The infamous Sarah returns!! : D
Anarril: Sorry we missed ya last time! *claps* Yehaa, another Kelegalen/Nethtalt fan!! We so much love hearing from you guys. ; ) In answer to your questions: This is twelve years after Death or Despair; this fic is 30 chapters long; and more Legolas is coming, but not for a while. I don't think Denethor ever finds out about the future king's return, since he's dead before Aragorn comes to Minas Tirith in ROTK. *sigh* Too bad! ; D And don't worry: the barb was only an accident, but paranoia is a common ailment amongst fanfic readers. *grins understandingly*
Cleo-the-tardy: *hugs her sister* S'okay! And really, if you don't have time to write reviews, you can always go verbal. *gets a crafty look in her eye* So, um, what exactly *is* going on in Nefredal? : D Just curious! (NOT George) I'm glad you liked Theodwyn and Findel; after Rosie, I'd kind of hoped you would -- and I'm *really* glad you don't mind the Legolas-absence here! *hugs Checker again* Thoffank yoffou soffo moffuch! : )
Gwyn: Elves *are* cool!! That's why we couldn't seem to stop ourselves from including this one… ; )
phoenix queen: Don't worry! Legolas is officially impervious to Cupid's darts, and Thorongil had already been shot fatally years before this fic took place! Further than the two of them, we dare not speak. ; ) And I'm absolutely *positive* your speech was not as bad as you think! Such things never are, except to the people who write them. So here's a post, but understand: it's a reward for good work, not a consolation for lousy work. ; D
Lina: *tries to pull Lina off the villain* 'Maulin' each other'?? : D LOL! We don't think you need to worry, Lina! At least, not about Findel. Thorongil's already lost his heart to, um, *remembers just who she's talking to and mumbles* er, someone else. *giggles* You know, Lina, Thorongil smokes too! *hides the key to the mechanical horse closet and watches Thorongil beat a hasty retreat* Yeah, Lina, I see. ; )
Eomer: Did you know that 100% of horses who inhale toast crumbs die? I mean, 100% of everyone dies, but that's beside the point. *realizes she's beginning to talk Lina-ish* Uh-oh. : P
None: Thank you! We hope you enjoy it. : ) And your elf? *more innocence* are we ever anything but kind? : D
reginabean: Thanks! I'm glad you found it cute and not disgusting, or anything. : ) *listens to regina grumble* Okay, what if I were to just go ahead and tell you that Thorongil's companion was a buck-toothed, magenta cocker spaniel named Phil? Would that satisfy your inquisitive streak? : P
Staran: *bows* Thank you so very much! : D
Halo: We're glad you enjoyed the back story there, and here is a new chappie now… :)
Mercredi: Yup, a kinda-sorta-girl-friend for Nethtalt! We're so pleased you're enjoying this; we were a little concerned some people would think the romance gross, or something. The bonus of not boring you -- even though not much really happened -- and even managing to show you something there was wonderful!! Thank you so much! : D
w: Okay, first I have to tell you: Hannah (the early bird) woke me (the distinctly groggy) up this morning and, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, said, "Guess what!" Me: Mmmff? Hannah: W posted and *liked Findel*! Me: (upright instantly) Really?! Really! Since the beginning of this fic we had several major hurdles we really worried about, reader-wise: Mavranor (too Mary Sue?), Thorongil and Duurben's journey (too long?), Legolas' long absence (too long.), and Findel (too cute *and* too Mary Sue?). There were numerous smaller ones, but those were the biggies. Now maybe you'll understand our delight here! *hugs w back again* : D Furthermore, we're delighted that you are enjoying both the arranging of our chess board and all the OCs we have as pieces!! Duurben, Kelegalen, Nethtalt and Findel especially (the first because we ourselves became unexpectedly fond of him, the second and third because they are old friends, and the fourth because we were so worried about the reception she'd receive). I'm glad we have peaked your curiosity! The trade is coming up soon. : ) And 'soldier of fortune' is rather an odd term, but it's actually not ours. We borrowed it from either the appendices, or the Tolkien Companion (I don't now remember which). It does imply the idea hired help, but that *is* sort of what Thorongil was; Ecthellion having gotten the idea of taking in skilled foreigners to bolster his waning troops. I don't think he was expecting Thorongil, though… ; ) Thank so very, very much! We look forward to your reviews! : D
And now, a postie for all you charming people! : )
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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 11
A Warg in Wizard's Clothing
The door to the guard house seemed heavier as Thorongil was forced to pull it open against the wind. "Has Duurben's scout group returned yet?"
