Obviously AU. Six years into King Elessar's reign, evil powers start to stir. Riders cloaked, hooded, and donned entirely in black have been seen by citizens of Gondor, and the soldiers patrolling Minas Tirith.

I apologize for the possibly OOC-ness with 'Ithilmir' and 'Galadhmir'. They aren't given a personality, as they're not living in the books, so I made it up a bit. Some stuff might be a little off, my knowledge is a bit rusty.

No OCs! The farmer in the beginning is just serving the purpose of being a frightened citizen, and will not be in the other chapters of this fic.

This fic will be a multichapter!

Some characters use aliases. The aliases of the Three Riders are explained in the bottom author's note!

Thanks to Catching Fireflies for Beta-ing, and for finding out what 'mir' means!

Ithilmir, Anormir, and Galadhmir are not OCs! I repeat, they are canon characters using aliases!

Looking up at the splendor of Minas Tirith, he almost felt as if he was a young soldier of Gondor. He saw guards on the Tower of Ecthelion and looked upon them with a frown that was almost jealous. His eyes were focused on the tallest part of the White City, and they shone with remembrance. His black cloak billowed out behind him, though he sat perfectly still on his mount. His face was in shadow, but there was almost a light radiating off him- the light of loyalty.

There was a scoff from the rider beside him. "If you have a mind to stand there until night has fallen, be my guest. Pray do not place the blame on me when the guards arrest you." The rider was clearly of a poor social standing: his clothes were worn, and his cheeks gaunt with lack of food.

"Nonsense," snapped the black-cloaked man, irritated. "The people-" He quickly shut his mouth before he could say anything else. Dammit! You are becoming heedless! he told himself. This man is naught but a farmer, but he may know you under your real name. He will ask questions, and they will be answered easily enough. You cannot let your identity be known!

"The people will say, 'Look yonder! It is a Nazgul!'" said the rider truthfully. "Perhaps you should change your garments, Master Anormir."

The man gave the poor rider a haughty look that was hidden by his hood. "My choice of garb is my own, farmer. You would do well not to question it." There was a slight noise of metal ringing as the man drew his sword out of its sheath an inch or so from the hilt.

"No need for weapons! I meant you no offense," said the farmer. "But what do you mean to accomplish, save frightening the guards, by sitting here, looking like one of the Black Riders?"

"I do not know what I mean to accomplish," admitted the man. He let go of the hilt of his sword, and it sang as it fell into its sheath. "I merely wish to gaze upon Minas Tirith. The White City is my heart, and I can feel it beating here."

The two men sat in silence, their horses snuffling and shooing away flies. The evening strove to cling onto its last light, but the sun had slipped, and Minas Tirith became a vaguely off-white blur.

The black-cloaked man sighed. "I suppose I should go now... find some suitable shelter. I thank you, though, for letting me buy supplies from you, and of course, this fine mount, and accompanying me here. I hope I have paid well enough."

"More than well enough!" said the farmer. He shifted his weight on his horse. "May I ask, where did you come upon this sort of money? I mean no offense, but you came to my camp looking like naught but a poor traveller!"

There was a screech in the night, like that of an eagle.

The man with the black hood stiffened, and his right hand reached for his sword again. His eyes glinted in the moonlight with ferocity, and he looked like he could skewer the farmer on his sword and pull him right off his horse.

"I mean no offense!" cried the farmer, repeating himself. "Money is money! I care not!"

"Quiet!" hissed the black-cloaked man. He gripped the reigns of his horse, which whinnied anxiously.

"What is it?" asked the farmer nervously, hunching over as if hoping that lack of height would help his odds of not being seen.

"Naught that concerns you. I thank you for your kindness," said the man. He kicked the side of his horse, and without warning, shot off into the darkness, toward Osgiliath.

Another eagle that sounded much closer to the farmer called out in a low screech.

The farmer was more than a bit shaken. With uncertainty and cautiousness, he proceeded back to his humble dwellings.

That black-hooded man's voice... where had he heard it before?

That pride... that loyalty to Gondor... the farmer recognized it.

