Minas Tirith

The mountain ranges of Middle-earth looked like a great, two-legged worm. To the north of the map, which lay on Thengel's table, the Grey Mountains formed a forked tail and hind leg, while the Misty Mountains jutted southward into a spine, splitting at the shoulders to become the Ered Nimrais. The hair on the back of Thengel's arm rose as his fingers traced the snarling jaws of the Ered Lithui and Ephel Dúath. They locked around the Black Lands with three hooked teeth and a malicious, snarled lip. In the midst of those great jaws fire swelled into rivers, or had done once. A frightening, fire-breathing head. And now, they knew, it harbored a growing nest for goblin filth.

Within the first week of Thengel's arrival from Lossarnach, Men and Dwarves from Rhovanion had arrived to represent their new kings to Steward Turgon. They carried with them the tidings of the battle of five armies. The event had been concealed from Gondor, though not the aftermath. The unforgiving winter, which arrived early and tarried long in those regions, delayed the messengers, but had not delayed the goblins who had fled in all directions after the rout.

Never in his own lifetime, or his father's lifetime, had the goblins massed so great an army or traveled so far from the protective eaves of their mountains. It reminded Thengel of the tales from the Elder days, which he sometimes read about from books in Turgon's private library.

Thengel would have liked to have seen the Beornings - and the eagles! Elves and Dwarves interested him little. Their careless greed had created ripples that extended out into Ithilien. His finger dipped into the map's pleasant, cool green swirls forming the imaginary dragon's crest. Northern Ithilien. Emyn Arnen. Southern Ithilien. He traced the road down to Lossarnach. In minute script the mapmaker had inked Imloth Melui.

He felt an angry pang on Lady Morwen's behalf. If they had known the upset those Dwarves would cause, Ecthelion could have reinforced the guard in Ithilien, Thengel thought bitterly. They would not have been taken by surprise by the sheer numbers of orcs making for Mordor and all empty lands. Hardang might still be alive to protect his young cousin from his brothers. Instead, the battle had scattered the vermin in all directions like spilled rice.

His thoughts scattered when he heard footsteps outside the sitting room door. He rolled up the map, feeling his shoulders rising stiffly up to his ears. Since he had arrived home, this had become an automatic response to his relations. The steps stopped outside the sitting room and a soft tap of knuckles against wood caused him to relax. Eriston, most likely. Members of his family used their fists.

"Come in."

Eriston entered quietly with a mechanical quality to his long, thin limbs that always reminded Thengel of a stick bug. He had several tunics folded over his arm and a piece of paper in his other hand.

"What would you like me to do with this, my lord? It was hiding at the bottom of your travel bag."

The travel bag had disappeared somewhere in the depths of his wardrobe several weeks ago, Thengel mused. The servant held out a crushed piece of pulpy, handmade paper. Thengel took it and read the name painted across it, remembering Teitherion's instruction to seek out the painting in the Archives. He had resolved to do it, but Oswin (with the help of Wynflaed) kept him on a short leash.

"Thank you, Eriston. I'll keep it." Thengel tucked the card into one of the back signatures of a book lying next to the map. Then he said, "I thought those tunics were clean."

"They are, my lord."

"What are you doing with them?"

"Lady Wynflaed asked to inspect them."

Thengel winced. "What for?"

A muscle jumped in Eriston's cheek. "Lady Wynflaed said, to wit, that she wished to make sure they passed muster, though I assured her I always paid the utmost attention to the care of the garments."

Poor Eriston. Wynflaed's carelessness had bruised his servant's pride more than once since her stay began, leaving Thengel to smooth things over.

"She isn't as familiar with your excellent standards as I am, Eriston. Things are different in Rohan, you see." That seemed to mollify the man a little. At least the tick in his cheek dissolved. "Incidentally, muster for what?"

"The answer is beyond even my imagination, my lord." Eriston shifted, looking uncomfortable, as if admitting a fault. "I have only ever served bachelors."

