PLEASE READ THIS A/N!!! Okay, I made a mistake. There was something important that I was supposed to put in a few chapters ago that I completely forgot about. You know the small amulet that Andrin finds in Solin's pack? Well, Drían was supposed to give that to Solin as a token of his trust and a symbol of his gratitude when he gave him the assignment to kill Andrin, and Solin was supposed to put it in his pack and forget about it, and that's how it came into Andrin's hands. So I wrote that into chapter six and reposted it, if you want to go back and reread it, but otherwise, just know that's how the amulet got there—it was originally Drían's. And yes, I know, I just completely gave away that it's going to be important somehow, but I had to fix it and you had to know that I was fixing it, so I didn't really have much of a choice. I suppose I could have just not forgotten it in the first place and saved all of us the trouble, but hey, I did forget it, there's nothing I can do about that now, so there's no point in worrying about it. Hakuna matata, you know? Anyway, thanks for sticking with me, and now I'll actually get around to the story…

The next morning broke cloudy and cold, heralding the entrance of fall. Andrin pulled the soldier's cloak tighter around his shoulders as he chewed the last bite of one of the loaves of crâm. He had eaten nothing but the dwarven waybread for a week now, and his mouth longed for something else, but he had too many other feelings all crowding for attention and burdening his mind to pay it much heed. The soldier had said that seven days of walking would take him to Rohan, but then what? He was entirely unfamiliar with the geography of this kingdom—he did not know where the nearest village was, or in what direction he should travel to find a road.

Eventually, for lack of a better idea, Andrin set off beside the river once more.

It was not long before the trees cleared, giving way to vast, grassy plains with rolling hills in the distance. The barren setting, contrasting so sharply with the painfully fresh memories of his homeland, brought the tears near the surface again, but he would not let them fall. He would not—could not—allow himself to remember.

An hour past noon, he encountered the first sign of civilization since he had left: a road that ran perpendicular to the river, crossing it with an old, narrow bridge. He stopped at the edge of the broad path, realizing that he had a choice to make. Following the river would ensure him an inexhaustible supply of water, but as far as he knew, it provided no food. A road, on the other hand, while devoid of water, promised that he would eventually come upon a village, a town, or maybe even a city—other travelers, at the very least. He glanced up and down the road and then back at the river that had been his only companion through the days he had been alone, the only constant thing in this new, terrifying life. With a heavy sigh that was drowned out by an ominous clap of thunder overhead, he turned his back on the river and started down the road.

By nightfall, rain had begun to patter from the sky. Andrin searched fruitlessly for shelter, until finally he decided to simply continue walking, covered by the soldier's waterproof cloak, until the storm had drained its wrath upon the world. The beeswax, however, did not keep the rain out as well as the term 'water-proof' suggested; it was not long before he was soaked through and chilled to the marrow. The most he could do was to bow his head against the pounding elements and hope that the downpour would not last much longer.

It began to let up, eventually stopping completely, but that did not change the fact that the road had been reduced to a near-bog with mud. It squelched around his ankles, threatening to tear his boots off with every step. Concentrating hard on putting one foot in front of the other, he did not see the two dark figures approaching him through the gloom. The first he knew of them was when one seized him by the neck and flung him into the mud, and the second wrenched the pack away from him and began digging through it.

"Hold him tight," the second man growled, nimble fingers emerging from the pack with the small vial of oil, which was now almost empty. "I don't want him attacking me."

Andrin, who could scarcely breathe because of the merciless hand pressing his face into the mud, heard the other reply tiredly, "He's but a boy, Rema."

"What's a boy doing, walking a road alone at night?"

"Why don't you ask him?" came the scathing reply.

The man called Rema paused in rummaging through Andrin's pack. The boy could not see him, but he heard a gleeful cackle. "Look! Look at this!"

Andrin fought to turn his head, and he caught a brief glimpse of the soldier's amulet dangling from the man's hand. He struggled to get up, but his captor held him tightly.

