Thengel glared at the looming walls of the Rammas Echor where a cluster of black and silver liveried guards stood in attendance beneath a dripping sky. The air felt cool enough, but the soupy spring weather made everything stick to Thengel's skin and caused him to sweat.

The portion of wall along the South Road looked in such disrepair that Thengel wondered why they bothered to post anyone at the checkpoint. Any traveler with the least ambition to climb over the Rammas Echor undetected need only tread a mile or so off the road to find a gap in the stone and mortar. When Thengel asked Ecthelion about it years ago, his friend merely shrugged and said the real defense lay in Ithilien anyway.

And what if the threat ever came from the river? Thengel had asked.

Anyone wanting to invade Gondor's southern flank will remember what happened at Poros, my friend, and think better of it, Ecthelion replied.

That was an expensive victory for my people, Thengel had wanted to say. It cost the king's heir and his twin brother, leaving the throne their younger brother, Fengel. But how could Thengel say so without sounding embittered? And so the wall crumbled on.

They passed the guards who eyed Thengel's small company shyly, offering idle remarks on the bad weather and a few hesitant welcomes. Men who didn't work with Thengel's outfit didn't know what to think of him or his honor guard. Was he one of them or not? He wore the white tree when he fought, didn't he?

Through the gate, the trees thinned out, opening into the pale green plain of Pelennor. Conversation along the road had been sporadic at best, but it picked up again now they were on familiar turf. Thengel wondered if each of the other men felt they were slinking away from awkward family business they had no right to witness, like he did. If so, then the closer they drew to the White City the more they seemed to forget. Gladhon and Thurstan were beginning to see the humor in their brief stay in Imloth Melui. Gladhon went so far as to admit feeling envious of Guthere's position.

"Guthere will grow spoiled," he said.

"If you wish to convalesce in Lady Morwen's household," Cenhelm said gravely, "first you must face the old crone with the chisel and hammer."

Gladhon paled. Neither he nor Thurstan were present for the surgery, but he knew Nanneth from growing up in the valley. He had also seen her handiwork on Guthere.

Thengel rode ahead of the others toward the high gates of the seven-story mountain spur that rose into a haze of low clouds. Gladhon could try anyone's patience. Besides, he wanted a moment to himself while he could still enjoy the luxury. He felt that the nearer they rode toward Minas Tirith, the nearer he came to duty, that constant thumb that pinned down his hopes and reminded him that home was like the little lights in a swamp. Enticing but ultimately unreachable. Oppressive in its elusiveness.

Remembering the brief reprieve in Morwen's presence did little to alleviate his dread going forward. The way he left Bar-en-Feren still did not sit well with him. He had studied Morwen's profile, the icy line of her lips, and the way she had stubbornly refused to look at him while he made excuses. Her feelings were hurt and she wasn't going to allow it to happen again. In that instant, he had recognized the resemblance between Morwen and her cousin Adrahil in her bearing. It reminded him of the proud woman who had stood over Guthere's side even though the sight of blood made her ill.

Not all shields could be held in hand, Thengel reflected, but they were shields nonetheless. He simply hadn't expected she would need one where he was concerned. It bothered Thengel. And yet, he thought cynically, he would soon forget that uncomfortable feeling soon enough. He always did.

…

The road met the thoroughfare from the Harlond the traffic to and from the city. They could see the great gates of Minas Tirith looking dull in the gloom. Cenhelm road up beside Thengel, taking his customary place at the prince's right hand. Thurstan rode closely behind.

"Look," said Gladhon, pointing ahead. "Pages. They've spotted you."

"We haven't passed the Old Guesthouse yet," Cenhelm muttered to Thengel with only a trace of sarcasm. "Brace yourself."

Thengel followed Cenhelm's line of sight. He saw two boys rush through the gates, to the annoyance and snarls of the guards posted there. One boy had straw-colored hair and the other had hair the color of crows and dressed in black and silver livery. Thengel watched as they tried to outpace each other, kicking up dirt and garbage behind, splashing through puddles, until they disappeared around the curve in the city wall. Who would be the first to inform either the Marshal or the Steward that the prodigal had returned?

