Chapter 1

So what about now, when the war ends? What's the right thing to do? When warriors come home after long absences spent doing bloody work ripping the last breath from others? You can run out to meet them, to show by your greeting that you love them and missed them and prayed for them, but their eyes are different, the way they stand is different, the way they talk is different. They have seen horrors that you could not imagine if you tried and, if you did, could not stand to bear. They are not the same and never will they be the same because war has changed them and has changed what they fought so hard to preserve. Freedom is enslaved by the bonds of memories. Freedom is not what they dreamed, and yet still you live it, and still think maybe it was worth it.

But is it? Is freedom worth a city of the walking dead?

Iliana set her pen down and looked out the window. The sun was setting, streaking the orange sky with brilliant beams of red and pink and purple. A cool breeze rushing in signaled a cool night ahead, though it was still an hour or so away, and when she stuck her head out and looked to the left, she could see the night fog beginning to roll up the river. Out on the field over which the magnificent sunset was dominating the earth and heavens, several small black figures were moving towards the city at an alarming rate. She shook her head, sighed, and pulled her gaze back into the room. Several. A lot more than several men had left to fight, but only several were returning, and it just all felt so pointless to her.

There. She'd admitted it. She wrote it down as if to prove to herself she was brave enough to put actual words to her feelings, then sat back in her chair and rested her head against the cool stone wall.

Yes, this was all pointless to her. What she had just written was all true, except the war ending. The war wasn't ending yet. Not anywhere close. And, unfortunately, what she had written was painfully optimistic. There wasn't ever going to be any bittersweet freedom. This fighting was pointless to her, because it was just a slow, painful, long death for everyone in the city. Instead of the entire city being burned and all its inhabitants killed at once, what they had signed themselves up for instead was a constant terror, a paralyzing fear at all hours of the day that the end was about to come, and the sharp, incessant stab wounds that came every time the men rode out and every time so few of them returned. What the city had opted to do, this fighting as long as they could, was so much more painful than the alternative, and it all felt so pointless to Iliana.

Her father was among the warriors returning, but she would not go down to meet him. He would amble through the door soon, complaining about the fighting, the death, the blood, and she hated him for that, for complaining. He shouldn't complain. He had no right to complain. He should be in reverent silence, horrified suspension of animation for his comrades that he had just seen fall, but they weren't his comrades because he was no warrior. He was a coward. He was an Elven man afraid of death, but not brave enough to admit it. So every time he rode out with the men who were willing to die to buy their wives and children just a couple more days of life; he rode out with them, and then he hid until it was all over, and then rode back, claiming glory for surviving. Iliana hated glory and she hated the survivors and she hated everyone who fought but she mostly hated him. She wanted to kill him, but she knew she couldn't. Not because he was her father, or because she felt any sort of admiration or adoration for him, but because he might yet have a part to play, he might yet take an arrow or a stab for someone who needed to live, and she didn't want to rob him of that fate.

Iliana sighed and rose from the chair. She didn't really want to be here when her father returned, so instead she wandered into the den where Rylan was drawing. He had really picked up that hobby lately –not that he hadn't always been an artist, but lately he had started actually dedicating lots of his time to drawing anything and everything. She walked up behind him and looked over his shoulder at the drawing, a bloody sword leaning up against a broken stone wall beside a dented helmet and a quiver of arrows with feathers tied to the end.

She just watched his hand move across the paper with the piece of coal that he had whittled into a point for a couple minutes, the only sound the scratch against the paper. He finally finished and set the coal down and held the picture up for both of them to see.

"Well?"

"It's amazing, Rylan. I'm going to see if I can find you some paints and let's see what you can do with those."

Rylan shook his head, "No, I don't know how to use paints. This is all I've ever used."

"I'm sure you'll figure it out. You're a smart kid."

"You don't have to buy my love, Mum."

Iliana laughed and gathered his blonde hair into a pony tail at the nape of his neck, then wrapped her arms around his shoulders to rest her chin on his shoulder. "I sure hope not. But I'll find you paints either way." Rylan picked the coal back up to sign his name and put the date in the corner like Iliana had made him start doing when he was really young, then set the piece of coal back into a wooden box where he kept several other pieces. Iliana watched this, then suggested, "Do you want to go for a walk?"