"Little beggar boys don't carry around jade amulets. He must have come from a rich house."

Andrin thought, If only you knew...

The other man sounded skeptical. "A rich lad would have a horse, or at least an escort. I'll bet he stole it."

There was the sound of flint against metal, and suddenly, a small torch flared in the darkness. "Turn him over and let me get a good look at him."

Strong hands wrenched him onto his back. He spat mud out of his mouth and blinked it out of his eyes, trying to remain calm.

"Hallo," said Rema, blinking in surprise, "he's not of the Mark."

The other man, a slim, bearded one, surveyed him with mild interest. "He looks like a Gondor lad—darker hair and eyes than any I've seen from Rohan."

"Look at his cloak, Lanuar. It bears the White Tree—it's a soldier's cloak."

Andrin wriggled away from his grasp and said with an air of indignant authority that only a prince could muster, "Leave me alone, you snake."

Lanuar laughed and seized Andrin's hair, and a moment later a knife appeared in his hand to hover at his captive's throat. "We've got ourselves a feisty one here. Be polite, lad, or you'll find your blood spilling from your body so fast you won't have time to beg for mercy. We haven't done you any harm… yet."

"Nothing compared to what we could've done, at least," Rema added.

"Let's go," Lanuar said, standing up and releasing Andrin, who almost cried for joy that he was not dead. "We want to be far away from here by dawn."

"What'll we do with the boy?"

The man shrugged. "Cut his throat and leave him. He's served his purpose in so kindly letting us have his pack."

Rema bared his teeth in a wicked grin, and Andrin, utterly terrified, whimpered and tried to scramble away. The knife was in the man's hand, and Andrin opened his mouth to scream.

It never came out. Before the knife had moved an inch, three riders materialized from the darkness. A bow twanged; an arrow thudded into Rema's chest, and he toppled backwards, the torch falling from his hand and going out in a puddle of water. Andrin ducked to avoid any more arrows, and Lanuar, leaping up and running for his life, was stopped fifty feet away by a man who leapt on top of him from his horse. There was a brief struggle, and then the rider had a long blade against the thief's throat. "I've got him!" he shouted to his two companions.

The chaos resolved itself into two mounted men, two men on foot, one riderless horse, and one terrified prince huddled on the ground. One of the men climbed down from his horse and dragged Andrin to his feet. In the light of the moon that had peeked down from behind the clouds, they surveyed him critically.

"What be your name and age, boy?" the only one still on his horse demanded.

Remembering just in time that his name was no longer Andrin, he answered, "I am Thylian, and I am near eleven."

They were joined by the third man, who was dragging a struggling Lanuar in a merciless headlock. "You claim a Rohirric name, yet you speak Common with a definite Gondorian accent." He grimaced as his captive managed to land a blow to his stomach. "Help me bind him, will you?" he grunted to the other two.

They tied his wrists and ankles, and then they returned their attention to Andrin. "No doubt about it," the man continued, looking at the thief distastefully, "you're a Gondor lad. What reason have you to hide your name from us?"

One of the men was checking the pulse of the fallen Rema. "Dead," he remarked disgustedly. "I wouldn't have shot him if he weren't about to kill the boy."

"You saved my life," Andrin said, still breathing hard from fear and adrenaline.

"So is it too much to ask that you tell us who you are?"

There was a moment of silence. "I've left my past behind me," he said quietly.

"Tell us," the one on the horse growled menacingly. "Men—or boys—of Gondor are not welcome here."

Andrin cowered under his gaze, but the soldier whose name he did not know had said to leave his name behind if he wanted to survive. "It—it doesn't matter. It's not important."

"It is to us," the man said sternly. "Tell us, or you face the gallows. We hang suspicious Gondorians, ever since we caught wind of Andrith building up an army."

The third man, the only one who had been silent until now, interjected quietly. "Hush, Arlyos. He's only a boy."

