Sarah here! *glances around* Oooh! Readers!
I'm suffering from a bad case of anxiousness here. To be perfectly honest: Hannah and I weren't sure in the end if this was as good as our first one (and we were rather inclined to think that it wasn't), so I REALLY hope you aren't disappointed… *goes off to bite fingernails and smile distractedly at everyone*
Starfleet Hobbit: *blushes* Thanks! I'm glad you approve; we were rather afraid the beginning might be considered a little, erm, boring.
None: Second, and welcome! I'm happy you've already read D or D; it will come in handy.
phoenixqueen: Cool plot idea!! Unfortunately, it's not ours; mostly just because Hobbiton is too far west (on the other side of the Misty Mountains, and so on) for Harnwe and Mavranor to reach; lucky hobbits! As for what we *are* doing, and how we plan to do it, you'll just have to wait and see! ; )
Elwen: Sorry we kept you waiting! We will do our best to make amends. : )
Pupulupk: Hannah and I don't post WIPs; they make us nervous that we won't make our deadlines (and we have enough trouble doing that when all we have to remember is 'Get Online And Post')! *glows* Thanks for the praise and the slot on your list!
Larus: *hugs Larus* No, please, don't go!! Any review longer than 'good job. post more.' is extraordinarily prized, no matter how long you choose to ramble, or on what subjects! In fact, the more you ramble, the more we're likely to understand it; yes, those were our reviews, yes, they are long, but much of their contents (if you ever care to read a couple) you will find are a peculiar conglomeration of private jokes, weird tangents, and utter drivel, built up over years of reviewing Cassia's and Sio's stuff and just living our bizarre lives in general… ; ) We are proud to be completely NUTS, yessiree! *g* We will, of course, pass on your request to Chloe (backed up with our own!) as well as say 'hi', and we'll see if that gets us Nefredal any quicker! If not: there's always your standard 'reader mob'… : D
Halo: Calm down! I'm glad you're liking it, but we'd rather avoid people passing out on this thread… ; )
e: BETTER?! WoW. Gee, thanks! And I'm glad you liked that POV; we kind of went out on a limb there and weren't sure if many people would be interested in the villains so early on… *grins* Guess we needn't have worried! By the by: we're going to have to be careful around you -- you think like we do. ; ) Read on and you'll find out how exactly!
Aislynn: Your wish is granted! *produces Thorongil from under a bed sheet* And I'm practically in tingles over your mention of the Brown Lands!!! We were in a bit of a muddle -- trying to decide whether we needed to explain more thoroughly where they were headed. Not only that: you paid a compliment to our Female Villain! *hugs Aislynn* Thank you so much! *tries to picture Mavranor as a Mary Sue* Yuk. No, don't worry. I can safely tell you now: she never falls in love with any of the good guys. As it happens, she is (in fact) quite devoted to her own husband, in spite of their warped marriage life and selfish hobbies… : P
Gwyn: You're absolutely right, but what bad guy has ever listened to good advice? *sighs over the general depravity of Evil Villains* As for elf torture, um… we'll see if we're insured for that and get back to you, kay? : D
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Thorongil
By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)
(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries
available at the top of chapter 1)
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Chapter 2
Thorongil of Gondor
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"I have seen the white city."
— Aragorn, The Fellowship of the Ring
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The wall rose high and smooth on the inner ring of the white city, like a sheet of pure ice and nearly as chill in the early morning. The sun was beginning to leak over the eastern hills, accompanying a light wind that pulled at the sentries' hair, causing two of them to narrow their eyes against it. This far into the city very few guards were necessary, but a company was kept on duty at each ring nevertheless, for the Steward was wary of taking chances in these darkening days.
"A wretched night, as cold as Angmar in winter," Duurben observed, drawing his dark cloak close about him. "And why we have been assigned the most protected post, I can scarce understand! Truly, we have each quitted ourselves very well on the battle fields before now, and you more than any of us, Captain."
The dark haired man next to him raised his eyebrows slightly as his blue eyes continued to gaze out across the city below and the land beyond. "I thank you for your trust in my abilities, Duurben, but why this sudden desire for extra work? Are you growing weary of the days?"
Duurben frowned, "It is easy to grow weary while surrounded with only stone. Understand, I have only been a guard of the city for a few years, and before this I lived in one of the outer forts, amongst the trees and the grass. Before even then, when I was a boy, we lived long in Ithilien, right until the flames rose again in Orodruin and drove us hither — and we were the last to leave." His eyes fell with loss, "That was thirteen years ago, but I still remember the leaves in the morning… Such things men take for granted until they are deprived of them, and given only *that* for scenery." Here he cast a disgusted hand outwards, indicating the lowering black horizon line, still dark even under the rising sun. "But you probably don't understand." He added, noting his captain's silence, and realizing this conversation was likely not permitted between a captain of Gondor and a lowly guard.
However, the captain had never seemed to note the difference in station when he conversed with his men, and now there was a faint look of sorrow in his bright eyes, even though he still kept them firmly fixed on the task at hand, "No," he whispered, "I understand quite well."
