**Truth be told, I have no idea about Beregond's family, other than Bergil's name. The name of his wife and other facts are just my imagination flying **

Chapter 12

"First sunset," Gandalf murmured as he sat outside in the gardens. Gardens often calmed him. He supposed that was why he loved The Shire, not just because of his dear friends that lived there. But he shook his mind of the little friends he left behind and focused in the present.

Why was Denethor such a fool? He had two more sunsets to deliver the ransom, and probably less than that if Beregond was discovered. Gandalf shouldn't have had let Beregond go along with the plan. He was a fool. Well, not a fool, just a wishful thinker. Not a wishful thinker, just a hopeful wizard.

"Mithrandir!" a gentle voice called.

"Ah!" Gandalf beamed as he saw the mother and child. "Freyda, wife of Beregond! Is this the newborn?"

"Yes. His name is Bergil."

"Well-respected name." Gandalf smiled as he allowed the infant to toy with his large finger.

Freyda smiled sweetly. "Will you please tell me something, Mithrandir?"

"What are we discussing?"

Freyda shook her reddish yellow hair as she bounced her baby on her hip. "I do not wish to be rude, but I believe I should know. Some of my husband's companions saw him speaking with you yesterday."

"Yes, we spoke briefly."

"Well, I wanted to know why Lord Denethor has sent my husband's battalion to Osgiliath. I was wondering if you'd know."

"I am sorry, my dear lady. I cannot tell you."

Freyda nodded. "I thought as much. Wizards are very queer folk."

Gandalf grinned. "We are often puzzled by the race of Man's response to certain situations."

"Well, are you surprised by mine?"

"Not at all, dear lady. I understand completely."

Freyda smiled, nodded, bounced her big baby boy, and left Gandalf with a content farewell.

Gandalf huffed, felt the pouch secure to his belt, and smoked weed from the South Farthing. The Shire had many offers, but this one was the best he had found, other than several Hobbits who proved to be good friends.

But, at present, he remembered a small Gondorian boy. Faramir was his name. He was just a child when Gandalf first saw him. Faramir would spend the morning slaying dragons, hunting trolls, and visiting Middle-Earth from the stories of traders passing through. When Gandalf arrived, the boy saw a whole new world in the eyes of Gandalf the Grey. He made Gandalf tell him stories about every place the wizard had visited. When Faramir first heard of Hobbits, the child couldn't believe his ears.

"Are there really people that don't grow past four feet?"

"I have seen them with my own eyes. They love my fireworks."

"I do too! Tell me stories about Hobbits!"

Gandalf didn't need to think about it. "My friend's great-great-great-great-great uncle fought in a battle against goblins. With a might twist of his arm, the Hobbit's sword sliced the goblin king's head clean off. It sailed one hundred yards and rolled into a rabbit hole. The battle was won. And the game of golf was invented at the same time.

Faramir laughed merrily, rolling over in his chair.

Boromir, who seldom listened to Gandalf's tales, sat at the foot of his brother's chair. The lad was only nine, but he looked regal enough to take the throne of stewards. Boromir shook his head and said, "He's just making it up, Faramir."

Gandalf chuckled. "Even if I did, all stories deserve a little exaggeration."

Gandalf smiled at the memory. But the happiness was short-lived. He received a calling, a hunch, something that told him his help was needed. He rushed to aide.

Even if the Steward was required to give an explanation for why he entered the treasury, the attendant didn't need one to know why.

The Steward held his torch high as he walked through the room stuffed with gold and coins. Only he, his sons, and a few trusted guards knew the location of the treasury room. The location of all the citizens' taxes was not a subject ready to be pronounced in the map of the Steward's home.

He ordered his attendant to count one thousand coins an hour ago. He was pleased when his loyal servant had numbered the ransom.

"Here you are, Lord Denethor. One thousand coins are in the bag."

"Very good." Denethor nearly collapsed under the weight. He could lift it, but the sudden weight was surprising.

Denethor left without a word. He marched through the corridors of his home without a word. He did not say hello to anyone, nor did he receive any greeting. He kept his eyes forward, stark, and attentive. The last words of his youngest echoed. Murmurs of what the soldiers were going to do. Was he such an uncaring father that he didn't listen to his child's warning?

Boromir's final words also haunted him. "Father how could you be so blind? Give them the money, you fool!"

Now, they were both missing. It was Denethor's fault. Not because he didn't give more money in the soldier's income, but because he was too arrogant, too blinded, too…he didn't know how to describe himself.

