Chapter fourteen: Over

From The Summer of Twelve, by Merileth of Belfalas, F.A. 713

Hindsight gives us all the keen vision of an elf. At the time, we do what we can, but our eyes are veiled. Sometimes we feel certainty when we should feel doubt. Sometimes we doubt things that turn out to be true. Sometimes we rejoice prematurely. Sometimes we fret, not knowing that our dreadful fears will never come to pass.

When the scarred man was taken, the news leaked out. There were few secrets that summer, or so it seemed. (Afterwards, of course, it would become clear quite how many secrets were successfully kept.) Soon everyone in Minas Tirith knew what the man was accused of, and in their mind, there was no doubt that he was guilty.

They received it with joy. They were still anxious about the king's army, of course. By now, the messages that returned from the east were several days old before they reached Minas Tirith, even when brought on swift horses, far faster than an army could march. Just because everything was well three days ago, those with loved ones in the army still worried that everything had turned ill in the days that followed.

The anxiety remained, but the news of the scarred man's arrest took away the sharpness of the fear that had gripped them. Death had stalked their own streets. The captain of the Great Gate lay close to death, and a young guardsman had been slaughtered in a public place. When an army marches away, those left behind cannot live every moment in an agony of fear. The worry never leaves them, but life goes on. How much more immediate is the fear that you might be slaughtered as you walk to market! How much more terrible is the fear that an enemy might be hiding in your own loft, plotting murder as you sleep!

When the news of the arrest broke, throughout the city there was a collective exhalation of relief. We now know, of course, that Faramir was far from certain that the danger was over, and was convinced that the prisoner had important secrets still to tell. The people knew nothing of this, however. As far as they were concerned, the danger in the city was past and gone.

They were wrong, of course, but who are we to blame them? Hindsight makes seers of us all.

"It feels nicer," Pippin said, when they had been walking for a while. "Don't you think the city feels nicer, Merry?"

"It's a little less hot," Merry said. "Still sunny, but with a pleasant cooling breeze, carrying the smell of flowers from the gardens. Definitely nicer than…" He wrinkled his nose as they passed a market stall. "…smoked fish."

Pippin fell silent as they passed through the fourth gate. The guards watched them closely, but the guards were watching everyone closely. At least they were doing it in order to keep the city safe. The ordinary citizens just stared for no good reason at all. Yes, it made Pippin want to shout, I am a hobbit. No, I'm not one of the ones who went to Mount Doom. I'm the one who helped stop Faramir from burning to death, and Merry here helped kill the Witch King. Yes, we are very small. No, we're not princes. Now, would anybody like to settle down to a nice spot of elevenses with us, and maybe a drink or two, so we can get to know each other without all the staring?

Because they were all quite nice when you got the know them, these Gondorians. When you met them one at a time, and they were happy to chat to you over a drink, they were just like ordinary people back at home. Taken together, however, they were just so big.

But big and good, of course. It was nice to see them beginning to smile again.

"That's part of it, yes," he said. "But it's more than that. It feels happier. I think news must have spread about that man they arrested yesterday."

"News always spreads. That's what Strider," Merry said, lowering his voice to a whisper as he said the name, "was so worried about. Rumours were spreading that nobody should have known about. Somebody was deliberately making people afraid."

"Well, this is the opposite, then." Pippin watched a young woman walk by, a basket swinging from her hand, a song on her lips. Laughter came from an upstairs balcony. "I'd say that this is a city that knows that a very bad man has been safely locked away. Plenty of people must have seen them dragging him through the streets. So many guards for just one man? They've put two and two together, that's what they've done. They've worked out that this is the man who's been doing all the attacks these last couple of weeks – perhaps even an accomplice of the man who tried to kill the king."

"Or they've been told," Merry said with a grimace. "Told by someone who had no business to do the telling."

"The mischief-makers? The enemy?" Pippin shook his head. "If they wanted to spread fear and panic, they'd keep very quiet about this. This is good news. This shows them losing. There's nothing wrong with this news slipping out."

