A/N: Hello, everyone! Sorry this chapter took so long. I was reunited with my summary a week and a half ago, but we haven't had internet access until now, and then I had to have my friend edit it. Thank you for sticking with it, anyway. This chapter was hard to write, and I don't think I'm very good at doing battle scenes, but… well, bear with me. Flames without profanity are accepted, reviews are highly appreciated, and constructive criticism is stood up on a pedestal and worshiped.
Chapter 4"They're here!"
"It's the king!"
"How many men has he brought?"
"The king!"
"QUIET!" Drían roared, and his soldiers fell silent, gazing at the dark road that stretched towards Osgiliath. They could make out a long line of horses against the black landscape, moving steadily towards them. Whispers broke out among the soldiers, and Drían did not bother to hush them this time. The eastern sky was grayish-pink, heralding the coming dawn; they would allow Andrith's exhausted soldiers a few hours rest, and when the sun began westering, they would march for Minas Morgul.
The first chestnut stallion that trotted up was lathered in sweat, breathing hard and looking as though it were about to collapse from fatigue. The king slid off its back, swept off his helmet, and began directing his soldiers towards a green field at the foot of the mountain, where they would be allowed a morning of much-needed sleep. Andrith did not turn to face Drían until his last soldier—number two hundred and seventy-three—had passed. He pushed aside the dark hair that sweat had plastered against his forehead, strode towards Drían, and—
THUD.
Drían staggered back under the force of the blow, completely stunned. Andrith's fist had caught the left side of his jaw, and he tasted the coppery flavor of blood as his hand flew to his mouth. He raised his right arm to block a swing from the other side, but realized too late that the fist was just a distraction; his brother's knee came up at the same time and sank into his stomach. He doubled over, feeling his knees hit the rocky ground, fighting for breath.
"You promised me," Andrith growled, seizing the front of Drían's tunic and bending down so that their faces were mere inches apart. "You promised me that you would protect my son."
The shock was as great as the pain; if there was one man in the world who had never lost his temper, it was his brother. He gasped, finally managing to draw a breath. "Andrith, I know, I should've kept a sharper eye on him—I'm sorry—"
But the king was stumbling away, gazing at his hands as though appalled at what he had just done. He sank slowly to his knees, his armor clanking dully as his chest heaved and his face contorted with self-loathing. His mouth opened and closed several times as though he were unable to speak before he finally whispered, "I—Drían, I'm sorry… I don't know what… I can't—I don't—I lost my temper." He looked utterly miserable, and he swallowed hard as though fighting back tears. "Can you forgive me?"
Drían nodded stiffly, massaging his jaw. He had to work hard to keep the rage that was boiling inside him from showing on his face. What right did Andrith have to hit him, to humiliate him in front of his own soldiers? He could feel their eyes on his back, and the hatred within him threatened to explode. Thrusting his hands deep in his pockets to prevent them seizing his sword, he stalked off towards his tent, grateful that the king had turned away to face the rising sun.
His only consolation was that by this time tomorrow night, both his brother and his nephew would be out of the way. All was going according to plan—he had even managed to make Belín stay safely out of the way in Osgiliath, even though his son had been unhappy about it. Just one more day, he told himself as he pushed aside the flap into his tent. One more day.
Andrith stared broodingly into the sunrise, knowing that the golden glow was touching his face and slowly spreading over his body. He could see the light, but he felt no warmth; all within him was cold, as though a dark, deathly chill had swept into his heart, and no amount of sunshine could banish it.
For the king of Gondor, the day could not have gone any slower. His soldiers were sprawled out in the field at the mountain's foot, sound asleep after their long ride, and Andrith knew that he should do the same. His feet, however, carried him back and forth beside the blackened remains of a fire from the previous night, pacing anxiously up and down. His mind roamed wildly, and though he tried to force his mind away from Andrin, it kept straying back to what his son must be enduring. Twice, he nearly called the soldiers into action because he could not bear to wait a second longer, but he forced himself to take a few deep breaths and let them continue to sleep. It was not fair of him to decrease their chances of survival in battle because he was not patient enough to allow them sufficient rest.