There was such a longing in his tone that it made Duurben pause in the middle of his misery to look at him afresh. The man had a weathered profile, shoulder length dark hair that often grew unkempt, sharp blue eyes, and a strange, silent way of walking. Dressed in the livery of the tower of guard, there was yet something in his manner and way of speech that set him apart, and it made him somewhat of a curiosity, even amongst the other foreign soldiers that Ecthelion II had taken into his service.
It had long been wondered amongst the eighth company where their captain had come from, but little information was available. They knew he had previously served King Thengel of Rohan for seven years — though he was not native to that land — and, though not unsocial, was not inclined to speak of himself any further than that. This fresh indication of emotion, and of a past more distant than a mere half a dozen years back, sparked Duurben's interest and he ventured, "Captain?"
But the captain's expression had turned pleasant again, and he made a faint shrugging motion, "Never mind."
Faint frustration pulled at the sentry at the sheer silence of the man in front of him, and his habitual frown deepened, but he did not inquire further.
Catching sight of his subordinate's expression, the captain actually chuckled, "Have I done something to offend thee? I must say your expression chills me greatly, and I feel sure it could bring frost to even the Haradrim!"
"No, of course not, Captain," Duurben replied quickly, hiding his disappointment, as a thoughtful expression crossed his face, "but it is odd that you should mention the Southrons."
"Odd? How?"
"There is word from the scouts in Ithilien that a large group of such people were seen passing, with their weaponry and war beasts, towards the north."
The captain's brow creased, "That could well be of serious note. Do you know if anything has been suggested to halt them?"
Duurben shook his head, "Nay, for they were traveling quite close to the Mordor, and we seldom go that way unless need demands it."
"Still," the captain's brow creased, "it would seem that they are returning to the Dark Lord's old haunts. It is an uneasy time in which to be living, with the mountain once more in flames, and Dol Guldor suddenly abandoned, and old servants making their way back to their former places of labor. That is, unless they are bound for the Brown Lands." There was a barest hint of humor in his tone, "Perhaps instead of visiting destruction upon us, they intend to turn to agriculture, and perhaps bring back the dead glory of the Entwives and their paradise on earth."
Duurben stared at his captain in slight bewilderment, "The Ent *whats*?" It was not the first time his superior had revealed knowledge of things known only by the scholars in Minas Tirith.
The captain was not afforded time to answer, however, as a voice suddenly called from the top of the steps that led up to the battlements, "Captain Thorongil?" The captain turned, nodding gravely to the messenger.
"Yes?"
"Captain Baranor is waiting below with his company. He says you are being relieved a few hours early."
Thorongil nodded, accepting the instructions without question, and turned from the wall, the wind pushing his dark hair into his face. "Very well, I shall collect the men."
The messenger shook his head, "Sir, you are to have your lieutenant bring the men down, as the Steward wishes to speak with you."
"Ah, I see." There was no flicker of surprise. "Then I shall leave them to you, Duurben, and please be sure they get something to warm them from the cellars. It has been a chill night, has it not?"
The flicker of what could have been a smile touched Duurben's lips and he nodded, placing his hand upon his breast and inclining his head, "Of course, Captain."
With a similar gesture of farewell, Thorongil departed, moving quickly down the wall and through the citadel to The Court of the Fountain. Here he did not pause, though his eyes grew gray with pity as his glance fell upon the wasting tree, still lying in the water, a silent tribute to days that were long dead. Passing the guard at the door of the hall with a nod, he entered between the rows of stone kings, and his eyes flicked first to the ornate throne on the dais in the center of the room, then down further to the Steward's seat at the foot of the dais. The Steward was not sitting there at present, but a moment later he emerged from a smaller room off to the right, his expression grave.
"Captain Thorongil," He nodded as the captain bowed.
"You sent for me, my lord." Thorongil replied respectfully.
"Yes. Come with me." Ecthelion beckoned and they entered the smaller room: an alcove crowded with rolls of parchment, maps, and stacks of letters, yet still maintaining the same sense of order and control that defined the Steward's rule. Laid out over top of a map of the southeastern border of Gondor was a communiqué which Ecthelion indicated with a brief gesture. "One of our outposts have reported that Muindor, one the more influential of the Haradrim kings, has been moving steadily towards our borders and may presently engage us in yet another struggle over our lands."
"Have they attacked yet?" Thorongil inquired, looking at the map to refamiliarize himself with the area in question.
"No, but they have begun training their beasts and manufacturing armor."
"Then there is a chance we are not their intended targets," Thorongil murmured, rather doubtfully.
Ecthelion's raised eyebrow could almost be heard in the silence and Thorongil sighed, just audibly, shaking his head; he too understood how ridiculous that statement sounded.
"Do you suppose that the large group traveling north is part of Muindor's plans?" He asked instead.
