DISCLAIMER: "The Lord of the Rings" and its characters belong to JRR Tolkien, I only borrowed them for a while, and I promise I will return them unharmed. I do not get money out of this, this is only for entertainment purposes.

"For in the sixth circle, outside the walls of the citadel, there were some fair stables where a few swift horses were kept, hard by the lodging of the errand riders of the Lord, messengers always ready to go at the urging of Denethor or his chief captains. But now all the horses and riders were out and away."(Return of the King, Minas Tirith)

XXV

There were thousands of fires burning on the eastern shore. Anborn had tried to count them during the long hours of his nightly watch, partly to keep his mind occupied and stay awake, partly to estimate the enemy's strength, but at dawn, many fires had been put out and he had given up. There was a lot of movement in the eastern ruins, but Anborn did not see any preparations to cross the river. The enemy was setting up camp to stay. Maybe they were building rafts and boats in the forests of Ithilien, and maybe they weren't. Gondor did not have many eyes in the east any more, and there had been no word at all from the few remaining Ithilien Rangers. With the bridge gone, they were safe to bury their dead and heal their wounds, if only for a little while.

The first light of dawn was bathing the river and the remaining stones of the broken bridge in a soft red light. Anborn pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders to ward off the morning chill and touched the sword at his hips. He longed to go back to Ithilien, to Henneth Annûn and his brothers in arms, even though he suspected the woods were crawling with Southrons at daytime and Orcs at night. But his duty lay east of the river, for as long as Gondor could maintain a foothold in the moonland, he longed to be part of it.

Soft footsteps approached him from behind and he turned around, his hands tightening around the hilt of his sword. "Who goes there?"

"A soldier of Osgiliath," a familiar voice answered.

Anborn relaxed his hands on his sword and bowed his head in greeting. "Captain."

Captain Boromir still favored his right leg and used a stick to support himself, and he did not wear any heavy armor, just a strong leather jerkin under his woolen cloak. His hood was pulled up to partly hide his hair und face, and his boots were dirty. Anborn suspected he had followed the shoreline from the outskirt of camp to Anborns position to check on the watches in person.

"All quiet?" the Captain General asked.

"All quiet, my lord," Anborn answered.

The camp behind them was slowly coming alive. The first men were crawling out of their tents to build up some flames out of the smoldering embers of last nights' fires and heat up water for tea. The cooks were preparing breakfast, and the healers started making their morning rounds among the many wounded.

"It's too quiet," Boromir muttered to himself.

"In times like ours, can there be too quiet a time, my lord?" Anborn wondered.

"Did you hear the stories they told at the fires?" Boromir threw back his hood and moved a hand through his hair. He stopped to scratch his neck for a long moment, before pulling up his hood again. He had not joined his men at the fires last night, and neither had Faramir, but very few escaped his attention even if he was not present in person.

It was a cold summer morning, colder than most, the fires were still burning.

"I heard many stories last night, most about how the men escaped the shadow and the collapsing bridge, but there were no embellished tales about anything or anyone, at least not at my fire. The Osgiliath garrison and the Rangers do not have the heart and time to cause mischief, my lord."

"Exactly my point, Anborn," Boromir said. He turned around in the direction of the camp and started to limp away. "That's exactly my point."

„You are hard to kill, "Anakil said with a smile on his face.

"You are wrong, my famous young apprentice." The Poet's voice was stern and grave, but there was a slight twinkle in his blue eyes. He slowly pulled himself to his feet and walked the few steps to stand in front of Anakil's mattress in the healer's quarters of Cair Andros. "I am as easy to kill as any other man. I have just learned when to fight and when to run."

"You should have learned how to ride properly." Anakils smile widened and since it pained him to even think about getting to his feet, he offered his hand upwards in greeting. "I brought back the perfectly good horse you somehow managed to lose in Ithilien."

"Insufferable travelling companion." The Poet shrugged his narrow shoulders. "We had a slight misunderstanding about which direction to turn to shortly after we got well out of reach of our enemies. Our differences could not be resolved, so we parted company to go our separate ways. This beast was better off without me, and I was certainly better off without its questionable service." He bent down to carefully grasp Anakil's outstretched hand with his bandaged one. "Well met indeed, Anakil of the Anduin!"

