In which the ruk is employed, play opens up and the black bishop takes a pawn

T.A. 3001

The Captain slowly ran the back of his hand across his brow to mop the sweat that threatened once again to drip into his eyes. Valar, thought Eldacar, his hauberk was hotter than the pits of Mordor. The hottest Urui in half an age; the crops lay dessicated and browning in the fields; the creeks drying up it seemed before their very eyes. He shook his head. Here they were labouring in full armour. We don't need to be in Far Harad to roast.

He and his lieutenants rode side by side down the Great West Road as they lead the company back to Sîr Govad and their billets. Scanning the country as they passed, they could see the smallholders taking crops off the fields, hurrying before what little had grown withered in the heat. This was the time the folk should be gathering berries; instead the fruit lay upon the canes to be plundered by the waiting birds. He could see them wheeling about, intent upon the chaff left beside as well.

To add to the farmers' misery reports had come from outlying villages of missing livestock and damaged fences. What they found that day had been frustrating and inconclusive. The losses could be due to Orcs grabbing food wherever they could, or at the outside wargs. Despite their efforts they found little evidence of an encampment or tracks. If it is Orcs he mused these maggots are unusually good at hiding.

Turing in the saddle, Eldacar eyed the column of mounted men who trailed behind, grumpy and hot. Man and beast alike were suffering, they had spent a long and sweltering day to no good result. He could hear both men and horses panting, but for the most part they were a quiet parade, the men saving their breath. Just as he turned back his keen hearing caught a phrase: Nanny duty. Listening closely he picked out Derhan's voice. It was the third time in as many days he had heard that very complaint.

Glancing sidelong at the object of Derhan's derision, the Captain considered the puzzle of his new lieutenant, riding beside and seemingly untroubled by the heat. The newest blood in the unit always put up with more than their fair share of ribbing, but with Faramir the taunting had been rife. On the face of things he was a good fit for their troop, men drawn mostly from far Blackfoot Vale. They wouldn't tolerate a puffed-up lordling and Faramir certainly didn't flaunt his status. In fact quite the opposite: his clothes were as worn as the others, his tack was just as basic. He worked hard and didn't curry favour, kept his obviously keen wits about him at all times. As the lad had got to know them even a sense of humour had emerged: well-aimed, witty comebacks delivered with one eyebrow raised and a half-smile. Only his Dol Amroth mount and his sword betrayed his noble blood.

Simple psychology told Eldacar much of the gibing had to do with Faramir's basically unflappable nature, forged at court and under his father's demanding gaze. The men had to work hard to get him to react and so work hard they did. But of late he had wondered if some of the commentary didn't root in most soldiers' basically superstitious natures. Faramir knew things: things another man wouldn't or shouldn't. At times it felt as if he practically read one's thoughts. Sometimes he seemed to sense events before they actually happened. This last came most often after he had had one of his now infamous dreams, waking half the hall with his cries. It made the men twitchy. They did not like what they did not understand.

For Eldacar, raised to believe implicitly in Nimrais' ghostly legions, this was not a stretch. If his lieutenant became definite on the oddest things, things that later proved to spare them casualties or effort, who was he to question the source of the young man's knowledge? If Faramir had a bad feeling, which if truth be told was not that often, his captain by experience listened and acted accordingly.

He was thankful that for most of the men acceptance of the young man's strange skills had come not some days past. Loran, thrown from his horse when it stepped into a critter hole, had lain mute and pained that night, jaw and ribs broken. Unknown by their leech, a rib had punctured his lung and over the hours it had slowly collapsed under the weight of seeping air. The desperate man had awoken unable to breathe or cry out, panicked and suffocating. Faramir, sensing something amiss, had roused the healer and held the gasping man up until help arrived. Now the grumbling had mostly ended, in the face of a general agreement that he had saved the young man's life. All except Derhan of course, the troop's perennial trouble maker. By black Erech, he thought I would have that idiot's tongue out. Eldacar had had enough.

