory overlapping with that of South Ithilien. More, its quartermaster is an inexcusably poor record-keeper," Denethor replied.

"Or else worse," Ælric added, and Denethor nodded sharply ere he continued.

"It might seem a simple enough matter to reorder its ranks and redefine its responsibilities, but given the problem with the quartermaster, which seems very late in coming to light, I would suggest an unannounced inspection. And if we clean out Poros, it would be well to do the same at Pelargir, for many supplies go first through that outpost."

"I see," Ecthelion replied, wishing indeed that this was not necessary, for he was loathe to believe that some of his own men might be dealing treacherously with the Haradrim and interfering with South Ithilien's routes deliberately. But the matter had gone on long enough, clearly. And for an inquiry of this magnitude, I must send one vested with all the authority of the steward, and my son is well-suited to bear that responsibility. Just as Ælric is well-suited to the other matter... "Consider your suggestion taken, then. But there is an additional difficulty that needs careful handling, and it must be settled quickly, ere you attend to Poros even. Cair Andros has one of the largest contingents of Rohirrim cavalry in Gondor, as I believe you are both aware." Nods from the two younger men affirmed that knowledge, and the steward continued briskly, with a slight edge to his voice, "According to the garrison commander, Falthir, the Rohirrim are a disruptive influence among the men, and he has resorted to splitting their company in an effort to lessen the potential for trouble. At the same time, the Rohirrim liaison complains of unfair treatment. Anórien is a common border, and news goes back and forth between Rohan and Gondor quite often along the Beacon Hills Route. You may imagine what news has trickled back to Edoras, and from Edoras to me." Ecthelion paused, and Denethor and Ælric cast a quick glance at each other, as if in grim anticipation of the next words. "I do not wish to risk Thengel's cooperation in our defenses, nor do I wish to make of this more than needs be made of it, therefore I want this ended-- quickly and decisively. Since you must go to Poros in any case, your orders are to go north to Cair Andros and then pass south through Ithilien. Thus you will be able to speak with Erethras in South Ithilien ere you continue on to Poros."

"Should not Poros be seen to more swiftly than that, father?" Denethor asked. "I realize that Cair Andros may breed a diplomatic incident, but if Poros is now actively involved in the black market and possibly hindering our own forces to give smugglers a clear route, then surely that must be our first priority."

"You need not remain together, the two of you. Ælric, I would prefer that you spend more time in Cair Andros, for you know the Rohirrim best of all of us. Denethor, you need not remain long, only long enough to impress upon Falthir my desire that all be resolved as speedily as possible. Assuming that fortune favors you, Ælric, you can pass back through Minas Tirith on your way south to Poros by way of Pelargir, which will give you the opportunity to get an impression of the harbor there, and of its business. That may help you both later."

"As you wish, my lord," Ælric replied, and then arched a dark brow at him. "I assume we are to leave later this afternoon?"

"Indeed, yes."

"Then with your leave, father...?" Denethor replied, as first he and then his aide rose.

"Go, Denethor! But Ælric, I would have a word with you." The steward watched as Denethor shot the other man a quick look, but then his son nodded, as if granting his shadow permission, bowed to his lord and father, and then silently departed. Ælric, meanwhile, remained, hands clasped behind his back as he awaited enlightenment. "Thank you for waiting."

"You have only to ask, my lord," the younger man replied. "How may I serve?"

"'Tis not a matter of service but of understanding," Ecthelion explained, his gaze resting upon the other's face, his tone of voice serious. "Know that I do not lack confidence in you, but you are quite new to the ranks, and Falthir does not know you. That is why I do not send Denethor directly south, and why I would have you give my son this," Ecthelion found a pen and a paper on the low table between the chairs and quickly wrote out a few lines. Folding it, he handed it to Ælric, who accepted it and tucked it into the front of his shirt. "Have you any questions?" In response to his concerned look, he received but a slight smile and a nod in return.

"I understand, my lord, and I have no complaints, for 'tis true enough that I am unknown outside of the city, and shall remain so until I have opportunity to prove myself. If you judge it best that the lord Denethor oversee me in this, then I shall be well content to be seen as his deputy."

"Good. I am glad of that, for," Ecthelion replied, eyeing Ælric shrewdly now, "I know well that my son is not easy company to keep." And when the Rohirrim made no response, save to raise his brows at that, the steward chuckled wryly. "They say that a man is wise who knows his son, Ælric. I make no claim to wisdom, for in truth, I know him not as well as I ought, being his father. Yet I know enough to realize that he is a difficult man with whom to work."

"I have no particular quarrel with him, sir."

"Few go so far as to invite one. But believe me when I say you need not fear retribution if you say that you are uncomfortable with him. I have watched the two of you, and you in particular, the better to learn your strengths. I will say, Ælric," Ecthelion admitted, "You are one of few willing to argue with him at length. And given your foreign origins, I am surprised that he likes you so well."

"Likes me?" The other sounded rather bemused, and just a bit surprised by the choice of words.

"Aye, he does. Or so I would read it. You intrigue him, at least, and that is rare. He does not read you easily. No one does," the steward added pointedly, but Ælric merely smiled slightly.

"I am a private person, my lord steward, even as the lord Denethor is. It is likely because of that that he can endure me, foreigner that I am! I do not flaunt my strangeness." He responded, deftly turning that phrase about to suit him.

"Yes, well, that may be so! For myself, I trust Thengel, who trusts you, and my own observations do nothing to dissuade me from my faith in the King of Rohan. We served together, we two, in Turgon's day, and it is largely thanks to him that we have as many Rohirrim volunteers as we do in our ranks. I should hate to jeopardize that with an ugly incident in Anórien!"

"What precisely is the complaint against the Rohirrim, if I may ask?"

"That they offend men with their brashness, thereby causing fights in the ranks. That they disturb the others and argue overmuch. I suspect that Denethor may have some sympathy to such complaints, especially the latter ones," Ecthelion said with a humorless smile. "The Rohirrim, for their part, complain that they are subject to ridiculous restrictions and are treated as... how was it phrased? 'Stable hands not fit to roll a farmer's hound,' I believe." Ælric winced at that, shaking his head, but the corners of his mouth curved suspiciously into something like a smile over the colorful language. "You are familiar with such complaints, I take it?"

"That is... one of the more serious comments one might make in a formal letter. It may take some time to placate the Rohirrim if that is the level of their grievance, my lord."

"Nevertheless, I doubt not that you shall have a better chance of resolving this than my son. I fear that Denethor has impeccable analytic skills, but others do not lead with logic, nor follow one who does, necessarily. And it is important to me that we avoid alienating Rohan!" He ended in almost a growl as he turned and stalked to a shelf set into the wall, at chest height to a man. Upon it, there sat a long, narrow box, black and unadorned, save for the pure white of the steward's crest. Opening it, he ran his fingers down the matte black steel shaft and over the scarlet head of the arrow within. Taking it carefully in his hands, he turned back to Ælric and indicated with a jerk of his head that the other should approach. When the captain stood once more before him, gazing down at the dart, Ecthelion said, "The Red Arrow: symbol of the ties that bind Rohan and Gondor together. Ironic, and yet quite appropriate, for even as this arrow obliges Rohan to aid the Men of Minas Tirith, it is a weapon of war, and hence also a symbol of division. You who have been in Rohan and have served now both Edoras and Minas Tirith should know this well from experience. We are divided-- the Rohirrim who come here find it difficult to remain for more than a few years, for their ways are not ours, and many are the commanders who misunderstand them and make no effort to accommodate them. That is why your oath, in contrast to Denethor's, for example, must be renewed every three years. Thus can men fulfill the requirements of honor, without being compelled to remain in a poor situation."

Gently, Ecthelion replaced the arrow and closed the lid once more. His hands resting flat atop the shallow coffer, he cast a shrewd look over his shoulder at the other. "Thengel spoke highly of you as a personal friend, so I think I do neither of you injustice if I tell you that Thengel himself, in his private letters to me, has attested to the fact of our prejudice. And he suffered from it despite his years of acculturation. Nothing so deliberate or blatantly ugly as what passes at Cair Andros, but nevertheless, he was not unaware that others looked askance at him."

"Thengel King said more than once to me that he felt some of the... doubt... that men felt about him here stemmed more from the impression that he had abandoned Rohan than that he was a foreigner. He much admires Gondor and its customs, to the dismay of his court in some instances! Think not, my lord, that Gondor alone has a narrow view," Ælric replied. "Were Gondorrim in large numbers to seek service in Rohan, the complaints might flow the other way."

"Denethor tells me your mother was not Rohirrim," Ecthelion said, turning fully towards Ælric. He did not make a practice of prying into his officers' private affairs, but this was too much of an opportunity to bypass, and so he took advantage of the moment to indulge his own curiosity. "I imagine your looks might have made you... quite distinct. Even as your name here brands you as different."

At which Ælric snorted in fine contempt. "Quite! But I can speak no ill of the Rohirrim, for they mean well. If I may serve the interests of both my lands, then it is my honor to do so."

"Well spoken. Then I shall leave you to ready yourself, if Denethor has not already set such preparations in motion. One thing, though, ere you leave," the steward held up a hand when Ælric bowed and would have excused himself. "For all your glib tongue, I think it clear enough that although you will do your duty, you are not at ease with Denethor. Should that tension grow to the point that it impairs your ability to carry out your obligations, I will place you elsewhere under another, assuming that you have not by then been assigned an independent command. But should that come to pass, I expect you to tell me of it, Ælric!"

"As you wish, my lord, but I repeat: I am well able to handle myself, and your son and I have no grievance with each other. Good day, sir."

"Good day! Fair journey!"

"Thank you, my lord." And with that, Ælric bowed once more and quietly slipped out of the room. Ecthelion stared after him for a long while, musing over their conversation. At length, he gave a soft snort and shook his head in wry amusement, with just that edge of sharp bafflement tainting his humor.

"A private person indeed! Say rather an irresistible puzzle! And my single-minded son, despite his focus on Gondor, will nevertheless find time to hound after your past!" But that was not his concern at the moment, and he sighed as he went to his desk, picked up a number of military dispatches that had arrived recently, and began to read. So long as it seemed Denethor and Ælric had an understanding, and could manage themselves, he had no cause to interfere. Denethor may have met his match at last, for I think me the newest captain of Gondor is not one to be driven, whether by fear or another's questions. And for that, I am grateful!

***

Aragorn paused at Denethor's door and knocked. Then he waited some little while until the gangly lad who served as esquire peered out. "Haldor," he greeted him quickly, getting a nod in return. "I have a message for the lord Denethor from his father. Shall I leave it with you?"

"Oh no, sir. My lord said that you might come, and that if you should, then you were to go back and speak with him briefly," Haldor replied.

"Thank you, lad," Aragorn responded, suppressing a sigh. What he wanted, given that he had been granted an unexpected few hours' grace to do as he pleased between packing and departure, was take a walk and ponder Ecthelion's words. And there is always Pelargir to think of, for I have some thoughts on that matter as well. But it seemed that rather than think about Denethor and the Rohirrim, he would be required to deal with the steward's heir directly. Ah well, I have always been one to trust my own eyes, and Denethor is not a man to be understood easily at a distance. So he thought and made his way back to Denethor's inner chambers, whither he had hitherto had neither invitation nor cause to go. When he reached the doors to Denethor's bedroom, he paused and knocked again, receiving a muffled "Come!" as answer. Leaning into the heavy door, he pushed it open, and then paused on the threshold.

What did I expect, after all? He wondered to himself as he gazed about. After a month, he knew well that Denethor, despite a rigid adherence to even the most elaborate ceremonies prescribed by custom, was not particularly ostentatious in his personal tastes. Not that his tastes were simple or beneath his rank, but he was hardly one to surround himself with things. That was the first thing that struck Aragorn, after the overwhelming air of... enclosure. There was nothing elaborate about the room. Dark blue predominated, drowning out the touches of red or green, and in places it faded into black, reminding the Ranger of shades of nightfall. Shelving on each of the four walls accommodated a considerable collection of books and the occasional decorative stone figurine. Carved book ends, mute and heavy with the weight of the knowledge of centuries at their backs, seemed to glare down from all angles. A few chairs, a small table with a chess game on it, and a large trunk at the foot of the bed ordered the space efficiently by quadrants, and on one wall, above a low book case, hung knotted creations. "In Gondor, 'tis not considered good luck to stand in doorways overlong, Ælric," Denethor's voice caught his attention, and the steward's son raised a severe brow at him, a hint of a smile on his face. Closing a book with an audible clap, he set it precisely in the center of the bed and glided towards him a few steps. "Come in if you will, otherwise, let us repair to the other room."

