(AN: "The Hunt" as Drauglin mentioned in the previous chapter is a reference to the description that the Edain team wrote for him in their mod. But in universe, it could be a reference to the Wild Hunt as mentioned in Servant of Darkness: The Quiet. Obviously the folk of Wilderland would have heard legends of the Wandering Shadow after it had been around for a thousand years.)

(Now we enter three lengthy chapters which have been of significant importance for inspiring this story recently. So important were they that I have done for this story something I have not done since The Dragonborn pentalogy: I made an outline for this entire story and the relevance of each chapter to it [including this one])

(One line in this chapter was written specifically to counter Peter Jackson's Hobbit trilogy, specifically how they did the Witch-King, the Nazgul, the Dunedain, and the White Council dirty by saying that the Witch-King died and was buried. Aside from a full-on rant from an angry lore-head [feel free to PM me for the details], suffice it to say that no sane or sober person in Arnor would have buried the Witch-King, even if they didn't know about or couldn't sense the Black Breath upon him.)

Imprisoned

Aranarth had ridden around the glade before the trees for several minutes until the horses began to calm down. It seemed that the wolves were not attacking: had they fled? He brought the horses to a halt, then dismounted off the back of his horse and called out for Aradan. He heard a muffled groaning and ran immediately toward it, tripping on large tree branches and cutting himself on the rough bark. The sound was very close at hand, but it could make no sound other than groan no matter how he called out for it. He heard the voice loudest beneath a large body that felt like a large wolf: it was pinned by something equally heavy, and Aranarth had to sit on the grass and push it off with his feet just to make it budge.

A loud hoarse cry was heard as Aradan gasped for breath. He had been pinned under the body and could scarcely breathe. It was some time before he could speak again, and he was not pleased at how long it had taken Aranarth to find and free him.

"You certainly took your time finding me," he said at last between long, heavy gasps. "I might have been crushed to death under that beast, and then how would you complete your mission? Or how would you face Father and Mother and tell them that I had died?"

"Don't say that, little brother," Aradan replied. "I know not what I would do without you."

So tired were they from the battle that they fell asleep against the bole of the tree, once Aradan had gotten himself out from under the wolf's body. The morning dawned overcast but without rain, and they were both chilled to the bone and shivering; yet they were both alive. Aranarth had been cut on a sharp shaft of broken branch and his right arm was bleeding just below the shoulder. Aradan had taken the worst wounds from the battle: the left hand had many bite marks on it, and he was bruised sore all over. Aradan tore off bits of his cloak to bind the wounds of both himself and his brother.

"It will do for now," he said. "The wounds did not look poisoned."

"If we had time," Aranarth winced as the younger brother bandaged his arm. "We could ride back towards Amon Sul and look for athelas. It is useful against such wounds."

"But we don't have time, now, do we?" asked Aradan. "For now, let us bind our wounds and look to our task. When we are done, we can look to mending our hurts."

After their wounds had been treated, Aradan examined the field of last night's battle. Of the seven wolves, only four bodies could they find. There was no trace of the large wolf at all, but they both found the body of the large man from the Forsaken Inn slumped against the bole of the fallen tree. He was impaled on a large tree branch, and a knife was sticking out of his right eye.

"Drauglin!" exclaimed Aranarth. "So he was a werewolf. I'll wager that he was the same one that killed those travelers on the road we saw before Amon Sul."

"I think that you are right about him being the same one," Aradan replied. "But I doubt that he was a werewolf."

"What do you mean?" asked Aranarth.

"If your stories are to be believed, werewolves only change under the light of the moon: and yet last night, I would give my oath that he transformed into this form and back into a wolf under the full moonlight. I think he might have been something else."

"Do you think he was a Wild Man? The Gauredain haunt the woods north of Evendim and in Forodwaith, and there are tales of Wild Men in the forests of Gondor: though in those tales, they were never as large as this fellow."

As Aranarth plumbed the depths of his lore-craft, seeking for an answer to his brother's question, Aradan thought harder than he had to bring back old memories. Though their ways had been sundered as they came of age, they had both heard many of the same stories at the foot of their mother Firiel; and if Aranarth believed the taunts of his brother that fighting men were of more worth than men of knowledge, Aradan knew a smattering of old lore that would surprise even him. And Arnor had been a mighty kingdom before the death of Earendur and the division, and there had been good relations between them and other folk, though less with Elves as the years went by. From the Dwarves of the Dwarrowdelf there had come to Arnor tales of Men that dwelt in the valley of the Great River between the Misty Mountains and the Grey.

