A/N: To give you a time frame for this story, I planned it so that Andrin is Aragorn's great-grandson and Eldarion's grandson—so the line goes Aragorn → Eldarion → Andrith → Andrin. So yes, this is after the War of the Ring. Another thing to note: my descriptions of both Minas Tirith and Osgiliath are coming from how they were depicted in the movies, not in the books (mostly because I don't have the books with me, and partly because I'd be too lazy to find the descriptions anyway). I'm also using a map of Osgiliath that I found online using a Google Search to construct the city in my mind so that I (hopefully) don't screw too much up.

Chapter 2

Andrin bounced up and down in the stirrups, which had been raised to accommodate his short legs. His cousin rode next to him, looking exhausted but unwilling to close his eyes—they would be coming up on Osgiliath soon, and he didn't want to miss the first glimpse. They were both sore from their two-day ride, but neither was willing to admit it; both had begun the journey by boasting what excellent horsemen they were.

Drían rode at the head of his men, twenty veteran soldiers who usually guarded the lowest level of Minas Tirith, and his son and nephew stayed in the middle of their ranks, where they would be shielded from any unexpected attacks. Andrin and Belín were not very satisfied with this arrangement; they had wanted to go with the two men had been sent to scout out the area ahead, a proposal that Drían very firmly refused.

"I promised your father I wouldn't allow any harm to come to you," he had told Andrin sternly, "and I am your father," he added to his son, to which Belín had responded by setting his face into a miserable pout, one that made Drían smile but not relent.

The sound of hooves was approaching along the road from the opposite direction, and a moment later, Drían's scout came into view. "Osgiliath is but a half a league ahead, over the crest of this hill, captain," he said, turning his horse around to join the company. "The garrison is ready to receive you."

Drían nodded curtly and spurred his horse into a trot. "Let us move faster, then, so that we can reach it before nightfall."

Ten minutes later, they crested the hill, and Andrin and Belín got their first glimpse of Osgiliath, Citadel of the Stars. The river than ran through it, the great Anduin, sparkled in the brilliant sunset, giving the entire city an aura of gleaming gold. Andrin could barely make out a stretch of the bridge that connected the two sides of the city across the mighty river. The walls around the city were tall, and they jutted out into the water, creating small eddying currents around the banks. Several tall towers pierced the darkening sky, standing like sentinels over the smaller buildings.

"It's magnificent," said Andrin in a hushed voice.

"It was once the chief city of all Gondor," the soldier next to him said, grinning at the boy's expression of awe. "Isildur and Anárion founded it, and they ruled side by side there. It was far more glorious at its height."

"What happened?" Belín asked, furrowing his brow. "Why isn't it the chief city anymore?"

"It fell into ruin. During the Kin-Strife, its palantír was lost to the river and never recovered, and then the Great Plague hit. Much of it was deserted, and the king moved his throne to Minas Tirith. Osgiliath was once destroyed, you know, during the War of the Ring, but it has since been rebuilt. Faramir, son of Denethor, the first Prince of Ithilien, made a stand here during the War of the Ring, but he was driven back."

"His father, the Steward of Gondor, sent him," Belín interjected eagerly. This was one of the few stories he had listened to with rapture from his tutors. "Even though it was hopeless because the Dark Forces far outweighed his own. He made a final stand, then ordered his troops to retreat, but he stayed behind with the rearguard, and he was badly injured."

Andrin, enthralled, gasped. "What happened to him?"

"Denethor was mad," Belín said gravely. "He tried to burn Faramir alive, but the wizard saved him."

"Aye," the soldier nodded, "and the palantír Denethor was holding can no longer be used but by men of great power and ability."

Andrin turned his attention back to Osgiliath, which was drawing nearer by the second. Within ten minutes, they had reached the wall.

Drían stopped his horse thirty yards from the immense oak gates, which were fortified with tempered iron. The soldier beside him hoisted a flag of Gondor and shouted, "Captain Drían, son of Eldarion!"

There was a minute-long pause, in which all that could be heard was the restless shuffle of the horses' hooves. Then, with a loud, straining groan, the portcullis started to ascend and the gates swung wide.