'Derhan, fall up!" the Captain barked, urging his bay stallion forward with a light touch upon his barrel. As the younger man joined him, he shifted one leg back, the signal to canter. They took off, thundering up the road. Eldacar made Derhan ride until the young man looked fit to drop. As they pulled up, both horses blew hard and he patted Sirian in apology. Green eyes flashed and grabbed his private's attention.

"Enough" Eldacar growled, looking on the younger man with ill-concealed contempt. The private knew better than to speak, sitting silently to attention as sweat dripped off his nose. "We are here for a job. You want more action and don't like the heat I'll get you shifted to Ithilien. You can freeze your arse off in a cave this winter, seeing as you're too sour to have man or beast help warm you. But you'll have action. Want the transfer?" Eldacar raised a bushy eyebrow in query. The scent of horse and hay rose all around them as the air shimmered with the heat.

"No sir." Drops of sweat flew sideways as Derhan quickly shook his head.

"I thought not. Then shut yer gob. One of these days it could be your sorry hide he saves."

This impressively long speech from their unusually loquacious captain worked. There were no more comments as they wended their way home.

~~~ooo~~~

Once back in the town and at the barracks there was good news: the letter mule had arrived. Being his job to hand out the bounty, Eldacar knew full well who got correspondance. He, of course, had his biweekly letter from the Steward and tossed it aside to consider later when his temper improved. The Steward's son, by contrast, had typically none from his father but did have one the seal of Lossarnach and, unexpectedly, another from his brother.

One by one the Captain handed out the letters to men who had just dunked their heads in the water barrel beside the stables, mounts seen to first. Most trailed into the nearby inn for a pint and a chance to tear open their news. Faramir, sitting down with the other lieutenants and totally focused on his two letters to read, smiled politely at the bar maid who served his ale. He was utterly oblivious to her pout and jutting hip. Nearby a knot of men noticed the girl if he did not. Derhan, still smarting, could not resist some ribbing. The Captain was out of earshot.

"Must be a fancy boy. Wouldn't know what to do with his dick if Yavana herself descended." Only one or two quiet snickers round the table met this latest sally.

"Naw." replied Damrod, growing tired of the man's malcontent. "Got to keep himself clean don't he? Won't do bringing the pox back to the palace." The lieutenant sensed their gaze upon him and looked up, unruffled by the attention. Quickly the table found their tankards very interesting.

"Doesn't seem to stop his brother." The men laughed out loud at that. Boromir's exploits were of course a thing of legend.

"Aye" Anborn took a noisy pull on his pint. The newest private in the troop, he was sympathetic to Faramir's plight, which matched his own. "But that one's blessed with the Valar's own luck. Besides, what does the lieutenant need with a scrawny wench when he's got a duchess?"

"'E never…" Four pairs of wide eyes looked on him in disbelief. The private elaborated, enjoying for once his attentive audience.

"Not stupid he is. Older women know what their doing. He gets them letters on fancy paper regular. Sometimes more 'an one. I know the seal of Lossarnach, it's my home. Mark me, he's the Duchess's latest favourite." A man whistled low and there were nods all around. It seemed entirely plausible. With new found, but grudging, respect for the young lieutenant they returned to their drinks and talk of other matters.

Faramir, unaware that an enduring rumour had been born that very minute, had put aside Amerith's letter and opened the one from Boromir. It was unusually thick. He scanned the hastily scrawled pages, words uneven as if written on a rough surface. Even he had to squint hard at the looping letters in parts; his brother's handwriting, unlike his own elegant script, was atrocious.

The first few pages contained his brother's customary terse responses to Faramir's previous letter. It was only once family news from Dol Amroth had been relayed that Boromir revealed the real reason for having written. Faramir read it with growing dismay.

Well brother mine..it has happened at last. I always thought it would be something Father did to you that would make me lose control. I find myself shocked that it was something he has done to me.

I was called back to Minas Tirith 3 weeks past and he met me in the evening in his study.

Lord Anfalas was already there and they seemed quite pleased about some negotiation. I was utterly shocked by Father's next words. He turned to me and said I was to greet my future father. No word, no warning or consultation. I felt gut riven.

I can scarcely credit it even now. He has sold my life and happiness to this man in exchange for a promise of money and land and 1000 troops. He has done it with no thought for myself or I presume the slip of a girl involved. She is fourteen. A child.

I do not know how I kept myself from challenging him there and then. I stood mute, while they discussed contracts and details, not listening to what was said. I could tell from the Lord's expression he was surprised to find me so surprised, but he yapped on about my meeting her when next I was back from patrol. Ysabet is her name. My future wife. Gods Fara, just the word makes me sick to write it now.

Of course when Lord Anfalas left we quarrelled bitterly. Nothing I said could change his mind: that I was too busy with the company to look after a wife; that I did not wish to marry someone I had not chosen; that I did not wish to marry; that you could carry on our House if I did not. You can imagine how he reacted to that last.

Finally, I lost my temper and flat out told him no. That he could take the girl and marry her himself if he wanted to bind Anfalas even tighter to Gondor. At that his face twisted with a rage I only remember once before. He raised his hand to strike me but I caught it and when I shoved his arm away I was so angry I gripped too hard. I know I hurt him and at that moment I was so miserable I could have cared less.

He would not listen, raging and shouting about my duty and my fealty. Once I would have said he thought of Gondor first, mother second but us third. Now I am not so sure he thinks of us at all. We are merely pawns in the war he needs to win. The father I knew would have never done this; not this way, so callously.

He ordered me out. We have not spoken since.

I would do my duty in any way he asked, risk every drop of my blood for Gondor, save this. I will not be a hostage to the politics of governing. I had not realized how little I want my birthright until this moment. I am meant to be a soldier not an administrator, not bound to a chair by the chains of office. If 10,000 years would not suffice for the Steward to become a King, as he has told me oft, then what does it matter which son becomes the Steward? You would do a far better job than I.

You can rest assured that now I too am more than capable of displeasing him. In fact I suspect this pains him more than anything you have ever done, for he did not see it coming.

I need not tell you to burn this when you are done. I hope that we can see each other and talk before Ivanneth at least.

Valar guard and guide you on your patrols.

Your loving brother

Boromir

Faramir stood up and strode quickly to the hearth, threw in the pages and watched while the paper quickly curled and turned to ash. He sighed heavily. There could be no comfort in knowing that for now he had company as the object of his father's displeasure. For all his years of coping, of learning to take their Father's unreasonable anger; to let it wash over him and not react, he could think of nothing to say that would help Boromir in this. Pawns indeed, he thought unhappily, pawns indeed.

