Fifteen companies in total rode under the banner of the White Tree, southward, behind a king, grim and gray with an inhuman fury calling back to the power of Melian that lay once sleeping in his blood, now stirring like a riptide current beneath the unchanging surface of deadly waters.
The scouts called back, their horns splitting the still evening air, shimmering with the southern heat and heralding the approach of a broken battalion, the rangers sent to accompany the Steward.
Aragorn raised his hand to call a halt, and his nearest captains began to shout a halt to the countless troops behind. He urged Roheryn forward, searching the downcast faces as he approached.
Those of the defeated rangers who were able dismounted and knelt in shame as they faced their king, while the rest lowered their heads as respectfully as they were able, despite the injuries among them.
"Where is-" my son? "My friend, my steward?" Aragorn asked instead, pushing down the rising anger that was threatening to burst from his chest like fire.
There would be time enough later for shows of fury at the betrayal, and he promised himself that when such a time came, heads would roll.
"Captured," came the reply from the bowed head of a captain, a man by the name of Turothon. "I believe alive, as they took great care to keep him, even as he cut them down, man by man, though injured."
Aragorn's chin lifted and he let out a breath through his nose, forcing himself to calm down. "Injured," he prompted, the word coming out clipt. "Tell me how it happened."
"A barbed spear, sire," Turothon said, wincing. His eyes dropped for a moment as he searched for the words to continue. "They caught his side and held him firm. I saw his horse fall, he may have been injured there as well, though I cannot say for certain."
"Which side?" the king demanded, eyes flashing silver in the late afternoon light.
The ranger captain grimaced and mimed dropping something with his right hand, and then touched his left before it strayed to a spot just above his hip. "His right side, I believe, here about."
Aragorn could still feel the fury that had descended upon him, but a cold rationality had settled in, like cold steel at heart of a raging fire, reflecting and judging, and waiting.
The right side, further from the heart, just above the hip, away from vital organs.
He could not have prayed for a better strike.
Provided the injury had not gotten infected, Faramir would survive it, likely without complication.
"Stand, Children of Gondor," he said finally, gesturing for them to rise. "Who among you who has a taste for battle can fight this day?"
"But a few," Turothon said apologetically. "We were overwhelmed, even with advanced warning."
"Tell me of this. How did it come to pass that any were able to escape?" Aragorn prompted. "Fear nothing from me in consequence, just tell me all."
"I know not how, but my lord Faramir knew they were present. He halted us and knocked an arrow and shot a man blind, hidden behind the outcropping."
"The Serpent's Mouth," Aragorn mumbled, drawing a curious look from the ranger captain. "It is nothing. Continue."
"When we heard the cry, he called retreat. There was a struggle, and we felled many men, but more came pouring out- they had even brought Mumaks. We only just escaped, and-"
"And the steward didn't," Aragorn concluded. "And you've been traveling back since." He glanced up at the sky and the lowering sun. "Those who want a chance to strike back should enter the command of Captain Merethir, but your company is welcome to return to Minas Tirith to recuperate."
"There was one other odd occurrence, my lord," Turothon offered hesitantly.
"Speak," the king said, lowering his head once more to listen.
"We passed a single rider- a spearman of Rohan who would not be warned off from the border. He was very young and seemed to be searching among us, though for what, I do not know."
"Ah, Dirnhelm…" Aragorn stroked his beard. "What is your intention, Captain? Will you ride on to Rohan or turn back to Harad?"
"I wish to ride with your company," he said firmly. "My injuries are not so great as to keep me, and I know the face of the rascal that caught my lord. If I should see him again, I'd like to set the score a little more even."
"Very well. I shall be envious, should you manage to strike him down before me, but I will not grudge you the right, should we find him. Concerning the rider… I'll have you report the sighting to King Eomer. He will be very interested to hear the recount."
"A deserter, sire?" Turothon asked. "Do you believe he intends to betray us to our enemies?"