There were silent again as they passed through the next gate. On the far side, close to the guard house, a cluster of old men were standing. "…well into the Brown Lands by now," Pippin heard one of them say, and another pressed his hand to his breast, and said, "Oh, please, let them came back safely!"

What was Aragorn doing now? Were their friends still well? Sometimes Pippin woke at night, wondering, and found it hard to sleep again. But you had to carry on, didn't you? It was like those weeks when Frodo and Sam were in Mordor, and you could have torn yourself apart with worry about them, but you couldn't, because there were so many other things to do, and if you let yourself think about them, really let yourself think about them, then you'd be good for nothing at all.

In some ways it was worse this time, because there was less for Merry and Pippin to do now; less to distract them from worrying. But at the same time, it was better, because after the hideous things they had survived in the War, it was hard to imagine that their friends could be anything other than victorious. And at least they were together: Aragorn and Éomer, Legolas and Gimli, keeping each other safe. From the very first moment they had met him, Strider had taken care of them. You didn't need to worry about him.

But you did, of course, even if just a little. You did.

The king was lying with his eyes closed, entirely still. He had lain like that for long minutes as the sky had darkened. Grey clouds were rolling in from the east, carried by a rising breeze. It will rain soon, Mablung thought. He tugged at his cloak, pulling it closer around him. He was not cold, not yet, but he knew how well the cloak could conceal. There were times when the king was barely a dozen yards away, unmoving in his cloak, but to Mablung it seemed as if he had disappeared entirely.

Still no movement from the king. He was breathing; of course he was. Mablung resisted the urge to touch him, to make sure that he hadn't fainted, or worse. He swallowed hard. He wanted to touch him, but he also wanted to crawl away. It seemed wrong to be so close to him, looking at him as he lay there with his eyes shut. He could see the dirt in the folds of his fingers and a shallow scratch on the side of his neck. He could see the pulse in his throat and a smear of dust on his cheek.

He looked away. He heard rather than saw the king begin to stir again. "Few living creatures walk upon the earth for many miles around us," the king said. He had been so still that Mablung had almost expected him to sound bleary, like an awakening sleeper, but he did not. "I can no longer hear our army in the west. We are closer now to the army in the east. I can hear it now. There are many of them, and they do not tread lightly."

"But no-one…" Mablung's mouth was dry. He cleared his throat. "No-one closer?"

"Some," the king said. "Scouts and outriders who go ahead of their army. We will have to avoid them."

"Or hide from them," Mablung said, gesturing at their cloaks. He wondered if he was permitted to ask any more questions, but the king had never yet denied him answers, or reacted angrily to anything he said. Mablung had known captains of much lesser rank be far less forbearing. "Is Lord Legolas where you expect him to be?"

"Elves tread too lightly for me to hear them." The king smiled, as if struck by some memory. "But if something had gone ill, he would have found a way to let me know."

Unless things had gone so ill that he was unable to. It was hard to imagine an elf being taken by surprise, but it was hard to imagine a king with dirt behind his nails. When on watch in the night, surrounded by the empty darkness, it had been easy to believe that they were entirely alone, and that even the elves had gone.

"But there is one set of footsteps…" the king said, frowning. "Someone who is trying to move lightly, but is less good at it than Legolas."

"Following us?" Despite himself, Mablung looked back the way they had come. The sky was still blue in the west, sunlight sparkling on the distant hills.

"No," said the king, his frown deepening. "I believe not." But there was a 'but…' there, although he did not say it.

This went past mere pleasure. This was not just relief or the passing happiness that came from a piece of good news about somebody else. At times, it was verging on jubilation. Daerion could still not quite bring himself to believe it.

"Good to see you on your feet again, Captain." They greeted him wherever he went, some effusively, some quietly, but with emotion evident in their eyes. "When the report went out that you were dead…"

"A false report, thankfully," Daerion said. He was not normally gruff, but it was hard to know how to react to all this joy. He was not used to such attention. He had never sought it, preferring to keep his head down and do his job.