Thengel cringed, taking the hint. Yes, his sister did have plans for him. He'd never felt this uncomfortable under his own roof before. And now between his uncle and his sister, they were planning to expose him to all manner of mortifications just to make sure the line didn't end in a field or a ditch of Gondor.

Reminded of this, Thengel began to feel that the house felt too warm and too close. He slipped the card from the book, which he set back down in a pile of other volumes he'd rescued from the library.

"Eriston, if anyone's looking for me, I'm headed to the Archives."

"Yes, my lord. And where shall I tell them to find you?"

Thengel grinned. "The old guesthouse?"

Eriston looked gravely at him. "We've used that one before, my lord. It did divert Lady Wynflaed, but the amusement escaped the Marshal."

"It did, didn't it? Training grounds, then." Thengel shrugged. "The sight of a few swords should keep Wynflaed distracted if she comes looking for me. And if my uncle should find himself there, he can comfort himself by complaining about me to Cenhelm."

Eriston blinked. "My lord."

"It's true. They like commiserating together. I can't for the life of me think why," he muttered dryly.

He got up and plucked one of the fresh tunics from Eriston's arms. "Anyway, I'd like to get away without any bother. Distract Wynflaed for me while I change."

Eriston bowed, a little crestfallen, before delivering himself over to his master's frightening sister.

…

Thengel enjoyed two quiet steps toward the door when Wynflaed popped her head out of the study. She stepped fully out when she saw him on the landing. "Uncle wants you before you leave for the Archives."

Eriston! Thengel gritted his teeth. "Traitor."

Wynflaed gave him a dry look. "I almost pity him. If you were more cooperative he wouldn't find himself in such a hard place."

"He works for me, you know," he said, looking at her sideways.

Wynflaed snorted and started fanning herself with a half-crumpled pamphlet she'd taken from his library. She wore a wool dress which, though suitable for a chilly April in Edoras, proved uncomfortably warm for Minas Tirith.

"You should stop worrying about my clothes and have something made for you," he pointed out, noticing the sweat on her upper lip.

"I will," she replied as they entered the library together, "Once you're in order. Lady Idhren provided me with the name of a dressmaker."

"Hurrah," he said under his breath. The relationship between his sister and his friend's wife made him feel vaguely concerned for Idhren's sake – and his own. They could get any amount of information about him from her with only a little flattery and attention.

And if they abused Ecthelion's household the way they abused his, then he would have to make amends. The library bore little resemblance to the quiet, Gondorian reading room it once had been. For one thing, it smelled like an old horse blanket and someone had propped a freshly oiled spear against the wall. Uncle Oswin sat ensconced in Thengel's favorite armchair. He had one of Thengel's books on his lap, paper draped over it while he wrote a letter. Thengel clenched his fingers into fists, imagining the scrawl permanently indenting the leather binding.

"I've offered you the use of my writing desk before, Uncle."

Oswin looked up. "Oh, good morning."

"Wynflaed says you wanted me?"

She chose to lean against the wall, still fanning herself, so Thengel seated himself on the empty couch across from his uncle. Oswin looked down at the papers in his lap, shuffling through them. "We need your opinion on the guest list for the feast Turgon is preparing. Wynflaed's sources have been most helpful in supplying it for us, but I thought you might want to check it over."

"Guest list for what?"

"The Steward's feast for the kings' envoy from Esgaroth," Wynflaed said dispassionately. "Don't tell me you've forgotten."

"Oh. Yes."

They watched him read the names so he kept his expressions neutral. He tossed the page onto the low table between the sofa and his uncle's chair.

"The usual crowd. What of it?"

"Don't you see the opportunity to find a wife? Very convenient, these Lakemen coming here just at this time."

"It won't help your efforts at all. There aren't any Rohirric families on this list."

Oswin and Wynflaed exchanged a look. She shrugged.