"The White City is my heart, and I can feel it beating here"... the words reminded him of someone... someone long dead, someone remembered scornfully in Gondor, someone's name that was accompanied with a sign against evil and a shudder of disgust... someone who used to be admired by all...

"You are getting old and addled," the farmer said quietly to himself. "Your elders have always told you they remember those dead constantly. Perhaps you, too, are experiencing this. Anormir was a lost traveller: nothing more. And what of the eagles calling out? They often do so."

As the farmer tethered his horse on the hitching-pole, though, he realized one thing, and he spoke it aloud in puzzlement:

"But eagles do not call out in the night."

In a glade near Minas Tirith, a fire crackled. Three tall forms sat by it. They all were donned in black, cloak-hoods hiding their faces. They wore black gloves, and the hands in them were positioned near to the fire, warming themselves. They moved, sometimes, to bring bits of meat to their mouth. There was the occasional sound of someone chewing, and sometimes bones flew from the hooded faces as the three folk ate.

"That was quite the pathetic excuse for the call of an eagle, Anormir," said one of them, setting the skeleton of a fish carefully beside him. Their voice had an Elvish accent to it, and was smooth yet firm. "You sounded more akin to one of the Nine Nazgul."

"The Nazgul are vanquished, Galadhmir," said a rich, low voice from under another hood, copying the first person's pointed accent of the name. The voice's owner was a man, going by the name of Anormir. "It is not as if they are a threat."

"I must agree, you sounded nothing like an eagle," the third person spoke up. Their voice was rough and a bit hoarse. "And if the two of you quarrel about your choices of alias once more, I shall impale you with my sword. Both of you at once, mind you."

"Oh, we shall cease this bickering, Ithilmir," said the smooth voice belonging to Galadhmir, once again emphasizing the name of the one he spoke to. "Or shall I say, Morgul-mir? In your position, I would be appalled at the evil ruin of your city."

"Your sword is in the hands of your heir, Ithilmir," added Anormir before Ithilmir could speak up. There was a loud spitting sound, and a mess of fish bone, meat, and saliva flew from under Anormir's hood and into the fire. "I have told you this many times, yet I can understand why you do not accept it. I do not accept it myself, occasionally."

"You dare-" growled the rough voice of Ithilmir.

"Of course, that is not all," said the voice of Anormir. "The Ring! It is destroyed, melted in the Fires of Doom, destroyed by one of my old Fellowship. I am rather proud to say that I walked those miles with him, now." Under his hood, his face was wistful and a bit melancholy.

"You are proud of a great many things," grumbled Ithilmir. "Who is taking the first watch?" he asked, directing the conversation away from his his sword and his heir.

"I shall," Galadhmir spoke up. "You two shall have to resort to arguing in your sleep."

There was a dismissive snort from Anormir, and the man got up. He tossed dirt from a small pile next to him onto the fire, snuffing it out quickly. Ithilmir found a space under a tree, and laid under it, seeking to be protected from the relentless wind. Anormir found a spot on the opposite side of the clearing and laid down there, looking as accustomed to the dirt and rocks as if he was sleeping on the most expensive bed in Gondor. The two Men still wore their hoods.

Galadhmir watched this with silent, glittering eyes from under his own hood. He sat on the stump of a tree near the middle of the clearing. Though he was surrounded by insects and trees, he sat proud and erect as if he was having an audience with the King. He turned his eyes to the trees where their three horses were hitched. They were still there, nibbling on the yellowed grass, softly nickering.

A mumble came from Ithilmir's direction: "Tomorrow we ride into the White City."

Galadhmir nodded. "And you would do well to act civilly whilst doing so," he said sternly.

For a minute, all was silent. Galadhmir assumed his two friends had gone to sleep, but then Anormir said quietly, "Do you think the Blue Wizard brought us three back to life for a reason?" His voice sounded troubled. Galadhmir could not believe how hard it was for humans to fall asleep. Anormir stared at the star-speckled sky, arms behind his head. His hood had slipped a bit, showing the pale outline of his face.

"Yes," said Galadhmir. "A wizard does not bring back three beings without expecting a price paid for it."

"Who shall pay?" asked Ithilmir sleepily from under his tree.

