Disclaimers: These characters do not belong to me, though that would be fun. They belong to Tolkien, the dead genius that he is.

Summary: In an alternate universe where the Ruling Ring gained enough power to cause chaos in Middle–Earth, the king of Gondor and several companions must fight to end the wars between the races and somehow survive the venture.

Warnings: There will be slash in this fic.

Pairings: Legolas/Aragorn, Faramir/Éomer, others undecided.

Notes: Reviews would be appreciated. After all, what author doesn't love reviews?

The Golden Arrow

By Cinaed

Prologue

The throne room of King Théoden was eerily silent save for the tremulous footfalls of the wounded, gasping warrior who fell to his knees before the throne. His wounds were obvious to the silent onlookers, his attire ripped and blood seeping from the numerous wounds to soak into the plain brown cloth of his clothing. His breaths were raspy and wrenched from his chest, for his mount had finally collapsed a few miles away and he had struggled to run on despite his various lesions. His rasping gasps echoed through the throne room as he struggled to catch his breath, disheveled light brown locks falling in front of his handsome, weary face. Sweat trickled from his forehead, causing streaks like tears on his grimy, dirt–encrusted features. The dirt was everywhere on his frame–in his hair, on his otherwise tanned flesh, staining his plain cotton clothes.

At last, he gained enough strength to glance upwards at the impassive face of the king of Rohan, and immediately he struggled to speak. When the words finally tore themselves from his parched throat, they were hoarse and pain–filled, revealing the injured man's anguish at the news he brought.

"Gondor–Gondor has fallen to the Uruk–hai."

The enormous hall was deathly silent at the dire report as the people of Rohan awaited King Théoden's reaction to the news.

The king's lined face was aloof, as always, but he moved in his chair to get comfortable, his silk finery rustling at the movement. "What of Gondor's king?" The dry, formal question made the brunet messenger yearn for Gondor once more, where the king would have welcomed him with open arms and ordered healers to tend to his wounds immediately.

The wounded man coughed, a breathless, harsh sound that revealed he hadn't quite caught his breath. "King–King Aragorn and some of his people have escaped the doom of our many kinsmen, and are hiding just within the borders of–of Rohan, milord. We–we wish to live amongst your–your people as a truce while we–we battle for our homeland."

"And here is my wish, former Prince of Ithilien: that you and your fool of a king finally realize that the land of Gondor, once fallen to the Uruk–hai can never be taken back. The age of Gondor is over, Prince, and you would do well to tell your lord of this."

The middle–aged king's belittling statement sent a prideful wave of fury running through the blonde's frame, and the close companion of Aragorn lurched to his feet, gritting his teeth against the pain as he swayed on his feet. Blinking away the dark spots in his vision, he lifted his ashen face proudly and spoke, his hoarse, loud words echoing through the room. "Gondor, fallen forever? It seems to me, Théoden of Rohan, that you deem sovereign Aragorn an unfit ruler. It seems to me also, good king, that Gondor would not have fallen if the Riders of Rohan had not been ordered by their king to let the Uruk–hai destroy the cities and towns of Gondor!" His furious, rough voice rose, earning a cold look from the king. "We called for aid thrice from Rohan, and did we receive any? Nay, for you told the Riders to not heed our cries for help!"

"Your king' made it clear to me when he ascended to the throne three years ago that he needed no aid from his neighbor Rohan." The remote, superior statement earned a harsh laugh from the messenger, even as the brunet swayed on his feet once more.

"Milord Aragorn gave no such sign, Théoden of Rohan, and you would do well to retract your words!"

"I, retract my words? Prince–child, I do think you forget whose kingdom you are in. You are of noble blood, indeed, but of a fallen lineage now that Gondor is vanquished. Here, I am a king."

"Aye, a king of cowards!" Even as the words were snarled, the messenger crumpled to his knees, his legs giving out once more. Curly locks fell in front of his sweaty, wan visage as he bit his lip, trying to keep from falling stricken at the king's feet.

"Guards?" The smooth, almost bitter, command obliged three armed men to step forward and kneel before their monarch. "I do believe that our visitor needs to learn his manners. His babe of a ruler has obviously favored him and allowed him to grow disrespectful of his betters. Take him out of my sight and deal with him as you please." The cruel smiles that formed on the trio's faces assured Théoden that the brown–haired messenger would not be alive for very longer.

"Uncle!" At the single word, both the king and the refugee from Gondor turned their heads towards the person who had spoken. The youth looked briefly stricken at his uncle's harsh gaze, but swallowed and continued speaking, his voice firm even if his frame trembled slightly. "I–I wonder what King Aragorn would think of you treating one of his citizens in such a manner."

"That is of no concern to you, Éomer," snapped the king, for once letting annoyance slip into his tone. "Gondor has fallen, and Aragorn is now no more than a useless excuse for an exile. He and those left of his citizens will bother me not."

The brunet's eyes watched the youth carefully. He was only a few years younger than the messenger himself, just beginning to have blond wisps of hair sprout on his chin. His wavy locks of dark gold fell to his shoulders, wild and untamed. Even as the herald watched him, the adolescent looked stubborn though pale.

"Uncle, I still believe it would do Rohan no good if we killed one of Aragorn's companions. Why not take him as a political prisoner?" the mere lad pointed out, his tone attempting to be reasonable even as the messenger stiffened.

"Nay, I would rather die!"

"Then you would truly have no need to fear the survivors of Gondor, for they would not wish to be the cause of this man's death." Éomer continued as if the other man had not spoken, and fell silent, waiting for his uncle's response. Neither kinsman expected another of their clan to speak.