"It wouldn't help you if there were," she drawled. "No woman of Riddermark in her right mind will have you."

"Wynflaed, mind your tongue." Oswin stood between the pair. "I didn't bring you to trade insults."

Wynflaed shrugged. "Another time, then."

Oswin ignored her. "Thengel, I hope you won't make this little gesture of ours difficult. We are doing it for you, after all."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to be left alone."

Oswin gave him a sharp look. "Thengel, I warned you that I wanted news of a wedding before the next year ends or steps would be taken. I've kept my boot planted firmly on your father's robes all this time to give you a modicum of peace. Don't fool yourself into thinking that he isn't interested in what you get up to here. Don't make me regret the intervention."

"First, it will take more than a feast for me to find a wife. Second, you can tell Fengel King that he will have to wait until I return to the Mark. I won't choose a wife before then."

"Oh, and why not?" Wynflaed asked.

Thengel rose and walked away from the cluster of chairs and the couch where his family sat. Bema, he hated discussing this subject with his uncle, let alone his older sister whom he hadn't seen in twenty years. Marriage, more than any other aspect of his life, reminded him that his public and private affairs were grafted together. That didn't mean he liked the scrutiny.

"Listen. Whatever you two have planned," he said with forced patience, "I need to see a woman in her own home, at ease among her own people, before I can judge if she has fit character to become queen of the Mark. One evening dancing in Mundburg among her competitors won't cut it."

Oswin rubbed his forehead as his nephew drained his patience. "Thengel, your father is hale as a wild boar. Twenty years may pass ere he does. Do you think any woman of childbearing years would have you by then?"

"Do you think any of them will have him now?"

"Wynflaed," they both shouted. She stuck out her chin in defiance.

"Well then, let's hope fate intervenes," Thengel continued. "One day Fengel King might choke on a bone and speed his end."

Wynflaed snorted. "Twenty years you've been away and you still haven't learned any respect."

"Fengel King inherited a throne," Thengel muttered, "respect is earned."

"He is your father," said Oswin, voice thickly accented with disappointment.

Thengel folded his arms. "You and Turgon were better fathers to me than Fengel ever was."

"Yes, and see how I am treated for my pains over my sister-son."

"I'm sorry," Thengel replied sullenly.

Oswin pointed a finger at him. "Prove it by doing as I ask. I'm not a young man, Thengel. My time here is limited, more limited even than Fengel's. I've done my best to support Wynlaf and her children, to make sure that the throne is protected in your absence. For the sake of the Riddermark and your mother, I'm begging you, Thengel, cooperate."

"What do you want me to do?" Thengel asked wearily, dropping back onto the couch. "He sent me here."

Oswin tapped himself on the chest. "I sent you. Your father had other plans and you know it. Put aside your past hurts and for once think about the good of your countrymen. Quit throwing yourself in front of every orc arrow in that benighted forest —" he held up his hand to silence Thengel's outburst. "Until you've provided an heir. You're a warrior; it's in your blood to fight. I know. You've proved your valor more than once under Lord Ecthelion, but every scratch on your person threatens to sink the Riddermark into chaos. Find a wife. Secure the line. Then throw yourself into whatever orc nest you desire."

Wynflaed, who seemed to have shrunk during Oswin's speech, suddenly perked up. "Like the one in Eriador? I wish you had sent me."

"Wynflaed, hush."

Thengel moved over so Wynflaed could sit next to him on the sofa. "This feast takes place before anyone from Rohan has time to arrive. I don't see how some feast in Minas Tirith is going to help you achieve your desired aim."

"Who said the bride had to be from the Mark?" Wynflaed interrupted. "Surely there are women at ease in their own homes even in this queer place," she said without masking a sneer.

A thread in Thengel's mind seemed to snap. He stared at Oswin stupidly. "Not from the Mark?"

Oswin bowed his head. "Not from the Mark. These Gondorian women are quite pretty and surely some of them might even be hearty enough."

