A/N: Hello, everyone! My name is Jarlaxle, and now that I've (finally) finished my Harry Potter story, I can start on this one that I've had floating around in my mind for months now. So, first, my three disclaimers: number one, there are lots of details that I'm going to get wrong or completely ignore, so if you don't like that, don't read it. Number two, it's AU. And finally, the traditional one: all recognizable places, characters, et cetera, are J.R.R. Tolkien's. The rest belongs to yours truly.

Enjoy, and please review!

Chapter 1

"Betcha can't catch me!"

Grinning, the boy took off down the narrow hallway after his friend, who was fifty feet ahead of him. He paid no heed to the disgruntled soldiers he left in his wake, focusing on making his legs pump faster. He raced down a flight of stairs, dodged across a wide corridor, and dashed past the guards that stood at the door into the Tower of Ecthelion. One of them caught him by the collar of his tunic.

"Where do you think you're going, lad?"

He struggled in vain against the guard's grip, calling after his friend. "Let me go," he demanded, trying to pull away from his captor. "Belín!"

The boy he had been chasing halted next to a white tree that stood fifty feet from the entrance, panting for breath. They stood on the pinnacle of the Tower, from which they could see the surrounding land for many leagues. "Toldya you couldn't get me!"

"That's not fair!" the first boy whined, still fighting to get free. "I said, let me go! Belín, help me!"

"Your father wants to see you, my young prince," the guard said sternly, ushering him back into the Tower. "We're not supposed to let you out, and you're to go straight to his study. Off you go."

Grumbling, the boy glared after Belín, who was grinning mockingly, and then he pushed the guard's guiding hand away and stalked back through the doorway, tracing the familiar corridors to his father's study. He knocked on the door and said softly, "Father?"

"Come in."

The boy pushed the door open and peered inside. The room was warm, heated by a fire crackling in the grate; the walls were covered in bookshelves, which held the lore and history of Gondor from what the boy suspected was the beginning of time; a desk sat in the middle of the room, with a chair across from it. Sitting at the desk, his back to the door, was the boy's father.

The boy fidgeted nervously, having some idea what this was about. Without turning, his father motioned for him to sit in the chair in front of the desk. He took a seat and put his hands obediently in his lap, trying to look the picture of innocence.

There was a long minute of silence while the man at the desk finished writing and capped his inkbottle. Then he looked up piercingly at his son, who squirmed under his scrutinizing gaze. He waited for his father to speak, but he remained silent. The tension mounted with every passing second, until the boy burst out, "Alright, it was me, I did it, me and Belín smeared ink all over the captain's breastplate while he was asleep and hid his sword in the garden and ruined his quill."

He hunched over and glared rebelliously at the floor, flushing red. Had he looked up, he would have seen the smile tugging at the corners of his father's mouth, despite his best efforts to look stern. "Andrin," he started solemnly, forcing his lips into a frown, "I understand that you are still a child, but your behavior has gotten out of hand. You're nearly eleven; it is time you took some responsibility. Every time you escape my watch, you're doing something mischievous again—and don't even try to blame it on your cousin," he added warningly as his son opened his mouth to protest. "Belín always joins you, but you're the one who goads him on. Whenever you're ill, he's a perfectly well-behaved boy."

"It was his fault this time, Father, really—"

"Andrin," his father interrupted sharply, "you have no excuse. You are the son of a king, and you need to learn to set the example, not to follow like a mindless dog. If you are ever to lead this people, learn to lead your peers first."

Andrin made a face. "I don't want to lead the people," he muttered defiantly. "It's a boring job, sitting and writing and talking to your counselors all day."

The king smiled. "One day, my son, you will not look down on it as you do now."

The boy's eyes flashed. "I doubt it."

There was a knock on the door. The king turned and said, "Enter."

It opened, and in came a man with dark hair, gray eyes, and a wary posture. His eyes flickered over the scene, and Andrin fancied for a moment that when they found his face, a hungry look flashed in them, but he shook off the thought and stood up. "Can I go?" he asked his father.

"You may."

"Uncle, where's Belín?"

The newcomer shook his head. "Probably tearing up the flower beds. If you find him, tell him that his mother's looking for him."

As he left the room and closed the door behind him, he heard his uncle say, "Andrith, we need to speak." Then the door clicked shut, and he dashed down the corridor to track down his cousin.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

"Andrith, we need to speak."

"I agree," the king said dryly, leaning back in his chair. "Our sons are getting quite out of hand."

The man took a seat in the chair that had just been vacated by his nephew. "You know that's not what I mean," he said darkly, running a hand through his hair. "Rohan."

"Ah." The king scrutinized his brother. "I've heard your views on this matter, Drían."

"And I urge you with greater force than before: listen to me!"

"I have. I weighed your opinion impartially against mine, and I still think that my course of action is the right one. I will not go to war."

"It won't be long before Rohan moves against you. If you make the first move, you can gain the advantage. You have troops enough. You can have them marshaled within a week and to Edoras in another. If you do not strike first, Halin will, and you will regret it."

"Indeed, you are mistaken, my brother. I do not believe Rohan means to attack us, and while peace still stands, I will not be the one to break it. If Halin does, I am confident that we can defend Gondor adequately."

"Halin is no fool; he governs the Riddermark competently enough. He will be sure of victory before he strikes."

"Then he will not strike, for he can never be assured triumph against Gondor. He knows this."

"Then you are the fool!" Drían said angrily. "If you refuse to read the signs, Gondor will be defeated easily. He is amassing an army of Rohirrim. He is readying to attack."

