This is the first of today's two chapters.

Chapter eighteen: Hostages

From Journey to the East, by Rosson of Anórien, F. A. 375

That was far from the end of it, of course. It is doubtful that Samir entirely trusted Elessar, but he was wise enough to know that he could not risk disbelieving him. We must give him credit for that. Elessar strongly suspected that Umbar was mustering in the south, but Samir had to take it all on trust. As it turned out, a messenger arrived just two days later, confirming that their enemies in the east were preparing to attack, but Samir had already made his decision by then, and already put it to his lords. It was a brave decision, perhaps the bravest he ever made.

But there were still many negotiations to be had. Neither side wanted to take their armies home without guarantees that the other army was departing, too. There were offers and counter offers. Elessar was well aware that Samir's need was greater, for he, at least, had been forewarned and had left part of his strength at home. Samir had left his homelands almost undefended. He had been goaded into war prematurely, and the fighting strength of the clans had not yet recovered from the War of the Ring.

Elessar could not say that, of course, and so he made reasonable-seeming offers, until at length there came an offer than Samir agreed to accept. Their armies would withdraw in good order, each one closely monitored by observers from the other side. Elessar would leave part of his force in northern Ithilien, in case any of Samir's lords should be feel compelled to try a foray. Neither would enter the Brown Lands for now, but further negotiation over the fate of those lands would take place once they had set their own houses in order.

It must have been a strange sight. They sat not in a palace or a hall, but on the damp ground. There was no canopy above them, just the leaden sky. Their words were witnessed, but not in writing. Instead, the record survived through the oral stories of the Rohirrim and the songs of the clans.

Yet in the few hours in which they talked together, these two men shaped the future of the entire region. No, of more than that, because so much more was changed because they were bold enough to draw back from war.

This was far from the end of it, of course. Night was falling, and the blurred greyness that was Bedir's daytime vision turned to blackness and the bleeding patches of light that were the torches.

For Samir, the hardest battle still lay ahead. He had dared to trust his enemy, but he still had to convince his headstrong lords. He would have to master them as he had never mastered them before.

He would have to do so alone.

"But I cannot agree to this," Samir was saying. "You make such pretty offers, but…"

"Samir." Bedir touched his arm. He seldom interrupted him in public, although he sometimes did so when alone. "My lord."

He drew Samir away, but after a few steps, Samir took over, knowing that Bedir was unable to strike a steady course in this darkness. Bedir trusted his lord to lead somewhere where they would not be overheard.

"How can he have the authority to make such promises?" Samir said. "I agree in principle, but I cannot agree in fact. When their king hears what has been promised in his name, it will be so easy for him to refute everything. He…" His voice trailed away. This, too, was something he only did in private.

"I thought you knew," Bedir said.

"What?" Samir asked, but he was already realising the truth. He was no fool, although in some things, he could still be blind. "He is the king of Gondor. And I had him. I had him, and I let him slip through my fingers."

Because it was too late to seize him now, of course. Perhaps they could take him down, but none of them would survive it, and the war between their two people would be never-ending, and would bring nothing but ruin to all who fought in it.

"Did you know all along?" Samir asked.

Bedir shook his head. "I suspected when we were in the wain, but I could not quite believe it. It was afterwards, after we got here, that I became sure of it. You hear things more clearly when you cannot see, and there was something in the way he spoke. It was there even stronger when his own men spoke to him, although they were being so careful not to do so any more than they had to, for fear that they might slip."

"And yet you didn't tell me." Samir said it quietly, but there was anger there, oh yes.

"I thought-"

"You thought I knew," Samir said scathingly. "And I like a fool…" He stopped then, and laughed suddenly. Even after all these years, Bedir could still be surprised by him. "The audacity of the man! To come alone into my camp, when he rules over more lands than we can ever dream of…!" He let out a breath, his laughter fading. "I wouldn't do it. I wouldn't dare."

It was a confession he would only make to one man. To one man alone, and now that man was leaving him.

"There is one thing more," Bedir said.

Samir was silent, waiting for him. Now that the time had come, Bedir found that he wanted the silence to stretch on for ever. He wanted things to carry on unchanged. Life had been good these last few years, with the clans finally uniting under Samir. He was blind, and he could no longer hold a sword, but after many years of exile, finally he had real power, as mentor and counsellor to the lord of lords.