Nethtalt, the only occupant of the room, shook his head, "No, but it is unlikely their trip will take anything less than four or five days; they will have to be careful to avoid detection."
"Aye," the captain nodded, shaking off the momentary feelings of concern.
"I am glad you're here, though. Kelegalen left me in charge of the archery range for the soldiers today, except I fear he did not realize that there are over forty men in need of practice if we are to keep the enemy from approaching our walls. As I recall, you have some skill with a bow; could I beg a few hours of aid from you, if you are not under orders?"
Thorongil nodded willingly, "I am quite free."
The soldiers nearly all had bows and some degree of skill with them, though many preferred spears, and some had merely been poorly taught. Time and time again Thorongil found himself moving the hands of men who appeared older than he, trying not to indulge in despair. By the end of the afternoon, nearly half were hitting the targets on center, and a quarter had been called away for other duties. The remaining quarter… //Valar preserve us — is this what you had to go through for me, my friend??// Thorongil felt the sweat on his brow freeze in the cool air, though they were in the lee of the fort to prevent the wind from interfering with the flight of the arrows. The rest of the soldiers were looking as tired as he felt.
//Perhaps I should move the marks in closer.// He left the shade of the wall, starting towards the targets they had erected.
*ffiiip* *shak*
Thorongil flinched as an arrow passed within inches of his head — grazing the top of his shoulder in passing — and glanced off the stones behind him, striking sparks. A white faced man in the center of the line hastily set his bow aside as if it burned him, his palms were glinting with slick sweat.
//Never mind.//
Nethtalt finished the day up for him, calling as he hurried to see if the captain was injured, "That is all for today. You are dismissed to your other duties."
"I am unhurt," Thorongil reassured his friend, catching out a small cloth from his belt pouch and dabbing at the scratch with it. "As a rule I seem to attract arrows as mithril attracts dwarves, but this one only grazed me." His tone was wry as he added, "Perhaps the remainder of the men should be instructed further in spears rather than bows; better still, possibly, if they kept to their swords."
"Aye, perhaps," Nethtalt nodded tiredly, his expression matching that of the lowering skies above. "It is an unfortunate fact that those we have just dismissed were men from this area, not the men the king brought with him. They have seldom fought against anything but targets, and not as often as they should have against those, I fear. Father has always insisted on constant training for the men around him, but he had little say over the men in the other forts — we are paying the price for our lack of vigilance."
Thorongil shook the young man's shoulder gently, trying to gather him from his dark mood. "Come, let us collect the targets before we meet Kelegalen."
Nethtalt clipped a nod, and they moved the bales under the eaves of a shop in the village.
"Collecting feed for the horses, Nethtalt?"
Thorongil glanced over his shoulder in surprise, having not noted the approach of anyone else under the noise of people on the road behind them. Beside him, Nethtalt's green eyes took on a slightly flattened look, but he greeted the newcomer calmly. "No, Gálmod, we were practicing archery. This is Thorongil of Gondor; Thorongil, this is Gálmod son of Germag, a member of our éored and an excellent bowman himself."
The young man appeared to be Nethtalt's age, though he had darker hair than did many of the Rohirrim, which made him seem older; Thorongil was quite certain he had not attended the archery practice. Now he smiled, waving away the praise. "Not at all, only the common skill to be found in any native of Rohan."
The emphasis on 'native' was so slight that Thorongil almost missed it. Nethtalt's voice was taut, with weariness perhaps, as he answered, "True, though it would be unwise of us to depend too much on our innate talents, whatever they may be — skills, like weapons, must be kept well honed if they are to be of any use to us."
"'Us'?" Gálmod repeated, his face carrying a look of vague surprise, as if he were confused by the word. "You and…?" his gray eyes drifted to Thorongil.
"No, I was refering to the Rohirrim as a whole," Nethtalt said, his words bordering on toneless.
A look of almost pitying enlightenment crossed Gálmod's features, "Ah, you meant Kelegalen's people."