"Gladhon, I bet you ten silver pieces that Marshal Oswin hears the news first," Thurstan ribbed, unwittingly mirroring Thengel's thoughts.

"If I ever have ten silver pieces in my purse at one time, friend," Gladhon's lips curled around the word, "I'd rather present them to a worthy publican than hand them over to you."

Thurstan smiled crookedly. "So you admit the little Gondorian is slower?"

"I didn't say that."

"Yet you refuse to wager."

"What do the Rohirrim know about running? You're all so short you need a horse to do it for you."

"Not too short to introduce you to my boot…"

Thengel tuned out the growing argument between his guards by minding the market day hum around him. He breathed in the stink of the first level, immediately propelled backward into his first memories of entering the city. At eighteen, his first impression was of piss and hot southern spices. Now that stench had stamped itself into his brain so that every time entered the city he felt eighteen again. Perhaps less afraid after 20 years, but still burdened.

The horses passed through the crush of bodies as one. There was always heavy traffic in the first level, of vendors coming to and from market, changing patrols, and wains carrying the cargo coming in from the Harlond. But it wasn't until the upper levels that the tone of the traffic changed and Thengel could pick out golden and auburn heads beneath the taller, straighter Gondorians with their black and brown hair. The conversation in the street blended and then fractured into a cacophony of voices, questions, demands, interjections in a language that both flowed and elbowed its way out of one's throat.

"Se Æþeling!"

"Hwelc beorn?"

"Ic ne wisse. Ic I seah hem naefre.*

"What are the foreigners saying?" Thengel heard a Gondorian housewife shout from a window.

"How should I know?" her neighbor answered.

"Thengel Æþeling!"

It reached a crescendo when they neared the stables in the sixth circle and were greeted by a delegation of straw-headed men, gathered together after news from the forerunners had spread. Naturally the place to find a horse lord was at the one public stable in the city of pedestrians.

Hands reached up to grab at Thengel's cloak. They received sharp checks with the sheathed, flat side of a hunting knife Cenhelm kept tucked in his belt.

"Now everyone stand back and give the prince some room." Cenhelm repeated the order in Rohirric.

To Thengel's relief, citadel guards appeared through the archway to quell the crowd.

The relief ended abruptly when a voice as old and deep as stone bellowed, "Thengel Fengelson! To me."

The mob parted around a man, clearly old, but remarkably hale. His hair was tied back in three heavy, white braids. On the man's hauberk, partially obscured by his long beard, stood a device of the lords of Aldburg, knotwork of two rampant horses embossed in gold.

Marshal Oswin.

Thengel felt his uncle's appraisal, but the man's eyes gave away neither approval nor disapproval. He didn't know what to do with…nothing. Whatever concessions Thengel had made to Cenhelm back in the peace of Imloth Melui, he now heartily regretted it.

"It is good to see you, sister-son, even with that deranged expression on your face." His accent was thick in Thengel's ears, yet he spoke as someone at home with the Common Tongue. "Has something disturbed your state of mind?"

"Too much humidity," Thengel replied. Easier to admit that then to the internal conflicts his uncle always evoked. He attempted to rearrange his face, but since he had no idea what he looked like, he gave up.

…

All men, Gondorian and Rohirrim alike, melted away in Oswin's presence. Stabling the horses turned into a quiet affair. Even the ostler couldn't be found.

Thengel's residence lay between two abandoned houses on the sixth level nearest the stables. The uppity Gondorian nobles who once occupied each house complained about the horsey smells and the bad humors they produced. No other owners could be tempted. At least, that's the reason for abandonment that Ecthelion gave Thengel years ago when he bought his place. Thengel liked the proximity to the stable, if only for the privacy from neighbors. In the summer though, the smell did tend to raise its head off the sunbaked stone and blow raspberries.

