A/N: When I make a promise to finish a story, I truly mean it. Obviously I can't bang out chapters like I used to, but I'm still very much a dedicated writer in my heart. Therefore, this story will one day be completed, even if it takes me a ridiculously long time to do it. My muse catches up with me at the most random of times.

By the way, I probably would have been able to write a bunch more of this story during my winter break, except for the fact that I got suspended from back in January because a story I'd written entitled "Middle-earth Say What? Karaoke" contained a real person…David Holmes, who was an MTV VJ back when scrunchies were all the rage. Whoever reported it is seriously lame, and you have my eternal annoyance.

Anyway, my disclaimer is currently off playing golf with Mr. Holmes himself, who is thoroughly pissed off that his one-and-only appearance on disappeared (he was counting on a hardcore comeback!), but I'll have you know that Tolkien's characters still aren't mine. Except, of course, for that baby oliphaunt that was hanging around my house this past winter. Incidentally, he has grown rather large.

I hope you guys enjoy this one, and, as always, it is good to be back.

--

Chapter Eight: How To Spell Loyalty

Faeldor narrowed his eyes at the sound of shouting coming from the upstairs bedroom. He tapped his fork against his plate – a rhythm of suspicion – and listened as he heard a door slam shut, followed by the thunder rumble of heavy footsteps descending upon the staircase. He slid a quick glance to his parents – both Thurandír and Gailrin appeared completely oblivious.

"Excuse me," Faeldor muttered, pushing his chair back and quickly striding into the front hall. He met Pelilas just as he was reaching the bottom of the stairs. With one fluid motion, Faeldor quickly blocked his path.

"What is the rush?" Faeldor asked curiously, his eyes flickering over his friend's face, taking in his appearance. Wild, unfocused eyes, flushed cheeks, untamed hair – not to mention the four jagged scratches running down the side of his jaw.

"There is no rush," Pelilas countered, a bit too quickly for Faeldor's liking. "I just need to be getting home is all."

"What for?" Faeldor asked, unblinking.

"Supper," Pelilas answered almost immediately. He nodded over his shoulder towards the kitchen. "And yours is probably getting cold."

"Probably," Faeldor replied, unflinching. Without ever breaking his locked stare, Faeldor stepped to the side. He extended his arms in an over exaggerated fashion, mockingly gesturing: Go ahead. Pelilas warily stepped forward, casting a glance behind him. Faeldor leaned against the railing coolly, crossing his arms and lacing his ankles. He waited until Pelilas had opened the front door and was practically outside before asking, "Oh, by the by. What happened to your face, dear friend?"

Pelilas froze, his hand stilled upon the doorknob. Faeldor raised his eyebrows smugly.

"A nasty spat with a wild wolf," Pelilas explained without turning to look at him.

"Just now?" he questioned, feigning innocence. "You mean to tell me that there is a wolf in my house? Why didn't you speak of this before?"

"No, not in your house. Don't be silly. It happened earlier this evening."

"Preposterous! You are being the silly one. You didn't have those markings when you first arrived, and I am guessing you didn't climb out the window, battle a wolf, and come back inside, so the only logical thing to think is that a wolf is in my home, which is a very serious matter indeed." Faeldor turned, cupping his mouth with both hands. "Father!" he called loudly. "Oh, Father! Could you bring me your hunting arrow? It seems that-"

"Oh, quiet!" Pelilas hissed, whirling around to face his friend. "Fine. You want to know the truth? The truth is that your sister is the one who nearly clawed my eye out. There. Are you happy now? Will that news appease you?"

The mocking grin had vanished from Faeldor's face; in place of his taunting smile, he now bore an angry scowl. He took a slow, deliberate step towards Pelilas, feeling pleased with the look of concern that flickered through his pale eyes.

"What reason would Coruwen have to strike you?" Faeldor asked, his voice suddenly very soft and serious.

"I do not know," Pelilas replied nervously. "Perhaps she has gone mad." Faeldor cocked an eyebrow at this.

"Or, perhaps you said or did something to upset her!" he argued, raising his voice slightly. Pelilas glanced to the stairs quickly, almost as if he expected Coruwen to materialize that instant and confirm her brother's accusations. "I heard the shouting," Faeldor continued. "Don't lie to me."

"Faeldor, I was just-"

"And furthermore," Faeldor added loudly, as if Pelilas hadn't even spoken. "Do not ever speak ill words about my family. I will not stand here and let you call my sister mad. If you ever so much as make her shed a single tear, I will-"

"What?" Pelilas taunted, suddenly snapping. "You will what? Please, enlighten me. What will Faeldor, the fisherman's son, do? Kill me? Is that what you were about to say? That you will come for me in the dead of night with your father's ropes and old rusting anchors?"

Faeldor was silent, but Pelilas could plainly see that he'd infuriated him. He softened his tone a touch; perhaps he'd been too harsh.