"Could he have been a Skin-Changer?" Aradan slowly asked.

"A Skin-Changer?" asked Aranarth in amazement. "Don't be absurd: they never come west of the mountains. And the stories say that they turn into bears, not wolves."

"But this Drauglin fellow said that he came from east of the mountains," Aradan replied. To Aranarth's eternal amazement (and disgust), Aradan came near to the body of the large man and examined him. In the light of morning they could see that he bore an iron collar about his neck, as they had seen in glimpses at the Forsaken Inn. Though Aradan said no word, into his mind there came images of the life of this large man. That collar meant that he had been kept as a prisoner of some sort: perhaps he had been captured by the men of Carn Dum and tortured in the dungeons of the Witch-King. The dark and dreadful tales of that evil realm came into Aradan's mind, and pictures of profane rituals entered unbidden into his thoughts. Had this man, by foul craft of the sorcerers of Angmar, had his enchantment changed into that of a large white wolf?

Aradan drew out the knife from the dead man's eye, cleaned it off on the grass, then held his hand over his head and said, slowly and hesitantly, as though he were not familiar with such things:

May Araw the Hunter bring you
Where grass is green and game is fresh
Farewell to you, wander no more
And by the grace of the Valar be blessed

"Did you just say a blessing for our enemy?" asked Aranarth.

"Yes I did," Aradan replied.

"I did not think you had it in you. Not merely because I did not believe you were one for song, but also because you are a soldier. You face battle all the time, and this monster killed those travelers on the road! Why should it deserve any mercy or pity from us?"

"I cannot rightly say why it deserves pity and mercy, if even it does," Aradan replied, unusually thoughtful. "I only give it what I would wish to be given by those who outlast me, should I fall in battle."

"If he is a servant of Angmar," Aranarth replied. "He is our enemy and deserves no mercy."

"They all do, even our enemies," Aradan answered.

"What?" exclaimed Aranarth. "You would give mercy to our enemies? Even the Witch-King himself? I daresay that he of all people is the worst and deserves no pity whatsoever; nor any semblance of honor, especially after he has defiled the graves of Tyrn Gorthad!"

"That was a black evil indeed," Aradan nodded. "And perhaps he does deserve death. But we should not fight him the way he and his thralls have fought us: otherwise we are no different than he."

"And what would you have, then," asked Aranarth incredulously. "Were it possible that Angmar could be overthrown and the Iron Crown toppled? Would you have a barrow raised in the red hills of Carn Dum, and the Witch-King interred with honor? You would be chased out of Arthedain with hissing, if they did not throw stones at you, or hang you for your cheek."

"I-I don't know!" exclaimed Aradan. "It never occurred to me that the Witch-King could be overthrown. But still, you know everything, you tell me what should be done instead, if, as you say, it were possible to defeat the fell lord of Carn Dum."

"He and his entire cult of acolytes should be slain with the edge of the sword; their fortress pulled down and its foundations removed. Then together they should all be burned in a great fire, and the ashes cast adrift upon the Baranduin or the Mitheithel, that no Necromancer of Mirkwood should bring their bodies back, or that no cultists worship their remains. He wished to wipe out the men of Arnor, then he should be wiped out in turn."

Aradan sighed. "You may be right, big brother. But I care not for such thoughts of 'maybe' and 'perhaps': they do little good for us here and now. We must be on our way and swift. The river awaits and beyond the completion of our errand."

It was another hour before they were ready to depart. The horses had wandered the glade in search of grass to eat, and the brothers had a hard time bringing them back to the road: they were terrified of the wolves, though they were all dead. It was then that the brothers were devastated to discover that their food had gone bad: rain and the general dirt of travel had gotten into their pouches and the food was rotting and had to be thrown out. The only thing that was still wholesome was dried bread and several strips of salted meat, and of course their own water-skins.

"At the very least," said Aradan. "We can find food east of the Loudwater. I have some skill with a bow, and there are other things in the wilds that we can find. Do not be afraid of starving: only tighten your belt and do not complain about hunger."

They mounted up their horses and rode now in the light of morning toward the Last Bridge: they had now left the lands of Arthedain and Cardolan behind them, and had crossed over into enemy territory. The land beyond was broad and hilly, with large groves and copses of trees here and there that grew steadily thicker eastward. Above this land rose large outcroppings of stone, with old towers situated atop them. Many were falling into ruin, but a few of them still bore iron instruments of torture upon their outer parapets: gibbets, and long iron spikes with old bones still perched atop them in the last sad moments of their ill-fates lives.