"I suppose you would like an account of our movements," Thengel said to Oswin as they passed into the small courtyard.

"Tomorrow," Oswin answered genially, "after you've had a rest. I will hear Cenhelm's report first."

Thengel frowned. Was this a report as Thengel's handler or as the leader of an honor guard? He looked at Cenhelm, who stared stoically ahead, and caught Oswin doing the same. Cenhelm had the unfortunate job of maneuvering between a rock and a hard place as long as the Marshal's visit lasted. Thengel almost felt sorry for him.

Eriston, Thengel's seneschal, stood at the bottom of the stairs to greet them. When they were nearer, the old servant bowed.

"Welcome home, my lord."

Thengel tried not to flinch at the word home. In Oswin's presence, it embarrassed him.

"Thank you, Eriston." Thengel took a closer look at the man. He looked drawn and pale. Oswin could have that effect on people. "Are you well?"

"Perfectly well, my lord," Eriston said weakly.

Thengel decided to have a word later with his uncle.

Once inside, Oswin and Cenhelm disappeared into the adjoining room. With a nod, Thengel dismissed Gladhon and Thurstan, who wandered up the stairs to their rooms. This left him alone with Eriston who had a tendency to melt into the background like a decorative column.

Thengel remained just inside the door with Eriston torn between standing attendance and wanting to shut it.

"Did you have a pleasant journey, my lord?"

"It was eventful, at least," Thengel answered, half distracted. Then he said, "There's something off here."

Eriston's gray eyebrows drifted toward his hairline. "Is there, my lord?"

"Yes." Thengel walked deeper into the corridor and looked over every inch of space. It all looked the same. Just a long passage with a row of doors on one side, the stairs on the other that led to the second and third floors, and at the end the door he assumed lead to the kitchen. At least, that's where the food smell came from. He never bothered to find out for certain, which suited Eriston just fine. The seneschal liked to keep definite lines drawn between where Thengel belonged and where the servants belonged. In Rohan, lines like that were used for playing hopscotch, especially since most everyone was related to each other by some degree. He had a distinct memory of being paddled as a child by the cook in Meduseld, a distant cousin on his mother's side, after he'd taken a few liberties with a meat pie intended for his father. Come to think of it, she probably received a lot worse than a paddling when Fengel noticed the pie's absence at the evening meal.

His mind returned to the present and his eyes told him that the house looked totally unaltered. And yet, he could feel some shift in the atmosphere.

"What has been going on here since my uncle arrived, Eriston?"

Eriston's cheeks turned a delicate pink. "Forgive me, my lord, but the Marshal has seldom been in residence since his arrival last week. I believe he has been mainly with the Steward." The servant tried to reach for Thengel's bags.

"I've got them," Thengel muttered.

Eriston sniffed as Thengel passed him for the stairs. "Shall I prepare the bath, sir?"

"Tomorrow. Just a bowl of water for now."

For some unknown reason - call it instinct - Thengel didn't want to leave his uncle unsupervised for too long. It was a case of keep your enemies close and your tyrannical relatives closer lest they plot in your absence.

…

Thengel dressed after his bath the next morning. The corridors were silent as he descended to the rooms where his uncle had taken up residence in his absence. The door to the study stood open and he sniffed appreciatively at the warm, spiced smell of breakfast.

The study had transformed into a military camp. His desk had a map draped over it and a few others rolled on top. Oswin's battle gear commanded one corner, while another sported a collapsible stool.

"Good morning," he said. "Shall I help you raise a tent in here too?"

Oswin turned away from a tray of dark sausages to cast his heavy gaze on Thengel. The older man's eyes were milkier blue than Thengel remembered.

"Good morning to you, Thengel," Oswin said affably. "Help yourself. I had Eriston bring breakfast in here."

He wasn't sure he liked how Oswin had adopted his servants as his own, but he was too tired to complain. After all, it meant not waiting for food. But he did have one observation to make.