Anakil realized this was one of the very few times the Poet had ever called him by his given name.

"What happened to you? How did you get here?"

The Poet carefully moved Anakil's legs out of the way and sat down next to him on the mattress. He slowly pulled his legs close to his chest und bowed his head towards his knees. His grey hair obscured his thin and worn features. "Fate happened to me," he said quietly. "Fate brought me here after sunset last evening. Fate decides at random who gets to live and who has to die, and Fate does not care if those who die deserve death und those who live are worthy of the gift of life. Fate is blind, deaf, and in my peculiar case, merciful."

"What happened to you? After we parted ways?" Anakil asked again.

"First I rode. Then I walked. Sometimes I crawled. Once or twice I fought terrible beasts." The Poet produced the dagger Anakil had taken from the Captain Generals tent before the bridge had fallen. There was some dried blood on the blade. He wiped it clean on his breeches and offered it to the young messenger hilt first. "Your weapon saved my life. With thanks, I give it back." His face was still partly hidden.

Anakil took the dagger and shifted it from hand to hand. Finally, he put it down on the ground next to his mattress. He looked down at his hands, unsure what to do. It was obvious the Poet was not in the mood to talk about his journey to the island. "At first I walked as well," he finally said. "Then I crawled a lot, because my feet are injured, and I could not walk any more. Lieutenant Mablung of Ithilien and some of his company found me and brought me to Henneth Annûn, where there took care of my wounds and my fever. No messenger has reached the Ithilien company for days, so I told them all I know about the battle of Osgiliath and the fall of the bridge." He raised his head in alarm. "Are there any news from Osgiliath?"

"The western shore is safe. The Captains survived the fall of the bridge. Cair Andros received news from Captain Faramir himself yesterday morning. But the lives lost are still not counted, hundreds are dead or missing."

Anakil had seldom hear the Poet speak in such short, simple sentences. He sounded subdued, the almost monotone deep voice surprised him. Something had shaken the old messenger to the core.

"Both Captains survived?" Anakil raised his voice, his eyes full of joy. "Fate proved to be a good judge, after all!" Then his face fell. He remembered the friends he had lost, Irion, Beldil, Lieutenant Darin, the boys of the east, and those whose fate he did not know, his brothers Anarion and Anagor. "Are there any news about who lived and who died of the Osgiliath company? My brothers…"

The Poet slowly shook his head. "Not yet, my famous young apprentice, not yet. But of those who fought on the bridge, only four survived. The Captains both, Anborn of the Ithilien Rangers and a young lad of Osgiliath. That is all that is known."

Anakil did not know whether his brothers had fought on the bridge until the end. Now he hoped with all his heart that they had fled to the western shore in time.

"Six," he suddenly said. "Six survived, not four. For you and me, we were on the bridge until it came down, and here we are, alive and almost well."

The Poet raised his eyes, and Anakil was quite sure he could detect the shadow of a smile in the solemn and weary eyes. "Six indeed," he agreed. His eyes moved from Anakil's feet to the top of his head and down again. "To be precise, five and a half."

Anakil was tempted to reply to the barb in kinds, but before he could open his mouth, he was interrupted by a soldier of Cair Andros bursting into the healer's building, leaving the door open in his wake. "Anakil?" he asked out of breath.

"Chiran?" Anakil recognized his sister's husband at once, even though he had not seen him in almost a year now.

The young soldier, he had not yet reached his thirtieth year, knelt down next to the wounded messengers on the mattress and enveloped his wife's youngest brother in a heartfelt hug. "You are alive! I did not believe it could be you when I heard a messenger called Anakil of the Anduin had arrived out of Ithilien. So many have died in Osgiliath, and I feared you to be one of them."

Anakil buried his face in his sister's husband chest for a moment, glad for the affectionate greeting and the friendly familiar face. "I am alive indeed," he whispered. "And I am so glad to see you well, Chiran!" Sudden tears wet his cheeks, and he kept his face pressed against Chiran's chest to hide the salty drops. "Any news of Anarion? Anagor?" His voice chose this exact moment to break, the question was asked in an almost girlish squeak.