Wynflaed looked somewhat doubtful, Thengel noted, but the need for compromise compelled them.

"Wait." Thengel held his hand up, dropped it, then held it up again. "You don't think marrying a Gondorian woman would divide the Mark?"

Oswin smiled grimly. "It would cause a stir. But if you were to die and your father's cousins fought for the throne, it would ruin us."

If his cousins wanted the throne so much, why not let them compete for it during Fengel's lifetime?

"The House of Eorl has other sons," he reflected, trying the idea out. He tried to imagine what it would feel like, life untethered to the throne. Poor Cenhelm. This conversation would kill him. "Let Fengel name a second if he wants."

"How will he choose among his sisters' sons?" Oswin asked. "Aethelstan is the firstborn of your father's eldest sister. He has several sons and grandsons to carry on the third line - the third line, Thengel. He owns a great herd of horses and knows the land well. But your cousin Freomund's father is the marshal of Westmark and has considerable clout among the warriors. It's warriors we need," Oswin finished solemnly. "More so after what we have learned of late."

"Fritha might have sons," Thengel pointed out. "She might remarry. Three years have passed since you wrote me of Sigbert's death in that clash with the Dunlendings at the fords."

"Thengel, Fritha is thirteen years older than you," Wynflaed groused. "Even if she were wed again, her years of childbearing all but spent."

"Well, what about you then?"

Lightning flashed in Wynflaed's eyes. "Little better!" she spat. "I am a shieldmaiden and have sworn never to marry."

"No one has ever required shieldmaidens to take that oath," Thengel pointed out, "you only did it to spite Father."

Wynflaed glared accusation at Oswin. "Is that what you think happened? And you put it in a letter to Thengel?"

Oswin shrugged. "It was a matter of state. You refused to marry that boy Aelfric and I was depending on it to smooth things over with his father and the king."

She rounded on Thengel. "How can you possibly ask me to break my vow to protect the Riddermark if you won't do your duty?"

"How can you force a wife on me if you wouldn't marry Aelfric?"

"That was different," she growled.

"Hush, Thengel. Wynflaed is right," said Oswin. "You have a duty to the Mark. I can work around Aelred and his sons."

"I'm aware of my duty," he replied sullenly. "I'm just not thrilled by your methods."

"Thengel, we have our reasons. This is the Third Age, after all. What we have learned of Esgaroth has shaken us all. And maybe King Bard and King Dain have been restored, but we cannot rely on them to shield us from our enemies. Rather, they have kicked the hornets' nest and we are feeling the sting in the south. Orcs aren't multiplying on Gondor's borders only, you know. There's the Dunlendings squeezing us from the west, too. Do not think I sent you to Gondor on a whim. I could have sent you north where you might have learned some humility as a lowly fisherman among the ruins of Long Lake." He laughed bitterly. "That would have been quite the lesson had you survived it."

"I wish you had sent me," Wynflaed muttered.

This was the first Thengel had heard of any other plan. He leaned forward. "Why to Gondor, then?"

"To learn. To strengthen the alliance between the Mark and Gondor."

Thengel leaned back, disappointed. "Eorl swore an oath which we have honored to this day. What more do you expect me to do?"

"What are oaths if they are not accompanied by action? It won't surprise you to hear that Fengel King would have undone all the work of his brothers Folcred and Fastred to secure that bond between our lands."

"Not in the least."

"But you have built it up. I know Lord Ecthelion and Steward Turgon value you. I hear they call you Thengel Thrice-Renowned," Oswin said with a rare thread of pride in his voice. "I'm not a seer, but I can read the signs of earth and air. There's darkness ahead for the Riddermark if we are not prepared. These men from Esgaroth only confirm it with their tales of the great goblin hordes leaving the mountains. When orcs forget to fear our spears, there's more at work in the world. We will need a strong alliance with Gondor in the long years ahead. And you know better than any that Gondor's strength isn't waxing. Who knows what may pass?"