"Yes, yes, so they said the morning after. But we were still worried. If it was bad enough that they feared you would die…"

"I didn't die."

There was nowhere to go where he could be alone, only his own quarters, and that was the one place where he had no desire to be. He had spent too long there; too many long hours with the curtains drawn against the light. He had no idea that he was so well known in the city. He captained the Great Gate, yes, but gate guards never went out and sought glory on the battlefield.

Now people came up to shake his hand, to pat him on the back. Girls young enough to his granddaughters watched from windows, wreathed in smiles. There was more restraint in the guard house, but more real feeling, too. At least his own lads knew him. A quick nod and a slight smile from a laconic comrade meant more than any protestations of joy.

At first, he had tried to walk like a wounded man, mindful of the fact that as far as everyone else knew, he had been on the point of death just two days before. After a few hundred yards, it ceased to be a pretence. He was not yet recovered. He was getting old. Even a slight wound could end the career of someone past their prime.

If it did, would that be so bad a thing? He did not know.

His steps dragging, he walked to the stone bench outside his quarters, and sank heavily down upon it. People tried to help them. He waved them away, then waved them away more firmly when they tried to insist. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, the two periain, Meriadoc and Peregrin, were at the gate, clearly asking to come in. Daerion smiled, and indicated that they could be admitted.

"We thought we'd come to see you," Peregrin said, "now that you're officially alive again. We saw him getting brought in, you know: the man who attacked you."

"I saw him, too." That was all Daerion would say about it. He had travelled to the Citadel in a sealed carriage, and had been led into the prison by silent guards who had offered him their elbows to lean on. He had declined at first, only to accept at the bottom of the second staircase. He had viewed the prisoner through a grate in the wall, seeing him in shadow and faint candlelight. Tall, pale, with deep-set eyes and a prominent nose…

He remembered. He remembered.

"But now that he's caught, you're up and about again." Meriadoc smiled. "Everyone's clearly thrilled about it."

"It's not me," Daerion found himself saying. "It's nothing to do with me. They're clinging to it because it's the first piece of good news they've had since the attack on the king. They were hungry for such news. It could have been anything. It just happened to be me."

"That's not true," Peregrin protested. "It's more than that."

"Perhaps so," Daerion conceded. "I'm captain of the Great Gate, and to them, in a strange way, an attack on me feels like an attack on the defences of the city. So now I'm well again…"

"No." Peregrin was stubbornly shaking his head. "Oh, perhaps it's true in a way, but we saw them out there. We heard how happy they were. We… er, we might have stopped off in the tavern for a while for a snack or three, and we heard them all talking. They'd be pleased about anybody, that's true. Because it's you, they're delighted."

Daerion had no idea what to say. Instead, he summoned a guardsman over and sent him to the mess hall for a tray of snacks. He knew little about these periain, but he did know that the best way to deal with them was to feed them. He wondered whether to tell them that, then decided to risk it. "Quite true," Peregrin said, happily admitting it. "Rather like dogs. But we don't bite."

The food came, and they sat in the sun for a while and enjoyed it. Daerion had intended to leave most of it for his guests, but was surprised to realise quite how hungry he was. After the prison that was his sick room, all food tasted like a feast.

"We heard something in the tavern," Peregrin said, when most of the food was gone and he was reduced to licking sauce from his fingers. "A boy said you used to know the king when he was young." There was a small hesitation before he said 'the king.'

"When I was young," Daerion corrected. "And it barely counts as knowing. I was just a boy when he arrived in Minas Tirith. I watched him arrive." He smiled at the memory. "I was upside-down in an apple tree, as I remember. He quickly grew into a captain of renown, and I worshipped him. I longed to serve him. But he'd have nothing of me. I was very young, for a start, and he had other reasons. Good reasons." His hand went to his belt, where even now, newly risen from his sick bed, he wore the knife. "He gave me a knife so I would never forget the lesson that he taught me." He thought of his own stiffening joints; of the thinning grey hair that the looking glass showed him. "In appearance, he has little changed, whereas I have grown from a boy to an old man."