Aragorn merely gave a soft grunt and entered, reaching into his shirt after the paper. "My apologies, I would not blacken your doorstep with ill fortune, my lord," he replied by way of recovering himself. "Your father bid me give you this."

"Thank you," Denethor took the message, opened it, read it, and nodded once. Was it merely a trick of the light that made it seem that those grey eyes grew darker? "Yes, thank you." Ecthelion's son went to one corner, where a set of saddle-bags lay and he tucked the note into an outer pocket. In the mean time, Aragorn had drifted closer to the wall on which hung the braided knots, eyes following the intricate patterns of loops and crossings. After a time, he sensed Denethor come to stand just behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder, folding his arms across his chest.

"What are they?" He finally asked.

"An ancient tradition. Reputedly, Elendil sponsored this particular art ere ever he left Númenor, and it has flourished ever since in Gondor. If you go along Mariner's Row in the First Circle, or even out to the docks of the Harlond, you will find many who trade in them."

"And do you know how to make them, my lord?" Aragorn asked, curious.

"Nothing so elaborate as that. Seaman's knots, and a few others of greater complexity, but there is often no time for such idle pursuits, for it takes many years to master the art," Denethor replied casually. Nevertheless, Aragorn heard the slight hardening of his tone, and thought that the other regretted that lack of time. Even as he sought some response, Denethor moved forward to stand beside him, and he watched as Ecthelion's son traced the intricate loops and coils through their maze-like, wending ways. An 'idle' pursuit, is it? Aragorn thought, but did not smile. After a moment, though, Denethor tore his eyes away, turning a sharp glance on his aide. Something undefinable flickered in that stony gaze, yet Arathorn's son had the impression that the other resented him for having observed that brief moment of distraction. "I have had arrangements made with the stablemaster, and Haldor will shortly see to both of our supplies. Such men as are needed for this venture have already been alerted. How swiftly can you pack?"

"I need not long. Half an hour, perhaps," Aragorn replied, accepting the quick shift in their conversation.

"Good. We should be able to set out an hour past noon, then." Denethor replied, turning away from the wall to go and stand before the window that looked east over the battlements. A pause, and then, "Is that all, then?"

"Aye, my lord," Aragorn said, and blinked, surprised. He asked me in, and as he never does aught without purpose, I thought he would wish to discuss something more... substantial.

"Very well. One hour after noon, meet me at the stables in the Second Circle. Good morning." And so saying, the lord steward's son simply turned his back on him, dismissing him with a gesture.

"Good morning, my lord," the Ranger replied, retreating. And as he passed through the other chambers and thence to the hall without, he frowned, thinking through that encounter. What was that about? He had the oddest feeling that it had had nothing at all to do with business, and everything to do with privacy, and yet that seemed to clarify nothing. One month spent at his beck and call, and still I know very little about him! As little as he knows of me, I am tempted to think! That guilty acknowledgement eased his sense of frustration somewhat, for admittedly, Denethor had reason to be suspicious of him. It never ceased to amaze Aragorn what mysteries men would accept if stymied for long enough, for most in the Citadel had ceased to wonder overmuch about him. 'Most'-- Denethor has not abandoned the hunt yet. But whereas I have reason to hide some things-- even many things!-- what excuse has he? A captain must keep some distance between himself and his men, but surely there are limits to all things. No wonder to me that men walk on eggshells about him, and count his notice a sign of incompetence! And now I suppose I am, as they say in the Tower, 'one time noticed'! But why? He could only think that his observation of Denethor when the other's attention was distracted made of him an unwitting sort of trespasser. An intruder into the life lived behind that aloof mask! Yet that seemed so little a thing, and although Denethor had an eye for detail, Aragorn had never gotten the impression that he was that petty a man. Or perhaps I disturbed something deeper than I realized? I know not! As he went swiftly to his room to see to his own saddlebags, he shook his head and sighed as he set such speculation aside in the mental coffer labeled "Denethor" and closed the lid. It was but another encounter to weave into the tortuous pattern that was the steward's son, and he would spend far too many hours on it later. For the moment, though, he had other tasks to see to. For having declared that I can do my duty under Denethor's command, I would not be proved a liar!

***

Denethor, staring out at the Ephel Dúath, heard the doors close after Ælric, and though he did not permit himself to relax, nevertheless, he felt the coil of tension in him unwind a bit. In truth, he knew not why he had so quickly ended the interview, for he had thought to probe the other's vague past again. Yet feeling Ælric's eyes on him in that unguarded moment, he had suddenly changed his mind. Irritation, and just an edge of uneasiness had welled up lightning quick, and he had simply dismissed him. Denethor snorted. What is the matter with me, that I let him provoke such reactions in me? 'Tis hardly reasonable! Nevertheless, he had acted instantly upon that feeling, and he wondered at himself. A good commander listened to his instincts, and it was as if instinct had demanded he be rid of the other. We are not at war, he reminded himself, and felt a rueful smile spread over his face. At odds, yes, and he dances quite well, but this is not a war! He thought, turning away from the mountains to stare down at the chess game. The table itself was the playing field, its surface inlaid with marble and obsidian squares, and the pieces sat as he had left them last. Black's move. Denethor frowned a moment, then chose the queen's knight and advanced it past a set of pawns. Then he paused and considered the white pieces, ere he reached out and moved the king's captain* to cover a gap in the defense. Check mate in six, unless white can claim that rook! The sun's rays lanced through the window, gleaming brightly upon the board, and Denethor retreated before the glare. Later would be soon enough to finish that match. For the moment, he had spare time (a rare luxury!) and so he retrieved his book, settled himself in the middle of the bed, and quickly lost himself and all thought of the troubling and troublesome Ælric in the long march of words.

 

 

********

*King's captain: Since bishops don't exist in Middle-earth, I figured it'd be reasonable to make them into captains for those knights.

 

Chapter I I
Heart to Heart

From the North Gate of the Pelennor to Cair Andros, it was some fifty miles, and the company that burst from those gates went with the wind at its back. Another commander might have made less haste, for clearly there was no question of setting out from the isle ere dawn of the next day, but Denethor had never made a practice of dawdling. Those who had served any length of time with him knew this well; thus none were particularly surprised by the speed of the journey, nor by its silence, for it was well nigh impossible to carry a conversation when the wind fairly tore the words from one's lips and scattered them like seeds, planting one here or there in another's ears to spawn inquiries upon rest stops. Yet even had they ridden slower, Denethor was not one for idle conversation usually, and although he rarely hushed others for less reason than danger, his silence was contagious: one simply felt unwilling to disturb Ecthelion's heir with unnecessary noise. During their one, brief pause, men made close-ringed groups and spoke quietly amongst themselves, allowing Denethor his space and stillness by habit. None so much as cast a curious glance at him over their shoulders, for they were accustomed to his particular ways and would have been more disconcerted had he joined them. But if the men were circumspect and paid their lord no heed, they themselves were not unwatched. Denethor stood to the east of the group, facing north towards the isle, and while he turned over what he must say to Falthir, he watched his men out of the corners of his eyes, assessing their mood. Eager to be about their business, he judged, but otherwise relaxed enough.

And curious! He thought, shifting his attention to the object of their fascination. Ælric stood by his mount, stroking the beast's nose and talking quietly to the gelding. Since his rather precipitous departure from Denethor's quarters earlier that morning, they had not spoken, save to briefly greet each other and discuss the mechanics of departure, which might be considered normal enough. But Ælric had given him an unusually close stare, and Denethor had felt the other's eyes on him a time or two since. The captain said naught, but clearly, he was puzzled by his lord's earlier behavior. As well he might be! Denethor was forced to admit, irritated with himself for his unusual lapse in self-control. How to bridge the gap-- to bring the dancers back into a useful alignment and proximity-- was a question to which he had devoted some thought as they rode. As of yet, however, he had found no easy solution. Worse, his brooding on the question was distracting him inexcusably! For Ælric turned to look at him suddenly, seeming to feel his steady gaze, and with a final soft word to his horse, he came unbidden to join Denethor.

"Is aught amiss, my lord?" he asked in an undertone.

"Amiss? Think you that something is wrong in this land?" Denethor asked, avoiding the question.

"Nay, nothing strikes me as threatening. Yet you seem pensive," Ælric replied, refusing to allow him to escape.

"I merely look ahead, to a confrontation with Falthir. You might give that matter some thought, rather than playing with your mount!"

That elicited a low laugh from the other, and it did not even sound feigned, which surprised Denethor. He was not the only one startled, either, for that noise garnered a few more looks from the men, who paused to glance surreptitiously their way, hoping to discern what humor passed between their betters. "I have had all the ride thus far to think on such matters, and still there lie a good twenty miles before us, ere we come to the isle. Rest assured, my lord, I shall not fail in this for lack of consideration. Or at all, if it be within my power to succeed." There came a brief pause, and then, "Besides, Geleafa and I have not spent much time together this past week. One does not slight a horse of Rohan!"

Denethor gave a short, sharp bark of laughter himself at that, unable to contain it. The juxtaposition of deadly serious promise and concern over a horse's feelings appealed irresistibly to his sense of the ridiculous, and he shook his head. Casting a shrewd eye upon his captain, he heard himself retort, ere he could think better of it, "I trust that although you have Faith, you shall not forget your judgment in a saddlebag!"

"I hope that I have never done that, my lord," Ælric replied wryly. The two fell silent awhile, Denethor turning his eyes back to the north, while Ælric drifted to his other side to stare east at the dark mountains that rose high beyond the river. At length, just when it seemed that silence would reign between them, Ecthelion's son said with a certain abrupt nonchalance, "They watch you, you know."

"My lord?"

"The men do. Surely you are not unaware of this?"

"I had noticed, but what of it?"

"You are a puzzle to them. I think they know not what to make of you yet."

"Mm..." Ælric turned slightly, so that he could keep the escort in his field of vision without staring. "Doubtless they shall decide soon enough whether I be fish or fowl. They are accustomed to strangers in Gondor by now."

"Nay, they are accustomed to Rohirrim strangers in Gondor," Denethor corrected mildly, and glanced at Ælric to see what impression that remark made. Ælric did not blink, only smiled slightly-- a demure smile that yet spoke of mischief contained-- ere he replied:

"Then doubtless I am naught new to them!"

"You have a rare persistence, Ælric, I will give you that as a gift!" Denethor replied, and caught the other's eyes for a brief but not unfruitful moment. Without allowing Ælric a chance to respond with words, he turned and signaled the rest of the group, who scrambled to pretend that they had not been trying to listen to their master's conversation with his captain. "To horse!" Giving Ælric a thin smile of his own, he added, "Need you a few more moments with Geleafa, or has he any objections to the swift continuation of our journey?"

"If he has concerns, they are but over the endurance of your own poor steeds, my lord!" Ælric scoffed as Geleafa, without prompting, trotted forward to his master, apparently eager to be off again.

"Our own poor steeds shall see us to Cair Andros quite readily, thank you," Denethor replied, mounting his own horse, Nightweave, and spurring him abreast of Ælric and Geleafa. Nightweave snorted, inciting the other horse to a soft whinny and a shake of his grey head. "Forth! We do not pause between here and the isle!" And so they went, off at the gallop through the tail end of Anórien.

 

Shades of evening had settled on the land when the company drew rein before the picket on the western shore of Anduin that guarded the Westgate ferry of Cair Andros. "Who comes hither?" The captain of the watch asked, eyeing them in the torchlight from just beyond the range of the pikemen's spears.

"The lord Denethor, on an errand from the Steward!" Ælric replied, dismounting to hand the man the official courier's signet. The guard captain inspected it carefully, then nodded sharply as he returned the ring.

"Welcome, my lord, to Cair Andros," said he, bowing to Denethor ere he signaled his men to stand down.

"Thank you, captain," Ecthelion's son replied smoothly. "Is Captain Falthir within tonight, or is he abroad?"

"He is here, my lord," the other answered. "If you would, cross now, and those on watch shall arrange for the captain to meet with you. The stable lads will see to your horses!"