Andrin could only stare as his horse clopped forward into the streets of Osgiliath. He had lived in Minas Tirith all his life, and Osgiliath looked nothing like it. The buildings were not carved into the mountain face; they stood upon the ground, independent of one another. There were streets and alleyways, far more than Andrin had ever seen. He had thought the only trees that grew in cities were ones like the tree of Gondor that stood on the Tower of Ecthelion but here in Osgiliath there were trees everywhere. When they came to the river, Drían led them to a great bridge that spanned its width, with a tower in the middle.

"That is where we shall stay tonight," the soldier beside Andrin said, pointing to the tower. "Rond Giliath, a replication of the tower where once the palantír rested, before it was destroyed during the Kin-Strife."

"Aye," said Drían, unexpectedly joining in the conversation as he fell back among his men. "And for three days, I will inspect the garrison here."

"Can we come with you, father?" Belín asked eagerly.

"Yes, Uncle," Andrin said excitedly, "may we?"

"Absolutely not," he said gruffly. "The last thing I need is the two of you banging around on my tail. I will set a pair of soldiers to keep watch over you, and you may go where you please."

This announcement was even more welcome than an acceptance of their proposal would have been. They dismounted from their horses in front of Rond Giliath, where Drían ordered two of the soldiers to take them to a room and keep watch over them for the next three days.

"Stay in the tower tonight," he said firmly as he turned, his hand on his sword, to face the rest of his men. "There will be plenty of time tomorrow to go gallivanting about the city."

They were disappointed, but Drían had already turned his attention away from them, and they didn't get a chance to argue.

"Come," said one of the soldiers who had been appointed to keep an eye on them. "Let's find you a room that will suit your needs, shall we?"

The other one led the way inside. "The captain says that there are quarters on the third level, and that they could have a room there," he said, striding into an enormous hall whose ceiling stretched thirty feet overhead. He made his way towards a staircase that wrapped up in a spiral around the inside of the circular room. Andrin and Belín followed, rather put out that they weren't allowed out of the tower tonight.

"It's alright," one of the soldiers said, seeing their crestfallen faces as they mounted the stairs. "My name's Jeride, and this is my friend, Narengil." He pointed to the man ahead of them, leading the way up the stairs. "I'll tell you a story about this place. About Osgiliath, I mean. There was once a king by the name of Valacar, who married a woman of the Northmen of Rhovanion. Many of the Númenórians were opposed to the union—a pollution of blood, they called it, mixing Middle Men and Númenórians."

They had reached a rather large room, which Narengil led the way into, still talking. "When his son, Eldacar, succeeded him to the throne, many Gondorians were unhappy because they saw him as a half-breed unfit to rule the kingdom, so they rebelled. One of Eldacar's distant relatives, Castamir, usurped the throne and forced Eldacar into exile, where he remained until the Gondorians grew dissatisfied with his rule, which gave Eldacar the opening to come back with an army of Northmen, and he got the throne back."

"That's called the Kin-Strife," Belín said sagely as he pulled off his boots and sat on the edge of one of the beds. "It started Gondor's decline."

Jeride laughed. "Someone has been listening to his tutors," he said with a wink. "It lost us the city of Umbar and made enemies out of Castamir's descendants, who call themselves the Corsairs of Umbar. There's a rumor that the ghost of Castimir still haunts these halls," he added with a mischievous grin that said very clearly that he didn't believe in ghosts. He opened the door to leave. "Goodnight, sirs."

Andrin giggled at being called "sir" as the door shut and the soldiers disappeared, presumably to stand guard outside. He yanked off his own boots and tossed them on the floor. "Do you think it's true Castimir is a ghost and that he lives here?" he asked his cousin, yawning as he sank onto the vacant bed.

"No," Belín said boldly. "But I did hear a soldier talking earlier today. He said there was a rebel group that was hiding in the ruins of Minas Morgul, and that they might try to attack Osgiliath."

Andrin let out a low whistle. "I bet my father didn't know about that when he decided to let me come."

Belín grinned. "I don't think even my father knew about it until today. The soldier I overheard had just come from here and was heading to Minas Tirith to tell your father."

They were silent for several minutes, then Andrin said sleepily, "We could take any old rebel who tried to kill us." Two days of riding had worn him out, and his eyelids were drooping.

But Belín didn't answer. Andrin looked over. His cousin was already sound asleep.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

The sun was setting on their third day in Osgiliath, and Andrin did not want to go home.