"What if he's a spy?" Arlyos, the one on the horse, demanded hotly.

"Oh, come off it, they don't use boys as spies."

"Andrith may have stooped that low," he retorted. "It's a possibility, Moran, don't deny it. Maybe—"

"King Andrith is dead."

The boy's words stopped the other man in mid-sentence. There were a few moments of ringing silence, and then the one who was still examining Rema, not taking part in the argument, said hoarsely, "He's—he's dead?"

Andrin looked from one to the other, his puzzlement written across his face. "He was killed near ten days past in a battle against the Gadiantons. Had you not heard?"

The men exchanged glances. "Communications between Gondor and Rohan were halted several weeks ago," Arlyos said slowly, dropping down from his horse. "We haven't heard anything from across the border."

Andrin bowed his head, and the tears were there again. They had no idea how much those words, coming out of his own mouth, had hurt him, as though he were finally admitting their truth to a heart that refused to accept it. "It is true. The king is dead."

"Why are you fleeing Gondor, boy?" Arlyos demanded roughly, seizing his collar. "These are strange tidings indeed! Why would a king, concerned with pressing affairs of his kingdom, ride to battle with a rebel band that has done him no harm for over a century?"

Andrin quelled the indignation rising inside of him—this man could not talk to him like that; he was a prince! But something cold clutched his heart as he realized, I'm not a prince, not anymore. I've left that life now. He could only shake his head dumbly, afraid of giving away too much. Arlyos shook him. "What are you concealing from us?"

"I—nothing, I'm just—"

"You will hang, boy, if I—"

"Enough."

The blade of a sword came to rest against the arm that Arlyos had raised to strike the boy. Andrin looked fearfully towards its owner. Moran's voice was not loud or sharp, but there was a power and intensity in it that made it obvious that he was the leader. Arlyos, for all his yelling and bravado, could not disobey that voice. He slowly lowered his hand and turned angrily away.

"The men of Rohan could not call themselves men if they hung lads who have not yet seen eleven winters," Moran said quietly. "And though you, Arlyos, are determined to hate Gondor and all of its inhabitants because of what a few men did to you, I do not believe they are any more evil than we are ourselves."

Arlyos shot an angry glance over his shoulder, mounted his horse, and rode away down the road, muttering something about sending word ahead. Neither of the others made a move to stop him.

"Why are we all standing around here in the dark?" the other one asked, breaking the long minute of silence that followed. He dug around in his horse's saddlebags and produced a candle, which he lit with a small piece of flint and the edge of his blade. The wick blazed, and Andrin got his first good look at the two men before him.

They were soldiers; that much was obvious from their garb. Their tunics were made of light leather, not chain mail, but it was emblazoned with a horse that marked them as Riders of the Mark. Each had a helmet on his head, a sword at his side, and a short skirt of mail. Moran was thin, lean, and around fifty years old, but his body spoke of powerful agility and his set, calm face marked him as a man born to be a leader. The other man, using his candle now to light a torch, was even more fair-haired than most men of Rohan, which was saying something, bright-eyed and easily thirty years younger than Moran. He was tall and thin, with a face that looked as though it broke easily into a smile.

"No doubt about it," the second soldier said, peering intently at Andrin. "He's from Gondor." He held the candle closer to the corpse of the dead thief, and he noticed something for the first time. Reaching down, he pried the amulet from the stiff grasp.

"That's mine," Andrin said automatically, reaching out for it.

The soldier was about to hand it to him, but them something caught his eye. He paused, staring at the back of the gold-plated disk. "Sweet gods..." His voice trailed off.

"What is it, Cendrae?"

"I—look at this crest, Captain."

Moran moved in closer, and Andrin felt his heart sink; where had that amulet come from? He should not have said anything—perhaps the crest on the back would incriminate him, prove him guilty of some crime he did not commit.

