The great city of Minas Tirith loomed in front of them, a white beacon on the gray mountains. The column of men moved slowly up the path, and each somber face reflected the overcast sky. For one man, however, the grief on his face was but a façade that masked his true feelings. Drían's eyes roved from the distant Tower of Ecthelion to the first level of the city, then moving to sweep across the surrounding plains, and it almost seemed to him as though his vision spanned the many leagues to the sea in the south.

It is all mine.

The feeling of grim triumph that had settled in his breast ever since the deaths of his brother and nephew now threatened to burst its bounds. Fighting to keep his face within the confines of his soldiers' expectations, he held his head a little taller. There would be thirty days of mourning for Andrith, and then thirty more for Andrin, and then, finally, the coronation of the new king.

Yet there was something that ate constantly at him, a thought he could not put out of his mind. There was someone who would suffer more for his actions than either Andrith or his son had. They were dead, true, but one person would have to live with those deaths pressing in on her every day for the rest of her life.

Drían looked straight ahead as the massive gates to the city swung open, refusing to make eye contact with any of the civilians. They would know soon enough what had happened; the still body borne between four horses would reveal one of the deaths, and time only would tell of the other, as Andrin's corpse had been dumped into the river, thanks to newly-appointed Captain Solin.

The solemn procession made its way through the streets, and an almost audible feeling of sorrow began as a low moan and whipped up into a keening dirge as the body of the king passed through the streets, and as the conspicuous absence of the prince was noticed. News evidently traveled faster than they did, for they were met with guards come from the palace to ascertain the truthfulness of the rumor. Drían remained aloof from it all until he encountered the one person in the city he was not sure he could face. If anyone had the power to make him break down and confess, surely it was the woman whom he had wronged so despicably by stripping her of everything she held dear. If ever his conscience were to regain control, it would be now.

Emotionless, he told himself. Do not allow yourself to feel; sentimentality is the fall of every great empire.

Queen Ailanwë met them on the palace stairs. Surely she had heard by now, but her eyes, free of tears or grief, sought Drían's the moment he came into view.

He could not meet her gaze, and it was this that confirmed to her heart what her mind already knew.

And Drían could not watch as she dissolved into tears, collapsing on the white marble stairs, where guards rushed to her side to help her. He forced himself to think of something, anything else—how beautiful Endrai, his own wife, would look with Ailanwë's crown gracing her brow, how stately Belín could be now that he was the prince of a kingdom—but nothing could free him from the look in the queen's eyes as, in one agonizing second, her heart was shattered forever.

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

To other men, the chief city of Rohan paled in comparison to the mighty fortress of Minas Tirith. But to Andrin, knowing what awaited him inside, the tall, stone walls and fluttering banners bearing elegant horses that marked Edoras were a hundred times more imposing. He gazed up in awe at the stone pillars on either side of the wooden gates, from which two sentries gazed at the surrounding land. Moran raised his sword in a salute, and the guards up top waved a signal to someone on the other side. Slowly, the gates swung open, and Cendrae kicked his horse towards them, but he halted respectfully to allow his captain through first. Andrin followed the younger soldier, and he caught his first glimpse of Edoras. The road ahead ran straight towards a large hall that sat atop the hill over which the city sprawled, and it was towards this palatial building that Moran spurred his horse.

The city of Edoras was very much like that of Aldburg, but there was one marked difference: his dark hair and Gondorian cloak drew a lot more attention here. He saw fingers pointed at him and heard an intense muttering sweep through the people selling, buying, and working on the street, and a few were even bold enough to shout curses at him from the anonymity of the crowds. Andrin buried his face in his hands, trying to ignore the jeers, not understanding why they hated him so. He heard Moran, riding just ahead of him, mutter, "Hold your head high, boy; cowering will only encourage them. You have no reason to be ashamed."

Concentrating hard to do as he was bidden, Andrin hardly noticed they had arrived at the imposing hall until Moran dismounted and motioned for him to do the same, nodding at Cendrae to stay with the horses. Sliding off the horse and swallowing hard, Andrin followed Moran up the flight of worn stairs to the entrance to the hall. They stopped beside the guards who stood on either side of the wide doorway. Andrin, using his limited knowledge of Rohirric to translate the words to Gondorian, caught a several that he recognized: "Need to talk… King… important message."

A moment later, one of the guards beckoned them into the large hall. Great stone pillars towered towards the ceiling and tapestries depicting many different things adorned the walls. On a raised, stone dais at the other end of the long hall sat a magnificent, ornate chair that Andrin guessed was often occupied by the king. It was empty now, however—they were the only occupants in the entire room. The soldier led them to an inconspicuous door at the side of the hall and knocked softly.