~~~ooo~~~

The pony had galloped as fast as his short legs would take him into the forecourt of the barracks; eyes wild and foam flecked. The young boy and girl bareback upon him had terror in their eyes and smoke within their hair. It took but a moment for the alarm to be raised. Orcs, a large band of them. Looking west, the Captain could just make out the smoke now rising from burning farm.

They rode out with all haste but half strength: by some ill-luck Madril had already taken part of the company north to patrol early that very morning. As the troop of riders overtopped the low swale they saw a band of thirty Orc-like creatures armed with spears and swords laying waste to the farmsted.

Eldacar, with the quick and practised assurance, assessed their strength and ordered them to meet the enemy. "Not too many. We need to make as quick work of them as we can." He eyed his second. "Gallan, secure the sted and clear it out, get the men on fire duty as soon as you can. See to any casualities." The man nodded and quickly assembled a group of men. The Captain turned back to his young lieutenant. "Faramir, take ten men and loop around the west paddock. Drive them toward me and we will crush them in the middle. Watch the spears. "

There was barely time for Faramir's nod to register before the cry went up, as the troops wheeled into formation. "Gondor!"

Faramir's mouth was dry and his heart raced as Mithros pounded down the hard-packed field, his men close set behind. Intense sun beat down and nearly blinded him as they turned back east. This was no drill. He heard the ululating war cry of the Orcs as they quickly realized a greater foe had come. As ordered, he and his men formed a line and charged, driving them forward onto his Captain's wall of steel. Already several Orcs had fallen against Eldacar's onslaught and the men beside: the light Orc armour no match for Gondorian blades.

