The Fading
Summary: Long before Aragorn, there was another son of both royal lines. Prince Aranarth of Arthedain routed Angmar from the city of Fornost, but at what price? What drove him to refuse the crown and take his people into hiding? Also, how did the noble exiles of Númenor become so mistrusted and feared in their own land?
Disclaimer: The only Dúnedain I own are my Lord of the Rings Online characters. Alas.
I know, I know. I have tons of other stories I should be working on. But as I work on my novel-length Aragorn fic, I keep coming up with questions about the Rangers and how they lived...and this is how I answer myself. Hope you enjoy.
Part 1 – Bitter Victory
February 7, Year 1975 of the Third Age
Fornost Erain
A pale winter Sun shone on the Fields of Fornost, throwing the tortured ground into sharp relief. What had once been a green, pleasant land was now desolate, a sea of bodies on frosty earth. Men cried out as pain and battle madness took them, and the hale searched for survivors with grim faces.
Prince Aranarth of Arnor surveyed the scene with keen grey eyes, his mouth tight with bitter satisfaction. For one year, one miserable year, his people had lived as refugees in Lindon, praying that their king would survive the cold of the Ice Bay and waiting for overdue help from the South. Today, the North had been cleansed. The Witch-King had fled, and his army was defeated. The combined armies of Arthedain, Lindon, Rivendell, and Gondor had destroyed them to the last man.
"Prince Aranarth!" called an urgent voice, and he spun at the sound of his adjutant, Borondir the Tall. The giant of a man was on his knees, holding a blood-stained, child-sized warrior in his arms.
Aranarth ran to them, guilt eating away at his heart. Halflings had no business here, but the stout little archers had insisted, nay, pleaded to help the kingdom. Now their stout commander lay dying in Borondir's arms.
The halfling, Bungo Took by name, fought to breathe under his sturdy leather armor. A poisoned Angmarim arrow lodged in his chest, another in his thigh. He fought to speak.
"Don't, Master Halfling," said Aranarth quietly. "You have done your share today, more than we'd any right to ask. You have earned your rest."
"Mu—Mungo," he wheezed, barely audible.
"We'll find him," Borondir answered.
Bungo didn't answer. His eyes stared unseeingly at Gate of Elendil and the banner of Angmar flying in the wind. The prince's adjutant stood, still carrying the hobbit.
"I'll place him with the others," he said gravely.
"Have you found them all?" Aranarth asked.
"Nay," the older man replied. "Of the fifty, six are in the healing tents."
The conversation was cut short as two riders approached, one on a nimble white horse and the other on a gigantic black steed. Lord Glorfindel of Rivendell and Prince Eärnur of Gondor slowed to a stop beside Aranarth, both weary from battle but victorious at last. Borondir took Bungo's body to the healers' tents.
"Well met, Dúnadan!" cried the elf-lord. "My congratulations on a well-fought battle. Fornost Erain is yours again, though doubtless you'll have to wash it free of the filth of Angmar."
"Indeed," Aranarth replied, glaring at the red and black banners of the Iron Crown. "What news of the Witch-King?"
"He fled," replied the prince of Gondor, clenching his fists in rage. "He would not face us, the spineless coward!"
"He will not return," Glorfindel assured them. "He has no power here anymore; Arthedain is weakened and Arvedui lost, and we have destroyed his northern army. Some far-off doom awaits him, but not here will he fall."
"So thou hast said," Eärnur cried hotly, "but he lives yet, and while he lives he will hinder the works of the Men of the West."
"I do not deny it. Nevertheless, he has fled and the field is ours. Now, where is Lord Círdan?" asked Glorfindel.
"Lord Círdan took an arrow to the shoulder," replied Aranarth. "He is in the officers' tent yonder. Lord Elrond has seen to him."
"Good," replied the elf. "I'll see if he needs assistance. There are less casualties than I expected, but enough to keep a healer of his skill busy."
"We appreciate the help," replied the prince of Arthedain honestly.
The golden-haired elf rode away on his white horse, and the soldiers searching the battlefield looked up and cheered as he went, for they had seen him in action. It was Glorfindel who had cowed the sorcerer and driven back the dark army. There was a brief silence as the prince of Gondor and the prince of Arnor looked at each other.
"Well," said Eärnur finally. "Thy city is returned to thee, cousin," he told Aranarth. "I am glad we could assist with this campaign at last."
"As am I," the northerner answered. "Gondor's full strength must be mighty indeed if you can spare enough to fill Círdan's harbor. I am envious."
"It is the mightiest army of Men," Eärnur replied proudly. "But you Northerners are valiant even in small numbers. We all have our battles, and I fear this Witch-King will return, perhaps to the Black Land. He will look to Gondor then."
"I don't doubt it," Aranarth replied, looking at the proud walls and gate of Fornost. "There is little to tempt him in the North; he made sure of that."
"Thy kingdom will heal," Eärnur assured him, clapping a hand on the younger prince's shoulder. "This foul creature of darkness will learn that the Dúnedain are not so easily defeated! Now, let us find some food and we can exchange stories of the battle. Our cavalry charge from the north will be worth many a song!"
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