"No," Aragorn said hurriedly. "No, nothing of the sort. A young and rash-" he hesitated. "Soldier. More eager than treacherous. He-" He tried not to wince at the deception. "Is loyal beyond question."
"I should like to meet this man, then," Turothon said. "Shall I go, my lord?"
"Do. Have those men joining us ready to march in ten minutes," the king said with a sharp nod, setting his eyes again on the horizon. "I am eager to join our lone rider." She had better be alive, he added to himself. And have left some glory for Gondor.
He stayed alone there as the rangers melted away around him, some continuing the long journey home, and others, morale raised by the show of might and wrath by their king, filed into formation to begin the fight again. He patted Roheryn's neck and set his eyes on the horizon and squared his shoulders, Arwen's most recent words to him echoing in his ears.
I tire of waiting for news of death, Estel. Do not bring me any, for I am done waiting for tears. The horns of Gondor shall sound in victory, and I will embrace my son and yours, this I wait for and none else.
The ready call sounded sooner than expected, as though time were slipping away from him, hurrying the days to their end as he watched.
"Ride on!" Aragorn called to his captains, already leaving them behind.
The thunder of hooves and the rhythm of marching drowned out the sounds of wind and birdsong in a tuneless song of war, its tattoo grave, and its mirth cold as a threat made smiling.
The companies all made camp as the last fingers of the sun faded from the sanguine horizon over the west, to their backs where Gondor lay, making ready for her own evening's rest, but the peace in the western land did not reach the soldiers on her border. Theirs was the quiet of a storm crossing water, all its light and fury waiting for the brake of rain to crash upon the cliffs that dared oppose.
There was a hush over all the men that muffled their talking, the idle games of dice that passed the time to the curfew, and even held the rare laughter to quiet chuckles, stolen behind a chagrined hand to push the sound down again.
It was the presence of death in their ranks, a rider among them who had, for once, chosen a clear side, and yet was made no less dread by his temporary allegiance to Gondor and her vengeful king.
For the second time, horns rang out over the companies, shattering the grave quiet with the drawing of swords and the war-shouts of the Rohirrim.
A lone rider, camel-mounted, had stumbled into the line of scouts and sentries set at the perimeter of the marching army, and at spear tip was escorted to the king in his tent.
Aragorn stood a head taller than the interloper, and took full advantage of the height difference to tower over what appeared to be a messenger, a white cloth of truce tied around his upper arm. "Tell me," Aragorn started in his broken Haradric. "Why should I not kill you?"
Trembling, the man held forth a ring. "We have your steward," he returned in poor Westron.
Aragorn took the silver ring of office from the man and turned to examine it more closely in the lantern light.
There was the tree and stars, and into the bark was set a rod. Above the crest of the Stewardship was a plain coat- an image of battlements, or an inverse crown.
"How interesting," Aragorn said, pocketing the ring. "This is indeed a seal of office, and yet," he said, chuckling darkly. "I have never been more certain that you do not indeed have my steward at all."
The messenger, now a captive, sucked in a sharp breath.
"You have given me much to think on," the king said slowly, drawing his thumb along his jaw. "Hold him while I decide what is to be done with him," he ordered the guards. "Give him to Merethir." He stepped out, paying no heed where his legs took him.
They had hoped to bargain with the life of the steward, but they had tipped their hands.
Either Faramir was dead, or he had escaped.
It left a yawning hole in the information Aragorn had, namely how this particular ring had fallen into the hands of the Easterlings, but realizing they had no hostage had opened up the possibility of an immediate counterstrike- the messenger had realized very quickly that their leverage had dried up like a flower in the desert- short lived and fruitless.
He found himself at the door to Lord Imrahil's tent, its blue fabric near black in the low light of a partly clouded evening. "May I enter?" he asked, trusting the half-elf to hear him.
"Please do," Imrahil returned. "I am pleased to host you, my king." The greeting was warm, but formal.
Surrounded on all sides by tents and guards, there would be nowhere that was safe for a familiar address.