"Not yet." Chiran tightened his arms around the boy. "There are no names yet, only that there have been great losses. It is too soon to give into despair. Seeing you alive gives me hope that fate might have spared them as well."

'I am a lucky little bastard,' Anakil thought, but he did not utter the words aloud. "Things happen," he said instead. "Good things and bad things alike. There is no sense to be found in war, just chaos and death."

"You were there when the retreat was fought? Rion and Gor told me about your great disappointment that they would not allow you to enter warrior's training yet."

"I was on the great bridge when it fell," Anakil said slowly. "I do not desire to be a warrior any more. I have seen and smelled and felt enough death. I am different now. I am a messenger of Gondor, and that is a good and honorable task."

Chiran held his wife's brother at arm's length to look into the dark grey eyes. Eyes that were young and full of sorrow, eyes that had seen things no young boy should see. The soldier noticed the bloody bandages on both feet, the scratched hands and torn breeches, the missing sleeves of the dirty messenger shirt, the faint shadow of a young man's beard on the upper lip and on the sunburned cheeks, and he realized that the boy he had known and spoiled as youngest son of his wife's family, the growing young man his daughters had played with on his wife's father's farm, had disappeared. There now was a young soldier he had never met before, no longer a boy that had been playful and innocent, but a young man, who had seen and felt and heard too much. And not so long ago, he had been exactly like him. "I am so sorry, little fish!" he said. "You are right, there is no sense to be found in war, and I am so sorry you had to find out like this."

Hearing one of his childhood's nicknames, Anakil buried his face in the older soldier's shirt again to hide fresh tears.

The Poet stayed quiet next to the grieving family members, his face an impenetrable mask.

Those the river had surrendered from its watery grip, they had identified and buried. The list of those not yet found, who had most likely found a wet and cold resting place in the river, or who had been so unlucky as to have been washed ashore on the eastern riverbank, was longer than the list of confirmed dead. But days had passed since the retreat and downfall of the bridge, and there was no longer hope to find one of the missing men alive.

Every Lieutenant's company was decimated, every soldier of Osgiliath and every Ranger of Ithilien still on the western shore had lost a friend or family member, and despite the determination to continue fighting, to keep Gondor's mainland safe, there was an air of despair that clouded the bright summer light, and some felt an occasional chill in the warm breeze that blew down from the mountains in the west.

Supplies from Minas Tirith arrived on a daily basis, but the city guard simply did not have the manpower to compensate the losses the companies had suffered, and it would take a long time to recruit young men and train them to reinforce western Osgiliath and Ithilien.

Cair Andros could not spare a single man, and there still had not been word from Henneth Annûn, if the remainder of the company there was still alive. No messenger had reached them from the outpost, and those they had sent had not yet returned.

Faramir trusted Mablung and Damrod to keep his men safe in his absence, but the silence from east of the river troubled him greatly. Without the Osgiliath bridge, guarding Ithilien had become even more difficult than before.

Messengers to and from Minas Tirith set forth on an almost hourly basis, and Faramir knew that the city council would no longer accept written reports. The Steward and the council expected the surviving commanding Captains of Gondor's army to present themselves in person to give an account of the battle, the retreat and the passing of the unnamed shadow before the bridge was destroyed.

"I will leave for Minas Tirith at first light tomorrow, alone, with only Anborn to accompany me," Faramir announced to his brother during dinner in their shared tent. "We cannot put off the Steward's summon any longer, and you are still not fit to ride."

Boromir's injured knee had taken a turn for the worse. All the walking he had insisted on doing in the garrison, even with the aide of a stick, had aggravated the injury greatly. The Captain General could barely put his weight on his right leg any more, and the joint was discolored and swollen beneath the soft leather of his breeches.

Boromir stopped eating and forcefully shook his head. "No!" he simply said. "No, Faramir, absolutely not."

Faramir smiled a little at his brother's vehemence and put down his knife as well. "You know as well as I do that I have to," he carefully said. "You have read the same dispatches I have. Delaying any longer could be seen as insubordination. The Steward's summons was quite clearly phrased - again."

Boromir shook his head again. "No!" he emphazied. "I am your superior officer, Captain Faramir. I will command you to stay if I have to."