The captain's brow furrowed. "Where did you come across this?" he asked softly, his eyes boring into Andrin's. The young prince bowed his head, averting his eyes.

"A—a soldier in the army of Gondor gave it to me."

The two men exchanged glances, and Moran heaved a sigh. "Well, son, I have no right to force your information out of you; it's not my place. The only man who can do that is the King of Rohan, and I could hardly presume to that stature."

Andrin let a sigh of relief escape his lips.

"So that's where we're going," Moran continued determinedly, walking towards his horse. "Come here, lad. Thylian, is it? Well, that's what we'll call you, at least. You'll ride with me. Cendrae?"

"Sir?"

"Take the prisoner on your horse, and keep a knife at his throat or he'll bolt. Make him walk when your mount gets worn out. We'll ride tonight to Aldburg, where they have a prison you can leave him in. From there it is not half a day to Edoras. We'll leave at midday."

"We're—we're going to the king?" Andrin repeated, alarmed. If anyone could recognize him for who he was, he was sure it would be the king.

Moran laughed. "Yours will be an interesting story to hear, lad," he said as he mounted his horse. He offered a hand to Andrin, but the boy lifted himself into the saddle on his own, unwilling to accept help. "A boy from Gondor wandering the Great West Road without an escort, one who obviously knows how to ride a horse but does not have one himself, carrying an amulet with the crest of the ruling house of Gondor, the House of Telcontar. You wear a cloak bearing the White Tree that marks a soldier's uniform, you wear clothing that is elegant and well-made but looks as though it's all you've worn in two weeks—"

"You carry two loaves of dwarven waybread," Cendrae added, peering into his pack.

"—and you have a reason to hide it all. Give him his things, Cendrae."

The other soldier tossed the amulet to him. Andrin caught it and put it around his neck as Cendrae handed the bag up and turned to his prisoner, still lying on the ground.

Moran circled the two on the ground a few times, and then he said, "We're off then. See you in Aldburg."

He dug his heels into his horse, and it broke into a trot down the road, heading eastward. Andrin heard the younger soldier yell after them, "Or in hell!"

Andrin heard Moran chuckle as they made their way eastward once more. They were silent for a few minutes before Andrin asked, "How came you to be nearby when that man was about to kill me, sir?"

"We've been scouting the Great Road, keeping an eye on things, and we'd been tracking your friends there for several hours. We caught up with them just as they were about to kill you."

"Excellent timing, sir. I owe you my life."

He laughed again. "You're well-mannered as well, are you?"

Andrin left the question unanswered, asking another one instead. "Why was that man so upset at me?"

"Who, Arlyos?" Moran asked darkly. "Don't mind him. Aye, he's had a hard past, but he's chosen to let it make him bitter, rather than getting over it and moving on."

"What…" Andrin began hesitantly.

"What happened?" He sighed, listening to the clopping of the horse's hooves for a few moments before he answered. "May not be my place to tell, but he treated you in such a way just now that you deserve to know. A small band of men—much like the thieves we apprehended back there, but four times as many—were exiled from Gondor some years ago, and they chose to come to Rohan. Arlyos lived on a farm with his wife and child, far from anyone else. One night these men came to his house, demanded his money, and when he turned out very little to give them, they beat him cruelly, and when still he would not—could not—give more, they killed his wife and son, leaving him to stagger a mile to the nearest town. He survived, though it may have been better for him if he hadn't; since then, he has disliked everybody and hated Gondor. He would have killed you as soon as he heard your accent, but he has a spark of decency yet; he would not murder an unarmed boy without a just reason."

"Men from Gondor did that?" Andrin gasped.

Once again, Moran laughed, but this time it had a touch of coldness about it. "Your ignorance is forgivable, lad, because of your youth. One day—I hope for your sake that it is still very far from now—you will come to a terrible realization: those you respect are flesh and blood, imperfect just like every other man, and things that have always been steady and unvarying are really shifting underfoot. The only thing constant is change, son."