A voice said, "Come in," and they entered a sort of study, a room lined with shelves and shelves of books. One wall was entirely covered by an enormous map of Rohan, a comfortable chair sat in front of a fire, and a desk rested on a thick rug in the middle. Seated in the chair was a tall, broad-chested man, pensively smoking a pipe. He looked around when they entered, and a warm smile broke out on his face. "Moran!"

The captain bowed low. "Your majesty," he said, speaking in Common for what Andrin suspected was his sake. So this was King Halin of the Riddermark, ruler of the Horse Lords. Andrin, who had been peering nervously around Moran, retracted his head and tried to be inconspicuous. He realized too late, however, that this move, rather than averting attention, had drawn it to him.

"And who have we got here?" the king asked curiously, standing up and approaching them. Andrin shoved his trembling hands into his pockets as Moran stepped aside. He was suddenly aware of how small and young he was—how vulnerable he was.

"What's your name, lad?" King Halin asked, his brow creasing as he observed Andrin's dark hair, dark eyes, and Gondorian cloak.

"Thy—Thylian, sire."

The king raised one eyebrow skeptically, but he turned to Moran for an explanation. The captain drew a deep breath. "We found him on the Great West Road about fifteen miles from the western border while tracking a pair of thieves. He's Gondorian, obviously, and he won't tell us his real name or why he's here."

King Halin was looking quizzically at Moran. "Surely you didn't drag him all the way to Edoras to tell me this? He's but a boy—surely he can mean no harm?"

"It's not harm that I'm worried about, sire. Look at what he was carrying. Boy, show him your amulet."

Andrin glanced from Moran to the king, who nodded at him to do as he was told. Hesitantly, he reached down the neck of his tunic, withdrew the pendant, and handed it to the king.

Halin turned it over in his hands, halting suddenly when he noticed the crest on the back. He glanced at Moran. "He gives no explanation for this?"

"He says a soldier in the Gondorian army gave it to him."

"It's true," Andrin said, his confidence spurred by indignation. "He gave me his pack, and that amulet was in it."

"How would a soldier happen across something like this?"

Andrin shrugged. The truth was that the amulet looked vaguely familiar to him—he had seen Drían wear a similar one at times—but how would he explain having been around one of the royal family often enough to notice something like that?

"There's more, sire," Moran continued, glancing at Andrin. "He also… he claims that Gondor's king is dead."

Halin heaved a heavy sigh, sinking back into his chair. "I know. Word has traveled despite the closing of the border."

"The reign of the third king of Gondor and Arnor has ended."

"Aye."

"His son… Andrin, is it? How old is he?"

"Around eleven years, I believe."

"Then he is king now?"

"Alas, no," Halin said, turning to stand pensively in front of the fire. "He was killed as well."

Moran's eyes widened. "He—he was killed? Why did you not speak of this, boy?"

"I—I didn't know—" Andrin said, scrabbling for an excuse, but Halin interrupted him.

"I don't know how credible the information I have is," he said quietly, "but this is the story. The prince was kidnapped by a rebel band and taken into the mountains of Minas Morgul, where they demanded a ransom. King Andrith marched on the Dead City to rescue his son, but he was killed in the attempt. Andrin escaped, but during the march back to Minas Tirith, he disappeared. They tracked his footsteps, which walked beside a larger pair, indicating that there was a man with him, to the side of the river, where the prince was evidently killed by his companion."

Andrin wondered vaguely what the soldier had done to stage his death so convincingly.

"If both Andrith and his son have been killed," Moran said slowly, "who is next in line for the throne? Is Elessar's line dead?"

There was a brief pause.

"Not entirely," King Halin said wearily, sinking into his chair once more. "Eldarion had a second son, Drían. The throne will pass to him."

No one spoke for a while. Andrin looked at Moran, Moran gazed at the king, and the king stared into the fire. After a moment, the captain asked, "Sire? Do you have orders for me?"

King Halin sighed. "Nothing has changed, for the time being. You should return to your post on the western border immediately. Be alert; the new king will likely begin his reign by sending either emissaries or spies. In either case, bring them directly to me."

He lapsed into silence once more, still staring broodingly into the flames in the fireplace, and when Moran did not leave right away, he looked at him questioningly. "Is there a problem, Captain?"

Moran glanced at Andrin. "What of the lad, sire?"

Halin blinked, as though he had forgotten there was a third person in the room. He turned to the boy, who had shrunk back at the reference to himself. "Why did you come to Rohan?" he asked quietly.

"I—I'm running from one who would have my life, sire," he answered guardedly.