No, he had to do this. He felt that it was right. "He hasn't asked for hostages," Bedir said, "or not yet. But I intend to offer myself as one, even so."

"You will not!" Samir cried. "I forbid you!"

"I have obeyed you in everything," Bedir said. "Once I was your lord, and now you are mine, and I have bowed before you and accepted the touch of your knife. I have counselled you, but I have always obeyed you."

"But not this time," Samir said bitterly.

"Please don't make me a traitor, lord," Bedir begged. "Because I will do this, whether you grant permission or not, but I would rather do so with your blessing. I will be in no danger. This I know. He will treat me as an honoured guest…"

"Because he owes you a debt?"

"Even without that, he would treat me well." Bedir smiled. "Have no fear for me. But we both know that this truce is but a shallow thing. Too many issues still lie between us. We might have agreed to turn away from war, but we are not friends. After we defeat our own separate enemies, what will happen next? The Brown Lands separate us, but for how long? In a few years time, will we be back here with our armies, glaring at each other across the wilderness that separates us?"

"Perhaps," Samir said. "He wants us gone for now, so he can turn to his enemies in the south. I can accept that. But he has not yet convinced me that he doesn't intend to rule over half the world before the end."

"We need peace," Bedir said. "I was wrong. I wanted us to unite so we could fight off the armies of Gondor when they came for us, as I thought they surely would. But I was wrong. We need to unite so we can build a peace with them. Friendship? Perhaps not, but peace."

"And you will build this?" Samir said. "And how about Samir, the lord of lords? Does he not play a part in this?"

"Think of me not as a hostage," Bedir said, "but as an ambassador. I want to understand them and their ways. Even without eyes, I can see their cities and come to know what sort of a people they are. Yes, you had spies who did just that, but how much more can be gained by someone who can ask questions openly? A spy can find information, but he cannot build trust."

Samir was silent, pacing in the dark. "You want to see where he came from. All your life, you've remembered that wounded stranger of yours. You want to see the land that made him what he is. Did he know, do you think? Did he know that the boy who helped him so long ago now sat at my right hand: the one man who I will always listen to? Did the whole audacious plan derive from that?"

Perhaps it had, Bedir thought. There was a kernel of truth in the first part of it, too. His wounded stranger had now been revealed as a daring traveller who had seen so many lands. What had Bedir seen but the hills and grasslands around his home? It was too late to see with his eyes, but that made no real difference. He could still see. He could still learn.

"I have always listened to you. I have valued your counsel." Even alone, Samir was too proud to beg, but Bedir heard the need that lay beneath his words. Not I will be lost without your advice, perhaps, but I will find things harder without you.

"You have valued it too much, perhaps," Bedir said sadly. "I am an old man. I was not the chosen lord of my clan, but in the years of our exile, I became their lord in everything but name. In the eyes of all your army, I was once a lord, and I am a lord no longer, but I still live. I did not fall in battle or go beneath my barrow. They see you talking to me and they-"

"Scorn me?" Samir said. "They would not dare."

Perhaps not, but Samir had struggled hard to keep control of his lords during the slow march west. He would struggle even harder to get them to follow him back home. There was no use trying to cajole them because that would lose their respect. He would have to be the tyrant, fierce and strong. He would have to dominate them into obedience, and they would be quicker to accept his rule if he commanded them as a strong warrior who bowed to no man, than as a man who turned always to the old man at his shoulder.

He said little of that. Samir would understand it soon, he thought, and was beginning to understand it even now. "It is time for you to leave me behind," he merely said.

"But we will meet again," Samir swore. "Become too fond of your new-found friends, and I will come to drag you back to me in chains."

"I will not," Bedir promised, knowing that there was some truth behind the threat, but a truth far less harsh than the words.

And it turned out that his old, blind eyes were still capable of weeping. Could Samir still weep? By his voice, Bedir thought that he could.

There was yet more to be said before they parted.

"Wars have started because of the smallest of things," Aragorn said, "and implacable hatreds have grown up because of one small omission."

"They have indeed." Anger blazed briefly in Samir's eyes. Bedir had told him who Aragorn was, of course, and Samir wanted to hate Aragorn for the deception, but could not risk endangering their new understanding. He was pretending he had known all along. He could not confront Aragorn, not without admitting that he had been fooled.