Andrin was not sure that he understood what the older man was saying, but something deep within his mind told him to listen closely. Moran continued.

"Who'd have thought that confidence could die?" he said musingly, as much to himself as to Andrin. "But it does… it does. You start to believe there's nothing to fear, that you can take all the tricks and turns that fate throws at you, but in that one moment, the moment before you finally understand, everything that you're sure of slips away."

They lapsed into silence, and as the moon grew larger and larger as it sank towards the horizon, they drew nearer and nearer to the town called Aldburg. The sun was rising when they caught their first glimpse of it, a large cluster of buildings surrounded by miles of farmland. The road wound straight through it, and Moran, showing no signs of tiring despite having ridden all through the night, spurred his horse on towards the waking village.

Andrin gazed around in fascination as they reached the buildings. This town was like none he had ever been to; he had spent his entire life in Minas Tirith until his brief visit to Osgiliath, and both cities were built as fortresses to withstand the tides of war and time. This unprotected, sprawling village was different in its layout and in its construction, and it created a sense of awe in the young boy.

The people, too, were different. None had very dark hair or eyes, and their garb was more colorful than the inhabitants of Minas Tirith usually wore. The women, instead of covering their heads with cowls, wore their hair braided down their back, and most of the men were bearded, unlike the clean-shaven men Andrin was used to seeing. They spoke a mixture of Rohirric and Common, and he could only understand a minimal fraction of what was said, even though he had learned some of their language along with his lessons in Elvish. They looked at him with passing curiosity, and a few hailed Moran, who rode proud and tall in front of him. They reached a small building outside of town, where the soldier reigned in his horse and dismounted, motioning to Andrin to follow. He spoke a few words in Rohirric to the man who stood guard outside the door of the building, gave him a few coins, and then turned to Andrin.

"This man will see that you get a horse," he said, leading his own in a different direction. "I will come for you at noon."

"Yes, sir."

Moran raised an eyebrow. "Don't think about running, lad," he said warningly. "You won't last until nightfall with my men after you. Technically, you're our prisoner, as you've entered our lands from a hostile kingdom. We have been good to you so far; don't make me change that."

"I understand, sir." Where would he run? Behind him lay Gondor, where he could never return. Either side would take him into wilderness that he was equipped with neither knowledge nor supplies to tackle. His only choice was to go forward with the soldiers and pray for the best.

The man in question led him in taciturn stoicism to a livery stable, where he was given a chestnut mare. When he asked her name, the man grunted "Mena" and left.

Left to his own devices, Andrin found a brush and rubbed down the horse, carried water from a nearby well to her water trough, and offered her a handful of oats. Her friendship won, she allowed him to stroke her nose and sit down on the pile of hay in the corner of the stall, where he promptly fell asleep from exhaustion.

Moran found him when the sun reached its zenith, handing him a cold oat scone and telling him to be ready to go in ten minutes. Andrin tore at the scone hungrily, thanking the gods that he was finally eating something other than dwarven waybread. As soon as the last bite had gone into his mouth, he saddled the horse, Mena, gave her another handful of oats, and led her out of the stables, where Moran was waiting with a very tired-looking Cendrae, who had just arrived and been provided with a fresh mount.

"Ready?" Moran asked.

"Yes, sir," Andrin said, putting his foot in the stirrup and swinging himself up. His father had helped him learn to mount a horse a year ago, even though he had been even shorter than he was now. The horse master of Minas Tirith had taught him how to ride, but one of his favorite times was when his father took him riding, and the memory stung painfully. Forcing it down, he turned Mena eastward, facing down the Great West Road.

Towards Edoras.

A/N: Just a brief note: if you don't recall why the relationship between Gondor and Rohan is strained so soon after the War of the Ring (and it's not really that soon, either; remember that Andrin is three generations after Aragorn, and men of his line live around two hundred years, so that's about four hundred years all told), it's in the third paragraph of chapter three.