What must it be like, he wondered, to possess such a life span? To have friends and to fight alongside them, and then watch them age and die? Was it any wonder that the elves kept themselves to themselves, and seldom mixed with men? The king, he remembered, had ridden alongside Thengel of Rohan, who was long dead now, as was his son. Very likely, Thengel's grandson would die of old age before the king started to fade.

It made you aware of such things, being old.

He said nothing of that, though. Instead, he found himself struck by another thought. "When I went out just now, and everybody was watching me, all smiling, all with something to say… It's good to see them happy, but I started to wish that they wouldn't."

"I know what you mean," Peregrin said. "They stare at us, too. After the War was over, they used to cheer us everywhere we went."

"Is that how Captain Thorongil felt," Daerion wondered, "when we foolish lads followed him everywhere? Is that how the king feels now?"

Peregrin opened his mouth as if to reply, then closed it again. Meriadoc was suddenly very busy chasing a fragment of pastry across the tray.

"Never mind," Daerion said. "Shall I send for some cakes? There are some perks in being a captain, after all."

And for the next hour or two, they chatted together about their boyhood foolishness. It was quite pleasant. The day before, he had been officially hovering at the brink of death, and it seemed like nobody liked to trouble him with decisions and questions. They watched him, of course, and they shouted out their delight at seeing him up and about, but they seemed to have decided that the Great Gate could survive without him until he was well again.

He minded it surprisingly little. If this wound ended up his career, would it be a bad thing?

No, he thought. I think not.

It was raining lightly now. When the king lay down once more to listen, Mablung crouched beside him and watched the fine droplets beading on his his hair and the fine weave of his cloak.

"Their army is closer," the king said, as he pushed himself up again. "It marches slowly with many a halt, but we have done ten miles since morning." He smiled grimly. "Ten miles nearer to them."

For dozens of leagues to the east of them, the Brown Lands slowly changed into wind-swept grassland and stretches of fern. They were on the cusp of the change now, halted beneath a small tangle of trees. The trees and scrubland could hide them, but the grasslands offered little cover at all. It was slow work moving through the ferns, and even slower to do so unseen.

"Are we still being followed, captain?" Mablung asked.

The king stretched, his arms first, and then his back. Mablung heard his joints crackle as he did so. "I still don't think he's following us," he said. "His path criss-crosses ours, and doesn't follow our trail. Perhaps it was a mistake to dig that grave yesterday, but…" He shook his head. He seemed to be thinking out loud, entrusting Mablung with his thoughts. He had never looked and sounded less like a king. At the same time, he had never seemed to be Mablung to be more worthy of devotion. "No," he said, "I think he came in from the south, and joined our path long after we had left the graveside, and today, we have left no trail that could be followed, I'm sure of that."

He had gone back to check, leaving Mablung to wait while he had walked back almost a mile. He could see no trail, he had said. He had said it in a way that implied that if he couldn't see it, nobody could. A few days before, Mablung might have doubted that. He could well believe that the king was capable of marvels, but when it came to his own line of work, he was inclined to doubt people's ability until he saw it proved with his own eyes. Now, having travelled with the king for several days, Mablung believed him.

"Somebody bound for the same destination, perhaps," said the king. "Somebody who has chosen much the same route. But he is moving faster than us. He is being less cautious, I think."

"Because he considers himself safe," Mablung said, remembering how scrupulously careful he was when scouting in enemy terrain, and how incautious he could become when he knew he was surrounded by friends.

"Yes," said the king. "And we have lost too much time to listening. Unless either of us change our route, he will be upon us before dark, and there is little cover for the next few leagues."