It had been a dangerous moment, nevertheless. Of all the dangers that Aragorn had been feared during the ride from Samir's camp, this had been among the worst of them. He would have confessed his true identity before they parted, of course, because Samir was bound to find out in the end, but he had wanted there to be a degree of understanding between them before the revelation came. He had been afraid that Samir's messenger would give him away prematurely, but he had been focused entirely on giving his report to his lord, and had spared not a glance for the hooded man who rode beside his lord.

"When travelling to your camp," Aragorn said, "we encountered one of your scouts. He was good, a credit to you. He-"

"You killed him, then."

Aragorn nodded. A dead liegeman would be little mourned by a lord of the clans, Aragorn knew, but things were different when there was talk of war. A life that was accounted worthless in time of peace might suddenly assume great value when it was taken away by an enemy. "We had no choice," he said. "We buried him as well as we could. I will tell you where to find him, so you can bring him home, and say the right words over his grave."

Bedir began to move forward then, but Aragorn shook his head slightly, even though Bedir could not see him. "The right words are important," he continued. He remembered the woman in Samir's wain, and how fierce and furious she had been when she had talked of their dead. "You lost so many before the walls of Minas Tirith."

"You burnt them, we hear." Samir said it as if it was of no importance. It was anything but. Perhaps it was one of those things that Samir was prepared to put off until their next meeting, but Aragorn would not let it wait. He had understood many things when he had heard that woman speak.

"We were in haste," Aragorn said, "for the full force of Sauron's might had fallen upon us, and we feared yet more attack. I did not yet rule Gondor then-"

"You blame others?"

"I blame haste," Aragorn said, "and necessity. I blame the fact that within days, we marched to the Black Gate itself, thinking only to find death and the ruin of all things. Many evils were done that day, but I cannot bring your dead back, and neither can I bring back ours. But I can let you lay them to rest. Their spirits wander lost, do they not?" He closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head. "I am sorry. I did not know."

Had never stopped to think. He knew something of their burial rites, and had made sure that Éomer knew them, too. He had known that they were important, but he had never considered the dead who had fallen on the Pelennor. All along, he had thought that he was so wise in the ways of the clansmen because of his time amongst them, but he had forgotten this.

"None of my kin lie dead before Minas Tirith," Samir said, "but my wife…" His voice caught, and he cleared his throat. "Many have suffered losses. It makes them foolish. Some are even afraid that you will command their dead to ride into war against us." He laughed, his face hidden in the darkness.

"I would not," Aragorn assured him. "I could not. The tales are true, as far as they go, but they were the spirits of a people cursed by my ancestor. I do not have the power to issue such a curse, and I would not do so even if I could. It was because he cursed them that I could command them. They are at rest now, and never again will I command the dead, or wish to. If your spirits are restless, I would have you heal them."

Samir said nothing. His face was turned away.

"I will do it," Bedir said, stepping forward. "You have not asked for hostages, lord, but I offer myself as one, nevertheless. I would travel with you to your city of Minas Tirith, and…" He turned to Samir; took his arm in the dark. "I will lay our dead to rest. Our dead, because although our clan sent no warriors to fight for Sauron, we are all one people now, and always will be."

Still nothing from Samir. Aragorn, too, remained silent. It was necessary, he thought.

"It will be another reason, will it not?" Bedir smiled, and he looked almost young again, with his scar and his wrinkles seeming like nothing more than a trick of the flickering light.

"Yes," said Samir. "Yes."

The old man had offered himself as a hostage, and so hostages had to be offered in return. Had the king planned even for this? Mablung thought he probably had. He seemed to have planned for everything. Either that, or he was exceptionally good at thinking on his feet, while conveying the impression that nothing surprised him.

"I will go," said one of the Rohirrim. "I am Cenred, and my king has granted me leave. I will go for the Mark." He laughed. "They are fond of their horses, or so I hear, and shoot arrows from the saddle, as we do. I would like to find out more about such a people."

"I will go," said one of the elves. "Lasdir is my name. I will go for the elves of Ithilien. We know little of the east. Perhaps it is time to learn."

"Lord," said Mablung, before anyone else could speak. "My lord."