"I wanted to consult you," Aragorn began, feeling uncertain.
Imrahil was younger than he was by a good many decades, as were all but the few Dunedain rangers in the camp, and of course, Legolas, but the man had a good head on his shoulders. He was sharp and well learned, a good advisor for such puzzles as the ring presented. As expected from his intellect, the man quickly picked up on Aragorn's hesitation. "Sire?" he asked gently. "You seem troubled."
"I feel it," Aragorn agreed. "Surely you heard the horns?"
Imrahil snorted derisively and then grimaced. "Excuse me, my lord. Yes, I heard them. My ears are still ringing. I take it a scout, or perhaps a messenger was caught off his guard coming from Harad to bargain?"
"He was. He did not expect to find an army already here, that was apparent by the supplies he still had with him."
"He had meant to reach Minas Tirith unharried, then," Imrahil agreed, laying out a cushion on the rug that made the floor of his tent. "Will you sit with me, my lord?"
Aragorn nodded distractedly and lowered himself to the floor, missing the presence of the cushion.
The lord of Dol Amroth wisely refrained from comment, and merely took his own seat once more. "I do not see anything so troubling in his preparations," he prompted. "They could not have known you would have sensed the trouble so much sooner than news could have reached our capital."
"That is not the trouble," Aragorn said, shaking his head and reaching into his pocket. "The rub is in the proof he gave of hostage. They had meant to bargain for ransom, or perhaps land concessions."
"All very standard?" Imrahil raised an eyebrow. "But they could not prove to have Faramir?"
"They could not, and by his reaction to being found out, they do not have him at all. I would not put it past my- past him to lose his seal of office to prevent any negotiation for his return, but I do not think that is solely the case," he said, as much thinking out loud as speaking to his friend. He chewed the tip of his thumb thoughtfully for a moment as he considered his next words.
"So he is either escaped or dead," Imrahil concluded, looking grim for a moment. "Either way, it is in our best interest to strike, and strike hard. The sooner we are able to cripple their invading force, the more like it is for Faramir to slip the borders and come home to us, and- if he is-"
"It's not worth the speculation," Aragorn said firmly. "We are none of us waiting for tears. Faramir is alive, I am certain, and will need our aid before the end."
"Yes," Imrahil agreed. "Then the path is clear. We will take them off guard in their own land and shatter their strength."
"Indeed," the king said, nodding. "Yet that still leaves a question that I find can have no satisfactory answer." He palmed the ring from his pocket and held it a moment. "The proof they offered for the ransom," he said, offering the small trinket to the other lord, who held out his hand to receive it.
"A ring of office. A fake, perhaps? Troubling indeed that they should have had the time and knowledge to forge such a thing," Imrahil started holding it closer to examine it.
"No," Aragorn said slowly. "Not a fake, but mark, it is not the ring of Faramir, second son of Denethor."
"A plain coat? But-" he struggled to find the words and turned the ring over in his hand, again and again. "It must be a fake, it must be. How else could they have it? I do not wish to believe what I think must be true. It is too much, too monstrous to think on. Are they men and not animals? I expect such barbarism from orcs- I haven't the tongue to speak what I feel seeing this- this- omen," he stammered, holding the ring back to Aragorn, who had to hurry not to let it fall to the floor in Imrahil's haste to be rid of it, as if the metal burned him.
"Yes," Aragorn agreed. "But I think it must be."
"Then perhaps- perhaps the body of my nephew washed ashore in their lands. Perhaps they have his remains yet, and-"
"Perhaps. Don't let your hopes rise. The sea may have claimed him and returned only what always comes home." He turned the ring to face him and studied the tree. "But I see there is still his blood in the crevices." He paused and looked up at Imrahil. "Are you alright?"
"I will be," the man said slowly, face dark with newfound anger. "My sister's sons are both dishonored at their hands. I will be alright when the lord of those lands has been toppled from his thrones and my last nephew is well and home."
"Indeed," Aragorn agreed. "Then all will be well, though the sky witness another war."