What seemed like ages later, the sun finally began to set.
With swift efficiency, the captains organized their soldiers and made ready to march. Drían caught his eye and signaled that they were ready, and Andrith mounted his horse.
"Soldiers!" he shouted, riding out in front of them and pulling his horse to a halt. "Men of Gondor! You ride towards battle with the Gadiantons to rescue your future king. You are prepared to fight, to suffer, even, perhaps, to die at their hands."
He paused, unsheathing his sword and holding it firmly in his right hand. "But I will not force this of anyone who does not do it willingly. You have families—wives and children—and your duty to them is as serious as your duty to your king. If you so choose, you may turn back. But as for the rest of us!" He thrust his sword into the air to the cheers of his soldiers. "As for the rest of us, we will fight, and we will be victorious! We ride!"
He slid his sword back into its sheath, turned his horse to face the canyon that led to Minas Morgul, and dug his heels into the sides of the stallion. With a roar of approval, the men behind him spurred their own mounts behind him, ready to follow him to the death.
None turned back.
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The cell was dark and dank, the only light coming from a flickering torch that burned far down the corridor outside. There was moss spreading across the ceiling, and the stone walls were covered in thick green lichen. The heavy metal door, locked with a sturdy crossbar, bore signs of wear and rust, but it held as firmly as ever.
Huddled in the corner of the cell, cold, hungry, terrified, and thoroughly miserable, sat Andrin. Tears had cut two thin lines through the dirt on his face, and his dark hair was a tangled mess. His thin tunic, designed for summers in Minas Tirith, provided little protection in the cold mountains of Minas Morgul, and they had given him no food and precious little water.
They. His captors, the Gadiantons. He had heard them mention that name, and a brief memory of a history lesson about rebel groups had flared within him. Without removing the hood they had yanked over his head, they had placed him on a horse in front of a large man and ridden for what had seemed like hours, the cold growing with each step. When the cloth had finally fallen from his eyes, Andrin had found himself passing under the gates of a blackened city that had fallen into ruin. It stank of mold and rust and decay, and it seemed that, even centuries after it had been in malevolent hands, something evil and dark still lurked here, haunting the few inhabitants of the fallen city. The young prince had shuddered at the a small number of people he saw, staring at him with hollow, sunken eyes and gaunt faces and looking more dead than alive.
With his first glimpse at the men, women, and children who lived in Minas Morgul—the descendents of the original rebels—had come the first real thrill of terror. This was not, he suddenly realized, one of his imagined adventures, one in which he would wrench away his captor's sword and free himself by fighting his way through an entire city of enemies to emerge on the other side, victorious and unscathed. Here in the clutches of rebellious men whose intentions he could not fathom, he was completely subject to their mercy.
Be strong, he told himself. Father would want you to be strong. With this thought, however, the image of his father's face swam into his mind, and the tears he had worked so hard to stop began to fall again. He thought miserably of his parents and wondered whether they were looking for him, or if his uncle Drían had even told them he had been taken.
"They'll find me," he said aloud, though in a very small voice. He drew his knees up to his chest and laid his forehead on them, starting to sob softly. What would the Gadiantons do to him? What did they want with him? Would he ever see his family—Mother, Father, Uncle Drían, Aunt Endrai, Belín—again? Would he starve to death in this foul dungeon beneath the crumbling gatehouse of the Dead City?
He shuddered as these thoughts passed through his mind, and he rested his head wretchedly against the wall. Trying hard not to think about anything that would frighten him more, he sank into an uneasy sleep.
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For the first time in his life, King Andrith laid eyes on the Dead City of Minas Morgul, and he knew why the first Prince of Ithilien had declared it uninhabitable.