"No," said the king. "No, Mablung, don't…"

Mablung stepped close to him, and lowered his voice. When he spoke, he did so in the court tongue of Gondor, the tongue of the elves. "Let me go, my lord, for Gondor."

"You have played your part, Mablung, and played it well." The king touched his arm. "There is no need for you to do more."

"What did I do?" Mablung shook his head, letting out a bitter breath. "You could have guided yourself there without me. I killed that man, but you didn't need me for that. This morning, I sat there at your feet and listened. I did nothing."

"You did everything that was asked of you, and more," the king said warmly.

"I understand," Mablung said. "I've had time to think. You thought you might need a witness who could carry back the news of your death. It is always like that in the stories. The bard survives, or the esquire: someone who can tell the tale. If Samir had decided to take you prisoner, he would have needed someone to send back with the demands."

"Yes," the king admitted. "That was one of the reasons. Yes."

"But I wasn't needed," Mablung said. "I didn't have to perform that role."

"For which I am thankful," said the king with a smile. "A man walks through a shadowed valley with a sword at his side and armour on his back, and no bandits attack him. Does it mean that his sword was useless, just because he did not need to use it? If you had been called upon to bear the news, or called upon to die, you would have done so. You were not. That changes nothing about the intention."

"But…" Mablung protested.

"No." The king shook his head. "You are a man of many skills, the best that there can be. I know Rangers of the North, my own kin, who could not best you when it comes to moving unseen. I know that you can fight. I gave you an unenviable task, and you fulfilled it beyond reproach. But you were uncomfortable today. This I know. You turned your back on cities on stone and the games of politics and manners that are played within their walls."

"The men of Rohan know little of such games," Mablung said, "but this Cenred has offered himself. I know more of their tongue than he does. And maybe… Maybe these clansmen, too, would appreciate a blunt and honest man, who isn't overfond of setting traps for them in words."

"Unlike me?" said the king, but he smiled as he said so, a rueful smile.

"I hated him because of what happened at the outposts," Mablung confessed. "When you said you were going to talk to him, sometimes I… sometimes I wondered if you should. But I heard what you said to him, and what he said. Some of it, at least. Perhaps he wasn't even guilty of that. Perhaps it doesn't matter."

"They will not be forgotten," the king said quietly. "I promise you that. If Samir and I meet again, I will not let them be forgotten."

"I'm glad, lord." Mablung gave a quick smile. "But he decided to believe you in the end. Even I could see how difficult that was for him, and I know it won't be easy for him to convince the others. He's taking a big risk. And I…" He sighed; breathed in, and sighed again. He pressed his hands to his face, covering his eyes for a moment, as if that could change things. When he opened his eyes again, the king was looking at him, and the darkness could not hide the sympathy in his eyes. "I won't forget them," he said, "but perhaps the best way for me to remember them is not to avenge them, but to do whatever I can to make sure that they are the only ones. That there is never any war between us. That the only deaths that lie between us are a handful on each side, and no more."

"Yes," said the king. "Mablung. I…" He smiled, but his eyes were gleaming, as if there were almost tears there, but why would that be? "I chose well when I chose you, and I am sorry."

"You refuse me?" He didn't know what he felt about that. Disappointment, yes, but perhaps, at the same time, a spark of relief?

"I accept," said the king.

He was home. He was back with his own people. He was free.

Kabil was alone in a tent, surrounded by the soft sounds of a sleeping army. He could hear snoring from other tents. When he went to the flap and looked out, he could see that a light was still burning in Samir's wain, although the night was so late that it was almost morning. Somewhere not far away, people were talking. Samir had yet to tell the army that he intended to turn them round. They wondered why they had gone for a day and a night without moving anywhere. They wondered where Samir had ridden to for so long, only coming back long after dark.

Kabil was free, and he was alone. The other prisoners were being sent for, he knew, and would be back before the end of tomorrow. They, too, bore his shame. They, too, had allowed themselves to be captured.

But they had not told bald truths to the man who was their lord of lords. They had not suggested that this vaunted army of theirs was just a shadow when compared to the might of Gondor. They had not admitted that their own lord - Hasad, his brother - was a rash fool.

And so he was alone. What would he do when morning came?

He would obey Samir. What else could he do?