With a wave of his arm, the captain of the gate watch ordered his men aside, and the company, being smaller than most, was able to fit their horses all onto the ferry, though it was a bit crowded, and those who stood away from the edges remained on their horses. It was a slow ride over the smooth surface of the river, for the western arm of the river ran calmly, and some of the men drooped in their saddles or leaned against their mounts wearily. But as they reached the isle's shore, the gates of Cair Andros opened before them, and Denethor was quick to move them off of the ferry. They passed within the fortress's high walls and came to a broad, cobble-stone courtyard. Stables, with barracks above them and to either side, lined the north and south walls, and the high, narrow keep sat along the eastern battlement, looking out over North Ithilien. There were men about in the courtyard, huddled in groups around low-set braziers, and the company of Denethor headed towards one such cluster of soldiers, who stood before the northern stables. As they approached, the men looked up, and the firelight glinted golden off of their hair and twinkled in curious blue eyes. "Ælric," Denethor side-stepped his mount a bit to draw quite close, then reached over and tugged Geleafa's reins to bring both their mounts from a walk to a stand-still, letting the others pass them by.

"Aye, my lord?"

"When we meet Falthir, say nothing, not even your name. Let me speak with him first. And when you do speak, try to hide your accent-- you still have a lamentably Rohirric 'r'!"

"Fear not over that, my lord," Ælric replied, very deliberately smoothing away all traces of Rohirric influence. "I shall do my best!"

"See to it that you do, for--"

"Ælric hlaford!" A cry went up, and the pair glanced over to see a Rohirrim detach himself from the knot of soldiers.

"Breca?" Ælric replied after a moment, and dismounted, shooting a quick, apologetic glance at Denethor. "Your pardon, my lord," he murmured ere turning towards the Rider. "Wes hal, leof!"

"Gá éow god, hlaford mín! And Geleafa!" The other cried, grinning when the horse nuzzled him. "I knew not that you had come to Gondor!" said Breca, bowing respectfully, but wearing a smile as he stroked Geleafa's velvety nose. Then he glanced up at Denethor, seeming to try to decide what to make of him.

"Breca, this is Lord Denethor," Ælric quickly informed him.

"I am honored, then." Breca replied, making Denethor a bow as well. And ere the steward's son could speak, went on easily, "If you would tell your men to dismount, my lord, we shall see to the horses at least, and a few of the lads could show them to the mess hall, if they wish it." That, as he glanced behind him quickly and motioned briskly to the other Rohirrim, with a word prompting them in their own tongue.

"My thanks, Breca," Denethor replied, giving the man a bemused stare ere he dismounted at Ælric's side. Then he withdrew a bit and set about the business of ordering his company. Breca nodded, pleased, handing off Geleafa and Nightweave to one of the younger Rohirrim ere he turned back to Ælric.

"How came you here, my lord?"

"Even as you did: I desired to serve in Gondor, and Thengel King gave me leave to do so. But although I recall you from the king's household, I knew not that you had been assigned to Cair Andros."

"Did you not, my lord?" Breca raised a pale brow and stroked his beard thoughtfully, regarding Aragorn with narrowed eyes, lips set in a tight, frustrated line.

"Nay, I did not. Why? Should I have known?"

"Mayhap not at first, but I am the liaison here."

"The last letter that I saw," Aragorn replied, thinking of that sparely-worded report, and of the separate complaint that the steward had confided earlier that day, "bore Hladred's signature, and I have heard no mention that he had been replaced." Breca snorted and shook his head, shrugging as he folded his arms across his chest.

"He died a week ago. Cursed orcs!" he muttered, and shot a glare over his shoulder at Denethor, who was speaking now with a man in Cair Andros's livery. For his part, Aragorn stiffened at the other's tone which, when taken together with that look, seemed to imply that he held Denethor-- or some other Gondorrim authority-- to blame for that death. Breca gave a grunt then, by way of untranslatable comment on an obscure topic, and continued more calmly, "I know not whether the captain has sent the paperwork to Mundburg yet, nor do I know whether you would have seen it, for I know not your duties. Are you his?" This with a scowl, and none too subtle jerk of his head towards Denethor. Clearly, Breca took a dim view of such an arrangement, and Aragorn let his own expression grow quite still as he stared back at the other.

"I am Lord Denethor's aide until the steward decides otherwise, Breca," he replied coolly. "Do not overstep your authority to judge me, nor to judge the steward's son in my presence when you know him not. For that matter, I like not the implication that you would lie in your greeting, either, for you do no one honor with this discussion!"

Breca bit his lip and had the good grace to look ashamed at that, glancing away from the weight of the Ranger's eyes. "My apologies, hlaford, for I am weary of Gondorrim and their ways! 'Tis hard not to class them all alike at times! But I suppose that that is little excuse for poor courtesy."

"No, it is not," said Aragorn, and was silent a moment. Over Breca's shoulder, he noted that Denethor was concluding his discussion, and in moments would rejoin the two of them. I had best conclude this as well, then! With a sigh, he relented and laid hands on the other's shoulders. "Come! Let us not dwell on such an argument, though we must speak of these matters again soon, Breca. For if you are discontent, be assured that so are others, and the steward himself sent us to discover the root of it-- to repair the fault, if we can!" The Rohirrim's brows shot up at that, and he uttered a soft oath.

"Truly? I did not know... Well then, I am, as I was before, at your disposal, hlaford mín! You are always welcome among us, should you grow weary of the chill of stone! And you know that we shall see to Geleafa!" Breca replied with a half-smile. "'Tis good to see you again, Ælric hlaford! Denethor lord!" The man nodded respectfully to Ecthelion's son, who came just then to stand at Ælric's side, and then he moved off.

"Captain Falthir awaits our convenience," Denethor said, watching Breca rejoin the Rohirrim. "If you have said all that you would...?"

"I have, my lord. Let us go!" The steward's son nodded and led the way across the yard to the keep. On the third floor of the tower, Denethor steered them down a hallway that dead-ended in a single door. To either side of the door stood sentries, but they saluted and made haste to announce the pair to the occupant within.

"My lord Denethor, a good evening to you. Sir," the man who greeted them set aside some paperwork as he rose and came round the desk to make his bow.

"Captain Falthir," Denethor replied, accepting the other's obeisance. "You have my apologies for the intrusion on such short notice. I assure you we shall not stay long, for I have business elsewhere. Nevertheless, please report on Cair Andro's situation, so that I may give my father an accurate accounting of the affairs of the kingdom." So said he and seated himself with regal carelessness in one of the arm chairs, gesturing for Falthir to seat himself as well. "Thank you," he added, passing a wine glass to Aragorn, who had stationed himself at Denethor's side, one hand resting on the chair's high back. Accepting a second glass for himself, the steward's son sipped appreciatively, awaiting the tale.

"As you wish my lord," Falthir replied, sitting down across from Ecthelion's son. "Anórien has seen two serious incursions in the past three weeks, the latest coming but ten days ago..." Falthir spoke quickly, concisely, and his voice was level. He kept his eyes on his lord and scarcely spared Aragorn a glance, apparently accepting him as Denethor's secretary and nothing more, since his lord had done nothing to indicate otherwise. The steward's son nodded at intervals, but asked no questions, simply listening in silence. For his part, Aragorn could not help but notice that no mention was made of any trouble between Gondor's soldiers and Rohan's. Indeed, Falthir seemed to ignore the Rohirrim entirely, reminding him of something that Gilraen was fond of saying: Mark well the silences where men hide their secrets! Certainly, she had oft demonstrated that attention to the unspoken could be an effective weapon, which demonstrations he had sometimes rued as a child. Since coming to Minas Tirith, he had had ample opportunity to hone his skills against Denethor's omissions, and he employed those skills now more or less unthinkingly, charting the unspoken spaces in the captain's speech. And for all that Falthir's gaze never truly left Denethor's face, Aragorn disliked the oddly blank look that his eyes assumed between blinks, as if in those moments he saw nothing at all. Thus he need not flinch, for he sees no one before whom to blush! The Ranger thought, setting his glass aside. Clearly, he has decided not to trouble us with such 'details,' for he knows not the purpose of our visit!

When the captain had finished, Denethor rattled off an account of his father's affairs-- of his continuing struggles to integrate the various components of Gondor's defenses, of negotiations to the north with Dale, of the close ties of Rohan and Gondor. He spoke of a number of errands committed to him as his father's heir, commenting most of all on the likelihood of trouble at Poros and the need for firmer restrictions, a better screening process, more checks... harsher punishments. "Gondor is not so rich in men as to lightly lose them to temptation. She must have some way to balance the lure of swift profits or easy pleasure, and if honor is not enough, then there is humiliation to fall back on at need," he said, taking a swallow of wine as he eyed the other nonchalantly over the rim. Falthir made a noise that might have been agreement or understanding; Aragorn would have said it was non-committal, but that 'unhappy' seemed closer to the mark. "With such happenings in the south, I am certain you understand, then," Denethor continued on serenely, "why I cannot remain here myself to deal with Cair Andros's difficulties."

"My lord?"

"You have complained of the Rohirrim, captain," Denethor said, setting his goblet aside as well. "The steward of Gondor takes very seriously the relationship between Gondor and Rohan, as I have said. My father holds Thengel King in great respect and accounts him a personal friend, after all. Were it not for this unfortunate business at Poros, I would remain to see the complaints of both sides settled. As I cannot, however, I shall leave you with Captain Ælric, my father's chief advisor on Rohirrim policies. He has acted as my aid this past month and I value his abilities. You need not hesitate to confide in him, for you may be certain of his discretion." Denethor rose, and Falthir hastily stood as well, eyes darting between his lord and his new... 'guest.' "I expect that he shall handle the matter adroitly, as he does all things, and that he shall not be delayed overlong here, for I shall have need of him in the south. If the two of you could arrange your meetings...?"

"I would be... pleased... to meet with you on the morrow, captain. Say at the second hour?" Falthir suggested quickly.

"That suits me well, sir," Aragorn replied.

"Good. Now, we shall take our leave of you, for I have a long ride come dawn, and I believe we interrupted your work, captain. Good night," Denethor said smoothly.

"Good night, my lord. Captain," Cair Andros's commander replied, shooting Aragorn a wary, hooded look.

"Good night," the Ranger said in a low voice ere he followed Denethor out the door. The two of them strode swiftly down the hallway and back to the stairs. In silence they descended, while Aragorn stared at Denethor's back, seeking purchase for his thoughts. Alas, there was no tension in the other's shoulders from which to hang his speculations as to what Denethor's intentions had been. I realize Ecthelion wished him to insure that Falthir would listen to me, yet what sort of ear will he give my recommendations after such a speech? He supposed, however, that he ought not to be shocked by the tone of his lord's conversation. Denethor was not well known for his extravagant praise, demanding and expecting competence of all who served with and under him. It took a certain standard of incompetence to earn a comment from the steward's son, and among the servants of the Citadel, 'thrice noticed' was a mark of shame. So now Falthir stands once noticed at the least, and I know not where I stand with him! I thought perhaps we had shaken off this morning, but I fear I may earn my second notice tonight! That was vexing, yet nearly inevitable, given how closely Denethor guarded his own counsel and ideas. As a shadow he appeared tonight, dressed in shades of black that concealed his thoughts as well as his body. Even his hands were gloved. That was perhaps, why Aragorn found his gaze drifting up Denethor's spine to fix instead upon the nape of the other's neck, for Denethor wore his hair cut short. Just a few inches of exposed flesh, pale and stark against the unrelieved black, coyly hinting at revelations... Just as they reached the lowest steps, Denethor ran a hand through his hair and down over the back of his neck. As they exited into the courtyard's open air, the steward's son turned towards his aide; in the flickering torchlight, his grey eyes took on an orange cast as they searched Aragorn's face.

"You have something to say, Ælric?"

"Mayhap," Aragorn said, and paused, returning the other's scrutiny, which seemed to amuse Denethor if he read that slight tightening about the mouth correctly. Twice noticed indeed! I refuse to be herded by the whispered fears of servants! And so he said softly, "Walk with me a ways, if you would, my lord. I would familiarize myself with Cair Andros somewhat." Then he waited for Denethor to digest that request, to turn it over in his mind once or twice and come to the obvious conclusion.

"If you wish it," the steward's son replied after a heartbeat's pause. "This way." Following the wall of the keep towards the eastern rampart, Denethor walked until they came to the dark gap between the two. Stepping into the deeper shade, he asked, "Does this view of Cair Andros suit you?"