Faramir sighed. "I know, Boromir, and I really appreciate the concern." His smile widened into a grin. "But pulling rank on me against our father the Steward's orders? Really?"

Boromir picked up his knife again and stabbed a piece of bread without eating it. "I will not let you go there alone."

"Anborn will ride with me."

"Brother!" Boromir slammed the knife down on the wooden table. "This was my retreat. My loss. Without you and your Rangers present, I cannot even imagine what would have happened." His voice softened. "We both know him well. He will not see it that way. If you go there alone, he will make sure the council sees you at fault. I cannot have that! I will not have that!"

Faramir started to reply, but Boromir silenced him with a raised hand. "I know you can deal with it, this is not me being the overprotective big brother. This is me the Captain trying to do right by his man. And right now, you are one of my men under my protection. You should not have to deal with father and the council alone, because you are not at fault."

Faramir glanced at Boromir's right leg, propped up next to the table on a small footstool. "You are in pain. You can barely walk. There is no dishonor in injury acquired in battle. Father will be glad that you survived and will follow his summons as soon as you are able, and I am quite sure he does not require you to come to the city in a cart pulled by a donkey."

Boromir snorted and carefully probed his knee with both hands.

"Hands off, you are only making it even worse!" Faramir scolded. "I know you like it don't like it, and believe me, I am not overly eager either, but neither of us has a choice in this matter. There is no valid excuse for me, healthy and able to read since I was about three years old, to ignore the Steward's will and put off an easy half day's ride any longer."

Boromir carefully rolled up the right leg of his breaches to expose the brightly colored knee and gingerly continued probing the injury. "How I hate this," he murmured, and Faramir instantly knew that the argument was over, and that he had won. "A break you can set and splint, an open wound you can clean and stitch, but this…" He looked down at his knee in disgust. "…they told me to rest and wait it out. What kind of treatment is that? Resting and waiting? I do not have the time to rest and wait."

Faramir rose to his feet and knelt down next to his brother's leg. He carefully squatted Boromir's restless hands away and helped settle the leg in a more comfortable position. His hands lingered a moment longer than necessary on his brother's skin. "You and I have seen injuries like this before. We both know the only cure is resting and waiting, and since we returned from the waters of the river, you have not even tried to do that. I don't blame you that you have taken care of your command, but now you have the time to let your wounds heal. Let your new Lieutenants take care of the daily business here and give me your blessing to ride to the city and take care of business there. As I told you countless times before, Gondor has still need of you in the dangerous times that lie ahead."

"I cannot stop you. And I won't." Boromir rolled the leg of his breeches down again and continued eating. "But I don't have to like it."

"You didn't like it when father put me on a horse for the first time." Faramir sat down and picked up his knife as well. "You were terrified when I was gifted my first wooden training sword. You never played hide and seek because you got nervous when you didn't know where I was when we were little." Faramir's voice was fond and quiet. "And I know you were proud of me, but you absolutely hated it when I was sent off to command the Ithilien company.

And I love you for it.

But I swore the same oath of fealty to our father the Steward, the same words, spoken in the same room in the citadel, and same as you, I meant them.

And I know you love me for that."

Boromir did not reply, he did not have to.

Chiran had brought Anakil a clean messenger's shirt, a pair of new boots and clean breaches, and they had talked a little about Anakil's home not far from Cair Andros, then the young soldier had to return to his duties in the garrison.

The Captain of the garrison had sent a messenger to pick up the dead messenger's message that Anakil had brought from Ithilien to deliver it to Henneth Annûn, and at the Poet's quiet nod, Anakil had handed over the sealed piece of paper to the unknown young man. He had kept Mablung's messages for Captain Faramir, for the Captain planed to send the two wounded messengers to the White City to heal as soon as possible, and since there was no other messenger available in Cair Andros, he could deliver them himself.

The Poet had been very quiet, sitting next to Anakil on his mattress almost all day except when he had to go relieve himself, first listening to Anakil und Chiran talk, then closing his eyes to rest. Anakil did not know whether the older man was sleeping or just didn't want to be disturbed, and he kept himself busy watching the healers inside the room and peeking outside the door into the yard when to door was open.