"I have Ecthelion's friendship. What more does Rohan require?"

"You have Ecthelion's friendship now, but who will remember it when you are both gone? Marry. Bring a sliver of Gondor to the Mark. Choose a woman from a family of some importance who will remember her. Bring her language and customs to the Hall, bring your understanding of history and martial arts. Open the way for greater trade and trust."

Bring her language and customs? Now Thengel felt it was his turn for anger. What was Oswin playing at? "There would be a coup if I forced Westron or anything else Gondorian on the Mark."

"Oh, there will be grumbling." Oswin waved his hand as if to fan away the inconsequential puff of indignation that would arise. "We are a nation of grumblers and dark brows. But we need a common language, Thengel. We cannot afford to stand apart from the world."

Thengel's gaze passed suspiciously between the conspirators. He couldn't believe his sister wasn't objecting to Oswin's theories too. Then he realized that their uncle had had more time to wear down any resistance she might have felt while they were in Rohan.

"I don't suppose just any girl would do?"

Oswin stroked his beard. "Well, she would need to be connected…but not so well connected that they wouldn't want to lose her to what she must consider to be a more rustic society. As for who, you would have a better idea," Oswin said innocently. "Surely there are women whom you have known 'at ease in their own homes' as you put it."

"Who are willing to put up with you," Wynflaed added.

Thengel grinned, feeling like he'd finally gotten his legs under him. "Sure," he drawled, nearly happy. "They're all married now. You should've come ten years ago." He leaned back on the couch and laughed. For years he'd kept his distance from more than one beautiful woman because he knew there was no chance for them to marry.

He stopped laughing and rubbed his eyes. After the initial burst of mirth, he felt the fiery tongues of anger licking over him again. Bema, what an absurd mess.

Faintly, he heard the bells toll the hour. Thengel remembered the paper in his pocket. Already the morning had slipped away.

"Well, Uncle. Wynflaed. I've had my fill of this talk."

He rose and made his way to the door.

"Where are you going?"

"To the Archives, as you well know," he called over his shoulder. "And I don't want to be bothered even if the Haradrim lay siege to the city."

"And what if we come across a suitable bride?" he heard Wynflaed say.

"Especially not for that!"

…

Thengel entered the Archives in a foul mood with the morning's new paradigm swirling around in his mind. He approached the long desk commanding the center of the anteroom at a clip, nearly knocking over a scholar crossing in the opposite direction. After a brief lecture by the scholar and an apology in his side, Thengel proceeded to the desk at a steadier pace, leaning against the wood in a way that felt casual.

He had a good view of the clerk's hasty job with a comb as the young man bent at a 90 degree angle over the wood, scratching away with his pen on stiff cards laying in a line before him. The hawk-nosed clerk jotted a final note onto his small card before tucking the lot into bundles near a pile of books. He glanced up with a start, noticing the prince leaning over him.

"How may I serve you, Prince Thengel?" the clerk said as he bowed deeply. He sounded like he suffered from a complaint in the nose. "What information do you seek today?"

"Not information, but a painting." Thengel took out the slip of paper that had been tucked into the cuff of his undershirt. "I believe the Archives house a special collection of works by an artist called Teitharion."

The clerk raised an eyebrow in thought. "Teitharion. Let me see." He turned his back on Thengel to consult a shelf of indexes behind the counter. He hummed to himself as he turned pages and scrolled his fingers down the minute print. "Ah, yes." He turned toward Thengel again. "It appears we do have a small collection by this fellow. I will refer you to Master Pengoloth, the art curator." He tapped briskly on the desk and a sleepy-eyed page boy materialized out of nowhere. "Lead Prince Thengel to Master Pengoloth's chamber - and no detours on the way back, my lad."