"Admirably," Aragorn said dryly, turning swiftly to more serious matters. "My lord," said he, choosing his words carefully. "I shall do what I can to amend the situation here, and to insure we have no further troubles. But I must ask: is there something more that you desire of me?"

"What might I desire?" Denethor asked, his voice smooth enough, yet with a slight edge to it.

"What are your expectations, my lord?" The Ranger demanded bluntly, abandoning his customary obliqueness for the second time that day. "You asked me not to speak until given the opportunity, and I listened to you lay out your views on justice in Gondor. Is it your intention that I use them to threaten Falthir?"

"Would you do so if I told you to do it?"

"How does this answer my question?"

"I believe it answers it quite well," Denethor replied, and Aragorn frowned in the darkness, uncertain how to interpret the somewhat condescending tone of voice. "You dislike the notion of using such threats, therefore I would be exceptionally foolish to expect you to deal in them." A pause. "I expect, Ælric, that you shall use that judgment of yours. The judgment you assured me you would not leave in a saddlebag!"

The Ranger grunted softly, the corners of his mouth twitching in response to the jibe. I suppose I did warrant that! Nevertheless, whatever Denethor's expectations of him, clearly Falthir's perception of his task would be colored by his lord's advocacy of harsh measures. Denethor knows quite well what he does. I should likely be grateful that he is willing to give me such support, but I dislike being so manipulated! I cannot gainsay him without seeming either to reject his authority or else to play a game with Falthir! "I shall visit Geleafa, then, and retrieve it!" He finally responded, deciding that it would be best to focus on the humor, however pointed, than argue overmuch with what could not be changed now.

"Good." Denethor seemed pleased, but he paused then, and even in the dark, Aragorn could feel the other's eyes on him. "Now that we are clear as to my expectations, what are your own? Do you expect to be able to deal fairly with Falthir?"

"Is there a reason you would question me in that, my lord?" Aragorn demanded.

"How long have you known this Breca, and how well?"

"He was a member of Thengel's household, a Rider in the King's éored; I cannot claim to know him very well, but neither is he wholly unknown to me. A promising Rider-- very likely to rise to command, I should say."

"He seemed quite friendly with you for one merely 'not wholly unknown' to you," Denethor's voice came back somewhat sharply, and Aragorn felt a certain surprise at his obvious unease. I would have thought he knew Rohan's customs better! He seemed to understand them quite well in our discussions in the past weeks...

"He is young and impulsive, and in any case, that is the way of things among Rohirrim, my lord. I doubt not that there may be others that I shall know-- by sight at least, if not well-- but you need not fear for my impartiality. If they are in the wrong, then they shall know of it," Aragorn assured him firmly.

"I see," Denethor replied, seeming only slightly mollified. The steward's son stood silently for a time, and then sighed softly. "There is naught I can do to change this, so I must trust you to handle the affair to the benefit of both lands. Nevertheless, keep it somewhat quiet that you know Breca, else Falthir shall not have much faith in you, I think."

"It is already too late for such secrecy, my lord," Aragorn responded after a moment's consideration, and fancied he could see the other's frown. "Breca will have told the other Rohirrim who I am, at least. I know not whither that might spread from there." At Denethor's frustrated noise, he continued with a certain quiet force, "Even were he to remain silent on the matter, I do not doubt that I would be recognized. The king's household sends a higher percentage of men to Gondor than any other single éored, for reasons that are self-evident. I would recognize a few, at least, and they me. Best therefore to remain honest about it." Another soft noise, though this one seemed to be more resigned than irritated, and even somewhat amused.

"True enough that someone would recognize you! You look a poor Rohirrim, Ælfric, and the name does little to make you any more a son of Éorl than it does to make you Gondorrim! When you rid yourself of that 'r,' we shall have to do something to salvage the rest of your speech. Whence came your mother again?" That by way of an artful attempt to catch him off-guard. Always he returns such questions! Aragorn thought, amused in his turn even as he quickly marshalled a response. He did wonder how long Denethor would tolerate his evasions. Even if Ecthelion is correct and he has some liking for me, surely at some point he shall weary of this game! For the moment, however, such sparring, however pointed and deadly earnest, still amused them, and Aragorn was willing to play again:

"You have a good ear, my lord, if you detect aught of her accent! I assure you, however, that despite my mother's migratory ways, I am as much Rohirrim as my name is odd. But," he said, quickly changing the subject, "I think I shall have a word with Breca and his fellows nonetheless ere I retire, so that all are clear as to my function here. If I may, my lord?" And as he said it, already he was moving away, and as Denethor did not stop him, he turned and walked briskly back toward the stables.

Meanwhile, Denethor stood there, musing in silence as he listened to the other's footsteps recede. At length, he laughed softly, conceding this match at least. But not the next! No less Rohirrim than your name is odd, is it? 'Tis only odd in Gondor! Struck by a certain fancy, he moved along between the wall and the keep until he reached the northeast corner of the tower. There Denethor leaned against the stones and watched as Ælric stepped into the flame-lit circle of Rohirrim...

 

"Welcome to our fire, hlaford," Breca said when Aragorn appeared at the edges of the group. To the others, he announced, "This is Ælric hlaford, lately of Edoras."

"Thengel King's champion," someone else said, sounding surprised, and excited murmurs spread throughout the group. "We know of you, hlaford mín."

"Aye, you honor us with your presence," another added.

"My thanks," Aragorn replied, casting his gaze round the fire, picking out familiar faces. Men of Thengel's éored, or of Breald's household, mostly, for he had been often among the latter in the service of the former and so knew many who served the Third Marshal. "But as I am new to Gondor, doubtless you honor me more with your welcome than I do you by my presence!" That elicited some laughter and men shifted on stools and short benches, making room for him to sit. "How fares Geleafa?" Which question was inevitable, and it was only courtesy to answer, for they were Rohirrim.

"I have him stabled near Denethor hlaford's steed, and both are well-fed," one of the men replied. Aragorn noted it was the same lad who had relieved him of the two horses earlier: a young fifteen he looked, still gawky and awkward in the company of older men, most of whom were closer to twenty. And still they are so very young! Breca likely was among the oldest of them, being twenty-three, and a few of them he knew to be close to thirty-- married men, their families left behind in Edoras. Thirty-four felt oddly mature by comparison, though he and Denethor were both accounted young-- he more so than Denethor, in the reckoning of his own people. But there is no need for them to know that! He thought, focusing on the young Rider.

"What is your name, lad?"

"Eadwin, hlaford," the boy replied, straightening slightly, his voice rising a note. "I brushed Geleafa down as well, since he seemed not to take it ill." And the somewhat nervous look made it manifest that he hoped Geleafa's master would not take it ill, either.

"You have my thanks, Eadwin, for pains taken on Geleafa's behalf." He replied kindly, and proffered a smile as he searched the lad's face. "Which is your éored?"

"I ride with Othyr hlaford, captain, the lord of Ostfal, in the Eastfold," Eadwin replied more calmly, and with a certain pride in his voice.

"Most of us are Eastfold men, hlaford," another Rider volunteered. "And a fair number of us look to the Third Marshal for our maintenance."

"That follows, for Anórien is of much interest to many, not least Breald," Aragorn acknowledged, and got a round of nods and murmurs. "Tell me how fare you here? Do you like serving the Riddermark from afar?" At this, there was a considerate pause as men glanced back and forth at each other, every man seeming to wish someone else would speak first.

"Is it true, hlaford, that the steward knows of trouble here?" Someone from the back of the group spoke. One of the older men, as Aragorn might have expected, who had years enough not to be cowed so easily. His broad face marked by a long scar that just missed his eye, the rider stared back unblinking, and Aragorn nodded slightly, both in response to his question and by way of acknowledging his courage.

"It is true. Ecthelion hlaford would see it settled, as would I. In the morning I meet with Cair Andros's captain to hear his complaints."

"Just his? Sir." Another man asked skeptically, and Aragorn chuckled softly.

"That would hardly help the situation, for the complaints come from both sides. Spread the word through Breca and among the other companies that I would have a word with the Éorlingas. How have your ranks been split?"

"Each of the four companies has mayhap fifteen of us," Breca replied. "No more than are gathered here. If you would speak with them all, hlaford, it should not be so difficult a task if only you know when to find them!" Murmurs of assent greeted this and the sense of relief, of anticipation, was palpable.

"Good. Tell me then, what are your grievances?"

"That they treat us like pups or crippled hounds!" The scarred man muttered.

"And how do you call yourself, sir?"

"Brything, hlaford," the Rider replied. "Brything of Granburg."

"What mean you, when you say you are treated as pups? That you are mistreated?" Aragorn asked, raising a brow. That he found hard to believe of the Gondorrim, but there were always a few men who did not fit the mould of their fellows...

"Well, no, not so to speak. But they treat us as children." When Brything paused, seeming to seek consensus from his brethren, Aragorn motioned for him to continue. "I have been here for almost three years, hlaford, and if my luck holds, I shall return home when my oath is fulfilled. I would not stay here another three years, and I think most here would agree with me in that!"

"You hold that the Gondorrim are arrogant? That is your complaint?"

"More than that, hlaford," Breca broke in. "Condescending sons of mules they may be, but if they would give us our due, we would not complain. Yet they spit on our honor, and that we cannot bear."

"How so?"

"As we have said, they think we are children, not warriors, and they treat the lot of us as if we had never seen a hard fight in our lives. 'Tis true, we are all shorter on experience than we could wish-- that is why we come-- but we shall not improve if we are not permitted to fight."

"Aye," Brything agreed, gesturing to Eadwin. "Eadwin is our youngest, if he will forgive me saying it! He is a good lad, and I have no fear that he shall prove himself. But we are all treated as if we were no older than he, and more soft than a maiden's... as if we had never held a sword before," he quickly amended.

"Aye," another Rider added, stepping smoothly into the other's awkward pause. "We stand ready, but usually, we stand in the rear ranks or in reserve."

"These Gondorrim are crafty fighters, granted," Breca took up the tale. "So often we have little to do but watch their sword play. But that means only that when they do find themselves in a tight spot, we suffer the worse for it, for Captain Falthir's lieutenants do not use us well, and so when we fight, our losses are higher than they should be. Thus we lost Hladred in the most recent raid. It should not have happened!" A murmur of darkly voiced agreement ran round the ring, and Breca shook his head. "We were thrown in at the last moment to cover the left flank, which had broken formation. We had to pull them out, but the right flank moved as well, and we were caught in the snare! Hladred held us together and got us out of it, but he took a mortal wound and died three days later." A pause. "A number of men took it very hard, hlaford. Hladred was a good man, and he always spoke well for us. There were some hot words over that, as over other, like incidents."

"Only hot words?" Aragorn asked, pinning Breca under a knowing gaze, and the man grimaced.

"Well... nay, in truth, not words alone. I cannot hide that some arguments came to blows." Aragorn nodded, grimly aware that with that revelation, they had moved into the legal realm. A fight might require a delicate negotiation in order for proper restitution to be made, but especially in the case of a fight over a leader's death, he doubted any individual Gondorrim soldier had gold enough to buy peace. No wonder he looked at Denethor so! With him lies the purse of Gondor, and he could arguably be made to pay for this and other affronts! "It might not be so bad, if only these Gondorrim would cease to think of us as props of war or allow us our ways. Know you why the Citadel thinks Hladred is liaison still?" Aragorn shook his head, although he was beginning to suspect the reason. Best to let such accusations come from the mouths of the aggrieved parties, however. "Because Captain Falthir did not appoint me to the post. But we have spoken of it, we Éorlingas-- all decided to support me because my family knows the law and argues it when needed. Now the captain says Éorl's law does not stand in Gondor, and I grant that that is true! Nor do I not seek to overturn him in that," Breca said quickly, forestalling any objection. "But there must be some bending when two peoples are put together, and this is a small thing but important enough to us! He seeks to govern us in every way, and he does it poorly! Why should we let him pick us a poor leader as well?"

"I see. What else?" asked Aragorn grimly.

"Tell him of the horses!" Eadwin muttered, then blushed scarlet for having spoken. But a dangerous growl seemed to arise at that, and Aragorn sighed softly.

"What of them?"

"When a horse and rider fall together, we bury them together, as is our way," Breca said tautly. "But for the horses that are lamed or slain, while the rider yet lives... then 'tis off to the charnel fires or the knackers. And in any case, they are not buried."