"Why not eat breakfast in the dining room? That's what it's for."

Oswin gave him a sharp look. "I don't hold with rooms having one purpose. Waste of space."

Thengel scratched the back of his neck. "What about bedrooms?"

"Being a bachelor, I suppose you wouldn't know better," Oswin retorted.

Thengel shrugged.

He helped himself to a sausage and a few hothouse grapes before he trusted himself to speak again. When he did, he said, "So, you didn't bring half the Riddermark."

Oswin nodded. "You noticed they were all soldiers."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you with the lack of fanfare this year, but you see, you never come. It's hard to convince women and their fathers to travel a fourth time when you've managed to evade them all before. "

"So you came by yourself?"

"Well, someone should be on hand for your birthday. After all, this marks twenty years that you've been away." Oswin set his plate down. "And I've brought you a gift."

Oswin walked to a side table and picked up a simple wooden box with a bronze clasp. Opening the lid, he lifted a silver horn resting on a soft linen pillow. He held it out to Thengel.

"The Horn of the Mark."

The heirloom had belonged to Eorl. Generations of kings had passed it down to their sons. Thengel had to stop himself from sighing at the sight of it. He wiped his hands on his tunic before he picked it up and cradled it. It felt much lighter and smaller than when he had last held it. The runes and knotwork etched into the metal were as clear now as when he had first seen it.

He remembered having to sneak into his father's bedchamber as a small boy and ferreting out the box from where the king had hidden it under the bed. Thengel had learned at a young age that Fengel did not take kindly to his heir handling the treasures reserved for the king. Those were the early signs of his father's paranoia. Bile rose in Thengel's throat along with an implication.

He studied Oswin's impassive face. "Why are you giving this to me now? It must be important."

"Of utmost importance."

Thengel's heart guttered like a candle flame in a breeze. "Fengel King—"

Oswin's beard twitched. "Is alive and well, if somewhat bilious. That is not why I brought it."

The adrenaline rolled off of Thengel like water from a duck's back. He took series of deep breaths before his heart slowed down. He could watch an old woman pop off a piece of Guthere's skull without a twitch, but the possibility of a coronation made his hands shake. Thengel sat down in the nearest chair, still cupping the horn.

"Good news, then. Have a seat." He hooked his boot around the leg of the nearest straight-backed chair and dragged it toward his uncle.

Oswin accepted the seat and took his time observing his nephew. "Wynlaf wanted you to have it, truth be told," he admitted.

Thengel used his tunic to studiously polish off a bit of finger grease from the silver lip. He didn't look up when he asked, "How is Mother?"

Oswin said nothing. What had Thengel expected? That between her husband and her son she felt rung out and at her wits end? He realized he couldn't remember the sound of her voice, that over the years even in his memory of their conversations, she had begun to sound like Oswin. Perhaps if she had learned to read and write then Thengel would have her own letters to keep her voice and tone alive in his memory. But very few of the Rohirrim ever learned to speak Westron, let alone to read and write. He sometimes regretted the oral aspect of their traditions. It made his isolation that much more complete when every piece of news from home had to be translated by his uncle, a soldier.

"Why did she choose the horn?" Thengel asked. He turned the heirloom over in his hands. It felt strange to have it here in Minas Tirith and he half wished to make Oswin take it away again. Stranger still, he hadn't known how hungry he felt for a memento of Rohan.

"She thought her son might need the reminder of his duty to the Mark."

Thengel remembered Oswin telling him that Queen Wynlaf had a way of maneuvering the king when she thought it was worth the effort. He hadn't believed his uncle then, but he was beginning to see it for himself. Oswin alone couldn't have managed so many concessions on his nephew's behalf without aid.

Maybe the queen believed she could maneuver Thengel as well. The thought rankled him. He got up, replaced the horn on the cushion and closed the lid over the so-called reminder of duty. He let the anger pass through his fingers until he felt empty. Then he tried to swallow whatever pride he still possessed in the presence of the man who had seen him at his worst.