"Is Grandfather coming home?"

"Of course."

"All right, then." Rylan put this new drawing in the cupboard, sliding it in amongst so many others that Iliana had made sure to preserve, then grabbed fresh paper and a piece of coal from the box. She grabbed her cloak from the hook by the door and tossed Rylan his own. They had lived here among the men and women of Gondor for a little over two years now, yet still there were few who knew they were there. Denethor knew, of course, and his sons Faramir and Boromir, and it was impossible to completely hide themselves, so many citizens had seen or at least heard of the especially beautiful woman and her beautiful son. But in times like these, no one really cared about their neighbor or what race they might be or who they might be. So Iliana and Rylan kept to themselves and avoided all contact with anyone except Denethor, Faramir, Boromir, and a couple servants in the palace. Iliana's father, of course, was a warrior, at least by name, and spent much of his time either with other soldiers of Gondor or else drinking his fears away in any of the pubs. However, years of hard living and a cold heart had stripped him of his Elven graces, and he had mutated until one could hardly see any resemblance between Iliana and her father.

They stepped outside and Iliana grabbed Rylan's arm as a cart went rushing by, nearly plowing them over. Rylan shared an unamused look with his mother, then led the way up the crowded, bustling streets towards the palace. Lately, when Iliana asked to go for a walk, it was to there that she meant, since only there and in their home did she feel comfortable to take her cloak off and just be, and outside the city walls was much too dangerous for her to take a stroll. Why in the palace of Gondor, around crazy Denethor, Iliana felt comfortable was beyond even her understanding. However, almost immediately upon her arrival in Gondor, she had made acquaintances with Faramir and Boromir, and through them had been noticed by Denethor who, in his own creepy way, was rather fond of the beautiful Elven woman. Though one would never have guessed it, watching the grumpy man moan and groan about anything and everything to her, he enjoyed her presence, since it brought some little light in what he saw as a hopeless world. Or perhaps he recognized a common sympathy in her –she, too, though this war was hopeless. She too understood that no one was coming, that Rohan had abandoned her sister city, that the Elves had abandoned Arda, that the dwarves cared nothing for them, that Gondor stood alone against all the strength of Sauron, and it just wasn't enough. Perhaps he recognized this cynicism in her and appreciated it, though the two never spoke of it. Indeed he complained to her about the hopelessness of it all, but she refused to speak of it in front of her son, and, if Rylan wasn't present, she still refused to speak her opinion just for fear of anything she said getting back to Rylan. His grandfather was a coward; the last thing she wanted her son to learn was that his mother had no hope, which was perhaps even worse than cowardice.

As soon as they were past the worst of the crowd, Rylan slowed down so that he and Iliana walked side by side, though they said nothing to each other, but just enjoyed being outside. There was a rush down to meet the returning warriors, to see who had managed to survive, to dole out the glory that Iliana so hated. So as they got closer to the palace, fewer and fewer people were there, so that even as they walked through the heavy front doors of the palace, Iliana shoved her hood back and didn't scold Rylan when he did the same. The guards stationed there nodded at them and let them through.

Inside, Denethor was to be found moping around in his throne, splayed out like a toad on a stump with little command and no charm. When a guard announced Iliana and Rylan's arrival, Denethor reacted only by letting his head loll pathetically to see them enter.

As Iliana approached the throne, Denethor groaned, "Oh, Iliana. Things are bad. Things are much worse than the last time we spoke."

"Tell me about it. Food prices have sky-rocketed and I doubt I shall be able to feed my family much longer," Iliana nodded, stopping a few feet away and looking around the throne room, as if anything would have changed since her last visit two days ago.

Denethor made a face and demanded, "What good is food at times like this? Soon we will no longer need food–"

"Yet you seem to be quite enjoying it," Iliana argued, motioning to where plates of food sat out on the table, going to waste.

Denethor followed her gaze and froze for a moment, then made another face and growled, "Bah, fine. Take what you want. Steal from a tired old steward."

"It's not stealing if you've told me to take it, and I think I will," Iliana nodded, though opted to get fresh things from the kitchen before she left. Rylan walked up to stand beside his mother to see if they were going to stay here long enough for it to be worth him sitting down and drawing.