"Aye, the horses that go to the knackers are served in the kitchens the next day! 'Tis ungracious!" Brything snarled, rousing a spate of angry agreement. "They have no feeling, these Gondorrim!"

"We have explained a number of times," Breca said, shooting a quelling glare at the others ere the mounting resentment got out of hand. "'Tis less bad than it used to be, for some of the lieutenants are more lenient in this custom and look the other way. At the least, they no longer insist that their people put all horses down together. We take care of our own in that event, just as it ought to be. But some will collect the corpses afterwards, and there is nothing we can do about that."

"And how many fights has this engendered?" Aragorn asked heavily.

"Many," Breca replied darkly. "You know what it is to ride a steed of the Mark, hlaford. A man unhorsed has lost his place and must begin again with a new mount. And though we do not denigrate the horses of Gondor 'tis not the same to ride one! Most often, that is the fate of those who lose their steeds, unless we can request remounts from the Mark, which is rare."

"I would rather walk home than ride one of Gondor's horses back to the Mark," Brything spoke up. "They cannot be bred there, after all, yet they are not pack animals. Better to leave them here or at the last messenger post, at Halifirien."

"I see," Aragorn replied. This would be a most unpleasant knot to untangle, clearly, and he wondered whether other jointly maintained outposts had similar difficulties or whether it was Falthir's singular talent that kept Cair Andros off-balance. Nay, that is too much to lay on one man's shoulders. There is a web of misunderstanding here and I shall have to find a way to cut the snarls out... somehow! "Very well then. Know that your complaints are heard, and I shall speak with Falthir of them when the time is right. However," and here he swept the circle with his gaze, pinning each man under his eyes a moment. "I have not come to speak only for the Éorlingas, but to deal with Gondor's needs and complaints as well, once I discover them. But this I can say now: for the brawls initiated by the Éorlingas, I hold you responsible. Your grievances make such fights understandable, but that does not justify them in my eyes or the eyes of the law. Henceforth, once I have spoken with a company on such matters, I do not expect to hear of another violent confrontation by any of its members. If I do hear of one, those responsible will render payment according to Gondor's laws, and I shall give the names of the guilty to Edoras. Is that understood?"

"Yes, hlaford!"

"Then spread the word to the others and I shall be well pleased."

"We shall see to it. We understand, hlaford," Breca assured him, "that none of us serve only the Riddermark here. If only you can make the Gondorrim see some reason in these matters, we shall be content!"

"Good. Then let us leave such matters for a time. Surely not all runs ill here!"

"Nay, not everything. Anórien would be lovely, were it not for the orcs!" Brything declared. "And the folk who dwell in this land are not so stiff as our comrades in arms! Particularly the women!" There was some laughter about the circle, and that seemed to ease the chill of resentment quite a bit as the Rohirrim spoke now of the things that they enjoyed in Gondor. Many were in awe of the forests, for neither Fangorn nor the Druadan forests were particularly safe, and the rest of Rohan was largely open fields and downs. Those who lived not in the larger cities of the Mark found clocks to be of fascination, and the artistry of the stonewrights of Gondor was unparalleled by any other race of Men.

"Minas Tirith, from what little I saw of it, is a marvel!" Breca said, shaking his head.

"Aye!" Eadwin piped up, eyes wide with remembrance. Ostfal was not a large town, and until he had come to Gondor, he had never seen so large a city in his life. "Would you... tell us somewhat of the White City, hlaford, since you live there now?" He asked, somewhat hesitantly.

"Gladly. For she is, indeed, a marvel! A fair sight, but with some wondrous strange tales wound about her!" Aragorn replied, grinning now in his turn as men leaned closer, eager for the story. This was a setting he knew well, after all. Evenings in Bree or on the edges of the Shire were taken up with tales, as Rangers recounted their journeys or teased the younger men, and a fine story-teller was prized. Aragorn, or so Halbarad often complained, had an unfair advantage in that respect, having lived among elves for so long. But all in good humor, such complaints, and he was always pleased to be able to set his talents in the service of his people, be they Rohirrim or Dúnedain, or even the townsfolk of Bree. "They say in the South that there is no more beautiful sight than the Citadel at sunset, and that, I say, is only truth. But listen more closely to the words of the people, and you will find that in its eastward shadow, lie many passing strange events..."

 

And as the Rohirrim listened, Denethor watched, and his meticulous observations he wove into a more detailed image of his newest and most mysterious captain. Although it was difficult to hear much from this distance, he picked out the cadence of Rohirric, noting that none seemed to have difficulty understanding Ælric, despite that slight, odd accent that showed through occasionally in his daily speech with Denethor. Of course, one might expect the captain to be quite fluent, having served in Rohan for he knew not what length of time. But it was more the acting that intrigued him. Or rather, the ease of it. Most foreigners, even those who lived long amongst their chosen people, were never quite able to abandon the particular habits of their native land, and usually, Denethor noticed such differences. Ælric quite readily adapted to the more expansive habits of the Rohirrim, but there remained a subtly different feel to him, and to his mannerisms. Just as when he is Gondorrim, there remains something elusively other about him that has naught to do with Rohan. There is an antique cant to his manners and the odd word or usage that makes men wonder... if they have any imagination, that is! Yet it was a very subtle thing, which suggested a natural mimic, or else one who was much practiced in the art, to affect so readily the habits of others that his own strangeness went all but unnoticed.

And that troubles me, Denethor admitted, frowning. Much as he enjoyed their game, he was an officer of the realm and stood first after his father in authority. He owed it to Gondor to be certain that nothing ill came of permitting this stranger to serve her, and the more capable the other was at disguising himself, the more difficult it was for Denethor to judge him. At the moment, he hoped only that the other's easy affectation of Rohirrim ways would not affect his dealings with Falthir and the other officers of Cair Andros. May I truly trust his judgment in this? I have not seen him command yet! Of course, Denethor smiled wryly to himself in the darkness, one must at some point stand aside and allow him to demonstrate that he can be a captain and a diplomat! We shall see how it goes in the next few months, and thereby measure his success in this endeavor. Having so decided, Ecthelion's son turned away from the light of the fire and went back to the keep, to the room that had been set aside for him. He and his men would have a long ride tomorrow, and for each of the three days after that. But as he lay in the dark, drifting towards sleep, his dreams turned once more to Ælric rather than Poros.

 

*****

Thanks to Alawa for her beta-reading and many helpful cultural suggestions.

Anglachel is the proud owner of Cair Andros's ferry. Many thanks for the shoving and for finding that dratted moving passage.

Translations:

Hlaford= 'lord'

—— mín= 'my lord'

"Wes hal, leof!"-- Be hale, sir!, i.e., "May you be well!"

"Gá éow god, hlaford mín! And Geleafa!"-- May it go well with you, my lord. And with Faith!

Chapter I I I
Scratch the Surface

As the cock crowed the day to life, Denethor’s men assembled in the courtyard, readying themselves for a day’s ride that promised to be both long and hard. The morning was still young, and the sun still naught but a sliver over the eastern mountains, yet the escort was wide awake, which was more than could be said of some of the faces that peered down from the barracks. Bleary eyes narrowed as the newly wakened men took in the identity of those departing, and Aragorn noted the relief that crept over their sleepy features when they realized who rode in this company. Just as a Ranger in the Wild was wary of any unexpected footfall, for these men, the noise of hoofs on cobblestones signalled the possibility of trouble—until they knew the errand of the riders, either departing or arriving, that sound might well be the herald of imminent danger. The most ordinary things we learn to fear, Aragorn thought, with no small sympathy, ere he shoved away from the wall against which he had leaned, and slipped in amongst the riders. He had already spotted Nightweave, whose dark coat stood out like a beacon amidst the browns and greys of the other animals.

Denethor was checking his tack, assuring himself that all was properly cinched, buckled, and strapped down, and at first did not notice him. When at length he glanced up to find Aragorn standing nigh at hand, he could not quite hide his startlement. It was a brief thing—a hesitation and a widening of the eyes, mainly—but nonetheless real, and in response to that look, the apology slipped out automatically, the habit of a Ranger among friends. "My apologies, my lord, I did not mean to startle you." Denethor frowned slightly at that, which prompted Aragorn to wonder whether he ought not to have remained silent out of deference to Denethor’s rather pricklish sense of pride. Yet after a moment’s scrutiny, Ecthelion’s son seemed to dismiss the incident.

"I had wondered if you were awake yet," he replied, slapping Nightweave’s great, arched neck. The stallion snorted, shaking his head, and Denethor moved aside a step to avoid the locks of mane that threatened to get in his eyes. "You know your duties?" he asked, quirking a dark brow questioningly.

"I do, my lord."

"And you know that the steward depends upon you in this, over many others that he might have sent."

That was not truly a question, yet nevertheless, Aragorn recognized prompting when he heard it. "Yes, my lord." A slight smile tugged at his mouth, seeing the rather concerned, measuring look in Denethor’s eyes. "You need not fear! I have already visited Geleafa and emptied my saddlebags, as I said I would," he said, assuming a placating tone, his smile broadening as he spoke. Nonetheless, despite his humor, he, too, took advantage of the moment to scrutinize his Captain-General, and a tense sort of silence fell between them as the customary testing of wills commenced in earnest. After awhile, aware that they were in public, they broke off, by mutual, unspoken consent, and Denethor gave him a sharp nod.

"Good," he said, economical as ever in his approval. "I shall look to see you in Poros in short order, then. Good day, Ælric. Mount up!" With that, and without so much as laying a hand on him, even to clasp arms as was usual among warriors, Denethor dismissed him, turning his attention to the men. Obedient to their captain’s command, they hastened to mount, and Denethor watched from his vantage point on Nightweave’s back. The eastern gates stood wide, opening onto the broad shallows of the eastern bend of the river. The water came no higher than hip deep to a tall man on that side, and so the company forded with little trouble. No sooner had they reached the opposite shore when they broke into a trot, and then a canter, passing quickly out of sight beneath the trees. Aragorn was not the only one to look after them til the gates closed again, but he did not doubt that his was the most ambivalent farewell. Granted, he supposed he had no real reason to expect anything by way of comradely parting from Denethor, since the two of them scrupulously maintained their distance from each other. And I am not his equal in this time and place, and am untried in his eyes, Aragorn reminded himself firmly. Nevertheless, he was somewhat surprised by the other’s abruptness—it was one thing for them to spar in private; it was another for them to do so before the men. Of course, none of them have ever seen Denethor touch me either, so it may not seem so strange to them as it does to me. Still, although Aragorn was willing to allow for differences in temperament and his own, quite unusual, up-bringing, he could not help feeling rather exasperated by Denethor’s behavior.

But whatever perplexity his Captain-General aroused in him, Denethor had left him with Cair Andros’ problems with less compunction than Aragorn might have expected. Even if I could do without the particular expression of that unlooked-for confidence, he thought, ruefully remembering Falthir’s haunted—hunted—look last night. The second hour, and his conversation with Cair Andros’ captain, would come soon enough, and Aragorn had a mind to use the intervening time to such advantage as he could manage. And so, good Rohirrim that he was in all eyes but Denethor’s, he turned from the gates and headed back for the stables where his own mount was housed. With the dawn, Cair Andros was waking to life and another day’s vigil. That was well and good, yet for a Rider of Rohan, the day invariably began with a visit to the stables. A few of Éorl’s fair sons were within, occupied with their horses as they came from the last shift of the night-watch, and they acknowledged him politely, murmuring greetings. He returned them, but cast about in the dimmer light for one particular figure... ah! "Eadwin!" The lanky lad glanced up sharply in his direction, pausing in his ministrations to one of the horses. The animal butted him insistently in the chest, and Eadwin made haste to ply the brush over the glossy grey coat once more.

"Hlaford mín, god morgen," the boy answered, making a quick but sincere bow. Aragorn approached, holding out a hand for the horse’s inspection, and smiling slightly when the beast nosed about for something more substantial than good intentions. "Mærthu!" Eadwin reproached the horse. "I fear this one is a bit of a beggar, hlaford!"

"I am trying to avoid spoiling horses, but ‘tis a hard habit to break. Geleafa has me well trained," Aragorn replied, stroking the velvet soft nose, and following the white stripe up the animal’s face til it ended in a star-like patch between the eyes. Mærthu blinked and seemed to turn his head slightly to examine the stranger, eliciting a soft chuckle from the Ranger; for a horse, it was so human an expression. "A fine beast. Is he yours?"