Thorongil stared, wondering if the young man meant what he seemed to be so openly implying. A few other of the soldiers had paused a little ways away and seemed to be listening, but Nethtalt's fixed expression was focused solely on the man in front him, "My father's people are my own, Gálmod."
"And you can prove this?" Gálmod chuckled, smiling as if the conversation was merely some harmless banter between old friends. "Fathers are fathers, Nethtalt; they are not clothing to pulled from another's wash and worn yourself."
"I suppose you would say the same for patriotism?"
"Oh, aye, I suppose," Gálmod agreed carelessly. "What I say is not the guiding matter, of course; I am merely unafraid to speak aloud what others have chained in silence. I can't even imagine what it must be like to have no place of origin; one must begin to have empathy for the rats."
Thorongil started forward, trying to block the conflict, but Nethtalt was faster by a heartbeat. Gálmod stumbled, nearly falling headlong in the mud, his lip bleeding from the sudden blow.
"Nethtalt!" Thorongil caught hold of his friend's shoulders, pulling him back, but the young man was staring at Gálmod with a burning light consuming the color in his eyes.
"You're wrong, Gálmod. I have no empathy for rats."
Finally he yielded to the captain's firm pulling and was drawn away, his breath coming short as if he had been running. Thorongil quickly decided that it was not yet the time to meet Kelegalen, and instead lead the young man to the stables, which were currently empty of all but horses.
"Nethtalt, what in Middle Earth was that?" the captain's demand was sharp, but there was a lurking suspicion in the back of his eyes, as if he already knew the answer.
Nethtalt turned his face away, unable to meet the other's gaze, and for a full minute there was silence but for the occational snort of a dozing horse. At last the words came, choked, and quiet. "I- I can't quite say. Gálmod has never liked me— we are the same age, and I think he was jealous at times. I don't know. Father, he — Father always told me never to listen or believe." His head finally rose, the eyes of a young boy looking out of a man's face. "But I did believe. From the first moment he ever spoke, I put it away and locked it up so I wouldn't see it. It follows me during the day, and taunts me in my sleep. When he started again, I — I couldn't listen. Because I knew it was true."
Thorongil's eyes closed briefly and his grip tightened. "No. No, Nethtalt, never. Listen to me, and listen well, because I may be the only man able to tell you this: those you have given your heart to and who have given theirs back in return — they *are* your family. And that land which you have sweated for, and fought for, and tamed — that is your country. Gálmod may speak as long and as loud as he likes, but you needn't hide from his words. There is nothing in them that can hurt you, and nothing that can take from you what is yours." He looked the young man directly in the eye, "Nethtalt, the day you allow yourself to be robbed of those things which are most dear to any man is the same day you doubt the things themselves. Do you doubt that Kelegalen loves you?"
The syllable came as a whisper, "No."
"And nor should you," Thorongil said firmly. "I have seen the way he watches you, Nethtalt. I have seen the pride in his eyes when he talks of what you have become. You are his greatest friend, his surest ally, and his only family. Don't allow Gálmod to rob him."
Almost imperceptibly, Nethtalt straightened, and there was a spark in his eyes, "I won't."
"Good," Thorongil's face broke into a smile. "You may not believe me yet, but adoption is one of Ilúvatar's greatest blessings to his creatures. I wish you may have as much joy in it as I have had."
For a moment, Nethtalt looked startled, and then Thorongil embraced him like a brother, saying, "Come, your father will be wondering what has become of us."
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Théoden reigned in his horse, looking about him in wonder. Rising high before him a magnificent tower competed with the high peaks of the Misty Mountains, reaching for the sky like a hand of darkest obsidian. Around the spikes at the top birds circled, barely the size of ants to the naked eye, and on all sides of the base the forest stretched like a carpet. The leaves had nearly all fallen, but the prince could easily imagine the beauty of the land when spring graced it. Orthanc, watch tower of Gondor.
"It would have been a sad loss indeed to have returned to Edoras and not seen this place." Théoden breathed, his words too soft for his honor guard to hear. Spurring their horses on, they made their way quickly down the long graveled path that led to the great doors in the tower's base. It appeared that there was a figure standing there already, a white blur against the imposing black.