Cair Andros was busy, cheerful and appeared well organized, there was no trace of the shadow that had passed through Osgiliath a few days ago and had left a dark stain in many men's hearts and minds. Anakil almost envied them this ignorance.

He had dinner together with the Poet on his mattress, fresh bread and eggs and bacon, and suddenly he remembered the promise the Poet had made before they had parted ways on the eastern shore.

"You owe me a name," he said with a crooked smile.

The Poet cocked his head to the side in silent confusion.

"You promised to tell me your name the next evening we spent together on the western shore," Anakil clarified. "Don't even think of claiming you don't remember. There is a bottle of brandy at stake."

"We are at the garrison of Cair Andros, which is situated on an island in the middle of the river. By definition, this is certainly not the western shore, my young apprentice," the Poet argued.

"It's close enough!" Anakil was determined. "And we are the only patients here, the healers have left for dinner, so we are alone, nobody but me is listening. You promised."

The Poet was quiet for a long time. Anakil did not press him any further, for the man seemed to be deep in thought, and according to the wording of his promise, he had every right to keep his silence. The western shore was a few hundred paces away. The young messenger knew he could not beat the experienced man in the game of words.

"Adrahil." The Poet took a deep breath and repeated a little louder. "My given name is Adrahil."

Anakil waited for him to continue, but he fell silent again. Adrahil was a common enough name, especially in the South.

"Adrahil," the young messenger repeated at last, testing out the syllables. It sounded wrong to his young ears to address the man thusly, a man he had known for weeks by his nickname only. By the Poets reaction, he knew that nobody had called him by his given name for a very long time. The lanky old man almost flinched. "You promised to give me your name, and you did. I would like to hear your story, Adrahil. You taught me that words are more powerful and dangerous than the mightiest sword. The words behind your name must be powerful indeed, that you took such great care to keep them hidden for such a long time."

Many emotions flickered across the Poets face, annoyance, anger, regret, bitterness, fear and finally, acceptance. "My name is Adrahil of Dol Amroth," he finally began, his deep voice clear and steady. "Named after the ruling Prince of my time, born as first and only son to an honorable merchant's family near the sea in the South. I was a soldier once, a gifted warrior, a Captain of my peers. In Dol Amroth they are called the Swan Knights. I was trained to protect, to serve, to fight, and I did nothing else for a very long time.

Our Prince was a wise man, a just man, a man who loved his children, and when his youngest daughter expressed the wish to marry the heir to the Stewardship of Gondor, he let her go to Minas Tirith to become the Steward's heir's wife. I was sent with her to be her personal guard, to protect her from all harm, to remind her where she came from, and to make sure she had all she needed.

The Steward's heir was a great swordsman, and he was also a man of books, and many times he allowed me to train with him, and to discuss with him matters of the written word. He taught me much about the power of words, and what he did not teach me, I was allowed to read in his library. Sometimes it felt as if we were comrades in arms, both destined to protect our lady, he as her husband, me as her guard, and I considered him a friend.

When the old Steward died and his heir took on the office he was destined to hold, I swore fealty to him with a heart full of joy, and I swore to never leave his beloved wife's side, and to protect her from all harm in this world.

And I failed."

Anakil waited for him to continue, but he was silent for a long time. They were still alone in the healer's room, but through the closed door they could hear the sounds of the busy garrison. "What happened that you are so ashamed of, that you give up your name?" he finally asked. "I know that the Steward's wife died a long time ago. Didn't she die of an illness?"

"She gave birth to the two sons who lead our army today, and who are thankfully still alive, but she longed for her home at the sea. I swore to protect her from all harm, and I failed, for she grew sicker and sicker, and she died. I broke my oath, I dishonored my name, therefor I lost the right to carry it.

Words never forget.

Words were all I had left.

I had sworn words, and I had been unable to honor them.

I asked the Steward to take me in his service as a messenger of words, to make up for the oath that I had broken. He accepted my offer and my choice of name, and I am still serving."

"He blamed you for his wife's death?" Anakil asked, unbelieving. "If she died of an illness, what was there for you to protect? If the healers couldn't safe her, nobody could."