Lainor could smell the ale. Sunlight glinted on bottles of cheap red wine. He had always thought it such a beautiful colour. Then, later, he had stopped caring. It could have been any colour in the world, and it could have tasted like filth, but he still would have drunk it. It made him forget. At first, it only made him forget the bad things, and made the word full of delight. A few drinks later, and he forgot everything.

He wanted to forget again.

He could not. He knew he could not. He hated every word that Mínir had said to him, but he could not forget them. They were true. They were true. He hated them, and he hated Mínir for saying them, but they were true.

He had run away. Just as he had done on the way to the Black Gate, he had run away as soon as things got bad. He had lost himself in forgetfulness, and because of that, he could have been charged with treason. Because of that, he was guilty of treason. His crime was cowardice, and he could not erase it with another act of cowardice.

The taverns were closed to him; they had to be. He could not go home. He stayed in the gardens, where the nights stayed warm enough for him to catch a few hours of unsettled sleep. The flowers stopped him longing for wine.

Rosseth had always loved flowers.

I can't… he thought. I can't…

He pressed his hands to his face. Mínir had promised to find him, if he asked. Mínir had promised to help. Mínir… Oh, how Lainor hated him! He saw too much. It was like Rosseth at the end. She had learnt his true nature, and she had despised him for it. It was horrible when people knew you for what you were; saw all your failings laid bare.

He hated him, but… But…

"Help me," he whispered. "I can't do this alone."

They had to trust to the cloaks of Lórien in the end.

The rain grew heavier, pounding on the ground, muffling the messages of the earth. Even had the sounds been easy to read, there was no time to listen for them. A path pushed through wet fern was easy to read, and not even a Ranger could hide such a trail. When the rain eased, it grew even harder to hide it. If they walked on, they would brush rain from the fronds, and no fresh rain would fall to replace it. Even so, most people would miss such a trail, but Aragorn had to assume that any scout or messenger travelling through the Brown Lands was skilled in tracking. All the clansmen were.

The other man was gaining on them too fast. By chance or design - no, Aragorn thought, I am certain that is not by design - his path was still much the same as theirs. It was out of the question to speed up and try to stay ahead of him, because they could only do so by abandoning all attempt at stealth. They could change their path abruptly, but he was reluctant to do so without studying the land.

Or they could wait. They could trust in the cloaks of Lórien, and wait for the other man to pass.

"We wait," he said, his voice low, but above a whisper. Whispers carried more than a quiet voice. He led the way to a pair of thorny trees. Beneath them, the terrain was jagged, and unlikely to appeal to the man if he was looking for a place to rest. It was deeply shadowed, and although the rain had almost stopped, the sky was leaden. It was barely an hour until dark. "If we wrap ourselves in our cloaks and stay beneath these trees, he could walk within half a dozen paces of us without seeing us."

Mablung clearly wanted to protest. He opened his mouth; closed it again, and chewed his lip. He was uncomfortable. Of course he was. It was difficult for a man like him to place his trust in an object, rather than in his own skill. Aragorn had known Dúnedain of the North struggle with exactly the same. Familiar as they were with both elves and heirlooms, they were well aware that there were many things in Middle Earth that were older and more powerful than they would ever be, but it was hard to entrust your life to such a belief, even so.

Aragorn pressed a hand to Mablung's shoulder. "They will not fail us. Éomer and a hundred men once rode within yards of us in broad daylight, as we sat in plain view, clad in these cloaks."

I would place more faith in the craft of Lórien than I would in any man, no matter how wise or skilled, he might have said, because men, all men, could make mistakes.

In the end, Mínir had chosen his own home for this. He had bought in several pitchers of ale from the tavern across the road, and loaded a basket with food from the market. There were four of them here: the bloodhounds who had been most closely involved in the search for the wounded man. They had found their target, and he had been successfully taken. The guards were the ones who had been seen by half the city, dragging their prisoner away. The part played by Mínir's lads had gone unseen.