Then it happened. A few of the foul creatures turned to fight and Faramir found himself engaging blows with the enemy at last. The Orc's short sword, corroded and black but with a wicked edge, shook violently as it he blocked its thrust. The ijolite flashed cool sapphire in the sun as his sword rose again and fell, slashing the creature with yellow fangs before him. Feral eyes widened in shock, its chest opened, blade falling from its now boneless grasp. The scent was putrid. A far part of Faramir's mind marvelled at how easily the creature cleaved.

Eldacar, across the yard, now found his way oddly light. Resistance had melted suddenly away. He did not understand, there had been more. For a worried moment he wondered if this was trap, were they being drawn out? Out of the corner of his eye he spied with dismay where the Orcs had gone.

Faramir was overrun. A dozen of the creatures had swarmed the one man, heedless of their backs and the soldiers around. Surrounded on all sides, Mithros laid his ears back and bared his teeth; lashing out with forelegs and hindquarters. Faramir, a dark yet calmly dangerous look in his eyes, wheeled the stallion with his knees as he drove his sword repeatedly down upon his foes. The creatures scrabbled at the man's legs and the horses sides trying to pull him down, but they were no match for Nogrod steel. Each time the Orc's claws and blades came close Faramir would stab and slash, but even as he dispatched one, another pressed from the other side.

"Gondor!" the Captain called, as he cut his way across, his blade a rain of red cutting through the throng. Just as he arrived, the two closest men to Faramir joined in. The stench of Orc blood became intense, but under it he could smell the iron tang of man. Amidst the clash of steel, howls of Orc and cries of men and horse, he heard a word repeated. 'Kal murg' the foul creatures cried as they threw themselves in a frenzy against his lieutenant. He had no time to worry at their odd behaviour, intent for now upon freeing the space around him.

Redoubling their efforts, the Captain and his men felled creature after creature, until all the filth around Faramir before them had been dispatched. Panting, Eldacar turned Sirion back to the yard and took in the scene. Not a single Orc was standing and back by the house he spied another pile of bodies from Gallan's men. The lieutenant pumped his hand and motioned that all was secure there. He could see the men carry out a wounded man and his shaken wife. Blessedly, it seemed there were little casualty. The fire had been confined to the barn and smouldered slowly; nearly out.

Eldacar rubbed absently at the scar beside his eye as he dismounted and looked over the pile of still warm corpses beside. Their armour bore an odd badge emblazoned upon the breast: a white hand upraised. What did it mean? He shoved a sprawled black body absently with his boot. A veteran of thirty years in Gondor's army he had never seen Orcs that looked like this. Larger, with narrower faces, blacker than night itself. More manlike. He shivered, and the hairs on the back of his neck raised.

Faramir dismounted slowly. His legs felt wobbly and his body suddenly stiff and heavy. His leg stung and pain jolted in his calf as he landed. Holding onto the saddle lightly for support, he checked Mithros carefully for wounds. The stallion had claw and bite marks upon his flank and hocks, but nothing that looked too serious. He pranced as Faramir tried to run his hands along his quivering legs, the horse as keyed up as his master by their first skirmish. Thala mellon nim he murmured low. The battle fever was slowly leaving them, both tired but both quietly pleased with how they had performed. Mithros gave a small whinny and Faramir smiled.

"Are you wounded?" His captain asked quietly as he walked up behind, a troubled look upon his craggy face. The men of Faramir's wing had dismounted and clustered around. Unneeded for the moment, like him, they checked their mounts' condition first.

"No, sir." Faramir's reply was firm as he shook his head.

"What were they yelling? Why did they like your mug so much?" Eldacar's sixth sense prickled once again, thinking back to the foul Orcish cries as they tried to grab the man.

"He's pretty, they fancied him." The speaker was quickly shushed, as the Captain looked quickly over but could not see the culprit.

'Wanted to know their fortune more likely.' This brought more general laughter and even Eldacar could not resist the briefest of smirks. Just for good measure he gave them all a quelling look and Gallan, having joined them, stepped over and clipped Denham on the head. "Feckin idiots. This is serious."