"Please, Drían, do not lose your temper. Trust me to do what is best for my people."

Drían took a deep breath. "Forgive me, Andrith. I spoke in anger. I will trust your judgment, though I believe you judge wrong."

He left quickly, outwardly calm but inwardly seething. What is he thinking? Does he not know that by taking Rohan, he could conquer all of Middle Earth? Nothing would stand in his way.

He strode down the corridor, his hand clenching the hilt of his sword. That's the difference between us, he thought disdainfully. He is content with Gondor as it is. He does not look to the lands that surround us, lands that offer so much opportunity if he would but reach out and grasp them!

Fury quickening his steps, he found himself in his chambers. Rather than sitting at his desk, however, he paced distractedly up and down the floor. "Something has to be done," he muttered, gazing through his window at the sinking sun. At the end of this, brother, he thought determinedly, I will have my way. Gondor will go to war.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

"Father! Father!"

Andrith looked up as his son dashed into the garden where he sat. He put aside the parchment he had been writing on and raised his eyebrows mildly as a very excited Andrin halted beside him, panting for breath.

"Father, Uncle is going to Osgiliath to check on the garrison there, and he's taking Belín with him!"

Andrith frowned, but he didn't speak. Andrin continued anxiously, "Can I go?"

"It is fit that he should take Belín with him; Belín is his son. You are my son, and your place is here, with me."

His son made a face that said very clearly that he didn't want to be his son anymore. "But he's my uncle," he said defensively. "And anyway, Osgiliath is part of the kingdom that I'm going to rule when I grow up. How can I rule it if I've never even been there?"

The king laughed. "What do you think your mother would say?"

He scowled and muttered rebelliously, "She wouldn't let me."

"Why not?"

"Because of two weeks ago when we snuck into the captain's room and smeared ink on his armor, and because of three days after that when we tied the sheets from our chambers to make a rope ladder, and because of yesterday when—"

"Don't tell me what you did yesterday," the king groaned, rubbing his temples. "I don't want to know. Maybe I should send you just to be rid of you."

Andrin's face brightened. "Really?"

"No."

"A good thing, too," came a third voice, approaching Andrin from behind. "I don't think my entire guard of twenty men could handle you and Belín."

"Uncle," Andrin protested, "that's not fair. We would behave."

Drían looked at the king. "I think he would enjoy it, and he might learn something from it."

Andrith looked between his son and his brother. "You want him to go? Well, then, it seems I am overruled. But I can make one last stand; if your mother says you may go, you may."

The young prince's face fell. "But she won't let me!"

Andrith shrugged. "Then I guess you'll just have to stay and guard the Tower of Ecthelion while Belín goes off to battle monstrous orcs and behemoth cave trolls."

"May the gods grant that we meet none of those," Drían said darkly, fingering the hilt of his sword. "That would mean that darkness is abroad once again."

"Father," Andrin begged, "please let me go?"

"I don't see what harm could be done in his coming," his uncle added on his behalf, "save to weary my men, I suppose. Osgiliath is not far; we will not stay above a week."

Andrith stood, stretching leisurely, and took his son's hand. "Let's go find your mother, shall we? We'll see what she has to say."

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

"Really, Andrith, I don't think it's wise to allow him to go. When the relationships between Gondor and Rohan are as strained as they are, an attack could happen at any time. It is not safe, and I do not think it right to endanger our son's life."

"Osgiliath is little more at risk than Minas Tirith. They could as easily attack us here as they could there, if indeed they even plan to attack."

His wife frowned. "I know that. But were forces from Rohan to come to Minas Tirith, they would have to pass Osgiliath, and we would receive word from a messenger to prepare for battle at least a day before they arrived. Osgiliath has no such line of defense. And Minas Tirith is a fortress, built to withstand armies of thousands, whereas Osgiliath is not."

"Ailanwë," Andrith said, leaning forward, "he will be safe. I do not believe King Halin of the Riddermark means to attack us anyway, and if he does, he will be under Drían's care." The king could not believe that the same plan he had wanted to reject half an hour ago, he was now arguing in favor of—arguing, what was more, with his wife, with whom he never disagreed if he could avoid it. "Drían would never let anything happen to him."

"You have such complete faith in your brother," Ailanwë said softly, "but you do not trust me half so well when I tell you I have a foreboding feeling whenever he is near. Something in my soul tells me that to trust him would be fatal. I do not wish to speak ill of any of your family, Andrith, least of all someone whom you so love, but my heart cannot remain silent on this subject, not when you want to put Andrin's life into Drían's hands."

"I do not understand why you so dislike—"

"You do not see the gleam in his eye when he looks at your son," his wife interrupted quietly. "Simply by being born, Andrin took away Drían's claim to the throne, and your brother hates him for that. You are blind to his insatiable lust for kingship. He wants your place, Andrith. He will not rest until that crown sits upon his head."

The king knew now why he so wanted his son to go to Osgiliath with Drían; it was a way to show Ailanwë that his brother was not what she believed him to be. "Even if he wanted the throne," he retorted angrily, rising and starting to pace, "he would have to kill both me and Andrin to get it. He would not be so brash. But it is of little consequence, as he has never wanted to be king of Gondor anyway and thus poses no threat."

He quailed slightly under his wife's piercing gaze—the queen was the only person alive who could frighten him—but he was determined to hold his ground. "Andrin will go to Osgiliath with Drían and Belín. That is my final word, Ailanwë."