"Aye, hlaford. He came from my cousin’s herd, one of the late foals five years ago. I suppose that makes us both summat new," Eadwin confided, flushing slightly, though whether in embarrassment for having said so much or out of pride for his steed, it was impossible to say.

"I suppose you see to all the horses here, as is customary?"

"Aye, I do. Well," Eadwin paused, frowning, "not all of the horses, but only those of the Mark, of course. I do not steal from the other lads." Aragorn nodded at that. Although each man looked after his own mount, as the youngest member of the company, Eadwin would be bound by tradition to take care of the messier tasks associated with the care of the company’s horses while on campaign. As a rule, the Rohirrim made light of such duties, and no true son of the Mark could resist the opportunity to handle well-bred, well-trained horses. Aesthetic pleasure aside, it was a way of knowing one’s comrades, and even one’s lord and captain, for the Éorlingas put much stock in the notion that one could learn much of the Rider from the horse. What Eadwin probably did not realize, given the rather rapturous glance that he cast round at the Rohirrim steeds stabled here, was that his Gondorrim counterparts likely did not view their duties in the same light. The stablehands of Cair Andros were proficient, and certainly not unkind—they knew well that the lives of the garrison might rest on these horses, who could bear a man swiftly hence for help or meet the pillaging orcs ere they could threaten the folk of Anórien. But they were stablehands and nothing more, and Aragorn wondered what they made of this gawky Rohirrim intruder. Some doubtless would have been happier had he taken over the maintenance of the entire stable; others likely resented him for having implied by his very presence that Rohan did not trust Gondor even to muck out their horse stalls.

"Do you talk much with them? The other stablehands, that is," Aragorn asked casually, watching Eadwin for his reaction. Having read him as an essentially open and inexperienced lad, the Ranger did not expect him to try to hide or moderate his feelings; thus he was only surprised by the violence of Eadwin’s flinch . If Aragorn had thought the poor lad stiff and awkward the night before, he knew now that he had been mistaken. Eadwin went rigid as a post, and his voice, as he answered, was tight, pushing it up an unwelcome note.

"Summat, hlaford. Not much, but a bit... every now and again," the lad cleared his throat at the end, trying to settle his voice once more.

"Meaning, I take it, that when trouble arises, you have words. You do not get along well with them, then."

"I try, hlaford mín! I swear, I have not said a wrong word that I know of!" Eadwin turned an imploringly honest look on him, one laced with frustrated confusion.

"I said not so. Be easy, lad!" Aragorn reached out and gripped the other’s shoulders, squeezing til he felt the other relax a bit. "I asked because I suspected the answer, but needed to hear it from one who would know. I fear I shall be asking many such questions in the days to come, if there is to be a fair settlement in this case," he continued.

"Oh. Oh," Eadwin looked considerably relieved at that, and at his second utterance, his tone changed completely, as realization set in of what Aragorn intended. Blinking in astonishment, he asked, "You mean to do this as you would in the Mark? Will they let you, hlaford?"

"I mean to do this according to my judgment of what is best for both Gondor and the Mark. In the mean time, as I cannot be everywhere, I suggest that if trouble arises in the stables, explain why it is that you are here in just such terms as you explained yourself to me: you are not a thief, you do only what you have been asked to do by your captain."

"Well of course I do! Why else would I be here?" Eadwin asked, genuinely puzzled.

"Perhaps you might ask that of one of the friendlier stablehands, lad. Good morning to you." With that none too subtle hint, Aragorn gave the boy a nod and went over to bid Geleafa a good day and see to his horse’s needs, thinking over this seeming small piece of the puzzle. He suspected that Falthir would not even mention the situation in the stables. If he even recognized the problem, he would no doubt view it as a minor concern in the eyes of one of Gondor’s captains. Yet as is always the case, what one man overlooks, another deems the treasure of his house, he reminded himself. Horses, and a sense of right, of place in the world, and of pride in that place—one may count upon the Éorlingas to hold these things dear, and in that order, whereas in Gondor, one may be certain such concerns are ranked differently, horses being near the bottom of a longer list. Such experience as he had suggested that it would be best to deal with such ‘minor’ matters as quarrels among stable lads soonest, so that they might resolve themselves without ever reaching Falthir’s attention. For judging from last night’s interview, he doubted that Falthir would see such disputes as anything but proof that the Rohirrim were apt to make trouble over even ‘trivial’ matters, which would not incline him favorably towards a ‘compromise’ with his subordinates, who were also his allies.

Our allies... and now my people, in too many ways, perhaps. When he had at length excused himself from the Rohirrim the night before, he had gone not to bed but up onto the walls. As he had walked the ramparts, the Éorling in him had bickered quietly with the Dúnadan that he was, knowing between themselves too well the points of tension likely to lie below the surface here at Cair Andros. It was easier to respect a people from a distance, rather than deal with them in close quarters—that much a Ranger knew well. It was easier to learn to live with one man in close quarters than to share one’s home with many; hence Thengel’s ready acceptance and, he supposed, his own, back in Minas Tirith. For one man learned more swiftly to follow the customs of his hosts, whereas put him with another of his race, and immediately native habit resurfaced, confounding outsiders. And the outsiders resent being made such, especially when they are not themselves strangers in the land, Aragorn sighed inwardly, even as he succumbed to Geleafa’s soulful look and searching. Reaching into his wallet, he surrendered the apple he had intended to eat later, laughing softly at the rather triumphant snort Geleafa issued ere accepting the treat. He caught Eadwin grinning over Mærthu’s lowered neck, before the lad hastily attempted to look interested in braiding his horse’s mane. I had best talk to Breca about him, Aragorn decided. As soon as I may, that is. That poor lad is so new to the ranks, his horse could break him in!

Eadwin had brushed Geleafa down last night, so there was no real need for him to repeat the process, yet he had another hour before he was due to meet with Falthir. Not that he was precisely nervous, but sitting still was not an attractive idea to him at the moment, and brushing Geleafa was at least something to do, and a very soothing something at that. "Do not grow to expect such pampering, Geleafa," he muttered in Sindarin as he retrieved a brush from a shelf in the back of the stall. The horse whiffled at that, and had Geleafa been human, the sentiment would have been clear enough—smug gloating. Shaking his head, Aragorn let his mind wander as he took the brush to the animal’s already glossy hide, and the minutes slipped slowly away.

Falthir frowned, leaning his elbows on his desk as he ran claw-like fingers through his hair, and contemplated what was likely to be a most unpleasant hour. Assuming, that is, that it was a full hour–Rohirrim were notoriously lax in their notion of timeliness, particularly the newcomers, and he had no intention of allotting more than an hour this morning to Captain Ælric. I should be working now, he thought miserably, and ground his frustration under a mental heel. Still, it whispered and preyed upon his thoughts as he reviewed the past three years that had led to this point. His captain’s death in a skirmish with the orcs had left Cair Andros under one Lord Torost, until word had come through courier that the steward had chosen Falthir, of all people, to take up the mantle of authority upon the isle. As one of the younger lieutenants, the promotion had come as something of a surprise (albeit a pleasant one). Following the tradition of nobility in Gondor, he had served as an officer for several years at Cair Andros. Captaincies, however, were hard to come by, particularly for one just shy of thirty. Men like Lord Denethor, who were captains by twenty, were rare, and usually their social station dictated their early rise to independent command, although ability also had much to do with such elevated rank. Still, as far as Falthir could remember, there had been but one example of a second son inheriting the rank of Captain-General of Gondor over his elder brother, for ‘with age comes wisdom,’ as the saying went. Thus Falthir was acutely conscious of being one of very few who had gained his current lofty title despite his youth.

Of course, Lord Torost would likely have become captain, had not the steward wished him to go to Pelargir instead, Falthir thought. Moreover, there had been others who might have sat in this chair. Yet it seemed that fate had conspired to single him out: once promoted, two of the lieutenants who had been candidates for his present office had been killed while helping Ithilien repel an unusually strong attack, leaving him suddenly the most experienced officer in Cair Andros. Those who had replaced them were younger, even, than Falthir, as the older, more experienced men were sent south to deal with the Haradrim threat. The first year had been a trial after that, but he had managed well enough, and had been pleased to repay the trust granted him. But the second year.... Falthir sighed softly, staring at the watch roster, with its mixture of Gondorrim and Rohirric names. The Rohirrim had come that year, and although Falthir had proved adept enough at ordering the ranks of Gondorrim soldiers, the Rohirrim seemed to resist him at every turn. None of them had managed to be on time for their watches at first, according to the watch captains, and although that problem had seemed to resolve itself, they remained less than willing to appear on time short of an officer’s insistence. Then there was the matter of their appalling state of readiness–most had had very few encounters with the enemy when they arrived, yet showed a disturbingly haughty dismissal of the dangers and seriousness of the business of war, which did nothing to inspire confidence in their abilities. It made their unasked for advice the harder to stomach, and to Falthir’s disgust, the nominal leaders of their particular units proved argumentative, which only incited the rank and file to unruly insolence. They seemed constitutionally incapable of following orders without voicing comment.

And those are their better traits! he thought sneeringly. That some of them had trouble understanding the Common Speech was ridiculous, although that did not prevent arguments from arising, even from those whose command of the language was questionable. They loved their horses more than their comrades, certainly, and did not bother to hide that fact–men had lost teeth over discussions of Rohirrim horses. And the excuse was always the same: In Rohan.... Punitive duties had curbed their behavior for a time, but in the last two weeks, resentment had burst violently into the open once again, much to a captain’s bewildered frustration. There were days when Falthir asked himself what he had done to merit this, and why it should drag on for two years only to become unbearable now. To write the whole, sorry tale out for the steward’s review had been excruciating, and he had dreaded the Captain-General’s reaction. He had half-hoped that Lord Denethor had simply been passing through Cair Andros last night, and the conversation had seemed to make that hope reasonable. Until the end! Falthir thought, feeling trapped and betrayed. It was bad enough to involve Lord Denethor in such matters–he had spent quite a long while wavering over whether to send his letter in the first place, fearful of revealing his inadequacy to deal with the task at hand–but then the Captain-General had handed him over to a Rohirrim for judgment! Or so Falthir judged, given the name and how well he had gotten along with Breca and his lot the night before. "They know him, sir," the watch captain had said when he had come to make his report. "No doubt about that. And he knows them."

Probably that meant that Ælric had a Rohirrim mother or father, and Falthir instinctively mistrusted that influence. He may look the part of a Gondorrim officer, but if he favors the Rohirrim, he likely has more than passing interest in such culture as they have! Mayhap I could claim an unfair alliance with the Rohirrim, and get a new judge. It was a tempting idea, yet he hesitated to consider it too closely. For Lord Denethor vouches for him, he reminded himself. If he trusts this Captain Ælric, then I should not presume to doubt him, should I? I ought to take that trust as a hopeful sign, surely. Nevertheless, and despite the stigma of earning Lord Denethor’s disapproving attention, he found himself more willing to face the Captain-General’s razor-sharp criticism than that of this... this... hybrid unknown. At least the Captain-General could be counted upon to give clear, unambiguous orders. When problems presented themselves, he took them in hand, and one always knew where one stood with him and why. When he issued judgments, they made sense, and if they did not, one could trust that his reasoning was sound.

With a sigh, Falthir resolutely set himself once more to the task of organizing the next quarter’s budget. He had just begun to sort through the figures, when a knock sounded. Cair Andros’ captain looked up in surprise as the sentry opened the door wide enough to reveal Captain Ælric standing to one side behind him. "Captain Ælric is here to see you, sir," the man announced.

"Ah... of course," Falthir managed, surreptitiously glancing at the clock. It was, indeed, the second hour–precisely so. "Come in, captain," he beckoned after a moment’s hesitation. Ælric stepped past the sentry with a polite nod for the door-warden, and then turned studious grey eyes on Falthir. What the captain might be studying, Falthir did not know with certainty, and he was unwilling to speculate. At the least, though, he would not give the other cause to fault his courtesy. "Good morning, Captain," he offered, in a tolerably off-hand manner, as if the man’s very presence did not send tension up his back.

"Good morrow," Ælric replied, then paused ere he asked, "I apologize for the interruption. Do you need a few more minutes?"

