Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth, they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic.

Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making, though it does contain some elements of Evendim's AU. Those are used with permission. I guess you could call this an AU to her AU, although it really is totally separate. It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age. This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.

Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series. And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day. I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it. Don't ever change.

Revolution and Retribution

Chapter One: Flight

He felt hideous. Not only were the wounds he'd sustained in his flight severe, he'd been laid up here on Amon Sul for four nights, in autumn, with no fire. He couldn't risk detection.

He knew the fever was getting worse, but he still didn't dare light a fire. Not with who knew what kind of creatures seeking him still.

His hands crept to the charm he still wore about his neck. The Evenstar was dulled, tarnished. Soon, Arwen, we will be together again, he whispered in Elvish.

The attack had come unlooked for. No warning had been given, no quarter offered. There'd been no time even to light the beacons. Under cover of night, the

rebels had entered his home and began slaughtering his family. No explanation, no mercy.

The children had been first. He would never forget the sight of them, broken and lifeless in their beds. Nor the sight of Arwen, fighting for her life. She had been almost possessed after seeing the children, she fought like a demon, with no further regard for her own safety or even her life. Seeing her cut down had almost killed him.

Everything he had worked for was gone. His family, his country, his very life, and he had no explanations. The rebels had not offered any demands, merely went about their killing with a methodical cruelty. He knew not what caused their discontent, what had driven them to attack him. All he knew was that his once peaceful kingdom was now embroiled in civil war, and he had been forced to flee.

He couldn't go to the Shire, or Rohan, or even Rivendell, to those few Elves who had chosen to remain in Middle Earth. Those were the first places searchers would check. No, he'd made for the watchtower at Amon Sul, long abandoned, in ruins, but still with a clear view of the surrounding area. The perfect defensive position.

Only he was no longer able to defend it. Loss of blood and fever had combined to finally bring him down. He could barely move, couldn't eat, couldn't even stir himself to drink some of his precious water to calm his thirst. Now, all he could do was wait until Death took him.

He knew it was coming. He could feel its stealthy approach, feel it in the numbness of his limbs, the steadily slowing beat of his heart. He lay quiet, drifting in and out of consciousness, no longer even able to draw his cloak about him for warmth. It would take him before dawn, he was certain.

There was no noise to announce an arrival, but suddenly there was a cool hand on his forehead and a soothing voice crooning reassurances to him. A warm blanket was laid over him, and he heard the sounds of someone preparing a rough and ready campsite. Not that his had been anything to be ashamed of, but certainly they knew what they were doing.

"I've no way to warm it, sire, but you must drink," the voice urged as he was lifted to rest against a definitely female form. "It is not poison, though you might fear that. It is a healing draught, prepared for you by Prince Faramir for when I found you." There was a cup placed to his lips and he obediently opened for it, accepting the bitter potion no matter the contents. He was parched.

He had no strength to thank the newcomer, though the potion definitely was beneficial. Some of the aches and pains of his wounds began to be less fearsome, muted somehow. Or was it simply Death creeping nearer? He couldn't be certain. He tried desperately to speak, but he was able to make no sound.

"Rest easy, sire," was the calm rejoinder from his rescuer. "I am Tanathel, a Ranger from Ithilien, sent by Prince Faramir to find you and bring you to safety. And he also bade me tell you to let the potion work. Athelas works best fresh, but this was the best he could do. I've a few leaves for use when you are a bit stronger. But for now, you should sleep. I shall keep watch. Rest."

He could not argue. He allowed the darkness to claim him, idly wondering if he would wake still upon Middle Earth, or if he would be reunited with his beloved Arwen. Then he slept and knew no more.