Denethor flew on a brown cloak, one with a hood so deep it nearly hid his face. Thoughts on his sons, he marched through the back alley ways of the city and avoided the grimy pools of the outside as he reached the hole in the gate. It was clever of the kidnappers, now that Denethor had thought of it, to demand the ransom here. It was deserted. Not even a crow cocked its head.

He took a deep breath. He was taught and full-heartedly believed that surrender was not an option. Whenever humiliation plagues you, you never back down; it is a disgrace. But more than Denethor's good name was at stake.

His sons' lives depended on this money. He would not blindly ignore that fact and allow his pride to rule over him, telling him that the threats of a soldier didn't matter.

They did matter. Any threat against his sons was taken as a threat against him.

He shoved the money into the weakness of the wall, half-expecting his sons to appear before him, unharmed. Just relieved to see him…at least, he hoped they would be relieved to see him. He wished Boromir had forgiven him partially and that Faramir would be happy to see him again…but why would either of them do any of those things?

Denethor stiffened when he felt the ice cold threat of a broadsword's blade against his chin. The blade forced him to turn around, and he soon stared at a soldier with a handkerchief tied across his face.

"Very good, milord," the dark culprit mocked. "My employer will be most pleased."

"Who is your employer?" Denethor coldly ordered. "Where are my sons?"

"Be patient, Denethor. My boss prefers his money to be delivered to him first."

"You said that my sons would be delivered to me alive when I gave you the ransom!" Denethor shouted.

"Yes, we said they'd be returned, but we said nothing about when, though it will be soon. If you're worried about the sword, don't worry, I'm not going to kill you. It's just that my employer would like to see your face when you see your sons…bound…gagged. So…you will naturally need to come with me."

"I am going nowhere."

"Not even to see your sons? You need to come with me, milord. In case you haven't noticed, you can't really put up a fight."

Denethor cursed himself for not bringing a weapon. Why did it slip his mind?

"Move along, Steward."

"Never."

The soldier wound up the sword, but then dropped it. Something had hit the back of his head. His eyes were glossy. It was only when the object hit his head again, after he fell, that Gandalf the Grey was revealed, his staff the object in question.

"Mithrandir!" Denethor exclaimed.

Gandalf hummed a sigh of satisfaction, looking at the moaning body of the soldier who nearly attacked his steward.

"What were you doing?" Denethor demanded.

Gandalf looked surprised. He raised his eyebrows to the brim of his pointed hat. "I'm sorry, did you wish to be injured by the sword, or make a daring escape on your own?"

Denethor would've said something insulting. He had practically a whole line of insults on the tip of his tongue, waiting to jump off, but he relented. Insulting the one thing that would get his sons back to him was unwise.

The culprit groaned. Denethor ripped the disguise off, revealing a new soldier, one that could be easily persuaded to do such a daring, suicidal crime.

Denethor snatched his collar. He yanked him upward. He hissed, "Where are my sons?"

The man, dazed, looked tiredly at his superior. "I just want to say, technically, you haven't delivered the ransom yet. They're lives are still in danger."

Denethor punched him. Blood trickled down the man's nose. "As I've noticed. Where are they?"

The man smiled. "They're dead in two days. Because the only way he's going to know that you paid, is if I deliver the message. But because I'm lightheaded, I don't think anyone's going to deliver the message."

"You will tell him and then you will die!" Denethor growled. He coiled his fingers around the man's throat. "Where are they?"

Gandalf calmly announced, "If I were you, young man, I would tell your superior what he needs to know, before you see the full extent of his anger."

The soldier looked into Denethor's cold, blood-hungry, revenge seeking eyes. "They are in an abandoned, secluded tower in Osgiliath. That's all I'm saying."

"Say more, you pig!" Denethor bellowed.

"I will not."

Denethor wound up, ready to beat the man out of his senses.

"Denethor!" Mithrandir caught the fist. "Hitting him will not make him talk. It will only silence him more."

Denethor bit his lip. He leapt off of the villain and charged back to the palace.

"Where are you going, my dear fellow?" Gandalf asked.

"That is none of your concern!" Denethor snapped as he glanced over his shoulder.

Gandalf nodded. He whispered, "If you are going to do something foolhardy, which you do not need to be a wizard to guess, I believe that it is a concern of mine." He tied the captor's hands with a coil rope and led him away to the dungeon.