Arda, Middle-Earth, Dunland, Bog of the Dead; T.A. 2992
The three brothers had set out from Gondor nearly nine months past, and it was becoming abundantly clear that they were lost. They had set their wandering minds for the kingdom of Rohan, but somehow through some twist of fate…and some very bad map reading, they had ended up in this accursed place. It wasn't even like they'd gone terribly off the path; they'd followed the map their father had reluctantly handed over, religiously. Yet somehow, they had managed to bypass the land of the Horse Lords almost entirely.
They'd passed through grasslands of course, which thinking back now may have in fact been Rohan. Yet, how were they supposed to know that? There'd been nothing to indicate there was even a settlement on those long windy plains of grass… let alone a great kingdom of men
The youngest brother was thoroughly convinced that if he had just been allowed to hold the map, just once, they would not now be knee high in a bog whose only purpose seemed to be consuming unwary travellers. His brothers may have been thinking similar thoughts, but they did not express their anger in quite the same way as he: that is, by swinging his mighty sword blindly around his head, hoping it just so happened to lop off one of their necks.
It didn't…thank the Valar, but what it did do was get stuck in a very large and low hanging branch. The Youngest tried to pull his mighty weapon free, but no matter how hard he tugged it just would not budge. The branch did rock though, violently and loudly enough to draw not only the attention of his two older and irate brothers, but also whoever those shadowy figures that were now circling them were.
Arda, Middle Earth, Minus Tirith; Four months later
Denethor stared blankly at the parchment in front of him; the letter was by far the strangest thing the ruling Steward of Gondor had ever read. Months ago, when the Three Idiots had gone over their father's head and asked Denethor if they could set off to parts unknown – to the three fools at least – he'd barely given it a second thought. The answer of yes, had seemed so simple then; none of them were much use to Gondor, having not a skill with a weapon between them…despite what they seemed to believe; and it would set their upstart father in his place, Denethor had not forgiven the man for his cheek at trying to pinch one of the steward's own sons for a son-in-law.
Yet clearly Denethor had not thought it over enough, if this strange account – written to him in the hand of the Eldest of the three buffoons – was anything to judge by.
The fool claimed to have seen spirits of men long dead; of course, this alone would not have been so fantastical – there was hardly a man alive in Minus Tirith today who wasn't haunted by the ghosts of the past. So, no… it was not the mention of spirits that made the tale so bizarre, really it was not the tale at all, but what the young fool had sent with it.
The Steward ran his finger along the edge of the knife, it was no more than a blade, since no handle had been crafted for it. In fact, the blade itself had barely been crafted, another skill the three wandering fools did not possess, yet it still shone in a way that such a crudely crafted knife shouldn't have done. In fact, when he'd first unwrapped it, he'd believed the young fools had found black marble in the savage hills of Dunland, until the letter had told him otherwise.
A new kind of metal, the fools had claimed, one that would turn the tide on Gondor's enemies.
A metal that could bring down even the dead.
Middle-Earth, Dunland, Bog of the Dead: TA 2992
The middle brother held the axe his father had shoved into his hands before they'd left, in front of himself. He might have tried to swing it at the slowly approaching men, but it would do no good. More than likely all he would end up hacking off was his own foot, and it wasn't like they looked…terribly…fearsome. They weren't even charging towards the brothers, more like stumbling or limping their way closer to the wayward siblings.
In fact, many of them did not even seem to be full grown men at all. They squealed at the three brothers in a strange language and reached their chubby little hands out to them, almost in a pleading gesture. But his younger brother would have none of it, he'd finally managed to yank his sword blade free of the tree branch and was now proceeding to wave it in the general direction of their 'attackers'. The children hissed at them and retreated into the trees that surrounded the bog, but this wasn't nearly enough for the blithering idiot with the sword. He advanced on them, stepping out of the bog like it was no more than a muddy puddle.
The wisest brother, for in Gondor middle children are almost always the wisest, was hot on his brother's heels, completely ignoring their elder brother's indignant squawk of 'we could just walk out'.
He had to stop the young fool, before he did something truly stupid. Something that would end not only their own lives, but thousands like them. The young man of Gondor was not entirely sure how his brother would accomplish this, but he was more than certain that he would.