The boy squeaked a reply in an injured tone, then squirreled away through the doorway into the gut of the archives. Thengel had to jump to keep up with the boy. He followed the page through arched hallways with closed doors on either side. The corridor was dim as the light penetrating high windows did not reach the floor. Dust motes swirled overhead and Thengel found himself studying the pattern caused by the light and air and granules. The deeper they walked, he was starting to feel closed in. It reminded him of a trip he had taken with this uncle to Helm's Deep as a small boy. As any self-respecting lad would have done, he'd wandered off and gotten himself stuck in a dark corner. He'd never liked to be enclosed by stone without some view of the outer world.

In the middle of the long line of doors, the boy stopped and rapped smartly on the door to the right. Stepping back, the boy waited with a stony expression. He couldn't be more than ten years old, Thengel thought. It was probably a dreary job, scampering up and down a dim hallway delivering messages or bussing patrons back and forth to reading rooms. At his age, Thengel had learned to ride over the meadows surrounding Edoras, getting into scrapes, and wandering too far.

Thengel was about to ask the boy what he thought about his job when a voice on the other side of the door bid them to enter. The page opened the door for Thengel, then darted off back down the corridor.

Master Pengoloth stood at an impressive height behind a canvas-encumbered table. Mats were strewn over the surface along with pieces of frame. It looked more like a carpenter's bench, Thengel thought, than a scholar's studio. Short steel nails filled a jar on an adjoining counter. Pigments lined a narrow shelf above the counter, while brushes of every size soaked in mugs of water below. He saw a canister of turpentine with the lid slightly askew near an explosion of cotton wool.

The archivist's silver-black hair was bound in a plait that hung over his shoulder. Thengel noticed that the tip had come into contact with one of the jar of varnish littered around the table. It had left an inverted arc of gloss along the archivist's robes.

The place smelled of lemons, onions, old wood, and turpentine. It made Thengel's head feel giddy and he forgot to introduce himself. But, the advantage of being the only straw-headed resident in the city rendered that unnecessary. His looks announced him wherever he went.

"Prince Thengel, I believe," said Pengoloth with unconcealed surprise. He bowed quickly. "Come in, please."

"I'm interrupting your work, Master Pengoloth," Thengel observed.

"No, no. Only a bit of restoration. I've been breathing in too much turpentine, as it is. How may I serve you?"

The master came around the table to usher Thengel inside and close the door.

Thengel held out the card again. "I'm looking for a painting, one by a man called Teitherion. He told me that all his works were stored here."

Pengoloth winced, as if at some memory of the eccentric painter. "Yes, indeed. Teitherion. Well. Let me see." He opened an upright chest that contained unbound indexes separated by a matrix of wooden slats. He ran his finger over the tiny brass plates below each cube until he landed on the one he wanted. "Here it is. The inventory of items by the painter Teitherion, their names, dates, provenance, etc. And do you know which of these you wished to see?"

Thengel scanned the list that Master Pengoloth held. Most of the names were ambiguous. A farmhouse on the Pelennor. A ship on the Harlond. Soldiers drinking at the Old Inn. The usual thing. With so many words on the page, they all seemed to blend together. Thengel let his eyes relax. After a moment, a word floated to the surface. Exile.

"There it is." He pointed to a line two-thirds of the way down. "I wish to see that one."

Master Pengoloth cleared his throat. "Eh, The Wayward Son in Exile. Well. The obvious choice, haha. Er." He tried his hide his embarrassment by replacing it in its file.

"Now," said Pengoloth, reaching for a small, enclosed lamp hanging near the door, "If you'd just follow me. I'll take you to the collection."

He rolled back a tapestry hanging from the wall like a curtain, revealing an unlocked door. Thengel stared down the dim stairway for a moment, not liking to go where he couldn't see beyond a few feet. But then he followed behind the master into the catacombs below.

….

Thengel felt his nerves fraying as they progressed into the archives. It grew worse once they reached the end of the art repositories and discovered that locating the painting would prove more difficult than Master Pengoloth had supposed. Here, the lesser-known artists' offerings languished in the dark. Constant light was anathema in the archives as fire from the lamps threatened the safety of the collection. The master's own small lamp revealed little of the secrets around them.