Even from high above in the mountain pass, hidden by the darkness of the moonless night, he could see it festering with evil. It was unnaturally black, as though even the stars shed no light on the dilapidated buildings that were slowly crumbling to dust. He shuddered as the wind swept through the ranks of his soldiers assembled behind him; even the air felt cold, clammy, and dead. Horses shifted nervously, and soldiers had to whisper calming words to keep them from bolting. Centuries of desertion and decay had not dimmed the influence the Servants of Mordor had made on this part of Middle Earth.
The only thing that could have made him go down there was the thought of his son.
Surprise and numbers are our main weapons, he reminded himself, taking a deep breath. We can get out of this with minimal loss of life if we can retain the element of surprise.
With a motion over his shoulder to the captains behind him, he spurred his horse forward, towards the Dead City.
The gates loomed ever closer; the silence was unbroken except by the occasional snort of a horse. Even the sound of their hooves was muffled by the soft undergrowth through which they moved. Halting a hundred yards from the gate, still out of site of any sentries that might be standing watch, Andrith held up a hand.
A volley of arrows shot from the bows of his soldiers, and, judging by a harsh scream that sounded through the night, at least one found its mark. Another round was released, and then Andrith led the charge towards the looming wall, crying, "For Gondor!"
Men with torches had appeared on the battlements, pointing at the oncoming rush of soldiers and crying warnings down the wall. Ten archers that had been picked for their ability to shoot from horseback were bringing them down swiftly, but their numbers increased as more swarmed in from the city. A disorganized hail of arrows peppered the king's troops, but the shafts were poorly made, and the few that found their targets usually bounced off the men's armor.
The enormous doors to the city were not hard to breach; centuries of rot and decay had done their work. With well-aimed, simultaneous kicks from two horses, one side swung open and the other crashed to the ground, snapped clean off its heavy metal hinges. The soldiers poured inside to face a group of men that equaled theirs in number, waving swords and ready for battle.
Andrith spurred his stallion forward into the ranks of the Gadiantons, twisting in his saddle to block and return attacks. The musty air rang with the clash of metal upon metal, the screams of dying men, and the whinnies of horses. The king was engaged in a struggle with a man who had leapt up onto a chunk of fallen rock so that they would be on even ground, when he felt his mount heave beneath him. He tried to hold on, but to no avail; the momentum carried him through the air, and he landed heavily nearly ten feet away. His horse had fallen with a spear in the side, and he could hardly breathe—it seemed to him as though he had hit the ground with bone-breaking force, that he had been paralyzed… ten seconds later, however, he managed to roll over with a groan. He seized his sword, dragged himself off the ground, and turned to face a man who was charging towards him. He was about to slide his sword through his opponent's stomach, but he changed his mind; at the last moment, he flipped his blade around so that the man hurled straight into the hilt. Andrith gasped as the sword cut his hands, but he had accomplished what he had intended; the man had doubled over, fighting for breath. The king kicked him in the groin, and he fell to his knees, groaning. When he finally managed to draw breath, the Gadianton found himself staring up the blade of a sword, which was digging into his neck.
"The prisoner," Andrith growled, ignoring the pain coursing through his palms. "The boy prisoner, where is he?"
The man looked paralyzed by fear. Andrith jerked the sword, and his captive whimpered as blood began spreading slowly over his neck. The cut was shallow, not lethal, but it was enough to get him talking.
"There," he croaked, waving a hand towards the gate, "in the dungeon beneath the gatehouse."
Andrith was gone before the man had a chance to draw another breath. Weaving his way through the mêlée of soldiers, ducking wild blows and once having to wrest out an arrow that had pierced his chest plate and nicked his skin, he made his way towards the gates, which were now on fire.
The small door to the gatehouse was locked, but it was no obstacle to Andrith. Adrenalin rushing, he slammed into it with his shoulder, and the rotting wood cracked in two under the force of the blow. He stumbled into the dark room, ignoring the man cowering under a table in the corner, and dashed towards a door in the opposite wall, one that opened into a descending staircase. Taking the crumbling stone steps two at a time, he found himself facing a row of prison doors. His son was in here somewhere—he had to be.