"I've been thinking about that," he finally answered. "My duties."

Oswin's bushy eyebrows lifted and he looked keenly at Thengel. "Have you? Well. We will talk about that soon." He waved a beefy hand in an airy fashion as if it were neither here nor there. "Sit down a moment. I want to hear what you have been up to. Your rare letters contain so little. Where did you say you had been?"

Thengel remained standing. Something about Oswin's carefree attitude did not sit right with him. He would wait for the hammer to fall while on his feet. "I didn't say. Perhaps Cenhelm told you last night?"

"He was circumspect in his report." Oswin pursed his lips in a sour fashion. "I will also point out that the Steward said he didn't know where you'd gone. I know you are past the age of needing a guardian, but I will tell you that did not please me."

Thengel tried to imagine the look of displeasure on Turgon's face after being grilled by Fengel King's marshal as to the whereabouts of the Steward's former charge.

"He didn't know."

"How is that possible? Are you not one of his captains?"

"I report to Ecthelion." Thengel retrieved a few more grapes, his back to Oswin. "I don't tell Turgon so he doesn't have to lie to you."

"You think he would?" Oswin asked sharply.

"Not directly. He can be evasive when he wants to. That's what stewards do."

Oswin harrumphed. "So where were you?"

"Lossarnach."

Thengel paced across the room, popping grapes in his mouth and stretching some of the muscles that were beginning to cramp after riding all day. He used to be able to ride longer without barely feeling a twinge after a few stretches. He didn't want to reflect too long on how that was changing over time.

"Lossarnach." Oswin pulled at his beard. "A fief south of the mountain, north of the river. East of Poros. Decent, arable land."

Thengel gave him a suspicious look. He hadn't expected his uncle to have an encyclopedic knowledge of the fiefs of Gondor. He turned on his heel to look at Oswin's map on the desk. Sure enough, the inked lines of Gondor stood out fresh from the stiff velum. Had the maps been made for Oswin here in the week or so of his stay? Why?

"What brought you to verdant Lossarnach?"

Thengel backed away from the map to face Oswin. "I wished to honor a fallen friend whose family resides there."

"And to avoid me." Oswin pursed his lips.

Thengel never pretended otherwise. "More or less," he said.

"And did you honor your friend, at least?"

Thengel cringed. "No. Well, not directly. We met with an accident. Guthere was brained by a tree."

"Cenhelm did mention that. How is your man recovering?"

"Well, I think. We left him in the best possible care."

"Where?"

"Oh, in Imloth Melui."

"What in Bema's name is that?" Oswin said roughly.

"It's the name of the valley. Sindarin…something to do with flowers, I believe."

"Hmph. Incomprehensible elf tongue. Still, it has a nice ring to it. Imol Mew," Oswin garbled. "Hmm. And you left him there alone?"

Thengel shook his head and passed to the drink stand. "He is in good hands. Want a drink?"

"No. In whose hands did you leave him?"

Thengel smiled privately while his back was turned. "A friend's. I shall have to go back there soon to collect him again."

He found himself looking forward to it, until he remembered Halmir. How long until that mess cleared up? he wondered. Maybe he would write to Guthere for news, or to Morwen herself. Come to think of it, perhaps he had been too hasty in leaving.

Come to think of it, why was any of it his problem? Did he want it to be his problem?

"What are all these, eh?"

Thengel turned to see Oswin perusing a pile of books he had left lying out on an end table before he had ridden off to Lossarnach. His uncle picked one and leafed through a few pages, going the wrong direction.

Thengel squinted over his shoulder at the pages. "Eh. Numenorean death poems. Wait, let me see that." He turned to the title page and read, "translated by Lord Randir of Lossarnach." He stared off at nothing. "Huh."

"Does that mean something to you?"

It did now. It hadn't when he received all the second-hand books from Ecthelion. He handed the volume back to Oswin.

"Who is this fellow?" Oswin asked.

"I never knew him. He's dead."