"Come now, Faeldor," he said gently, reversing his strategy. "Aren't we friends?" He extended a hand, a truce. But Faeldor shook his arm away.

"Friends perhaps," Faeldor said coldly. "But this is my family. Do not fool yourself into believing that you could ever be as important as them. I am, first and foremost, loyal to these people here in this household. I understand that loyalty is a foreign word to you, but perhaps if you stopped wasting your time by sitting on the shore and waiting for boats to come in, you would learn a thing or two."

Pelilas clenched his jaw so tightly that he feared it would break in half.

"Loyalty," he echoed bitterly. "I'll show you all about loyalty. Just you wait, Faeldor. I hope you enjoy your serene family dinner, your seaside adventures with Fisherman Father, because – and mark my words – everything is about to change."

Before Faeldor could ask any more questions or come up with a quick retort, Pelilas had pushed past him and fled the house. Faeldor was left with confusion, bewilderment, and a strange little feeling he would later recognize as dread.

--

Pelilas marched down the dirt path that lead from Faeldor's house to his own. His feet kicked up dust as he went, and his heart raced in time with his steps. Faeldor's words were pounding in his ears and he muttered angrily under his breath to himself. What did Faeldor know anyway? Pelilas wondered bitterly. He had never experienced real tragedy; he did not know the sour taste of loss. Faeldor wasn't the one who lay awake, night after night, wondering foolishly when his father would return. Faeldor, with his perfect life and his perfect family, did not know the first meaning of the word loyalty.

Gwarth, Pelilas realized suddenly, was right. What was the point of remaining loyal to the most unfaithful mistress of all? Gondor had taken his father from him; who knows how many seaside villages the Great White City had robbed. Perhaps Gondor was no better than pillaging bands of Orcs. It was at Gondor's hand that his family had been sliced into pieces.

When he reached his house, Pelilas sat down on a small rock outside his front door. He was not ready to go inside yet, not while his pulse was still racing from the heat of his argument, not while he had the most important question to answer of all. Would he abandon his town, abandon Gondor, and stand beside the men that he'd always believed to be evil?

Evil. Pelilas turned the word over, whispering it to himself, feeling the syllables roll inside his mouth, against his teeth and tongue. From Gwarth's perspective, it was Gondor that was the real evil. Was there even a difference? Were heroes just villains in a different colored cloak?

The sound of a twig snapping interrupted Pelilas's musings. He snapped his head up and jumped to his feet with a start when he saw Gwarth approaching slowly, his hand glued to the hilt of his sword.

"Good evening," Gwarth said, his deep voice echoing against the twilight-covered trees.

"Hello," Pelilas said, clearing his throat.

"I knew that I would see you again soon. I did not think that our conversation the other afternoon would be our last."

"Neither did I," Pelilas answered, only realizing then that it was the truth.

"Is there something that you wish to tell me?" Gwarth asked, and Pelilas briefly wondered if this mysterious man could read his mind.

"What makes you think that I want to tell you something?"

Gwarth smiled, showing his gleaming teeth. Pelilas thought that they resembled fangs.

"You have a certain look in your eye," he replied. "It is the same look that my captain has on his face whenever he has something he needs to discuss."

Pelilas chewed on his lower lip nervously. This was his defining moment, he decided. It is so rare in life, he thought, that one realizes the severity of the action that he is about to commit, the importance of the words he was about to speak. He was paving his own destiny, writing his own story, clearly walking through his dreams.

"There is something I want to say," he finally said softly, "but I am afraid."

"Pelilas," Gwarth said sternly, "fear will get you nowhere."

He nodded, swallowing thickly. And then, he spoke.

"I hate Gondor."

Gwarth's smile widened.

"And I want it gone."

--

The bundle of wet clothes soaked Gailrin's arms to the bone as she carried her family's laundry to the line outside her house. She licked the last drops of stew that clung to her lips and smiled contently at the sound of clanging dishes that drifted out through the kitchen window, letting her know that Faeldor and Coruwen were doing their chores dutifully. She carefully hung each item of clothing, fastening sheets and tunics alike to the slim rope that was carefully threaded around two neighboring trees.

As she was nearing the end of the pile, Gailrin noticed a slice of red against the neutral colors of sundown. Her hands froze around one of Thurandír's shirts, and she squinted against the darkening sky.

There was a strange man walking towards Pelilas's house. His long black hair tumbled in knots down his spine, and his cloaks were a deep scarlet color. The golden jewels that dangled from his neck glittered under the setting sun, and Gailrin gasped sharply, turning her head so he would not see her.

With her dark hair covering one cheek, Gailrin gazed at the ground, catching her breath. Invisibility, nonchalance. She would not be found.

But she snuck one final little peek at the man through her curls, and decided to ignore the increase of her heartbeat, the tensing of her throat.

On the outside, however, she appeared completely calm.

--

A/N: Mm, Gailrin. What are you hiding?

I hope you guys liked this! More to come, for sure.