"Father, I believe that Éomer is wise in his words," the young Prince Theodred commented, earning a startled look from Éomer and an impassive one from his father.

King Théoden was silent for a long moment, brooding on the words of his son and his nephew. At last, he gravely nodded. "Very well, he will be a political prisoner."

"A political prisoner? How dare you, Théoden of Rohan!" The husky voice was furious as the envoy attempted to surge to his feet, instead managing to position himself so that he was on one knee. He glared with utmost hatred at the king. "I come bearing tidings and hope for a truce, and you imprison me! If there is to be any true treaty of this sort, you must send one of your counselors to King Aragorn's side!"

The king's tone was quite matter of fact. "No. I shall not give up anyone to your pitiful excuse for a fallen king. You will be my prisoner, and henceforward Rohan will have claim of Aragorn and the rest of his precious Gondorians as vassals." He nodded towards the guards, who seized the messenger by the arms.

If the Gondorian refugee had not just exhausted himself by running to inform Théoden of Gondor's collapse, he might have been able to take down at least two of the guards despite his weaponless state and their numerous weapons. Unfortunately, every muscle in his weakened frame ached, and so he was powerless to even thrash against the guards' hands. His voice and eyes alone aided him as he was dragged from the throne room, humiliated by the countless scornful eyes that watched him. "Théoden of Rohan, you have just made the largest mistake of your life! I, Faramir of Gondor, swear it so!" When the king smirked in reply, the brunet's frantic eyes fell upon Théoden's son. Desperation and fury tingeing his tone, he added, his eyes boring into Theodred's, "If you had any honor at all, you would send a Rohan warrior to Aragorn's side!"

It was only Éomer and the messenger who saw the determined glint in Theodred's eyes as the exhausted Gondorian was hauled from the throne room, and it was only Éomer and the herald who stayed silent as the throne room at last erupted into sound, talking about the king's brilliance in ripping away the final vestige of power that Gondor might have had.

-*-*-*-*-*-

The weary, emotionally drained refugees huddled around various campfires, too exhausted to even murmur about what horrors had befallen their fellow Gondorians. The flames flickered upon their somnolent, wan faces, lighting up the stress lines caused by the last few weeks. Mothers clutched their children to them, and those who had lost kin simply stared into the fire, too tired to weep.

At one fire sat only two men, their heads bowed with fatigue and half–hidden despair as the sun slipped beneath the mountains. None of the Gondorians noticed the beautiful sunset, alive with crimson, lavender, and cerulean streaks. Why would they?

"Milord, my brother has not returned from informing Théoden of Gondor's dilemma. It has been several days. Do you think that perhaps the king offered him hospitality before Faramir would return to us?"

The dark–haired, handsome man who crouched beside the brunet sighed softly, his intense gray eyes gazing into the flames as the shadows of the fire deepened the tension lines on his visage. "Théoden is not that generous, Boromir."

Now it was the steward's turn to sigh. "I know, milord. It was simply a hopeful thought. Perhaps he is journeying towards us even as we speak." There was still a hopeful note to Boromir's voice, for the steward was desperately seeking any hope to cling to.

"Perhaps," the other man agreed, not wanting to crush Boromir's spirit. Too many souls had been trodden by the horrific events of the last few days. Strong, slender fingers reached out to push a bowl of stew towards the brunet. "You should eat, Boromir. We shall need all of our strength in case the Uruk–hai or other orcs attack."

Boromir nodded, mute, and lifted the bowl to his lips. They had been unable to bring utensils along with them. The Gondorians had barely managed to collect a few bowls before they had been forced to flee for their lives. The thought that his companions were now enslaved and his hated foes now crawled over every inch of his beloved Tower made his blood boil, but his frame was otherwise too exhausted to do much else. He drank the tepid stew slowly, his gray eyes watching his king. At last, he spoke, his voice low so that only the man beside him would hear. "You must eat also, Aragorn."

The king of Gondor shook his head, his ruggedly handsome face still tilted down towards the fire. "I shall eat later, Boromir. Right now, I must think, and eating will only distract me."

The sound of a horse's hooves striking the earth at a quick–paced, almost frantic speed made Boromir pause before he could say anything to persuade Aragorn to eat. The two looked up, as did countless refugees, most of whom looked slightly fearful.

With a quick glance to his companion, Aragorn drew his blade and stood, turning in the direction of the approaching horseman. Boromir gripped his horn, which would sound an alarm for the refugees to flee should the rider be a sentry coming to warn of an impending attack.

Instead, the young man who rode up on a pure white mare made Aragorn and Boromir stare in shock.

"Prince Theodred?" Both Gondorians gazed in astonishment at the dark–haired prince, who gazed seriously back at them.

"King Aragorn, Steward Boromir, I bring sorrowful tidings." Boromir paled at the greeting, but Theodred continued. "My father, against my wishes, has taken Prince Faramir as a political prisoner in an attempt to control you and your people. Prince Faramir, however, appealed to my sense of honor, and so I have come here to offer myself as a political hostage." A wry smile flickered on the prince's handsome face. "We shall be at a stalemate. Are those terms acceptable to you? My cousin Éomer will make certain that Prince Faramir will not be mistreated, and your honorable actions are well known, King Aragorn. I would be honored to help you take back Gondor."

As Boromir attempted to digest the news that his brother was now a prisoner in the court of Théoden, Aragorn locked eyes with the Rohan king's heir, and softly smiled before nodding and sheathing his sword.

"Prince Theodred, you are welcome to share my campfire. Please, make yourself at home."

(To be continued)