"Hail, Théoden, son of Thengel, second Marshal of the Riddermark." The figure's voice echoed its welcome around them as they dismounted and approached.
"And greetings also to you, Saruman the White." Théoden's tone was formal, and his bearing assured as he ascended the steps, so that it was not until he was nigh on face to face with the wizard that Saruman recognized his youth. However, he spoke not of it, and bowed as for the king himself.
"I am greatly honored to so soon welcome you, heir of Rohan. Please, allow your men to stable your horses and enter, for I would fain hear news." He gave a self deprecating shake of his head, his capable looking hands grasping a tall staff. "I am growing old, and do not travel as I once did."
Théoden's expression was reserved, but he was impressed in spite of himself, for he had come suspecting some ulterior motives in the wizard's taking of the tower. Now he wondered whence his worries had sprung, for though the man's hair was nearly all white, and his face was lined, his voice and his eyes spoke of great wisdom and energy. Hidden in these white robes was the strength of kings, and the kindness of Ilú vatar himself; for both power and humility rang in all his words. What better guardian could there be for Orthanc, should Thengel have searched the width and breadth of Middle Earth to find him?
"It is I who would be honored by such a meeting," Théoden insisted, feeling drawn to match the wizard's courtesy. His honor guard took that as their signal and moved the horses towards the stables near the surrounding walls, just hidden by the trees. There they would wait until their lord was ready to leave.
The interior of the tower was as masterfully crafted as the outside had been, with rising ceilings and smooth alcoves, a seemingly endless number of passages and chambers rising up the pinnacle high above them. They climbed several flights, Saruman speaking graciously of the rooms and the beauty of the mountains in the spring. He did not often use the lower rooms, he explained, but preferred those nearer the middle of the tower, and at the top.
"I am currently entertaining another member of my order. If you would join us?" Saruman pushed open a narrow door and they entered what seemed to be the wizard's study, with a large desk and many papers, books and parchments laid about in neat piles. On the other side of the candelabrum, burning even though it was bright day light outside, there stood another old man, quietly blowing smoke rings out the window. He was neither so tall, nor so well dressed as Saruman, but he turned when they entered and his eyes were keen as he saw Théoden.
"Théoden, son of Thengel, I present Gandalf the Gray; a wizard of my order and my good friend." Saruman's words were warm as he gestured the older man towards the younger.
Gandalf gave a half bow, his gray hair mixing with his long beard, "Hail and well met, Théoden Thengel's son." He smiled, "Long has it been since I visited the golden halls; not since the days of your father's youth, I think. You are much like him."
Saruman gestured the prince to a seat and poured the three of them glasses of red wine, seating himself with dignity only after Théoden had sat. Gandalf refused the chair, preferring instead to return to his place by the window, though he was still close enough to participate in the talk.
"And what has transpired to bring you so far from Edoras, Prince Théoden?" Saruman asked.
"Orcs out of Enedhwaith," the young man said. "They often attempt to cross our borders and steal our horses. The king sent me out to take charge of the western éoreds as soon as we received word, and we have been holding the enemy in check ever since, though we cannot drive them back out."
"No, certainly not with only the strength you hold out here." The white wizard shook his head, and again Théoden caught the barest glimpse of the strong intelligence of the old man. "It would not be unwise to call for reinforcements."
"I do not deny it," Théoden agreed, "but there are none to be had at this time."
"Oh?" This question, accompanied by a frown and a puff of smoke, came from Gandalf.
"We are currently beset on both sides." Théoden admitted, knowing it was not usually wise to divulge such information, but trusting the two wizards instinctively. "An attack by a great host of the Southrons has been made on the Wold, and only weeks after I departed the king was called thence with as many men as could be spared."
"That is an ill fortune for your people," Saruman's voice was heavy with concern. "Has he enough men to stand?"
"King Thengel is brave and resourceful, and we have forts all along the border. No one shall enter the land while he defends it." Théoden assured him proudly.
"Of course," Saruman nodded, taking another drink of wine and contemplating the arms of his black chair. "I am grateful to know of this, for your home is at least in part my own. Furthermore, its safety means much for the free peoples of Middle Earth."
Gandalf appeared to be only half listening as he gazed towards the east, but Théoden leaned back in his chair, as if uncertain what the wizard meant.