Denethor stared at him for a moment as if he had never seen him in his life, then demanded, "How old are you?"

"I just turned twelve. Sir," Rylan added as Iliana elbowed him. Even if Denethor was crazy, he needed to be shown respect. He was the steward, and the last thing they wanted to do was set him off.

"And will you fight, boy?"

"He will not," Iliana quickly butted in. "I won't allow it."

"Bah. Women. Every man who has died in this war is some mother's son."

Iliana retorted, "And yet, if it is hopeless, as you say, you have no need of him."

Denethor regarded her for a moment, then nodded, "Yes, you are right. The boy need not fight. But when my son Boromir returns, you had best ask him to teach you to fight all the same. You are an Elf, so there may be hope for you to flee to your people yet, and leave this tired old steward to die with his people."

Rylan wasn't sure what to say to that –personally, he not only disliked Denethor, he really didn't like his mother spending time around the old man. He let an awkward silence sit there for a moment, then told his mother, "I'm going to go draw..."

"Okay, love. Stay where I can find you." He nodded and hurried over to sit just outside where he could look down on the city.

Iliana took a seat on the steps beside Denethor, not really wanting to remain near the steward since he made her slightly nervous, the way he stared at everything with suspicion and a sick disgust. However, there was nowhere else she had to be, and at least if her father whined about her not greeting him, she could say Denethor had called on her. Her father very much encouraged her to spend time with the steward family, though more Faramir and Boromir than Denethor. However, Boromir had gone off to Rivendell some time ago, and Faramir was always leading warriors in to battle, much to Iliana's sorrow. He was a good, kind-hearted man, one that she had grown rather fond of, and not someone she wanted to see risking his life at every turn as he did. And all to gain the approval of crazy old Denethor, a father playing favorites.

Denethor went on complaining about the latest complaints from the people that had reached his ears, and Iliana pretended to listen while actually counting the chiseled stones used to make the far wall when a man entered the hall that she didn't know. He approached the throne slowly, almost fearfully, and finally, at Denethor's demand to know what business he had, intruding when Denethor had visitors, presented an item/ that made Iliana's heart stop and Denethor's breath catch in his throat. The Horn of Gondor, split in half, the very one that Boromir had taken with him on his trip to Rivendell. The Horn was a very important symbol of Gondor; there was no way Boromir would have parted with it peacefully. Denethor's hands shook and his mouth opened and closed, but the only sound he made was a sort of helpless gurgling deep in his throat as he took the horn from the man's hands. The item delivered, the man quickly made his exit, no doubt expecting a blow-up, as did Iliana. She watched Denethor closely as he ran his fingers over the horn, as if expecting it to speak and tell him where its master, Denethor's beloved son, had gone to.

Iliana hoped Rylan wouldn't come in, and she moved to comfort Denethor, but then stopped. He probably wanted to be left alone right now. If Boromir was dead, as this hinted, there was nothing that would be able to comfort him. Iliana couldn't imagine how she would react if something happened to Rylan. Well, there wouldn't be any reaction; she wouldn't survive it. And even if Denethor was crazy, she supposed the emotions associated with the loss of one's child surpassed even that.

She took several steps towards the outside to retrieve Rylan and leave Denethor alone to grieve, but he leaned forward with a sudden energy she didn't know he possessed and demanded, "No. No, Iliana. Don't leave me just now. Sit... sit... just sit with me." Iliana eyed him warily, but didn't refuse what little comfort she could offer him, sitting down gracefully on the top step by his throne.

For a long time they sat in silence. Iliana waited for the out-burst she knew was coming, but it didn't. Instead, Denethor sat there, clutching the split Horn in his shaking hands, his breathing rough and ragged. Iliana wanted more than anything to get up and leave, but if her presence was some small comfort to Denethor, then she could suffer this. However, the silence became bearable enough that she was going to try again to sneak out when the doors swung open again. She rose as two people entered, unannounced, the first a tall man in white and silver robes with long, straight white hair and a long beard to match; the second a small man, smaller than Rylan but no child judging by his facial features which, though sweet and almost childlike, were not in fact childish.

