A/N: Yes, I know what you're thinking: Pax, why are you uploading a new fanfic instead of working on Save Them? Because I felt like it, and I have no clue how to carry on with Save Them anyway. So, sorry. Also I don't own Lord Of The Rings, annoyingly.


He had been born in Gondor, the Realm of Kings. He came into the world eight years before the fall of Sauron, and did not understand the threat of that great dark power until much later, when it no longer existed. His name was Aníron, and he had earned it. He had always been the first child to grab the toys, or the food. He wanted, he desired, with intensity.

His name meant "I desire" in Sindarin. His mother had been an elf-friend before she died. He had lost his father too, in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. So Aníron had been taken in by Faramir son of Denethor, the Prince of Ithilien, and raised to be part of his band of patrollers. They scouted the edges of Gondor's territory and kept the peace.

Just because Sauron was vanquished it did not mean that all evil in the world was gone.

On Aníron's nineteenth birthday, he left with Faramir and the rest of the group for a mission that would change his life. They were heading into the remains of Mordor to see if there was any way to reclaim the land and make it part of Gondor again. They would also explore Minas Morgul and see if it was possible to convert it back into Minas Ithil once again. Faramir himself would investigate the ruins of the city with half of the company, and he had chosen Aníron to lead the other half through the plains. It would be unpleasant work, but it had to be done. Gondor needed more land, more cities. Its population was growing.

Aníron watched as Faramir said goodbye to his wife, Éowyn, and their two sons, Fæovir and Éodred. Fæovir was twelve, and Éodred was ten. One name was of Gondor, the other of Rohan. It symbolised their mixed heritage. Éowyn had been known to accompany Faramir on his journeys through Gondor and Ithilien, but she did not wish to enter the land of shadow. The memories of her pain after killing the Witch-King of Angmar were still too fresh, too vivid. She would stay in Minas Tirith.

After the last goodbyes had been said, the company rode off towards Mordor. It was a road seldom used, save by the company. It led from the gates of Minas Tirith to the Black Gate of Mordor, and crossed right through Ithilien. It was that last reason that made it the company's usual route. But Aníron had never followed it to its end before. None of them had.

When they arrived at the broken gates, Aníron heard discontented mutters from behind him. He knew the men did not want to enter that accursed place. But duty was duty, and there was no evil left to be feared in Mordor, unless it was some residual malevolence in the stones and the soil.

After the horses were hobbled and tied firmly to a spike of the gate, the men armed themselves and stood waiting for their orders.

"You," Faramir said, gesturing to half of the men. "with me. We seek Minas Morgul. The rest of you, follow Aníron and make a judgement on whether this place could feasibly become hospitable at any point in the near future. We meet by the remains of Barad-dûr an hour before sunset."

The discontented muttering grew louder. Aníron's half of the men were not happy with their lot. They wanted their captain to lead them, or if that was not possible, at least one of the men, not the youngest member of the company! But Aníron was determined to live up to the great trust placed in him. Ever since he was young he had been kindly treated by Faramir, even though he had often been slow to learn, and even though he had feared battle for a long time.

"Why should that youngster lead us?" complained one of the men, "he's untested as a Captain." Many other men chimed in at that, agreeing with the heckler. Faramir glared at them all severely.

"I am your Captain," he said, "and you will obey my commands. My command at this moment is to follow Aníron."

Faramir was kind-hearted, but he was not lacking in the ability to lead and to command with authority. The men apologised and Faramir's company departed. Aníron's men watched him expectantly, so he squared his shoulders, took a deep breath and led them into Mordor.

The plains of Mordor were dusty and though nothing shrouded the land in darkness anymore, it was a pale and weak daylight that pierced the clouds high above. Silent as the wind, the men moved through the difficult and mismatched terrain of hot dusty soil, large boulders, patches of mud and piles of rubble. In the strange light, the desolate, barren landscape looked particularly unwelcoming.

"To think the King wants people to live here!" exclaimed one of the men, "they will never agree to it. This land has seen too much darkness for that."

Aníron said nothing. He was thinking similar thoughts. But, he supposed, if the plan to colonise Mordor was followed through with, the rubble would be cleared away, and the land would be irrigated for farming, and houses would be built. The ruins of the old fortresses of evil would be removed, and the laughter of children would fill the air. With all of those things in place, perhaps the dread of Mordor would fade away.

However, Aníron did not think he would be one of the people who made their homes there. The place sent shivers down his spine. He looked down at the white tree on the front of his tunic, and wondered if he really deserved to be leading these men. How could he, when he was afraid, and longed only for his warm bed in Minas Tirith, or his cot in the barracks of Ithilien?

Shaking off these depressing thoughts, he walked on purposefully, looking around him to scout for good areas in which to build, or to farm. He found a few promising places, and noted their location in relation to the destroyed gate. However, Aníron was gradually becoming aware of something. It was a sound, and its implications were disturbing.

It was the sound of heavy, armoured footfalls. All of his company wore soft cloth shoes, ideal for walking with the light, almost imperceptible tread of experienced rangers. These feet were shod in iron. The noise of the steps was coming from the other side of a large pile of rubble. Aníron could sense the men's unease, and knew they could hear the unknown person walking nearby.

He turned, and gave the signal for them to ready their weapons. Silently, as one, they pulled bows from their backs and notched arrows to them. Aníron did the same, and slowly they crept towards the pile.

Aníron's heart was in his mouth as he rounded the pile and observed the stranger. They were clothed in dark armour, with spikes along the shoulders. However, they wore no helmet and carried no weapon, and Aníron saw that they were in fact a she. She had long dark hair, and as she stepped towards them, he saw that she had steel-grey eyes and a determined expression. She seemed to be around his age. Aníron was just beginning to relax a little when one of the older men whispered hoarsely in his ear:

"Aníron! The armour she wears, I recognise it from the tapestries, and from the descriptions of the storytellers. It is that of the dark lord, Sauron."

Aníron looked towards the girl, afraid and perplexed, and she took a step towards him.

"You are men of Gondor, I see it by your uniform," she said, in a lilting, musical voice that felt incongruous with her armour, and her surroundings.

"So we are, and we ask your business in these lands," Aníron answered.

"May I not wander freely in the land of my birth?" she asked, looking amused and slightly vexed.

"What ought we do to, Aníron?" another of the company inquired. Aníron thought for a moment.

"We ask you to come with us," he said to the stranger, and then to the company: "this is for Faramir to decide."