"No, Galadhmir," Anormir said, ignoring the other man, "you misunderstood. I meant... both of you, you were leaders of your kind. It only makes sense you would get a new life. I was-"

"A leader of your kind," said Galadhmir in his firmest voice, used to telling Anormir this. "Now, get you to sleep. We have an important day tomorrow."

It was silent again, and then Ithilimir murmured, "I bid you good night, Gil-galad and Boromir son of Denethor." The other Man startled a bit at his name, and then nodded and closed his eyes.

The form on the tree-stump nearly told Ithilmir to be more cautious. The use of real names was not a careful thing to do, and in their situation, carefulness was everything. But he did not sense anyone in the trees, so he said, "And I bid you the same, Isildur son of Elendil."

King Elessar's brow was furrowed as he read the report from the guards of Minas Tirith's borders. His eyes were narrowed into grey slits, and one hand was raked through his hair in a rather un-Kingly posture. He sat in his smallest study, propping a window open to let in the morning light. "'Smoke rose from near Osgiliath'..." he read aloud softly. "'Screeching noises like that of eagles sounded throughout the forest in an unnerving way'..."

The door flew open behind Aragorn, and he instantly straightened into a noble position. But the one who had entered was one of the few people that cared not of Aragorn's occasional lapse from noble behavior: Faramir of Gondor.

"My King," said the Steward, bowing low. "What is it you have summoned me for?"

"Summoned you?" Aragorn asked, clueless. Then he remembered: after reading the first few sentences of the guards' report, he had sent for Faramir. He had read on, and, immersed in the cryptic words, forgotten. "Ah, yes. The nightly report from the guards. I must admit, its contents are of a great concern." He passed the parchment in his hand to Faramir's.

The Steward took it, and read it swiftly and silently. He looked up with a worried face. "'It sounded as if the Nazgul were riding through the forests'?" he read. "This is impossible, King Elessar. They have been destroyed. You and I know it both." He handed the letter back to his King.

"I do not believe the rider described by the guardsman who wrote this is one of the Nine, of course," said Aragorn. "'Tall, muscular, hooded, cloaked, and donned in black', the guard describes, but he goes on to mention the man rode on a brown steed and not a black one. A Ringwraith, if there is the slightest possibility they live once again, would not have all these characteristics."

"The screeching," said Faramir. His voice was haunted. "The screeching that sounded like eagles... what should we make of this?"

Aragorn's face was troubled. "We wait," he decided. "If the hooded figure does not reveal themselves to us, we shall force them to do so."

The two sat in silence. The only sound was birds signaling that it was morning with their chirping, until one of the guards burst into the room. "King Elessar!" he cried. "There are three riders in black at the gate!"

Aragorn shot up from his seat. "Riders in black?" he asked the nervous guard.

"Yes, King Elessar. Three of them," repeated the guard. He was out of breath, presumably from running through Minas Tirith. "One says he is a relation of yours! Another says he has heard much about you. Another told me to give you this," said the guard. He drew from his pocket a brooch, shaped like a green leaf, its skeleton etched in silver. "He says you would know what that meant."

The King let the brooch drop into his hand. Then he sat down hard in his seat, as if to steady himself. Faramir rushed to Aragorn's side with a concerned look on his face.

The two looked at the brooch with horror, their faces white as the first snow of winter. At last Aragorn voiced both their thoughts:

"It cannot be."

Explanation of The Aliases of the Three Riders, Boromir, Isildur, and Gil-galad

Anormir: 'Sun jewel'. In my headcanon, Boromir is not one for learning other tongues, and does not have a good grasp of Elvish. He'd know 'Anor', Minas Tirith's first name, and 'mir', the end of his own name. Boromir's alias.

Ithilmir: 'Moon jewel'. As Isildur built Minas Ithil (Minas Morgul), I thought it fitting for an alias, and also, 'Isildur' has something to do with the moon. Isildur's alias.

Galadhmir: 'Tree jewel'. No, I did not mean for it to be Galadmir, the 'h' is not accidental. Gil-galad's alias.

*Suffix 'mir'- Meaning jewel. I thought I'd have their aliases end alike to hint that those aren't their real names, and to signify that they're a group.