Ta-dum! Another chapter. This might be the last one for a while because we just moved. It's not that I'm particularly busy or anything, it's just that my summary for this story is written on paper that's packed away in a box somewhere, a box that I might not see for a month or two, or at least until we find a house. So bear with me and don't hate me because I take a long time between this chapter and the next one.

One more thing: I've drawn up a timeline, and to give you a better reference, this story (or the beginning of it, at least) takes place in F.A. 401. Hope that helps.

Chapter 3

King Andrith stared out the window at the rising sun, his face calmly pensive, but a conflict raging in his mind. He had never been one to ignore the advice of a friend, let alone his brother, but he could not see the sense in Drían's counsel: that Gondor must go to war.

No, he thought fiercely. Halin will not attack. He will hold to the Oath of Eorl. It all arose from a misunderstanding anyway.

Halin, great-great-grandson of Éomer Éadig, was the current Lord of the Riddermark, and he was far more rational than his father, Lohir, had been. Lohir, in the latter years of his reign, had grown suspicious of everything around him; servants, councilors—even his own family had been half-estranged by his fear of treason and attack. He had built up an army of Rohirrim as a precaution against an assault from Gondor. A false rumor had reached him in the last few days before his death that Andrith was preparing to march against Rohan, and a combination of this news and his paranoia had driven him to insanity. He fell mortally ill and died not three days later, proclaiming with his final breath that he had known all along that Andrith had been a traitor. Halin had then been crowned king, unsure of the rumor's credibility but with a wary eye on Gondor nonetheless. For twenty years, neither kingdom had broken the Oath of Eorl, a promise of peace sworn between their forefathers, King Elessar and King Éomer. Andrith did not see what cause Halin might have to attack, but Drían seemed sure that he would, and the king could not bring himself to dismiss his brother's advice as rubbish.

He was stirred from his reverie by a sharp knock. He blinked, sat up straighter, and turned to face the door. "Come in."

A lean man of middle-height entered quietly and bowed to the king. Andrith smiled warmly. It was his captain of the guard, leader of all the soldiers in Minas Tirith. "Rendeg, your coming is welcome. I have something I need to discuss with you."

"In due time, your majesty, but first there is something that demands your attention. A messenger has just arrived from Osgiliath, bearing a letter from your brother. He rode all yesterday and all last night; apparently Captain Drían says it's urgent."

Curious and rather apprehensive, the king accepted the tightly-furled scroll from Rendeg, breaking the seal without delay. It looked as though it had been scrawled in a hurry, and the ink was smudged as though Drían had not waited for it to dry before rolling it up. He forced himself to start from the beginning.

Andrith,

To spare you the agony of suspense, I will proceed directly to the point: your son has been kidnapped. Some of the Gadiantons who have hidden in Minas Morgul entered Osgiliath yestereve at sundown. They slew the guards posted at the Gate of Tulkas Victor and somehow tracked down Andrin, Belín, and the soldiers who were with them. We knew nothing of this until the boys and their guards did not arrive at Rond Giliath at the designated time and we began a search for them. At the Obelisk of Atanatar, we found Belín and the bodies of the appointed guards. Belín was bound and gagged, but Andrin was nowhere in sight. Belín told us that about ten men garbed in brown cloaks and hoods took him northeast, towards Minas Morgul. I pause only long enough to write you this letter and to gather about me all the soldiers I can before I march for the Dead City in pursuit of the Gadiantons, and I beg for your aid. I do not know their number, but the more power we have behind us, the easier it will be to get Andrin out alive. Godspeed, my brother.

Drían

Andrith was aware of his heart pounding violently in his chest, of his breath coming rapidly, of his hands shaking uncontrollably as the letter fell to the floor. He had entered battles without a tremor of fear, stood firm against an entire council of advisors without so much as a hint of anxiety, but he could not face this.

His son was in danger.

"Sire?" Rendeg sounded nervous. "What has gone wrong?"

His frantic mind drove his body into action. "Rendeg," he said sharply, rising from his chair and striding out of the room, "I need you to rally every soldier in Minas Tirith and surrounding lands that can be found within two hours. On the third, we march for Osgiliath without stopping."

"Sire, may I ask—"

"Do not question me," Andrith snapped in a harsher tone than he could ever remember using. "Every soldier, Rendeg."

"I—yes, your majesty."

They came to the end of the corridor. Rendeg turned to go the opposite way the king was going. Andrith paused momentarily. "Rendeg?"

The captain halted. "Sire?"