"Andrin," he called.
For one agonizing, heart-stopping moment, there was no answer, and then—
"Father!"
The little voice was strained and filled with tears, but the overwhelming emotion was relief. That same flooding feeling was coursing through the king's veins as he strode quickly towards the source of the reply, the door at the very end of the row of cells. He knocked aside the crossbar that held it in place, wrenched the rusty door out of its frame, and knelt to receive his son as he rocketed into his arms.
He felt such utter relief flooding through him that he laughed out loud as he buried his face in Andrin's hair, holding him close. The boy was sobbing into his father's tunic, clinging on as though he would never let go.
"I knew you would find me," he whispered.
"I would never have forgiven myself if I hadn't."
There were a few more seconds of silence, broken only by Andrin's muffled crying, before Andrith said gently, "It's time to get out of here, son. Come on."
Taking his hand, he led the way up the stairs, through the upper room of the gatehouse, and back into the battle. Drawing his sword, he parried a blow from a passing Gadianton, pulled Andrin closer to him, and bellowed, "Retreat! Get out of here! RETREAT!"
His soldiers started to draw back, the call for a retreat echoing through the mêlée. The Gadiantons looked relieved as many of the soldiers disengaged; the rebels were losing badly, and Andrith considered pressing the attack until they were eliminated, but their objective had been accomplished. Andrin was back in his arms, and the Gadiantons could be dealt with later.
They were nearly to the gate when it happened. Andrith felt an exploding pain in his stomach, and he halted, looking down to see the hilt of a Gadianton's dagger protruding from his armor. Andrin screamed, clutching at his father's arm and gazing in horror as the king's hand found the hilt and wrenched it out. The battle raged around him, the king's soldiers drawing back more and more every second.
A soldier had noticed Andrith's gasps of pain, and he let out a cry, rushing to help him as he collapsed to the ground. He felt his blood pounding through his body, and through a haze of pain, he saw Drían appear over him, concern and determination etched into his face.
"The prince," Andrith gasped as the soldier tried to help him to his feet so they could get out of hostile territory, "get my son out of here. Now!"
The soldier glanced at Drían, who nodded and said, "I'll help him." As Drían knelt low over his brother, quickly dispatching a Gadianton who had flung himself at him, the soldier lifted the sobbing prince into his arms and fled through the gates.
Andrith could feel his consciousness slipping away. The wound was not fatal; he would recover, if the bleeding was stopped… they just had to get out of here, away to somewhere they could rest and patch up their wounded…
But Drían wasn't helping him up. One of his brother's hands was tearing away the bloody stomach armor that covered the wound, and the other was coming away from his belt. In his clenched fist he held a long dagger of Gadianton make. His face was set with loathing, fear, and determination, as though he were steeling himself for something he was about to do.
As Andrith watched the dagger sink into his stomach, it all became suddenly, horribly, terribly clear. His limbs were on fire, but they wouldn't move. His vision was blurring, and he spluttered and tasted blood. There was a sort of grim satisfaction in his brother's face as he drove the dagger deeper, and a choked scream wrenched itself from Andrith's throat. There was no one there to pay him heed, no one to see that his brother had just betrayed him; his soldiers were almost out the gate, and Drían was calling to them frantically, telling them that their king was dying.
Unbidden, an ancient song sprang into his mind, one that his father had taught him, and his father before him, one that, he realized with a jolt, he would never teach to his own son.
What can you seeOn the horizon?
Why do the white gulls call?
The wounds in his stomach were gushing blood, but he felt no more pain.
Across the seaA pale moon rises
The ships have come to carry you home…
The color was draining out of his world, and he knew that the end was near.
And all will turnTo silver glass
A light on the water…
His vision blurred…
Gray ships pass
Into the west.
And so it was that Andrith, son of Eldarion, King of Gondor, breathed his last.