It was how it had to be. No matter how much they might grumble as they lounged here together with a few drinks inside them, it was how they all wanted it to be. They were men most at home in the shadows. Too much attention unnerved them. Some of them had been thieves, once, before Mínir had found them, and old habits of secrecy died hard.

"To the captain!" they cried now, raising their tankards. "To Captain Mínir!"

Mínir raised his own tankard back at them. "No, to all us, at the successful end of a long job."

The end? he echoed. Was it over?

Of course not. This particular threat might have passed, but city life would always have its fair share of robberies and murders. Evil would forever dwell in the hearts of some men, and Mínir and his lads would be kept busy trying to stop them before they could do any harm, or find them afterwards if they couldn't be stopped. But for today… Ah yes, he thought, for the rest of today, he was declaring it over. That was why he had chosen his own home for this celebration. For the rest of the day, they were all free from the need to be alert for suspicious conversation. No need to keep watch. No messages, no reports. Time to relax.

It was the best gift he could give them, really. The food and drink was just a token; nothing that they couldn't have bought themselves. The important thing was a few hours off. It had a way of following you home, this job of theirs. Even when drinking with friends in a tavern, you found yourself keeping a watchful eye on the discussions around you.

Then he looked at their faces, at the way they were smiling so broadly, so happy with this gift. A time to relax was important, yes, but the recognition was important, too. He was making them feel valued. Thanked.

Nobody had thanked him. Mínir took another swig of ale; paused to think that he had probably had a little too much already, then took another one, unrepentant. It's over, he reminded himself. Over, for today. He wasn't in it for the thanks, of course, but he had to admit that he had hoped for something. He'd given his report, but after that, everybody had raced off, and he'd been… "Forgotten," he murmured. He'd been forgotten, left to pace up and down inside the sixth gate like an idiot. The periain - "call us hobbits" - had been a comfort for a while, but now that he had the leisure to look back at it, he saw it for what it was.

Now I've got a few pints of ale inside me, I mean, he thought, and he was aware that he was at that stage of drunkenness when he was capable of thinking foolish things, but still sober enough to be aware of their foolishness.

What did it matter if he had been forgotten? He'd played his part. He didn't have the skills to bring a dangerous man down. He didn't have the skills to question him afterwards. More than one guardsman had been wounded, he knew. There were wounds to tend. There were decisions to be made on what happened next: decisions that, for all he knew, could affect the whole of Gondor. Important jobs all. Far more important than…

There was a knock at the door. "More ale!" one of his lads cried, leaping up to get the door.

"No. Can't be," Mínir said, his head snapping up, suddenly alert. "I didn't order…"

But when the door was opened, it was indeed the lad from the tavern, his apron splashed with ale. "Message for you, Mínir," he said. "You told my Da that a man called Lainor, a weaver, might be asking for you? Well, he did."

His drink was forgotten. "He did?"

"Well…" The boy shook his head. "Didn't come in person. He sent a message. Said he couldn't risk smelling the ale." The boy looked almost angry at the very idea. "But he said…" He frowned, trying to remember. "Said he needs help."

"Did he say where he was?" Mínir grabbed his cloak on the way to the door. A few hours to sunset, and even at midsummer, it could get cold after dark.

"No," the boy said. "Said you'd said you would know where to find him."

Mínir reached into his pocket for a coin, then upon reflection, rummaged in his pouch for a good few more. "Run across to the tavern and get these brave lads another pitcher or two?" he asked. Then he turned to his Bloodhounds. "Stay as long as you like. I'll be back…" He shook his head. "I don't know when I'll be back. This could be a long one."

And a difficult one, no doubt. And here I was, thinking that for today, at least, it was all over. He laughed wryly to himself as he headed out into the early evening. He knew where the weaver had spent the last few days, although he hadn't received any fresh information in the last few hours. I'll do directly there, he thought, and if he isn't there any more… Well, he had his ways of finding him. Quicker to assume that he was still in the garden, though. At least then he might have a hope of finishing this before dark.