The road was in good repair, and the brothers followed it with ease. But on either side there were ominous signs that put fear into their hearts. Grotesque totems of animal (and human) skulls stood on wooden spears, affixed with animal fur and feathers as though they were items of some ritualistic importance. What the ritual was for, none of them dared to guess: for it gave off an unwholesome feeling, and the tales of orcs which both of them had heard as children came back into their minds. There were orcs in service to Angmar, for their holes in Mount Gram were near to Carn Dum, and the fell folk were swift to join themselves to any who might give them a chance to work some mischief. In the Elder Days, they ranged as far west as Beleriand, but that was long ago and after the downfall of the Dark Lord of Mordor, they lingered in dark holes in the mountains or places in the deep woods where no light ever shone.

The tales they had heard of orcs were enough to make the blood run cold; and there was more to these than merely tales. For it so happened that the King's knights would happen upon a village that had been raided by hillmen, and the survivors would tell of beasts in their ranks: of man height they were, though shorter, with crooked legs and arms and wide, leering faces. Folk ran from these beasts, save for the fell hill-men of Rhudaur, and those unhappy ones who dared to fight them could expect a cruel and merciless death; even those who managed to kill one would come away maimed, or poisoned by their curved swords and die a slow, agonizing death shortly thereafter.

Perhaps this can explain why Aradan was more than uncomfortable at Aranarth hoisting the white coverlet onto his pennant. Though it had been planned, and though he knew of it, the color made him nervous. Aside from what it meant on the battlefield, he knew that orcs did not abide by any rules of war. Aranarth reassured him that they had nothing to fear of orcs just yet: they were still many leagues away from the mountains, and orcs only came out at night when the sun was hidden. This did nothing to assuage Aradan's worries, even though they had decided to make camp as soon as it was dusk and light a fire to keep them warm and dry.

"Trolls also come out at night," Aradan stated.

They did not argue the point, for their attention was fixed on the lands about them. Their purpose was to find the hillmen and open negotiations with them on behalf of the King. Yet it was not nearly as easy or simple as the task sounded. The hill-towers they had seen when they crossed the Mitheithel were hidden deep within or beyond the woods, and they would have to leave the road in order to seek them out. That, at any rate, was disagreeable to both of the young men: if they left the Great East Road, they would be forced to make camp in the forest, and would be at the mercy of whatever foul beasts might happen upon them.

But they saw no foul beasts as they rode, and of wholesome beasts very few. Crows could be heard in the trees squawking at the travelers: yet they paid them no mind. They were an ill omen, if the stories were to be believed. For Aradan, he knew that these carrion beasts haunted the battlefields and feasted upon the slain. This did not bode well for them, for again he worried about being attacked at night by orcs or trolls. Brave though he was, he was not heedless of danger and knew when to tread carefully: if only for the safety of those in his charge.

Yet as the day wore on and they faced no dangers, their fears began to subside and they grew bolder. The sun passed over the emerald canopy under which they rode and began to sink into the west. The brothers realized that they would soon be benighted, and their concern about orcs and trolls came back into mind: they would have to find a place to camp for the night. A little way onward, they found a narrow path leading off to the left of the road, going down into a shallow glade where the trees were thinner. Dismounting from their horses, they led them by foot down the narrow path and into the glade. Aradan went in first and came to the middle of the glade: there he found a ring of stones and what looked like scattered ashes and charred pieces of burnt wood.

"Someone has been here recently," he said aloud. "It might be a good idea to move on from here."

"Why do you say that?" asked Aranarth.

"Because whoever was last here might come back," Aradan returned.

"Do you think it was orcs or trolls?"

"No," Aradan replied. "There are no signs that any trolls were in this glade recently, and orcs wouldn't have left this ring of stones: they tend to wantonly destroy everything, even if it's not directly in their path."

"Then who left these stones?"

"I know not. But I am apprehensive about this ring of stones. It is almost as though it were left here on purpose. Tell me, big brother, what folk dwell in this land again?"

"Hillmen, and the wild beasts," was Aranarth's reply. "The stories say that somewhere east of the Bruinen River, there are Elves in a hidden valley. Though few have seen them in waking memory: it was believed that a force from Lindon on the shores of the Sea aided Arveleg in driving the hosts of Angmar from the Tower Hills, but that was many years ago. And there has been no traffic with Elves in these days, not since Rhudaur became hostile."