Saruman gave a half smile at the young man's expression and said softly, "You know that the fires in the east have lit once again. If Rohan were to fall, where then might the shadow go?" Then in a louder tone he finished, "But it shall not fall, nor fail. I have great faith in your father, as well as yourself." Théoden tried to keep his expression neutral, but he could not quite hide his gratification.
"How far northeast?"
The question was unexpected, and Théoden blinked. Gandalf's bushy eyebrows were gathered and his absorbed puffing had created a slight haze about his head, in spite of the open window.
"I am not certain," Théoden admitted slowly. "I believe as far as where the Limlight meets the Anduin, but I have only received one communiqué since battle was joined, and their position may have altered."
"Perhaps, but only if his luck changes," the wizard growled softly, apparently not speaking of Thengel. At the odd words Saruman too appeared puzzled, but just then a servant entered and announced that their meal was ready.
"Ah, good," the host stood, gesturing to his guests. "Won't you join me?"
Théoden rose willingly, but Gandalf knocked his pipe clean at the window and lifted his gnarled staff and old blue hat in a determined way. "I'm afraid I have something I really must see to, my old friend. I hope Prince Théoden and yourself will excuse me?"
"Of course," Saruman assured him, Théoden nodding in agreement. "I hope nothing is amiss?" Gandalf's blue eyes caught the piercing look from his superior's contrasting dark ones.
"As do I. But I fear one might as easily hope for the Anduin to flow north."
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Saruman watched as Théoden's horses road away swiftly down the graveled path. The prince had only been able to stay a short while, knowing that the temporary standoff between his men and the enemy might collapse into fresh fighting at any time. Fighting… The wizard's brow furrowed as he contemplated it. //It would be so simple to take advantage of such a situation.//
But that part of his designs would be far in the future, perhaps even when Théoden had gone to the house of his fathers and *his* son was on the throne. Whenever the time came, Saruman knew he had sown his words well. Though outwardly more cautious, inwardly he was much like his father. Yes, Théoden son of Thengel would be easy to bend and conquer.
//But not yet.//
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"What is this report I hear of you striking Gálmod in the village?" Kelegalen's tone was more bemused than angry, for which Thorongil was grateful. In his mind he wondered darkly whether it had been Gálmod himself who had brought word of the incident so swiftly to Kelegalen's ears.
"I lost my temper, Father, but I will make amends." Nethtalt said, not disputing the charge, and accepting the blame fully.
If anything, Kelegalen looked even more confused; the response was just what he might have expected from his son if he truly had been at fault, but it gave no further explanation. His gray eyes flicked to Thorongil, but the captain's face was unreadable. Clearly, whatever the reasons for the quarrel had been, he was not going to be enlightened.
"Very well, that can be arranged later; but my son, you mustn't let him bait you. I know you and he have never been friends, but as allied soldiers I need you to be able to work with him without striking sparks. In order that we may retain a valuable archer, can I count on you to hold yourself in check from now on?" The question was penetrating, as was the look that accompanied it, and Nethtalt met both squarely.
"Yes, sir."
Kelegalen nodded once, his trust clear, and the conversation was over.
"The wall repairs are going better than we could have hoped," Kelegalen's tone was pleased as he examined the rough diagrams of the fort he had compiled that morning. "Eorwine has better skill in organizing men than he gives himself credit for; such men are often like that."
"What of the enemy prisoners?" Nethtalt asked, his expression thoughtful. "Stavhold said they had attempted an uprising a few days ago, and there are just enough of them for it to be a danger."
"How many did you manage to take?" Thorongil asked.
"Thirty, or nearly that. They came too close to our walls and were cut off from the rest of their troops; they surrendered only when it became clear we could kill them all, and even then only half of them laid down their arms. The rest had to be forcefully subdued."
"King Thengel wishes to use them for bargaining, though what he might be bargaining for has not been stated," Nethtalt shrugged.
Their conversation was interrupted by a pounding on the door and with a frown Kelegalen rose and opened it, admitting a worried looking scout. For a moment Thorongil wondered if it might be Duurben, but this was one of the men who had been scouting towards the north, not the south, and his hair was wheat colored, not dark.
"What word?" Kelegalen asked, after the scout had given the proper salute to his superior.
"Sir, the village of Nannva is burning."
TBC…