"Kal Murg" Faramir repeated quietly, a puzzled frown upon his face. 'I do not know what it means. But Murg I think is horse.'

Orcs looking and behaving oddly, attacking in daylight and swarming one man. Eldacar did not like this turn of events. Not one bit. Distracted by the bantering and his own thoughts, belatedly he noticed that his young lieutenant had a dark stain seeping through his breeches on the back of his leg.

"Lad." The Captain's voice was low, pitched just for the two of them and its tone was unmistakeably tinged with anger. "You do not lie to me. Ever. Especially about a wound. Out here something slight can kill if it is not treated."

Clear grey eyes looked abashed. Silently Faramir turned and showed his captain the four inch gash across his calf. A cut from an Orc-blade, it wasn't too deep but bled steadily and would need to be stitched. And watched. Dirty weapons made for dirty wounds.

The older man swore colourfully and long. He would have to write a report to the Steward after all.

~~~ooo~~~

The fruit of Laurelin, fair Anor burned as brightly down that day upon the black spires of Isengard as she did upon fields and forests of Druadan. The fortess's very stone became a furnace, gripping her fires within its core, twin to the fire of hate that lay within the wizard's breast. Perched high, above the breeding pits and forges, the Orthanc-stone reluctantly showed it master a vision: the parched and smoking yard; the young Steward's son limping carefully as he helped the men pile the Orc bodies on a pyre. So, he will not be dispatched so easily. Saruman's long and skilful fingers stroked the stone, the vision dissolved, this time to show the plains of west Emnet. It is time use my arts..

~~~ooo~~~

T.A. 3002

Theodred, Prince of Rohan, crumpled the parchment within his mailed fist, beyond annoyed at the words writ upon it. How dare that lickspittle demand anything from me? The exhausted messenger kneeling before him swallowed nervously. He had ridden far and fast to bring what seemed obviously unwelcome news. Keeping still, he hoped he would not feel the weight of his Prince's famous temper.

Theodred shook his blond head and furrowed his brow, incensed that Grima would order him to send his second to council. What a bloody waste, he thought. Elfhelm and Eomer will not welcome this either. It would only be more useless talk in circles, a particular tactic it seemed of his father's oily advisor. Why does Father put any credence in the man?

Looking down pensively at the still kneeling young Rider he gestured to the man to rise.

"Get yourself some food and await a response." he ordered. Though quick to anger, he would never vent his spleen unjustified upon his men.

"Géa min æðeling. " the Rider murmured, hand to heart and with alacrity rose and moved away.

The Prince turned and walked towards the camp fire, nodding at his men absently as he passed. The spring air was yet chill, the fire blessedly warm against the twilight. He crouched down and reached toward the flames, watched with relish as the parchment caught. Holding it upright for a moment, the end burned brightly, he tossed it quickly in. One day, he thought, one day I will have that Worm's throat between my hands and we will see who demands from whom.

Theodred's first reaction was of course to refuse, but as his ire slowly faded he considered their situation. Perhaps this could be put to use. He and his eored had spent three weeks ranging near the Gap, where villagers have talked with fear of odd creatures come down from the Dunland hills. He would not normally have given them much credence, folk can be superstitious, but his intuition has been pricked. He misliked the reports: fell Orc-like creatures that do not shun the light and attacked in day, come down the Isen. That flattering, pandering wizard is behind it somehow he thinks, although he has no proof. He must tell his father, and that at least required a messenger sent to Edoras. Reluctantly he decided to acquiesce. Unfolding his long legs, he rose up above the flames.

"Alfgrim!" Much taller than the other Riders, the blood of Rohan and Numenor in his veins, the Prince's booming voice carried across the camp to where his captain stood, instructing the scouts on the evening's patrol.

"My Lord?" Alfgrim pushed past the milling men. Patiently he awaited his friend's instruction.