It was another night with little sleep. It was after dawn when the party finally rode in. Aragorn was with them, or so Legolas had told him hours before, but it was not until Éomer saw him with his own eyes that he could truly relax.

"It went well?" he asked.

"It went well." Aragorn slid down from the saddle, but almost stumbled as he landed. How many sleepless nights had he endured, fighting his desperate battle of wits? All Éomer had needed to do was wait.

Oh, but he had wanted to ride with them! He had come within a hair's breadth of doing so. But he could not. Just as he could not do so when they had battled the enemy horsemen, he could not do so for this. He had to stay with the army. He had to ensure that one king, at least, survived in the west. He had to…

Old reasons. Tired arguments. And so he had tossed and turned, paced up and down, and raged, raged silently, even as he gave his calm commands.

Waiting was the hardest part. Éowyn had tried to tell him that more than once, but he had scoffed at her. How could staying at home in comfort be harder than risking your life in the filth of the field?

"He believed?" Éomer asked.

"He believed."

Cenred was gone, Éomer saw. So it had come to that. Too much to hope that it would not.

"They will treat him well," Aragorn said, noticing how Éomer was taking a tally of their numbers. "A year, I have said, and no more. We will get him back, and the others, too." Raising a hand in apology, he walked away, and exchanged a few quick words with one of his captains. From their gestures, it seemed to concern the stranger in their party, doubtless a hostage from the east. He was an old man, and Éomer thought that he was almost certainly blind.

"What happened?" Éomer asked, when Aragorn returned. The old man was being helped down from his horse, and led away with soft words.

Aragorn began walking towards his tent. "I am more weary than I have been for many years," he said. "Can I tell you in the morning?"

"It is morning." Éomer chuckled, then found that he was unable to stop. He laughed, laughed far more than the situation warranted, and then, at last, fell silent again.

"I will tell you in the afternoon, then," said Aragorn.

But there was one more thing to do before Éomer could let him rest. Legolas was already there, waiting at the entrance, and Gimli was hurrying up behind him. "…knew you'd return," Éomer heard him say, as he turned away from them. "I wouldn't let anyone say otherwise."

Éomer went as fast as he could, but even during the short walk from Aragorn's tent to his own, half a dozen captains intercepted him. They had questions for him, or they sought his rulings on decisions that they wished to make. He answered the simple questions, and the longer ones he dismissed for now, with a "later. Come to me again in an hour."

By the time he returned to Aragorn's tent, Aragorn was sitting on his bed. Someone had brought him a plate of breakfast, and a steaming mug of something hot sat on the table beside his bed. Gimli was sitting in the chair beside the bed, holding a grey cloak in his hands. "He could have kept it," Gimli was saying. "It's only for a year, after all. He could have kept it. He…"

He trailed away as he saw Éomer standing in the entrance, the light behind him.

"I kept it safe," Éomer said, and he went down on one knee as he returned the sword of Elendil to its rightful master. He had not planned to do so, but it seemed only fitting.

"I knew you would," Aragorn said gravely, but he would not take it until Éomer was on his feet again, handing it over without ceremony, as a friend.

"What happened?" Gimli asked. "Legolas got back before you. He's told me some of it, but…"

"You'll get no stories from him this morning, Master Dwarf," Éomer said with a laugh.

"Indeed you won't." Aragorn yawned. As he did so, it occurred to Éomer that his friend had been wearing masks for weeks: not just in his dealings with Samir, but in all the days that had preceded that. He had suspected from the start that the Easterlings weren't behind the attack, but he hadn't wanted even a hint of that to slip out, in case it alerted their true enemies who were pulling strings behind the scenes. It was only here, only now, that he could finally let himself shed those masks.

But not for long. He would sleep for a few hours, but then once again he would assume the mantle of a king.

"There is much to do," Aragorn said, "and promises to be kept. The captains who rode with me know what they are. Talk to them. You will know what to do." He lay down, and yawned again, closing his eyes.

"I will do that," Éomer said quietly, as he turned and left him there. Not long later, when he turned, he saw that Legolas and Gimli had also left. Gimli was still gripping the cloak, and although the morning was chilly, he did not put it on.

He would give Aragorn as long as he needed, Éomer vowed. This time, he could happily endure the waiting.