Minas Tirith, Five months later
The first wagon of the strange metal that pulled up at the gates of the great city of Minas Tirith, was turned away before Denethor even got wind of it. The second however had contained more than just the metal itself… it had contained weapons, more importantly though it had contained large men of Rohan holding those weapons.
It wasn't exactly that they meant to threaten anyone, but well… they did find themselves standing in front of Lord Denethor far quicker than they would have without the weapons. The youngest brother stepped forward and bowed low to the Steward of Gondor
'You've read my brother's letter, my lord?'
Denethor fixed the younger man with a hard glare and then rose from his black chair, with the practiced elegant grace of one who knew they were better than you.
'Indeed, I did, though I have to say he failed to mention your companions. I do not see him here today, so I presume he is not with you?'
The Youngest shook his head. 'Nor with anyone my lord, he was murdered in battle by the Dunlanders. They are a savage people with no thought on the pain their actions may cause others, tis a pity the Rohirians haven't wiped them out yet. But have no worry sir, for that will soon come to pass. Once our two great armies are combined then those foul beasts will have nowhere to hide, and we can take back what is rightfully ours.'
Denethor roared with laughter.
'Rightfully ours, he says. Oh, have no fear I will not refuse your request young pup, there will be no woman, man or child left in Dunland who is not of Gondor blood. But the land those heavens dwell on is not rightful ours, not yet at least. For what reason would our ancestors have wanted such a land, certainly not to live on…there is a reason boy, only the Dunlanders were fool-hardy enough to settle there. But no matter the past, this metal is a wondrous thing indeed.'
Hope began to blossom again on the face of the youngest brother, and he dared to speak then.
'The mightiest of all metals, only to be wielded by the mightiest of all men. Perhaps even it is a gift from the Valar themselves. So, who are we as mere mortals to deny such a gift, a gift they meant as a birth right for the descendants of Numenor…so sir please believe me when I say…the land of Dunland is rightfully ours. Not because our ancestors lived there, you are correct, why would they… but because all the lands in Middle-Earth are rightfully ours. We are the sons of Numenor and it is time we started acting like it.'
Denethor smiled, as if he had just heard a joke that only he could see.
Dunland, Mine of the Three Brothers (Passage of the Dead): TA 2993
When the three brothers had first stumbled on the large tunnel-like cave that would eventually become their illustrious mine, they did not as the history books claim, feel a sense of wonder, or innate ownership of the place. No what they felt was cold, wet, and extremely angry with one another.
The children they had been chasing had melted into the woods like so much mist. And as the three tired, angry brothers stumbled into the only possible shelter around for miles, they were beginning to wonder if the spirits had even been there at all. In retrospect, the middle brother didn't know whether it was luck or misfortune that had led them to that cave. It had certainly felt like luck back then, with the rain pounding so hard down around them – but what had come after, so much death and all for some shiny rocks his brother had found encrusted onto the wall of their shelter.
That had been nearly a year ago now, and many things had happened since then: his eldest brother was dead and buried at the foot of the mine, and the younger was off and away to summon the armies of the great to reap bloody vengeance on those that had put him there. The Dunlanders, they had not been best pleased when the brothers had settled the mine, though they themselves avoided it like it held the plague. Maybe it did, he hadn't exactly been feeling at all well lately, though he'd attributed it to running a mine under siege. If the Dunlanders had been irate at the three brothers' presence, then they were downright berserk at the Rohan miners the three had brought in.
At first, they'd had an attack daily, then it had trickled down to barely once a week, and now they could go entire months without seeing a single man of Dunland pass their way. It would seem they had lost the Dunlanders' interest, if they had ever really held it before. Perhaps the army his brother was summoning would be entirely unneeded by the time they arrived…which wouldn't really be a surprise when it came to aid from Gondor.
From further down the mine the young man of Gondor heard the whoop of the miners. They must have found another hunk of that wondrous metal, he should go and look…see what they found, but the pounding in his head was too much, and he felt woozy just sitting here trying to get the death toll straight. He had to go and lie down, or he most certainly would be sick.