"You seek refuge, then?"

"Yes, sire."

King Halin surveyed him silently, and after a moment, a slight smile appeared on his face. "Very well, refuge shall you find. I'll adopt you into my house."

There was a moment of ringing silence, and Andrin glanced nervously at Moran to see if he had heard right. The captain had a look of mingled shock and incredulity on his face. His astonishment seemed too great for words; he could only gape at the king in disbelief.

Andrin opened his mouth, closed it again, opened it once more, and then tried to speak. "Your house, sire?" he finally managed to stutter.

"Aye, my house," Halin said, sinking back into his chair. "You are yet too shy to reveal your secrets, but perhaps one day we will have them from you. Moran?"

"I—yes, sire?"

"Find Teolir and send him here."

Moran did not move, looking as though he were fighting a battle within himself. Finally, he said in a halting voice, "I—sire, I know—it's not my place, but I must recommend against—the Rohirrim will not—I do not think this is a wise move, sire."

"You're right, Captain," the king said sternly, "it isn't your place. I will thank you to hold your tongue when your discretion, which I trust implicitly, urges against wagging it."

Flushing with the rebuke, Moran bowed stiffly and swept out of the room.

After three minutes of a silence that were very awkward for Andrin, standing in the corner while King Halin continued his prolonged gaze into the fireplace, as though searching for the answer to some unfathomable question within the flickering orange flames, the door opened once more.

At first glance, the man who entered could have been mistaken for the king himself. His strong, square jaw, slightly angled eyebrows, full lips, and prominent cheekbones were identical. On close observance, however, Andrin noted several marked distinctions between the two. The most obvious was that the newcomer's hair was entirely blond, while the king's had streaks of gray shooting through it. Halin's eyes were a much darker blue than the younger man's, and he was also rather taller. There was also a hint of a strut in the new man's gait, not quite arrogance but bordering on it, as though he had not yet acquired the wisdom that comes only with age and experience, the wisdom that dashes self-confidence.

"You asked to see me, Father?" the man said.

So this man was the king's son, the prince of Rohan, the same position Andrin had filled until barely two weeks ago in the neighboring kingdom. He rebuked himself sharply as this thought fluttered across his mind, however; he was no longer and never had been, as far as his new life was concerned, a prince.

Halin nodded, rising from his chair. "Teolir, I have a duty for you to fulfill." He motioned to Andrin, and Teolir's eyes flickered to where he was standing, blinking as he noticed the boy for the first time. "This is Thylian," the king continued, "and henceforth I give him to your charge."

"My—my charge?" Teolir spluttered disbelievingly.

"You will teach him to fight and to ride a horse, and when he is old enough he will be inducted into the éored. You are to think of him now as your cousin; he is as much a part of my house as if he had been born into it, and I—"

"This is ridiculous!" Teolir interrupted, finally having gotten possession of himself. "He's not even Rohirric, it's obvious he's from Gondor, and you want to adopt him into the noble House of Éorl? You'll have a revolt on your hands for even proposing such an idea, it's preposterous…"

He lapsed into silence, and after a moment, the king said austerely, "Are you through?"

Teolir opened his mouth as though to speak, then hung his head, blushing. "Yes, sire."

"Excellent. I further charge that you will not argue with me, your father and your king."

"Of course, Father… but—but may I ask: why?"

"He is a lost boy in need of a home, and I am offering him one. I am tired of the breach that separates Gondor and Rohan; we should be at peace with each other, as our forefathers intended. He will be a daily reminder to me to make an effort to heal the schism between us. If for no other reason, it will put me in a more favorable mood for the remainder of the day."

There was a strange gleam in the king's dark blue eyes, and something deep within Andrin writhed uncomfortably under its gaze. It crossed his mind that, just perhaps, King Halin of the Riddermark suspected more than he revealed.

There was silence in the room for a few moments before Teolir, letting out a long breath, extended his hand to the lad still shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot in the corner. "Come on, Thylian or whatever your name is. I suppose if I'm going to have to teach you everything from scratch, we might as well start off friends so that I don't end up killing you before you're even fifteen."

Andrin looked nervously at the king, who gave him an encouraging smile, looked into the twinkling blue eyes of the prince and then down at the hand, and with every shred of courage he had, he grasped it.

Every man, his father had told him, has turning points in his life, moments that redefine who and what he is. Never is a man truly the same afterward, nor will he ever be again. For Andrin, this simple gesture was his turning point. In taking the hand of the prince, he was no longer a boy of Gondor; he was fully embracing this new role that had been thrust upon him.

Now he was a man of Rohan.