"He never blamed me. He wouldn't even let me talk about my shame, wouldn't hear my apology. He didn't understand. I was the one who blamed myself, who could never forgive himself for losing the most beautiful and kind woman Dol Amroth had seen in a very long time. I swore to protect her from all harm in this world, and death is one of the worst kinds of harm this world has to offer."

"Sure, death is one of the greatest harms there is, but the oath you swore…"

"You are a messenger of words!" The Poet interrupted, anger in his tone. "I swore the words, not the implied meaning behind the words. And I failed to keep my word. I am at fault.

So I swore to serve, I swore to give up my name, to bring no further dishonor to my family, and that is an oath I intend to keep. Adrahil of Dol Amroth, Captain of the Swan Knights, died the day he broke his oath, and he has been dead ever since."

The Poet fell silent again, exhaustion on his face. Telling his story had pained him greatly. He appeared almost frail, sitting next to the small youth, his eyes downcast in shame.

Anakil hid his face behind his hands for a little while to think.

Messengers are different! The Poet had taught him.

Do you know which words are the most terrifying, the most powerful and at the same time most beautiful? He had been asked. I want… had been his answer. I love you… the Poet had corrected him.

And he had been right. Anakil understood that now. Adrahil of Dol Amroth had loved the words he had sworn, and he mourned that he had not been able to keep that oath until today. It did not matter to him that he was not at fault for breaking his promise.

Messengers are different!

"I think I understand," he slowly stated and pulled his hands away from his face. "I do not share your belief, but I think I understand why you did what you did, and I respect it. You taught me well."

"Thank you, my young apprentice!" The Poet took a deep breath, his face turned into an unreadable mask, all emotions were hidden behind his blank stare. "I kept my promise to you." The old messenger pulled himself to his feet and slowly walked to his own mattress to settle down. "We will never speak of this matter again."

Anakil was sure he would never speak of this to anyone, not even if he was promised a lifetime's supply of brandy.

The sun was barely visible above the horizon, bathing the river in dark, dancing shadows. The ruined bridge seemed black and dangerous, without shape and form. A few fires danced on the eastern shore, but the enemy was very quiet.

"Good morning, Captain!" Anborn's cheerful greeting brought Faramir out of the healer's tent, where he had stopped to visit some of his company's wounded before he set out for the White City. "It's an honor to ride with you again."

The Ranger led two horses by the reins, one of Boromir's finer steeds for the Captain, and a young mare for himself.

"And a good morning to you, Anborn!" Faramir closed the tent flap securely behind him to protect the wounded and ill inside from the morning chill and adjusted his sword on his belt. He was wearing the full gear befitting the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers, the white tree of Gondor splendid on his breast. He must have found the clothes somewhere in Osgiliath, for his original ones were stowed in the cave of Henneth Annûn, and he tended to never wear them, choosing the cloak and leather jerkin of a simple Ranger instead.

"I am surprised to see you looking forward to ride to the city." Faramir took over the steed and checked the saddle before mounting. "If I remember correctly, you hate the city."

"I do, my lord, I do." Anborn mounted his mare as well and steered the animal next to his Captain. "It's big, it's loud, and it's suffocating. I do prefer the woods of Ithilien. But I will enjoy the ride with you, Captain."

Faramir horse started to flickers his ears, and hoofbeats from behind the healer's tent had both Rangers turn around to look for who was coming.

Approaching from behind was none less than the Captain General of Gondor, also clad in gear befitting his office, his sword at his side and his head bare. He was riding a tall mare, not one of the big steeds that were trained for battle. His right leg looked rather stiff, Faramir guessed that the knee was tightly bandaged beneath the soft dark leather of his breeches. One of his Lieutenants whose name the Ranger Captain did not recall followed him closely, also clad in clean clothes and armed with sword and bow.

"Good morning, Captain! Lieutenant!" Anborn bowed his head in greeting.

"Boromir…!" Faramir started. He knew that his brother had expected to be woken for a proper goodbye, but he had quietly left the tent instead without disturbing him, deeming this the better way to part.

"Faramir…!" Boromir interrupted with a broad and easy smile. "You truly believed I would let you go without me?" Boromir shook his head in mock despair and briefly glanced down at his injured leg. He steered his mare next to his brother's steed, Anborn and the Lieutenant lined their horses up behind them. "You should know me better."