"Ah... no. Why do you ask?" Falthir demanded, thrown off by the question. And on the heels of momentary confusion came a certain resentment. I said the second hour. Does he think me as lax as the Rohirrim in matters of punctuality?

"I ask because you seemed surprised to see me. I assumed you were preoccupied with some other matter," the captain replied easily enough.

"No, not at all," Falthir replied, recovering himself somewhat as he waved towards the chairs. "Please be seated, as we have much to discuss."

"Indeed, we do." Ælric waited until Falthir had taken a seat, then lowered himself into the chair across from him, watching him closely in a manner unnervingly similar to that of Lord Denethor. He had not paid overmuch attention to him the night before, had only truly looked at him when Denethor had informed him of his fate. And although he had been struck by the incongruous pairing of name and features, even then, he had noted more than a passing similarity to Lord Denethor. Another young captain, this one, and an even younger advisor, and Falthir felt less than comfortable beneath his gaze. "I have read your complaints, and also those of the Rohirrim. Two years can breed much resentment, when no efforts are made to alleviate the conditions that give rise to such complaints." Falthir felt his jaw clench at that, mindful of the rebuke despite Ælric’s easy tone. "Had you served with Rohirrim, ere you became captain here?"

"No. I served on the isle from the time I accepted my commission. Cair Andros was the first garrison to receive a company complete of Rohirrim, and that occurred not long after I became captain here. That was some two years ago, that they came under my command. Before then, most of them had gone piece-meal to the south, as their numbers were never enough to make a worthwhile company or addition in the north." So he said, and kept his opinions as to their worth en masse carefully behind his teeth. From the way the other man looked at him, however, he suspected the captain sensed the omission.

"I see. From what I know of your career, Falthir," and despite the fact that rank permitted the other to speak his bare name, Falthir found himself resenting the intrusive, Rohirric familiarity, "I own myself somewhat surprised by the troubles in Cair Andros. Usually, such difficulties as you describe are evident much earlier, yet we had received no complaints. And then came letters from yourself, from Hladred, and also from Rohan. I would have preferred Hladred to be present, as it was his letter that inspired Thengel King’s response. As that is now impossible, it were best that we spoke with the new liaison. Who is he?"

Not Breca, as you know perfectly well, since the Rohirrim doubtless told their tale last night! thought Falthir, and cursed his own timorousness that had led to a too-long delay between his writing the original draft of complaints, and his sending a revised one to reflect the latest concerns that had surfaced with Hladred’s death. He had never met King Thengel, although to hear the older men in Minas Tirith speak, he had been unusually circumspect for a Rohirrim, and was a friend of Ecthelion. Which only made this worse, as he had not realized that Hladred’s complaints had been sent back along the Beacon Hills to Rohan. Doubtless, he had slipped them to one of the Rohirrim errand riders who routinely delivered mail along that route. "For the moment, we have none," he replied. "I have found, in fact, that the Rohirrim liaison can be more trouble than help, I fear. It is one reason I am hesitant to accept the man the Rohirrim propose to take Hladred’s place. They argue much for concessions that I see no need to grant. I suppose," he asked, unable to resist, "that you learned of Hladred’s death from them?"

"I did–" Ælric began, and then raised a brow when Falthir cut him off.

"Without wishing to seem too forward, there was nothing that could have saved him, and accidents happen in battle," Cair Andros’ captain insisted, with just a touch of heat.

"I said not otherwise, nor did the Rohirrim last night."

"Oh?" Falthir demanded skeptically. "Your pardon, Ælric, if I seem doubtful of that, for I have heard quite a few complaints that verge on accusations of murder. And three of my lads have stitches or broken bones from fights over that... incident."

"You may rest assured that there will be no further brawls, else those responsible will answer to their own lords, as well as to you, for disgracing Rohan," Ælric said, cocking his head slightly as he gazed steadily at Falthir. "However, what I meant was that couched thus, no one, Rohirrim or Gondorrim, would doubt that accidents happen, or that Hladred’s wound was mortal. But whether Hladred’s death was necessary is another matter, to be addressed later. For the moment, what is most important to my mind is that the fights cease. The Rohirrim, at least, shall not initiate any further brawls, and I would urge you to seek a similar promise from the Gondorrim."

"Were it not for the Rohirrim, my men would have naught to quarrel over. Can I trust that that promise shall hold among them?" 

"It shall hold," Ælric replied, with rather oppressive certainty, and pinned Falthir under his stare, silencing him with a look. "You realize the seriousness of Hladred’s death, do you not?"

"It was regrettable, but I begin to regret more the disruption it causes!"

"Falthir, what know you of Rohirrim custom?" Ælric demanded.

"I have little knowledge of it," Falthir admitted uncomfortably, sensing that Ælric had suspected as much. "What reason had I ever to study it?" he asked, defensively. "And since I came here, there has been little opportunity, other than–"

"Had you studied it, or had you listened more carefully, perhaps, to the complaints voiced, you might have realized that the death of an officer, when perceived to be unnecessary, is a legal matter in Rohan."

"I–what?" Manners escaped him entirely, and Falthir stared in disbelief. "Unnecessary? Hladred did his duty, no more and no less. It ended in death, as it did for many others beside him."

"I do not doubt it," Ælric replied, grimly, shaking his head. "Yet the question remains: need he have died? The Rohirrim believe not, and that would be grounds for accusation in Rohan. Were you to be convicted, you would pay a wergild."

"This is not Rohan–"

"But they are Rohirrim," Ælric interjected. "They are also your men, as much as any of the Gondorrim here are, and if you are not willing to claim them, then there will be no end of trouble. You dislike that they argue with you? Or that I speak to you now and call you by your name?" Falthir stiffened at that, for he had thought that he had hidden his resentment well. The corners of Ælric’s mouth twitched slightly at that, as if he were amused by Falthir’s reaction. "I assure you, Captain, that if you do not learn of them in such matters, resentment shall continue to grow. For my part, I shall do what I can to make Gondor’s ways clear to them, to spare us all needless frustration. But it is not necessarily my place to do such explaining–it is the business of the liaison officer... and of the captain of Cair Andros."

"Breca is arrogant," Falthir retorted, instantly defensive, even as he tried to digest what had just been said.

"But not insubordinate, else you would have disciplined him already," the other said, with utter certainty, and Falthir gritted his teeth. "More importantly, the Rohirrim, to a man, trust him," Ælric continued on, pointedly. "They have formally asked him to speak for them, and that means that any man who took his place at your request would be seen as a usurper."

"Many are they who might prefer another commander to the one that they have," Falthir replied, his voice taut. "Yet we do not elect them to suit the desires of the men. I will not make an exception in this case simply to please a troublesome lot of green soldiers! That is my right, and my duty–to keep order in my command through the officers that I choose."

"It is your right, yes. And it is your duty to keep order," Ælric conceded, and paused significantly, eyeing Falthir expectantly. And Falthir blushed before that too neutral regard, which reminded him that indeed, the very lack of order was what had brought Ælric hither. "Strictly speaking, it is the right of a captain to appoint whomever he wishes, so long as the laws of Gondor are kept. However, in practice, it is a wise captain who picks the man who is not only competent, but one whom others will follow. The Rohirrim support Breca, and he would be an asset to you if the two of you would agree to work with each other instead of at cross purposes. Your command gains, Gondor profits by your decision, and your right as captain remains intact."

"And shall the Rohirrim crow over my capitulation?" demanded Falthir, archly, still quite tense.

"This is not a matter of surrender. The Rohirrim are not your enemies, to be denied in principle, Falthir of Cair Andros," Ælric replied, his tone sharpening a bit. "Nor are they unwilling servants, as you shall discover. So long as the Rohirrim cannot serve Gondor effectively, they do a disservice to Rohan, and they are not unaware of this. Their honor is at stake as much as is yours in this matter," Ælric pressed on, in a deadly reasonable tone, pinning Falthir with a painfully intense regard. "Gondor’s honor is at stake, for the care of men entrusted to her by Rohan. Now, will you accept Breca, or will you choose another? If another, I suggest you explain to me his merits over Breca’s–for Breca’s I know, having served with him before–so that I may explain your choice to them, and spare us all an ordeal."

"None of the others are suited to the task, that I know of," Falthir murmured, and winced inwardly at his sulky tone. As he ended, he cleared his throat, painfully aware of the fact that he was being chivvied to a decision like a child... and that he might possibly deserve it.

"Then it is to be Breca."

"I... would rather think further on it. There are some I have not considered yet." Which was a way of forestalling the inevitable, and also an oblique way of admitting he had not so much as looked at the records of the others, so intent had he been on countering the maneuvering of the Rohirrim. Ælric sighed softly, seeming somewhat frustrated, but in the end, the look he turned on Falthir was not disparaging so much as disappointed.

"Very well then. We shall speak further on this tonight. I expect that you shall have come to a decision by then."

"Yes... yes, of course."

"Good day then, Captain," Ælric rose and made him a polite salute ere he turned to head for the door. Falthir stared after him with mixed emotions, wondering to what precisely Lord Denethor had delivered him. He did not behave as he had come to expect Rohirrim to behave, and he felt himself on shifting ground with the Captain-General’s aide.

"You are Rohirrim, are you not?" he found himself asking, just ere the other reached the door. And then he had to grit his teeth in the face of the other’s searching regard.

"Why do you ask?"

"Are you doing this...," Falthir drew as circumspect a breath as he could manage, and then blurted the burning question out ere he could think better of it. "Do you speak thus because you truly believe me so unreasonable, or because you are Rohirrim and wish to protect your own?" In truth, it was likely a foolish question, but one vital to Falthir’s peace of mind in this matter, and though he felt the other’s stare grow hard as steel, he did not retract it. Ælric’s expression was almost painfully neutral, but it was clear enough that Falthir had just stepped onto thin ice indeed.

"No, Captain, what I say has naught to do with my heritage, nor was I sent to paint either the Rohirrim or the Gondorrim as villains. What actions I take, I take because I do serve Gondor, and beyond her, any others who would oppose Sauron." Falthir jerked at that, startled by the blunt and unapologetic naming of the Enemy, and Ælric gave a slight smile, which startled Falthir anew. "You cannot fight what you will not name, nor treat with what you do not know. Now you know what I am–use the knowledge well when next we meet, and to Gondor’s profit." So saying he left, and it was a very subdued young captain that remained behind.

***

Since there was no one to see him, Aragorn took the last set of stairs two at a time, obeying some primitive instinct that clamored for movement. For all that the Elves had taught him first how to endure long, exhausting journeys, he suspected this particular urge derived from the restless Númenoreans rather than the Eldar, who, after untold millennia of strife, yearned for stillness. For a Man, however, to succumb to such quietude was to invite death, or so he saw it, and liked not Falthir’s tenacious clinging to a precarious and unworkable situation. He hoped that he had not pushed the man too hard, but Cair Andros’ captain had that stale aura of one entrenched, who needed badly to be shaken, ere ideas ossified to the detriment of all concerned. Of course, he had not perhaps needed to rattle him quite as severely as he had in the end, Aragorn thought, and suppressed a flash of irritation. It had been long, however, since had had been quite so thoroughly insulted by another's words, even if he sensed that Falthir had needed to question his motives. In the end, it may work to our advantage that he did, if he is convinced of my sincerity. He may not be unreasonable, then, Aragorn mused, and sighed inwardly as he reached the bottom of the steps and emerged once more into the courtyard, which was now alive with activity as men went about their chores. He paused to watch them, noting the way they clustered whenever they paused: the Rohirrim held together in the midst of Gondorrim soldiers, and the Gondorrim did their best to ignore them unless their business brought them in contact with the Éorlingas.

Like Elves and Dwarves, the thought occurred, and immediately, he dismissed it as an insulting comparison on all sides, not to mention baseless. Gondor and Rohan had a long history of friendship—at times closer, at times more distant—but five hundred years barely scratched the surface of the Ages-old bitterness between the elder children of Middle-earth. For which I may be grateful! Aragorn reminded himself, firmly quelling the self-pity that writhed and whined on its (short) leash. Instead, he considered again his approach to the troubles of Cair Andros, aligning players and problems, wondering how long it would take for Falthir to address the fort’s difficulties rather than shrink from them. Even if I believe I understand why he does turn away from the Rohirrim, I cannot excuse the habit. We are all of us a bit too young, perhaps, for our charges, Falthir and Denethor and I! he thought of a sudden. Yet that absolved none of them of responsibility, and he wondered how Denethor fared as he made his way south to Poros. Better than Falthir or I now, I hope, though I suspect just as badly. Aragorn felt a stab of sympathy for the escort, who would be forced to endure their lord captain’s brooding silence for the next few days. For he doubted that Ecthelion’s son would take the time to step away from the problem, as Aragorn had last night, exchanging tales with the Rohirrim. Briefly, he tried to imagine Denethor telling stories to his men, but quickly abandoned the effort as fruitless. Denethor was not the sort to find relief in such pursuits, although Aragorn admitted that the unlikely image was quite entertaining in its way.