Ecthelion's other eyebrow rose, "I sometimes wonder if there is not a bit of elf or wizard about you — no, I will not ask by what sources you heard of that. Later reports indicated, however, that they had taken a more easterly direction through the Ephel Dú ath, and it seems to me more likely that they will turn towards the Brown Lands and the Sea of Rhû n." Catching sight of Thorongil's worried expression, he added, "I have taken the precaution of sending a messenger towards Edoras, in case my judgment should prove wrong."
The two lapsed into thought as they gazed at the map. Thorongil's memory traveled rapidly over the last invasion by Muindor's brother only a year ago and what it had cost Gondor and himself, and there was silence in the room. A silence which was broken abruptly by a voice from the doorway.
"Father?"
The figure standing there was older than Thorongil by only a year, were the truth known, but he looked a good deal older: with dark hair similar to both the captain's and his father's, pale skin, and an intelligent face. His bearing spoke of his expectations to rule in his sire's stead one day, as well as his readiness to fill the office aptly.
"Denethor," Ecthelion greeted his son, "I was just apprising Captain Thorongil of our newest troubles in the south."
"Yes, of course, father." Denethor's dark eyes flicked first to Thorongil — who inclined his head respectfully — and then to the map, and then to his father. "You knew I intended to lead the army myself, did you not?" His words were smooth and firmly courteous.
"I knew it well, and the plan is unaltered." The corners of Denethor's eyes relaxed slightly. "However, I intend for Thorongil to accompany you with certain men of his company, and felt it wise for another of the captains to clearly understand the situation before departure. Leaving such information in the head of only one man often proves foolhardy when the winds of fortune blow amiss, and though he has not served me long, Thorongil has proved himself both worthy of my trust and equal to surviving much danger without harm." Ecthelion turned to the back wall, hunting amongst his personal selection of archives for some scroll or other, and so missed the strange look that crossed his son's face at that moment: a silent flattening of the sharp eyes, and writhing of the mouth that quickly disappeared again when the Steward turned back around.
"Perhaps I shall stay for the review as well, my lord." Denethor murmured, coming fully into the room to stand beside Thorongil, "After all, it is dangerous for those in authority to forget what they must know, 'should the winds of fortune blow amiss'."
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Thorongil's step was unusually heavy as he trod the familiar path back to his lodgings. It had escaped the Steward's notice, but the captain had spent the previous two days inspecting the outer workings, then had remained on watch with his company throughout the night, and then would have gone gratefully to bed in the morning, were it not for the several hours of planning that were necessary to protect their borders against their longtime enemies in the south. This last had been especially tiring, for while he greatly respected both the Steward and his son, he had discovered that the latter held some secret dislike for him. And a morning spent in a room with someone who was forever glancing suspiciously at him darkened his mood and drained away his energy even more rapidly than fighting. For a moment he tried again to fathom the reason for the animosity; it was almost as if Denethor knew somehow that — but as had often happened before, he gave it up as soon as his head fell on his pillow.
"Captain?"
A voice was calling from somewhere and Thorongil groaned silently, guessing from the way his body felt that his sleep had been cut far too short. Determinedly, he forced his eyelids upwards and caught sight of Duurben standing over him, his expression urgent. "Captain, a messenger brought word that one of our southern outposts have been breached, and it has been said a small company may be within our borders amongst the villages there. The Steward gave orders that we should march at once, rather than wait until tomorrow morning, and Lord Denethor bade me wake you."
Feeling unutterable things, but keeping it from his face, Thorongil worked himself up on his elbows. "Thank you, Duurben. As soon as I am dressed I will join you."
"Sir," Duurben sounded a little embarrassed to be speaking thus, "you already *are* dressed."
Thorongil noticed for the first time that he had fallen asleep while still in his gear and made a mild face, "Old habit. Never mind, I shall come with you now."
And taking up his traveling pack and weapons, he followed his subordinate downstairs. If he had any talent for predicting, he was afraid this would not be an easy fight.
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It was not the first message Erfiren had delivered, but it was the first he had taken all the way to Rohan. The land of the horse lords was said to be wild and windswept, and there was a spark of adventure in the young messenger's eyes as he left the familiar paths behind and set his horse galloping across the fields. An occasional head rose from the grain to watch him pass, as horses were not common in Gondor, but they soon returned to their work. It was cloudy and there was much to be done before the coming storm.
It was drifting on towards evening when the first drops of rain began to fall, and by nightfall the rain was coming down in a deluge that turned the paths to mud and hid trees from view. A crack of lightening slit the sky from east to west, lighting the road far enough for Erfiren to know that his next stop was no where in sight, and neither was any other habitation. And then the horse spooked. Throwing its head back, it neighed wildly, turning sharply to the side and bolting into the woods, trying to escape the dreadful fire from heaven and taking his rider with him.
In his sudden need to quiet the horse and dodge the swiping branches, Erfiren failed to notice when the message pouch beneath his saddle was suddenly pulled from him by a bramble covered bush and left far behind, its contents spilled on the muddy ground.
As the rain pounded down, the ink on the thick parchment began to run and blend until only a few words were legible: K..ng Thengel….. u..gent warn… Southr..ns… past your west..n border… be watchf…
TBC…