"Where is the queen?"

Andrith knew that this would be the hardest part of the next few days, even with the prospect of having to rescue his son from the Gadiantons looming ahead. He was not looking forward to it, but he knew it had to be done. He had to tell Andrin's mother—his wife.

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

Ailanwë looked up from the tapestry she was embroidering while talking quietly with Endrai, Drían's wife. She smiled when she saw Andrith. "This is an unexpected pleasure."

The look in his eyes must have told her that something was wrong because the smile slipped sideways off her face as he knelt before her and took her slender hands in his own. "Ailanwë," he whispered, feeling his throat constrict as he looked into her gentle brown eyes and remembered whom it was who had insisted upon Andrin going to Osgiliath. "Ailanwë, we need to speak."

Endrai sensed the tension and fear in Andrith's voice, and she did not smile as she said, "Stay here. I'll leave and let you talk alone." She stood and swept out of the room, throwing a curious glance over her shoulder as she left.

Andrith turned his attention back to the queen. Her eyes were full of alarm, and Andrith knew that her worst fears were about to be realized. He kissed her hand softly, remaining on his knees. "It's Andrin."

She flinched, but she did not draw away. "What's happened?" she asked quietly, with more calm in her voice than Andrith felt himself.

"He… he's been captured."

She inhaled sharply, and tears began to fall from her eyes into her lap. "Oh, Andrith…"

She slid off of her chair and into his arms, sobbing gently. He held her close, fighting back his own tears as he muttered condolences that he wished he believed in himself. "It's alright, love, everything will be fine. We'll get him back, I promise. Drían's gone from Osgiliath to Minas Morgul—"

This name evoked a more violent sob. "Minas Morgul? He was kidnapped by the Gadiantons?"

"Yes, but Drían's marching up there with all the troops he could gather from Osgiliath, and in three hours, I'm leaving as well to go try to get him back."

"Will I lose you as well, then?" she whispered into his chest. "What if you never come back? I would die if anything happened to you and Andrin."

He kissed her tenderly. "Don't say that, love." He took her head between his hands, wiping her tears away with his thumbs, and looked her in the eyes. "It is true; I may never return. But whatever happens, I will always love you. I promise."

She shuddered, burying her face in his chest again. "I cannot bear to think what poor Andrin must be going through. He's bound to be terrified, and what if they've hurt him? Oh, Andrith…"

"Hush," he said softly. "It does no good to fret. I will bring him home safe."

He stood, pulling his wife up with him and helping her to sit back in her chair. "I love you, Ailanwë. Remember that."

With one final look at his wife, he left the room to gear up for battle.

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

Drían gazed out over the hundred and fifty troops he had mustered from Osgiliath, gathered at the foot of the mountain. Above them lay the seldom-trod path to Minas Morgul, the Dead City, resting high in the mountains. Faramir, the first Prince of Ithilien in the Fourth Age, had declared it unclean and ordered that it was never to be inhabited again, and it had remained deserted until just over a century previously. The rebels who lived there now had been originally led by a man named Gadianton, who had died nearly thirty years ago. He and a group of followers had been furious when Andrith had chosen Ailanwë as his queen; she was a commoner with whom the king had fallen in love shortly after his coronation. Gadianton was angry that the House of Telcontar had been polluted by "common blood," and he, along with any who would follow, had gone to Minas Morgul and named themselves the Gadiantons. They had been quiet enough throughout the last century, launching an occasional attack on Osgiliath, but never were they well-planned enough to do any major damage.

Drían allowed himself a silent congratulation on how well it had all worked out thus far. He had sent a message, along with a small fortune's worth of gold, to the current leader of the Gadiantons, and his instructions had been followed exactly. Andrin had been taken captive, but Belín had not been harmed, and no one had noticed until the boys and their guards hadn't shown up by dark. Nobody suspected that he, Drían, brother of the king, had planned the abduction.

They had assembled most of the troops in Osgiliath and marched that very night to the foot of the mountains, where Drían allowed the soldiers to rest and wait out the day, until Andrith came with reinforcements.

He was sure Andrith would come; he knew his brother all too well. Unless he was very much mistaken, the king would come without resting or stopping in Osgiliath, and he would arrive by the next morning if he was not otherwise delayed.

Drían knew the next stage of his carefully calculated plan would be the most vital. Both Andrith and his son had to die, but both had to look like accidents, and none of the soldiers could know that it was his fault.

He forced his mind away from that moment. It will come when it will come, he thought grimly, and nothing will stop me.