Theodred could not help the grin that creased his handsome face. His Prince's right hand both on and off the field, Alfgrim was newly married, still very much taken with his young and lovely wife. "Ready yourself at once, min freówine. You ride for Edoras." The Rider's bushy blond eyebrows raised in delighted surprise.

"The reason, my Prince?" Why not just send a messenger back if there was a reply? As much as he appreciated the gesture, the captain knew something was clearly afoot.

"A council. Grima has asked for you specifically." Alfgrim's expression twists into a grimace as he turned and spat upon the ground. Theodred's smile widened even more as placed his hand upon the captain's shoulder.

"My sentiments exactly. You must know that I will be in your debt. You will save me committing murder at another of these endless councils. Perhaps Grima has finally realized I cannot stand to listen to his prattle." The Captain grinned. The Prince's exuberance and energy were as much a thing of legend as his dislike of his father's chief advisor.

"And you can spend some time with Godwyn." Theodred's grey eyes danced, pleased to see the flush of happiness that crept up his old friend's cheeks. "Come and we shall discuss my message to the King."

"I will my lord."

They went to find the messenger.

~~~ooo~~~

Some hours later, not five leagues from their encampment, both horses riding hard caught their fetlocks upon the snare, tumbled to the golden plain and threw their mounts. The Uruk-hai, well-hidden in the waving grass, rose up. The messenger they slew, the startled captain they grabbed and bound, as he thrashed and fought with all his might. At last they had their prize.

~~~ooo~~~

Fatigue showed clearly upon the Istari's face, lit starkly by the fires within black Orthanc's deepest cellars. He had laboured long and long through the moonless night with tongs and bellows. New rings of power have been hammered, beaten and fired, as he dripped with sweat at the unaccustomed exertion. To direct the rings more surely only his hand had the making of them; his malice and intent turned with ruthless efficiency to physical force.

Three rings of power, glowing red, lay upon the cooling tile. One is a finger ring for his direction, two are arm rings to affect the change. Each bears an inscription, a name, that burned darkly red against the golden metal.

Fear marked the Rohir's face as he lay naked and shivering upon the filthy straw beside the forge. Exhausted and bewildered, chained at hands and feet, he tried to fold his midriff, desperate to ease the pain from the beating he received. He did not understand. Yes Theodred had suspicions of Saruman's desire for expansion, but surely the wizard was not an outright enemy of Rohan? Yet, how else to understand his capture?

Alfgrim cannot guess what is to happen, the uncertainly only amplified his fear. What is this place and what is the wizard doing? He watched as water was splashed across the tile to cool two rings. Slowly and deliberately the wizard muttered an incantation. Afar Melkor madom na inglan. Tab orka na ui-narg ângh. Marr pusk ob tak shara latan. Agh sha-uruk tak forik shakrig. The Rohir does not recognize the language but even its words sound foul. As Saruman slid the finger ring upon his right hand he smiled. The smooth warm metal sang to his heart and at his howl of triumph Alfgrim's bowels suddenly turn to water.

The scent of fear now hung heavily in the room, its air already heavy with words of power. With a ragged breath, the Rider raised his head up, strove to keep his eye upon his foe. Somehow he must survive, must warn the Prince and King that the Keeper of Isengard is turned traitor.

The first arm ring, inscribed with Alfgrim's name, is passed to an Uruk-Hai standing still and silent beside the forge. Ganen, bred from an Uruk and Dunadan woman of Bree, is tall and broad of chest and black-skinned. An unusual intelligence glinted in his tiny slanted eyes. He is impatient for his mission, proud that he has been called to this special errand for the master. He does not fear the sun or man, the fiercest and foulest of his generation.

The arm ring lay comfortably warm upon his palm as he tested its weight. With a grunt of approval Ganen slid the ring up his naked arm. It came to rest glinting gold against the creature's black and scabby skin.