They were in a large room laid out like a warehouse on the Harlond, Thengel thought, with rose of wooden racks stacked on top of one another. Many of the shelves within the chamber had begun to sag over the years. The brass plates nailed into the end caps, which stated the holdings for each unit, had begun to peel. Pengoloth clucked his tongue at the condition, but plainly the state reflected the people's feelings about these artists.

The painting had been wrapped in cloth and filed carefully lying down in the cool chambers. With some inspired guessing, Master Pengoloth managed to locate Teitherion's collection and unearth the painting in question. He gave Thengel the lamp to carry while he delivered the painting to an antechamber, which a curtain split from the storage area. The room contained brackets along the walls for torches, a table and a bench. Thengel lit a few torches using the lamp and one of the tapers he found in a basket near the door. Meanwhile, the Master donned a pair of soft gloves he kept hanging in his belt. He gingerly unwrapped the cloth but Thengel stopped him at the last fold still obscuring the canvas.

"If you will allow me," Thengel said, taking the corner of the cloth. He could just see the brass plate at the bottom of the frame.

The Wayward Son in Exile. The lamplight glinted off the engraved words and suddenly Thengel found himself afraid to confront what lay beneath the cloth and whatever sensations it would awaken. Certainly he did not want a near stranger to witness it.

"You may go."

Master Pengoloth puffed his cheeks, not pleased with the dismissal, but not daring to refuse a prince. Reluctantly, he retraced his steps out of the anteroom, saying that he would just run up to his study for a minute or two.

Now alone, Thengel turned aside the cloth, then glanced at the painting quickly the way one tore off a scab. Then he drew the cloth back over the image and sat down. A piece of paper fluttered out from the wrappings and drifted to the floor. He bent to pick it up.

It read:

Then are we all undone.

It is not possible, it cannot be,

The king should keep his word in loving us...

My nephew's trespass may be well forgot;

it hath the excuse of youth and heat of blood,

And an adopted name of privilege,

A hair-brain'd Hotspur, govern'd by a spleen.**

Thengel recognized the passage from a play, which had not been written about him. But it fit the painting rather well, if out of context. He could hear Uncle Oswin's bear-like voice in each word. Hair-brain'd Hotspur, govern'd by a spleen. It was as if the playwright had met the marshal, a voice he remembered with better clarity than his own father's.

He turned the cloth over again to have another look, this time allowing himself to go more slowly. Teitherion's style struck Thengel as unusual. Bold strokes of oil gave the impression of form, with the barest outline of light or color to rein it in. Thengel had to look at the painting from a distance to make it out. The closer he stood, the less sense the brush strokes made. It forced him to take in the whole.

The whole of it consisted of the high street hemmed in by the towering buildings of Minas Tirith as it wound toward the next circle gate. A gray gelding seemed to snort a challenge at the pressing crowd. A beam of sunlight slanted downward, drawing the eye toward a grim-faced boy with jumbled, golden hair. Thengel hadn't known he'd worn such a hard expression. On the inside he had felt nothing but terror and the growing reality of his new situation. Exile. Around the boy, the faces of the crowd were formless, unintelligible, unrecognizable. It felt as if Teitherion meant to capture all of Thengel's innermost feelings that day. Yet how had had the artist known?

Thengel shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He hadn't known which moment Teitherion would capture, but he remembered that day with immediate clarity. The fear, the pride, and the only familiar sensation being the horse that carried him, Firewave. Thengel grimaced. Fyrwylm, he should have thought.

Uncle Oswin hadn't let Thengel return for Brymwylm that last night in Meduseld, the beautiful stallion he had received for his eighteenth birthday. Instead, Thengel had threatened his father, received a death sentence, and had to settle for a borrowed gelding. He had christened Fyrwylm along the escape route to Firienholt where he was to meet up with his first honor guard in exile.