"Either way it does not bode well for us," Aradan said, shaking his head. "Come, let us find some higher ground to spend the night on."

But at that moment there was a loud crash behind them. Aradan drew his sword and Aranarth clutched the banner, brandishing it light a spear, and the two of them turned about to face the noise. A large tree had fallen across the path they had just come down, blocking their return to the road. Suddenly there appeared from all around them many grim-faced men brandishing spears and axes, and some of them had bows of yew that were fitted with black-feathered arrows aimed at them. Aradan turned to his brother and whispered, but Aranarth could not hear it: the men heard them and shouted at them in their own tongue, and one bent his bow and set an arrow into the flank of Aradan's horse. The poor beast neighed and kicked at the air in fright, then bolted out of Aradan's grasp, kicked one of the axe-wielding men square in the face with its hooves, and bolted off into the forest.

Several of the men now broke from their ranks and took Aradan's weapon and Aranarth's banner. They then put the points of their crude spears to the brothers and drove them on before them, with several others taking the reins of Aranarth's horse and prodding it none too gently with their own javelins. Though the brothers did not understand the language which the men spoke, it was all too plain that they had been taken prisoner. Flight was impossible, for they were outnumbered, and these men had their weapons. They walked on in silence: for if ever one of them raised their voice above a whisper, they felt the painful prodding of a spear-head against their backs and were silenced.

While Aradan mulled over a plan of escape, Aranarth examined these people who were their captors. They were Men, as easily as could be determined, but they were certainly not Dunedain. They were shorter than the brothers, with broader shoulders and skin that was a shade browner than was common among the men of Arnor and Gondor. Their hair ranged from dark brown to the hue of ripe corn, and they wore it long, pleated with beads and feathers, or trimmed along one or both sides of their heads. They wore rough clothes made out of animal's fur, particularly sheep's wool and goat's hair, and had wooden shields covered in animal's hide painted with a crude fox thereon.

So Aranarth saw for the first time the hillmen of Rhudaur, those who had been the ancient enemies of the folk of Arthedain since the death of Argeleb.

The hillmen took the brothers through many winding paths in the forest. They seemed to know their way, but the brothers soon became lost as they went this way and that, following trail-markers unseen to them. Slowly but surely the ground began to ascend and they came to a wooden barricade guarded by other such men as they, bearing spears and shields. When they saw their approach, they hailed them and took apart the long wooden poles of the barricade to allow them to pass. On the other side there was a cliff that rose up out of the steadily ascending land, with the foundations of a tall, crumbling fort at the top. A narrow stairway carved into the rock winding around the edge of the cliff served as the only access to that fort, but the steps were narrow with no guard-rail or curb on the left-hand side. Up this way the hillmen led their captives, but the horse could not get up the steps and so it was led away: the brothers would never see that poor beast again.

At the top of the winding stairs there was a gatehouse, into which they passed into a wide courtyard filled with many huts of wood and mud, and a great fire-pit in the center that, due to the lateness of the hour, was already lit and roaring. Aranarth noticed many men wandering about the courtyard, and several women as well; but there were no children. Most of the men and women looked like the men who had captured them, in stature, dress, and color of hair, but there were one or two other men who gave him cause for alarm.

These men were taller than the hillmen, and they wore black robes, black mail, and black was the color of their helmets: yet they did not bear the icon of the sea-bird wings, as the helmets of the men of Arnor and Gondor bore upon them. Some of the men wore no armor or helmets, and were bald of head, pale of flesh, and had thin, iron clubs in their hands. Who they were neither Aranarth nor Aradan knew, but they had a frightening guess as to who they might be.

But such thoughts were driven out of their heads as they were taken to the largest hut in the courtyard, nearest to the crumbling keep. There were men here, hillmen by stature and garb, who bore axes and shields after the manner of Lesser Men, who appeared to be the guards of some important man. The men who had brought them here went into the hut and, after a long while, came back out with two figures walking behind them. One was a tall, slender figure, hooded and cloaked all in black, with the hood pulled far down and head bowed, as though he did not wish to be seen.

The other was a hill-man, but a large one and obviously their chief. He was broad shouldered, dressed in the finest skins, and wore a cloak with a fox's pelt on his shoulder. His hair was long and red, and his red beard was thick and long: he could almost have passed for a Dwarf, if he were any shorter. He bore a great-axe, nearly as tall as he was, and leaned upon it as he looked at the prisoners. He spoke to them in the Common Speech, which he seemed to know as well as his own language.

"What brings two west-men into my land?" he asked.