"Not as a result of this morbid subject, I hope," said Oswin dryly.

Thengel grew thoughtful. "Actually, the poems were beautiful to read." He wondered if Morwen had read her father's work. Maybe he would bring her the copy. He couldn't recall seeing one in the little library in Bar-en-Ferin.

The book in Oswin's hand shut with a clap. "Reading. Hmph. And I suppose you know our own songs too?"

Thengel sighed. He ought to have known better, he felt, than to walk right into one of Oswin's traps. "How can I memorize Rohirric songs when I can't hear them?" he groused. "You forbade me to have any transcribed."

Oswin looked aghast. "We've never written down any of our songs. I don't see why we should start for you," he said tartly. Then he added, as an afterthought, "I shall send you a bard."

"Don't bother. I haven't the time."

Oswin made a guttural sound in his throat. "No time? You can distinguish yourself in Gondor's service but you have no time to learn about your own country's culture." He gestured among the piles of books within the room. "Thengel, sometimes I'm ashamed of you."

Thengel shrugged and took a drink. He chanted, "Eala þeodnes þrym / Hu seo þrag gweat, genap under nihthelm / swa heo no wæra. / Stondeð nu on laste."**

"Not bad, although a little accented."

Thengel dropped his drink. The glass broke, accompanied by the musical tinkling of shards on stone. He turned on his heels toward the door where a woman had entered with the eerie skill of a ranger.

"Westu Thengel hal," she said with an icy grin. "Béma, you look old."

Thengel knew the woman standing before him, but his senses were confused. It was as if someone had taken a drawing of his sister and overlaid it with rough pencil sketches on wax paper of his mother. He could see her as he had always seen her in his mind, but now there was a hollowness in her cheeks and lines in her skin that tried to obscure his memory. The last time he had seen her, she was twenty-five summers and had hair the color of yellow corn. Now she was double that in age and her hair had faded somewhat over the years to the color of flax drying in a field. She had the red, wind-rough cheeks that all riders of the Mark developed over the years of traversing the plains.

"Wynflaed." That was all Thengel could manage for a long moment. He had known when he entered the house that something was different. Why hadn't Eriston told him?

"Eriston…"

Wynflaed waved her hand and his implied objection. "I gave him incentive to keep the surprise to himself."

With what violent end had she menaced the seneschal to keep him quiet? Thengel knew he had to think of a way to apologize to the man without upsetting his sensibilities. Nobody deserved to have Wynflaed happen to them.

The chair creaked as Oswin rose, looking pleased with himself. "I didn't bring half the Riddermark, as you say - but I did bring your sister. She will be staying behind when I leave. I have full confidence in her ability to handle the negotiations."

"Negotiations?" Thengel said stupidly.

Wynflaed grinned again and Thengel winced, waiting for the twist of the knife.

"Uncle Oswin has enlisted me to find you a princess, broþor min."*** She turned to Oswin. "You did give him the horn, didn't you?"

Thengel crossed his arms, the alternative being to grab a chair to ward her off like a lioness in an Umbarian traveling show. How desperate was his family to control him that they would send a shieldmaiden to act as a matchmaker? And Wynflaed to boot.

"Oh yes?" he growled as the word princess reverberated through his skull. "And what will I be doing?"

"What you're good at," she answered with a voice as dry as birch bark. "Getting out of the way."

All right. Maybe he deserved that dig. But she could at least pretend to be a little pleased to see him after twenty years, Thengel groused inwardly.

And then he had another thought. "If you're ferretting out brides, then why did you come to Gondor?"

…

Full disclosure: This is my clumsy attempt at piecing together Old English. Ye gods.

*Se Aetheling! = The Prince!

Hwelc beorn? = Which man?

Ic ne wisse… = I don't know. I never saw him.

** "Alas for the splendor of the prince! How that time has passed away, dark under the cover of night, as if it had never been." Lines 64-67 from the Anglo-Saxon poem, The Wanderer. Thengel = little shit.

*** My brother.