They had become friends despite Fyrwylm's habit of snorting spit and grass in Thengel's face whenever he could. Teitherion had captured some of that brutish trait in his rendering of Fyrwylm. That horse had become Thengel's one comfort on that terrible ride into Minas Tirith, a city that seemed to reach into the sky. So full of people and their odd language and dark looks that Thengel swore he'd rather face a pack of orcs than allow himself to be swallowed by the great gates gaping over the Pelennor. At least he knew what to expect from orcs. And once he entered that city, it would be absolutely final. He couldn't go on pretending he could go home.

Fyrwylm did, though. Go home. Thengel had sent him back to Rohan more than five years ago to enjoy a well-earned retirement racing over the plains where he'd played as a colt. For one unguarded moment, Thengel allowed himself to ache for that same green and the roar of the spring wind in the long grass as it raced down from the mountains.

A moment was enough. Or too much. The sensations Thengel feared to face when first he lifted the cloth had finally come upon him.

...

Master Pengoloth pushed the curtained door aside to enter the room. When he saw the prince, he paused for a moment, arrested by the younger man's expression. Then he quickly and quietly backed out again before Thengel could look up.

Then a man covered in road dust pushed through the curtain and stood before the table.

Thengel scowled and spoke without taking his eyes off the painting as he hastily drew the cloth back over the canvas. "I told the archivist that I was not to be disturbed."

"It's worth the nuisance in my case."

That voice reverberated through Thengel's brain. It meant one thing to him and he rose swiftly. Adan stood before him looking like he had come to the archives fresh off the street after riding all day.

"What's happened?"

The significance of his friend's appearance wasn't lost on Thengel. The ranger raised a hand toward the prince, but Thengel rounded the table to stand before him. He grasped Adan's shoulders.

"What has happened to Morwen?"

"She is well," Adan said through a grimace. "Mostly."

"Go on. Did you leave her alone in Imloth Melui?"

Adan managed to free himself from Thengel's grip. "Of course not. She's here in the city. We've been riding since daybreak."

Thengel looked around as if Adan had abandoned her in the archives. "Where?"

"Safe with Prince Adrahil. I delivered her there myself this afternoon."

Thengel ran his fingers through his hair, thinking. "What drove her to Minas Tirith?"

Adan looked at him strangely. "Drove, you say? Wise words. Things went from bad to worst before she asked me to bring her up, but it is Lady Morwen's business and you must ask her yourself." Adan pressed Thengel's arm when he looked ready to bolt. "Stay. She's in no immediate danger. And anyhow, she's in her cousin's keep now. What can you do for her that he can't?"

"You're right," Thengel admitted. "Of course."

"There is one thing you can do," Adan continued.

"Yes?"

Adan's lips curled sourly. "Lord Halmir knows by now that I traveled with her."

Thengel considered his road-worn friend. "Come, you'll stay in my home. Then tomorrow we will go to Ecthelion together to see what can be done about it."

Adan shook Thengel's hand. "That is exactly what I wish." Then he looked down at the half-covered painting. "What were you looking at?"

Thengel steered Adan away from the painting toward the curtain. "Nothing. A mere painting someone recommended to me. Let's go. Master Pengoloth will want to put it away."

Together they passed through the antechamber and began the long ascent to the top.

*The Battle of Five Armies (complete with battle pigs, if you believe the film) occurred on November 23, 2941, preceding the events of this story. It is now early late April 2942 and Bilbo and Gandalf have yet to arrive again in Rivendell. Gondor has been enjoying the fallout of that mess without knowing the reason. Sauron, though having fled to Mordor, will not announce himself until 2951 - two years before Thengel takes the throne in Rohan and Ecthelion succeeds his father as Steward. Auspicious beginning.

**William Shakespeare's Henry IV pt. 1 V,2,2773,