Aradan looked at Aranarth and gestured with his head at the big chief: clearly it was his time to act. Aranarth cleared his throat and desperately tried to seem brave and undisturbed by their present captive state.

"We are emissaries of Arvedui, King of Arthedain," he said. "We come in peace."

"Peace, eh?" asked the large man. "My men tell me a different story: they say they saw you on the Elf-Road, and that you carried weapons." He gave an order to one of the men in his own tongue, and he was handed the banner of Arthedain which had been confiscated from them.

"People who come into my land under this flag are slain. It is only by my tender mercy that you are allowed to live." He threw the banner on the ground and stepped on it with his foot, grinding it into the dirt. Aradan made an angry sound, and at a gesture from their chief, one of the hillmen struck him with his spear.

"Your people do not come this way," he said. "And my men found you off the Elf-Road, so you are clearly not here on any decent business. You are spies, the both of you, come to sound out my people."

"My lord," said Aranarth, though he knew that no such petty chief could ever properly be given such an honorific. "We are not spies. We came here on a mission of peace and friendship from the King of Arthedain."

"You do not understand your peril, little boy," the chief replied. "You can use the name of your king all you want, but that is not going to save your wretched hide. In these parts, Hwaldar is chief and all answer to him. And I, Hwaldar, say the west-men cannot be trusted. You are spies, and you will die for it." His hands groped for the haft of his axe.

"But you have not given us a chance to offer you terms!"

At this, Hwaldar paused. "Terms? What terms do you offer me?"

"The friendship and protection of the King of Arthedian."

At this, Hwaldar laughed. "We are not children, boy! We know that Arthedain is weak and feeble: my people have personally seen to that. Your King is in no position to offer surety of his terms."

"You have the honor of the King that he will fulfill anything you ask of him."

Hwaldar spit in Aranarth's face. "You've never been outside your precious little white towers, have you, boy?" He set aside his axe and picked up from near the entrance of the hut one of the totems they had seen on the side of the road.

"The fox is the cleverest of all beasts," he said. "And it is the symbol of our clan, for all my fathers have been blessed with the wisdom of the fox since before you west-men came here on your ships. The fox teaches us that honor is the chain that binds the hands of the weak from doing what they must to survive. Your King's word means nothing to me, boy."

"He sent us as surety for him," said Aranarth.

"You? And who are you, scrawny little boy? And who is this grim-faced silent one? Who are you that your King would send you as surety for his worthless word?"

Aranarth paused: not because he had forgotten, but because he suddenly became aware of what might happen. Doubt entered into his heart: surely Father had known this. Why was he sent as a pig to the butcher? Aradan shook his head, as though he guessed his brother's mind and would have him remain silent.

"Well?" asked Hwaldar. "Who are you? Spies, of course? That's why your King sent you here with the false tale of peace and honor." He took his axe in his hands and strode towards the brothers.

"His sons!" Aranarth cried out in despair. "We are his sons." If this did not save their lives, nothing else would. Aradan hung his head but said nothing; as for Hwaldar, he lowered his axe as a cruel look appeared on his face.

"Is that so?" he asked. "It is beyond even the folly of you west-folk for the King to send his sons into my hand, on nothing more than the hope that I will show you honor."

"He...He showed you trust," said Aranarth. "In the hope that his gesture of trust would show the sincerity of his offer."

Hwaldar chuckled. "A fool is he that trades the lives of his family for his own for naught. Maybe, I think, there could be some truth to what you are saying: if your King is so weak, surely he is fool enough to try anything. Nevertheless, it is not far-fetched to wager that you were given some secret instructions in addition to your errand of peace. I will find out what your secret orders are, even if I have to pull it out of you bit by bloody bit." He then gave orders to the men and the brothers were separated and dragged out of the sight of the chief. From the courtyard they were taken up a flight of stone steps to the top of the wall. Aranarth feared that they were about to be thrown off and tried to resist, but suddenly there was a blow on the back of his head and he slumped forward, remembering no more.

(AN: Here we get to see a glimpse into the lives of the hill-men of Rhudaur, of which we saw scant little in Battle for Middle Earth II: Rise of the Witch-King and even less in LOTRO.)

(Some of you might be worried that Aranarth's shock and alarm at Aradan saying a dirge for Drauglin would mean that I am refuting Tolkien's theme of pity and mercy from the Lord of the Rings. That is most certainly not the case: it is part of the meta-narrative of this story, but I cannot give any more away because of spoilers. Suffice it to say that all will be made plain and clear in subsequent chapters.)