Across the way, just then, he noted Breca in conversation with another Rohirrim, and his interest shifted quite suddenly. Some of the lieutenants are more lenient than others, the man had said the night before. And he would know which they are, Aragorn thought. The captain of Cair Andros would naturally be the final guarantor of peace within the fort’s ranks, but at the moment, Falthir’s reluctance hindered them all. But his lieutenants would be a part of this in any case... I need another voice from the Gondorrim, one more objective than Falthir’s. Determined to find one, he made his way across the courtyard towards Breca, intent upon his task once more.

***

An owl’s hoot sounded, full and vibrant as it pierced the thin, incessant hum of crickets. All is well, the night is fair, that cry said, and Denethor allowed himself to relax fractionally, there, inside himself, where his men would never note the difference in his outward demeanor. To the escort’s eyes, their lord found a night passed beneath Ithilien's eaves no different from one spent at Cair Andros. And that was how it ought to be, Denethor reflected, for a commander who was too apt to allow the land to dictate his perceived mood was one who encouraged fear and doubt in his men. And that we cannot afford, ever! Nevertheless, Denethor could admit, privately, that he would never be at ease in the wilds of Gondor—not that he could not function in them (and quite well and lethally at that, insofar as his enemies were concerned), but in the absence of an established camp, there were too many variables, too many things left to chance, and the land itself threatened to swallow them into its depths, leaving no traces behind. Even as it did Isildur, he thought, gazing into the night from his position atop a fallen tree trunk. The tree must have fallen ages ago, for it was thickly covered in moss, and there was no gap in the canopy to tell of its loss. The moss, at least, provided some cushioning, and Denethor was not above taking advantage of what comfort he could in Ithilien and elsewhere. In the midst of the woods, after a hard day’s ride, he could allow himself that much.

Fortunately for his peace of mind, some of the men in the escort were farm-bred, or hunters by trade, and therefore accustomed to a wide waste of untamed space surrounding them. So long as they were undisturbed, Denethor could watch the darkness of the forest with less mistrust and (if he were honest) fear. Tonight, the outland lads were calm, even congenial, so long as low-voiced conversation did not turn to their mission. But of course, none could resist the lure of scandal, particularly not one so large as to be almost unthinkable. And so, interspersed between tales of home and hearth, of tavern exploits and bedroom (Or rather, boarding room! Denethor thought cynically) conquests, ever and anon, someone would mention Poros, and immediately, faces would fall as the specter of treachery reared its head.

"I know a lad from my village who went to Poros," one of the men was saying even now. "Anzîl his name was—or is, so far as I know." A pause, then, "I hope he’s all right still, that he has not turned. It would kill his parents to learn that he got involved in this sort of shameful doing!"

"Ah, but when the high fall, the lesser do, too," said another morosely, stroking his salt and pepper beard with thoughtful grimness. "There are officers mixed up in this, or it would not have gone on so long, nor grown to be such a problem. What can a man do, if his betters tell him to meet with the cursed Southrons and deliver goods?"

"Refuse," said a third, sounding somewhat indignant.

"And break his oath to serve and obey his captain?" the second challenged. "That, too, is treason. And how would he know his captain wasn’t straight? Do you ask your captain to explain himself to you any time he gives you orders that you cannot understand? I doubt these officers tell their men what they intend—they just order them to do such and such, and naturally, it is done."
"But after a time, how could a man not know what is being done under the veil of authority? And sometimes it is right to break with orders—look at the Southrons who do cooperate with us, against the orders of their lords and captains. And we encourage them!" argued the other.

"Most of them are criminals anyway," the bearded man replied, contemptuously. Spearing his interlocutors with his eyes, he stabbed a forefinger into the palm of his hand for emphasis. "Mark my words, lads! If you had the choice, you would obey your captain and your lord, rather than argue and refuse. Why? Because you know you don’t know all that he does, and because you swore an oath to obey him. It’s an easy path downhill, and I, for one, don’t think many would know enough not to slide if their betters bid them slip. I know a lot of men, on the other hand, who would throw themselves down that slope, if their captain ordered them to do it."

"Anzîl swore an oath to obey the steward. He swore to live and to die by Lord Ecthelion’s command, and that came first, before he was sworn into his post at Poros," the first lad said, at length. He had begun speaking slowly, almost hesitantly, but now his words came more quickly, and he glanced round at the others for support as he continued. "I hope he thought of that, if ever he came to that slope you speak of, Laeros. So long as a man remembers his oath to the steward, then he should know his duty, whatever his captain tells him." There were some oblique glances cast in Denethor’s direction at that, as if mention of the steward had reminded them that latent in their commander’s blood was the authority of twenty-five generations of Mardil’s House. Something akin to embarrassed hopefulness settled over the group, as if to name the steward was to invoke that office, to provoke the heir to that station to answer their fears and confusion in this difficult matter. And what reassurance do they think I can give them? Denethor thought, with a flare of annoyed frustration. What they wish to hear is not the truth, for who wishes to learn that there are no innocents in Poros? A commander’s treachery perverts the service of all, for his men obey a man who has forfeit his authority, even though most of his orders be in accordance with good sense.

"The steward serves Gondor first, and in serving her, serves all. However, the decisions and reasoning of the steward are not made public, but come through those whom the steward appoints. Therefore, to serve your captain is to serve the steward, and you should not look to judge your captain lightly," he replied at length, and watched as uneasy glances flitted round the campfire. It was the only answer he could give, however, without descending into details that were not the province of men-at-arms, and which would do more harm than good for them to consider. He was not about to foster among the rank and file a spirit of skepticism towards Gondor’s officers, after all, not even in the name of the steward, his father. Better that they obey on principle, despite their questions, than that they stand like mules against every decision they could not fathom. One could always pardon them later, and according to the degree of their complicity, as he planned to do at Poros once he had that matter well in hand.

After an uncomfortable silence, the men returned to their talk, which predictably moved immediately to other, less difficult subjects. It was almost amusing, how swiftly and fervently they were willing to forget the topic, and cling instead to the mundane matters that filled a soldier’s day and occupied his thoughts during the long hours of waiting on danger. Home, family, lovers, friends, the complaints of ailing joints and sore muscles, a horse’s laming or some amusing tale of another’s misfortune—the men turned their conversation inward once more, leaving their commander once again outside that circle, and Denethor was content to remain there. He had enough to think about without trivial distractions, for he had Poros to deal with in a very few days, and therefore no desire to clutter his mind with useless stories.

Nevertheless, he listened with half an ear to one of the older men advising a younger comrade on matters feminine. As a matter of principle, and out of habit, he preferred to be informed on all fronts, although a part of him resented the attention devoted to such topics. And while he tucked away into memory the pertinent points of the conversation unfolding before him, he debated the best tactics to take when confronting Poros’ captain. After a time, however, he found himself feeling oddly unsettled—more so than seemed warranted even by his errand to the south. As casually as he could manage, he let his gaze drift about the clearing, pausing momentarily on each of the sentries who stood calmly, watching the trees. Almost as soon as it arose, he dismissed the notion that something about the woods disturbed him, for those on guard were reliable men, who knew well the signs of danger in a forest. And when he paused a moment, chasing that odd sentiment down the pathways of his mind, he realized that it was not a feeling of warning that disturbed him. It was anxiety, of a sort that Denethor had little familiarity with, though its source, upon reflection, seemed familiar enough: Ælric.

With a soft sigh, Ecthelion’s heir rose and stalked down the length of the log until he was well beyond the lit circle of their camp, though not so far as to be out of sight entirely. He was not so foolish as that, but he did not wish others to glean aught of his troubled frame of mind. Ælric and Cair Andros: he had left the latter in the hands of the former on his father’s orders, but he could not rest easy with that arrangement. Why not? Surely I ought to trust my father’s judgment of a man, for he is my lord as well as my sire, and I owe him that respect, he thought. Ecthelion’s experience was greater than his own, after all, and if the steward felt Ælric was trustworthy, then Denethor ought to accept that. Yet he could not. Perhaps it was that he mistrusted how easily, how naturally Ælric slipped back into a Rohirrim persona when set amid Rohirrim, as if he had no solid core, only faces that he put on to present to others, according to the style and expectations of his neighbors. Or perhaps it is that he does have a core, but I cannot see it clearly, in spite of all the time that we have spent together, Denethor thought darkly. Have I not caught glimpses of it? What is it in him that resists explanation? What is it that remains untouched by either Gondor or Rohan, and whence comes it? And why, when I have such reservations, do I still wish to trust him?

That was a new question, and one that struck Denethor like a blinding revelation—unsurprisingly, considering that revelation was precisely what it was. I wish to trust him! When did that happen? He hoped that it was only after Ecthelion had written him that note—a note that had come through the very one it concerned—instructing him to be certain that all, including Ælric, knew that Denethor trusted his new captain utterly. I hope, because truly, what cause, other than my father’s orders, have I to trust him? I have done my best to fulfill that directive, yet I did not think that I believed it, or would believe it, myself. Do I believe my own words? Does Ælric? He supposed that Ælric did, given the man’s ready acceptance of Denethor’s rebuke the other day, and his amused assurance this morning. Yet the look in the other’s eyes, and the very fact that he had brought up that pointed reference suggested that Ælric knew full well that Denethor had his doubts, and that he had yet to earn his lord’s trust. There was also, if Denethor had read that look aright, a sublime confidence that he would earn that trust in the end, which intrigued Denethor almost as much as it irritated and frustrated him. Who are you, to assume so much? he wanted to ask, and yet refused out of pride, out of the need to play the game according to the rules that both of them knew. One did not lead into a close set when the dance called for coy distance, after all.

I should not be thinking of this! the voice of conscientious duty insisted. The problems at Poros were larger than one man, however (maddeningly) mysterious. Yet his mind continued to turn the enigma that was Ælric over and over, seeking the key that would unlock that mind and lay the other bare to his scrutiny. But thus far, nothing suggested itself, and Denethor strangled the impulse to curse the other’s absence. It galled him to admit it, but what distracted him tonight was not Ælric’s presence, but his very absence. It was the frustration of a strategist without a map, or a craftsman called away from a half-finished project, forced to endure the proddings of conscience that reminded him of work left undone. And yet as much as I wish to ravel this knot, still, I enjoy the exploration of its ways! Denethor thought, amused, in a somewhat disgusted fashion, with his own contrariness in this matter. And more than that, he admitted that were Ælric here, he might resent the questions of the men less, for he could have been assured of having at least one intelligent conversation about Poros. If nothing else, Denethor was quite willing to acknowledge that Ælric, at least, had wits, and a keen mind that followed Denethor’s chains of logic without difficulty, even to the bitter and unpalatable conclusions that had led them both to treachery in the south.

Drawing a deep breath to settle himself, Denethor moved back along the log, eyes fastened on his men, watching the aspect of that circle of faces change with the changes in his position relative to it. Ælric’s ghost trailed in his wake, and Denethor fancied that the shade of his imagination’s crafting smiled at his preoccupation—a perfectly polite, unrevealing smile, such as he had come to know entirely too well in the past month. Folding down into a cross-legged position, Denethor lowered his eyes, thinking he knew not what as he stared meditatively at the intricate weave of the moss on which he sat, and which draped the log completely. Shown up by the fire’s glow, strands of dark, almost grey, green stole into that carpet of green-gold like thieving fingers… like corruption… Like Ælric! he thought with wry resignation. Thief he might be, to steal Denethor’s attention when it ought to be focused elsewhere, but he would be caught eventually. And then we shall see what sort of man you are in truth, Ælric Eardstapa. And Valar help you if you are not as you seem, for the pleasure of the hunt will not make me overlook injury to Gondor.

So resolved, he sat and watched the night until the watch changed, then joined his men in curling up in blankets about the fire. His watch would come early in the morning, and when it ended, they would be on their way south again.