Though she stood not a foot to the right of Denethor, neither of the two intruders seemed to notice her, and instead the taller man began talking to Denethor who wouldn't even lift his eyes to acknowledge their presence. The man greeted Denethor and said something else that Iliana didn't catch, too intent on watching Denethor who she was sure was going to crack now.

Denethor paused a moment after the man had finished talking, then stated slowly, raising his face, "Perhaps you can explain to me why my son is dead." It was as if this opened a flood gate, not in Denethor but in the two intruders. Both got horrified looks on their faces, as if the knowledge that Denethor knew of Boromir's demise was a shock to them.

Before the taller man could say anything, the small man stepped forward and answered quickly, "He died protecting us, my lord –myself and my kinsmen– from many enemies. He fought bravely and... and I offer you my service, as it is, to repay that debt." Iliana eyed this small man suspiciously but almost smiled; he was obviously upset at Boromir's death, and was nothing if not sincere about offering his service, though, as he had hinted, she didn't think there was much to it. She wondered that he had ever fought in his life, though obviously he had seen death and battle if he had been there when Boromir was killed.

The taller man shoved the small man back and ordered, "Hush!" then insisted to Denethor, "The time for grieving will come, Denethor, but it is not now. War is upon you; it is here at your doorstep!" Iliana inhaled sharply as Denethor shifted; this was not what he needed to be hearing now, and she couldn't believe this man could be so inconsiderate minutes after Denethor had learned of the death of his son. "You are the steward of Gondor, and as steward it is your duty to protect the city. Where are the armies of Gondor?"

Denethor shook his head and moaned, "No, no, it is hopeless. There is no fight; there is no one to–"

"You are not alone," the man interrupted with a step forward. "Call on your friends of old. Call on King Theodon; Rohan will answer. You are not alone as you fear, Denethor."

"Call on Rohan... call on Rohan... No! She will not answer! We are alone; hope is lost!"

The man shook his head, "No. Elendil has stepped forward. The King is returning–" This seemed to strike a nerve in Denethor and he leapt up from his throne, sending the Horn crashing to the ground.

"NO! He will not! The throne is mine. Mine, do you hear? There is no hope, and no one will take this from me!" Both intruders seemed taken aback by this sudden out-burst, but Iliana had seen it coming, and when the tall man had begun prodding him, it was no wonder that Denethor had exploded. The man was crazy to begin with; challenging the world he had buried himself in was of course going to make him crack. Iliana bent down and carefully picked the Horn up and held it out to Denethor as the intruders turned and quickly hurried from the room. Denethor looked at her a moment, then barked, "The throne is mine! Who dares challenge this?"

Iliana narrowed her eyes and retorted, "Well I'm not challenging it, but you have no right to speak to me in that tone. I'm going to leave and let you calm down."

Immediately Denethor's face softened and he begged, "No... no, don't leave me!" Rylan had poked his head in at all the commotion, and when Iliana motioned to him, he came hurrying over and followed Iliana from the room, casting nervous glances over his shoulder even as Denethor changed his begging to yelling, "Fine! Go! Leave me like the others!"

"Mama, what was that–"

"Hush, baby. Wait a moment," Iliana held her hand up, then quickly turned to a hallway breaking off to the right where she could hear footsteps. She took off at a quick jog and Rylan quickly followed behind, confused until they caught up to the two visitors.

Both men stopped and turned at Iliana's approach, and the taller man asked gently, "Yes?"

"Do you really think Rohan will come? Will they truly come?" she asked, her eyes widening at a possibility she had thought all but lost.

The taller man regarded her for a moment, then asked slowly, "What is your name, child?"

"Iliana, and I am no child." She shoved her hair back so he could see her ears, as if this would explain why she might come across to him as a child, and it did. It explained why even at her most serious, even as cynical as she might be, her beauty made her seem innocent and her grace made her seem surreal. "My son, my father, and I live here in Minis Tirith."

The man smiled, "I am known by many things, but here perhaps as Mithrandir, and this is Peregrine Took."

"You're a maiar," Rylan gasped in awe, peering around Iliana at these two people.

Iliana nodded for Mithrandir and answered for him, recognizing the name Mithrandir, "Gandalf the Grey, now the White."