He headed down a narrow alley, across a square, through a strip of garden that lined an ancient wall. Past another tavern. Was someone watching him…? He bowed his head, passing through the overgrown arch of shrubbery that led into the garden. Was that a whisper…? No, he chuckled. The rest of the day off, remember?

He was still chuckling to himself when someone fell upon him from behind. The last thing he saw was a cudgel, smashing down at him as he turned his head. He tried to shout for help, tried to fight, but nothing. Nothing after that. Nothing but pain.

It was a moth that betrayed them.

The clansman passed within a dozen yards of them. He was alert, scanning the terrain around him, but it was clear that he was following no trail. He did not as much as glance at the trees that hid them. Aragorn was barely breathing, his breaths shallow, as slow as he could make them. Beneath his cloak, his hand was on his sword, and his left hand was clenched in a fist.

It was a large moth that drew the clansman's eye. He was level with them now, beginning to move past. It must have been the movement that first attracted his attention, for he snapped his head around, then smiled to himself when he saw that it was only a moth. But he stayed watching it for a while as it fluttered this way and that.

He was still watching it when it came to rest on Aragorn's shoulder. To the man watching, it must have seemed as if it was perching on the empty air itself.

Aragorn kept himself entirely still. The man frowned, peering into the shadows. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Quick as a thought, his hand snapped up, and a knife was in it, dull in the twilight. He threw it hard, and it struck where the moth had been. Aragorn felt its impact hard in his shoulder.

But by then he was already moving. Too late now for caution. Too late. "No!" he shouted, more to Mablung than to the clansman. He was on the man in an instant, knocking him down, pinning him there with his sword. Shaking his left hand free from the folds of cloak, he revealed his clenched left fist. "I am carrying the token of Samir's own clan," he said, uncurling his fist to show the badge they had found on the assassin after his death.

He spoke in the language of the clans. Mablung understand a few words, he knew, but not enough. "Who are you?" rasped the man. "You aren't…" He tried to scrabble upright. Aragorn held him down, and would not let him. "You aren't one of us. You look like a westerner," he spat.

Mablung was still hidden. Good, Aragorn thought. "I am," he admitted, although in truth there was little difference in appearance between many of the men of Gondor and the men of the clans. The look of Númenor was rarer, of course, and if this man had travelled to Gondor, he might have come to recognise the look. "You think Samir set out on a venture like this without securing the loyalty of some of his enemy's people?" He gave a bark of laughter, arrogant, contemptuous.

"You…" said the man, with doubt in his eyes. "I don't know Samir. Samir's not my lord…" But that's his token, he was clearly thinking.

"I come with news," Aragorn said. "I come with important news for him about the intentions of the king of Gondor. Would you keep me from delivering such news?" He put as much command in his tone as he dared. He was a traitor to Gondor, and he could not appear to be anything more.

"Show yourself a friend, then!" the man retorted. "You keep me here at the point of your blade. How can I believe you're a friend?"

"You struck first," Aragorn reminded, but he took a slow step back. His sword was still held ready, but he removed it from the man's breast.

The man scrabbled with his hands and feet, pushing himself up into a crouch. One hand began to slip slowly, inexorably, to the back of his belt, where he doubtless had a second knife. "Tell me your tidings, then," he said. "If you've come with news of our enemies, you know how impossible it is for us to trust. Show your good intentions." The muscles in his forearm tightened as he gripped the knife behind his back. "Tell me your tidings, then turn and go home."

He could unleash the full force of his will upon the man. Enough doubt remained. Aragorn could command the man to believe him, and perhaps he would, for a while. The man would let them pass, but what then? What story would he tell, when he reached his own lord?

With a small sigh of regret, Aragorn tightened his grip on his sword. And that was when Mablung acted, rising up from the shadows behind the man, a long knife in his hand. It flashed once, and thus so quickly was it over.