"Let's go see one more thing," he pleaded with the guards as they led him to Rond Giliath. "Just one before we go back."

"Your uncle wanted you in bed by dark," Jeride said firmly. "You have a long day tomorrow."

"It's not out the way," Andrin protested. "I saw it sticking up over there."

He pointed a finger in a southeastern direction, where the tip of some sort of monument jutted up above the houses. The two guards exchanged glances, and Narengil said, "If it's on the way…"

Andrin and Belín grinned and took off down the street towards it. The soldiers, thankful that their task would end with the coming morning, obligingly chased them one last time.

The young prince skidded to a halt in front of an enormous stone obelisk, his cousin right on his heels. They craned their necks toward the top.

"The Obelisk of Atanatar," said Jeride as he and Narengil arrived, breathing hard, behind the two boys. He seemed to know everything about Osgiliath, and he had acted almost as their guide around the city.

Belín was enthralled. The obelisk was made of a black, shiny stone that reflected the setting sun on its western side. At its base was a large stone fountain that had completely dried up save for the water that had collected in the very bottom from the last rainfall.

Andrin pretended to be engrossed in the monument, but he heard the guards talking in low voices behind him.

"I don't like it," Narengil was saying. "It's too open, and it's right between two gates into the city, both of which have very low security. I think we need to leave."

"Relax," Jeride said soothingly, stepping forward and dipping a cupped hand into the water in the fountain. He splashed it at Belín, who stuck out his tongue and splashed him back. "Nothing's going to happen."

Narengil still looked uneasy as the boys chased each other around the obelisk, laughing and giggling madly. Jeride glanced at the sun and made a face. "It's time to go, or Captain Drían will have my hide for getting you to bed late. Andrin! Belín! Come on, lads, it's—"

Jeride never got a chance to finish his sentence. There was a thud, and he halted abruptly, looking in shock down at his chest, from which a thick bolt from a crossbow suddenly protruded. It had gone right through his breastplate, unhindered by the thick, heavy metal. His lips worked as though he was trying to say something, but the only thing that came out was a trickle of blood. He sank to his knees and toppled forward onto the ground.

Narengil had sprung forward, sword in hand, but a second bolt took him through the gut. He let out a spluttering cough, and his sword fell from his suddenly limp hand, and he fell on top of it. Andrin let out a frightened yell, and Belín cowered behind his cousin as several brown-hooded figures with crossbows emerged from the shadows around the opening in which the obelisk was centered. Belín's eyes were riveted in terror on the nearest man approaching him, but Andrin could only stare in horror at the still form of Jeride, lying feet from him, his eyes still wide open, looking as though he couldn't believe he was dead.

"Which one is the prince?" asked a rough voice. The hooded figures had gathered in a circle around them. There were nine, each carrying a crossbow and a sword.

"The light-haired one," said another.

Andrin whimpered as someone grasped his shoulder. Strong hands wrenched his arms behind his back and bound them tightly with strong cords. Belín had started to cry in fear, cowering against the rim of the fountain.

"Take the boy through the Gate of Tulkas Victor. Kill the other one."

Belín let out a scream and tried to break free of the ring of men, but to no avail. He was sobbing, "Let me out, I didn't do anything, don't kill me!"

"Stab him and get it over with," one of the men snarled, throwing Belín from him and sending him sprawling to the ground in the middle of the circle of men.

"No," said a commanding voice.

A man had stepped forward, one wearing a green hood rather than a brown hood. He had an authoritative air about him as he advanced, one that suggested that he was the leader. "He's but a boy; it would be wrong to kill him. Bind him, gag him, and put a hood over his eyes and leave him here for them to find when they get frantic about the young prince's whereabouts."

The man turned to Andrin now. "And you," he said quietly, lifting up a long and nasty-looking knife, "will be quiet, unless you want your entrails sliced out. We won't usually kill a child, but if the option is between that and getting killed ourselves, we'll pick the former. Do you understand?"

Andrin nodded, terrified. He could feel his heart pounding. Father was right, he thought miserably. I shouldn't have come. Now I might die, and I'll probably never see my family again. He didn't understand why they would kidnap him, but he was afraid that if he asked, they would carry through with their threat and cut out his innards, so he kept his mouth shut. Someone yanked a black hood over his head, and everything went black.