"Yes."

"And in answer to my question? Will Rohan come? Be honest."

Gandalf thought a moment, as if weighing what he wanted to say, then replied, "They must be called, and Denethor will not." That didn't really answer Iliana's question, but in itself was an answer of sorts. He wasn't sure. He didn't know. Perhaps Theodon was as unpredictable as Denethor.

However, Rylan grabbed Iliana's arm and breathed, "Mama, we could do it. We could light the Beacon."

Gandalf smiled down at Rylan and inquired, "Would you do that?"

"Yes. If it meant they might come," Rylan nodded, his face awash with the hope of a child despite the pessimistic city he lived in.

"I may call on you to do that. But not right now. Tomorrow I may call on you."

Rylan smiled with anticipation, then nodded with a very serious expression, "I'll be ready."

Here they parted ways, Iliana and Rylan stopping by the kitchens to get some food to take home, then going back to the house where they found Iliana's father sound asleep in his room, a bottle of alcohol on its side on the floor, spilling out onto the boards. Iliana righted it, then closed the door and hoped he would stay there the rest of the night at least. She'd dealt with enough imbalanced men for one day.

Rylan helped Iliana make supper, and the two ate up on the roof, sitting on the slant to watch as the stars came out. Once their food had disappeared, Iliana set the dishes back inside, then stretched out beside Rylan and stared up at the sky.

After a couple minutes of silence, Rylan asked, "Mama, do you think Mithrandir will really call on me tomorrow."

"I think it's highly likely."

Rylan thought a moment, then asked, "And if they called on me to fight–"

"You're only twelve," Iliana quickly interrupted.

"I know that. But boys my age were fighting in Rohan. Would you let me fight?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"For one, it's not our war. You aren't a soldier of Gondor, or even a child of Gondor."

"Than what am I a child of, if not the city I live in?"

Iliana sighed and shook her head, "Don't argue with me on this, Rylan. You will not fight in this war. If I do nothing right as a mother, I can at least save you from ever having to fight in a war, much less one that's not even ours."

"But it is our war, Mum! We live in Arda. Sauron will kill us right along with every other person in Gondor. We have as much at stake in this as anyone else. If the city falls, we'll go down with it!" Rylan insisted, sitting up.

As soon as he said this, Iliana sat up straight beside him, grabbed his arm, and shook it, "No, we won't. Or at least you won't. You listen to me, Rylan. If anything happens to me, or to this city, you are to go down to the harbor as soon as you can and get in a boat."

"And what, sail to Grey Havens all by myself?"

"If you can't, then sail North. Watch the coast, and you're bound to find other Elven ships headed for the Grey Havens. They'll take you along."

Rylan frowned and shook his head, "Mum, you don't need to be telling me this, because even if we have to flee, you'll be right there–"

"And if I'm not?"

"You will be," Rylan insisted.

"You don't know that, sweetheart. Anything could happen, and if it does, I want you to safety before it's too–"

"No!" Rylan interrupted, shoving her hand away and glaring at her. "You'll be there. Whatever happens, we'll go together." His pretty blue eyes grew larger than ever and watered up, giving away instantly his feelings. He couldn't handle the idea of losing his mother any more than she could handle the idea of losing her son. Iliana nodded and pulled him against her chest until his breathing slowed down, swaying gently side to side. He had gotten the message, so there was no reason to speak of it again.

Instead Iliana nodded, "We will together."

"Not tonight, though, because Mithrandir may call upon me tomorrow."

Iliana laughed, "Yes, he just might, and you said you would be ready. We shall see how tomorrow goes." Though she didn't voice it to Rylan, she had been torn for weeks now between staying in Gondor where they were close to the Harbour and could quickly get away in boats should the need arise, or going further North to put distance between themselves and Mordor, which would give them more time to escape if things went bad, though then they would be almost clueless as to how things were going. Well, perhaps tomorrow would provide some answers.

They didn't stay up there much longer; just long enough to watch the stars and try to ignore the flames and smoke and death floating on the air from Mordor. When the night darkened so that they could no longer ignore it, Iliana and Rylan went inside and made for bed, Rylan curling up into his mother's side where he had every night since he had been born.