Slowly the wizard raised the remaining ring with heated tongs, muttering all the while. He paced forward and nodded to his minions. Two other Uruk-Hai sprang forward, grabbed Alfgrim's right arm and held it outward. Realization dawned within the captive's red-rimmed eyes. Pinned fast though he is, the Rider struggled desperately. With one swift move Saruman shoved the burning ring up to the Rider's bicep. As it sealed Ganen's name into his very flesh, the hair and skin alike melted to the hungry metal, the tortured man lost all control. Blood curdling screams began to echo through the chamber. Heedless of the sound of pain and terror, Ganen smiled and his face began to change.

~~~ooo~~~

The battle was almost over, the air as heavy now with the stench of foul Orc blood as it was the hot and dusty scent of pine needles crushed below. Boromir, Captain of the White company, dispatched the Orcs before him in a dance of steel-born skill, arm and sword flowing seamlessly from one foe to the next. His blood sang with joy and the smile upon his face behind the helm was wide and fey.

What were they thinking, this party, he wondered, attacking near to Cair Andros so brazenly? Scouts had warned the companies and with ease they had set up a position along the wooded ridge: set to sweep down upon the band from high above. One hundred strong, they were no match for the fewer men of Gondor. He scanned the field. They were making quick work of their foe, so far with little casualty.

Unpressed and blithely slaying all before him, Boromir glanced over and spared a thought for his new lieutenant. Frankly amazed that their father had placed Faramir under his command so soon, he had delighted in the chance to have him by his side. Covertly he watched his brother's movements for a moment. Graceful and forceful; Faramir was becoming a fine swordsman and excellent lieutenant, always quick to see what needed to be done on the battlefield. They worked well together. His little brother seemed to know what Boromir needed even before he himself knew enough to ask.

"Eorlingas!" The cry rang out beyond Faramir, where Alfgrim's sword ran black with the blood of another Orc. This too had been a surprise: that Theodred would let his second go and Theoden should send him here to Gondor. Friends of old, they reminisced of their time together raising hell and breaking hearts; the year he himself had served with Theodred. Kindred spirits were Alfgrim and the heirs of Rohan and Gondor: men of energy and courage; great strength and even greater pride.

The only note of discord came as Alfgrim talked long of Rohan and the doings there. Faramir watched the man each time warily, distrust and uncertainty plain upon his face. Many times Boromir had asked what troubled his brother so about the man. He could not explain, save to say that his mind seemed oddly blank and guarded. Boromir choose to leave his brother be, not interfering when the young man rudely declined a drink from the Rohir's hand or sidled away repeatedly.

By fate the chances of the battlefield brought the two combatants now close together. Faramir worked quickly and efficiently, a growing pile of Orc bodies laid out before him. Snarling and slavering the latest beast lunged, its curved black blade finding only air where before there had been a man.

Through the cries and clanging metal, Faramir heard a man's startled cry of pain. He glanced mid-blow down the line and saw Tardil back away, bright blood welling quickly from his side. With weight and force behind his counter-strike, he pressed ahead. The Orc before him was disarmed: the stones of ijolite flashed briefly as his sword withdrew from within the creature's leather helm.

"Faramir to me!" Alfgrim plea was urgent, he too had seen the wounded man. The lieutenant and the captain moved to close the gap: the two, blond- and raven-haired, worked quickly side by side. Together they cleared the last few Orcs from upon their flank, standing over the young soldier now prone upon the ground.

As Faramir slew the last vile creature before him, he turned quickly back to Tardil and scanned the ranks behind to find a healer. Intent upon his task, he did not register that Alfgrim, unopposed, had moved to stand beside him.

Upon the battlefield where all around are distracted. Such were the orders Ganen had when he set out. Far away, watching and wielding a red gold ring, Saruman ordered "Now!"

A flash of green and silver upon a shining blade was the last thing that Faramir saw before the Rohir's sword came arcing down.

A/N: 'Valar guard and guide' I first saw in Isabeau of Greenlea's Captain my Captain. It seems so fitting a benediction I have borrowed it here. I hope she doesn't mind.

The Black speech incantation doesn't have a real translation..I could only find some of the words, so a several of the words used above have no translation

Regarding Theodred's heritage: His grandmother was Morwen of Lossarnach, he is 1/4 Numenorean, as are Eomer and Eowyn.

Thank you everyone for reading and reviewing.