There was a fell scent on the air. It had been many months since the winds of the East had carried such a scent from the Black Lands, and many months more since it had descended upon Minas Tirith in such intensity. Its presence, which poxed the soul as much as it did the nose, put one in mind of the darkness of years past. When the terrible mountain in the heart of Mordor had still stood, it had spewed a near constant stream of ash and sulphur from its gaping mouth. Many had said that its pollutions were spurred on by the Dark Lord himself, so that his minions could move freely across the land and multiply to abhorrent amounts, unhindered by the light of the sun. In those days, when the shadows from Mordor nearly touched the white city's walls, its people had grown used to the smell of rot, the smell of doom, the smell of an evil creeping ever closer.

Aharenor wrinkled his nose. He thought it smelled of boiled cabbage. He went and closed the window. Then, he walked back to his desk and took a sip of his wine.

Letters that had been tossed about by the smelly breeze were sorted back into their appropriate piles. Aharenor nearly crumpled them as he went along, bereaved by the oppressive stench of the afternoon and the hours' worth of letter writing he had yet to finish. Papers gathered, he settled himself back into his chair and surveyed the line of letters he had written out. Each was a tenderly written copy of the one before it, a sentence or two changed to feign individuality, ended with a signature that, after being signed too many times to count, cramped his hand.

My Dearest _,

He left a spot blank to fill in with a name later.

"I hope this letter finds you in good health, and a clear mind. I miss you dearly. Do you remember when_? What joyous memories! I am to take half a year's excuse from my post in Minas Tirith to travel to our King's newest encampment in Nurn. I have been called upon to help ease relations between our people and the newly settled free men of Nurn. Though I am honoured to serve Gondor in this way, I feel saddened to inform you that I will be unable to receive any letters while I am away. Please do not waste your paper or your time for my sake.

I shall keep you in my heart,

Aharenor

Such were the letters for every uncle, aunt, second cousin, mother's friend, and distant acquaintance. Of course, all of them already knew of his trip to the Black Lands. He'd only mentioned his "promotion" to the new post once or twice in idle chatter, and yet, it seemed as if everyone he'd ever met knew about it within the week. Aharenor thought it a waste of paper and ink, to inform people of his departure when they'd already gossiped their way into knowing it. But such was the culture that Aharenor didn't dare do anything more than buy a new pair of trousers without writing to his long list of correspondences. To do so was to earn a wayward glance from a group of aunts at the next dinner party and become the newest subject of chatter.

He remembered the bitter whispers he'd heard after one of his attempts to keep his private matters private.

"Engaged! And not a single letter to my husband or I! You would think he could care enough to tell us."

"Don't feel so offended. I heard he didn't even tell his parents until after the promising ceremony."

"How inconsiderate!"

The letters after that occasion, in so great a volume and so pursed in their wording, had taken him a week to reply to. Each had been congratulatory, but all held an aire of indignance. Enough to convey the ire of their writers, but not so obvious that it couldn't be played dumb about when pressed on at the next tea party or wine tasting.

Unlike all matters that had come before that debacle, he'd made an express effort to avoid mentioning his engagement to anyone. He had not told his cousins, not his sisters, not his mother, not even his father of it. He had tried, earnestly, to speak no word of it, not even offhandedly, unless pressed hard on the matter. All of his efforts had been for naught. It was only a few days before most everyone knew that he was betrothed, and often Aharenor looked back and wondered if it would have been better of him to simply announce his betrothal and deal with the consequences rather than bite his nails waiting for them.

In the midst of the stack of letters he had received, those that had both congratulated him and scolded him, had been one that had sent him into a weeklong respite that neither his betrothed nor his family had been able to drag him out off.

It stared at him now, peeking out from under one of the farewell letters, having sat there for several weeks. The letter was not as pursed in its wording, but it had hurt more than all the rest.

Dear Aharenor,

I have heard that you intend to marry Otholdis. Know that I understand and that I wish you both well in your marriage, when the day comes. It would be best if we halted all correspondence, written or otherwise. I hope that you enjoyed our time together at least half as much as I did. I don't wish to speak with you anymore nor do I wish to see you again.

Yours,

As always, the sender had not signed their name nor left any distinguishing mark.

After opening the letter he'd found himself a rundlet of Lossarnach wine and guzzled drink until he could hardly read the words on the paper. For one week, he'd called that rundlet his best friend and kept it in his bed while he slept.

The whole experience had taught him something he knew he should have known: A man of Aharenor's position could not keep an engagement a secret for long.

Much less an engagement to a woman like… i her /i.

Remembering that she had planned to visit him before the evening's end, he took the half-hidden letter, walked to the fireplace that lit the dim room, and with a heavy heart, thrust in the paper with an iron hook. Some of his sorrows burned away with the letter, but he knew that once his glass was empty and the loneliness of night crept in that his mind would be led back to what had been written.

Aharenor sat back down and glared at all that he had left to write. It would take the rest of the evening, at least. A knock came at the door to his study. He called for whoever it was to enter.

"Are the letters coming along well?" came a voice. A head peaked out from behind the door, and once it saw that Aharenor was indeed the one that had welcomed it in, a purple-clad body followed.

Otholdis was the perfect image of a woman. She was also, Aharenor imagined, the image of what most men thought of late at night when they were very lonely. Aharenor tended to recognize her by her less obvious endowments, both out of respect for the woman and something else. She had a stern set of eyebrows and a pale, skinny neck not unlike those of the geese her family kept in the gardens outside their manor. The very tip of her nose was upturned in such a way that it always looked like she was sticking it up at something, which fit her nicely, because she nearly always was.

"Of course," said Aharenor, keeping his gaze on the papers before him. Otholdis waltzed over to his desk and leaned over his shoulder. Aharenor fought off the urge to bend away. He could smell lavender on her. He'd told her no less than a dozen times before that he was allergic to the dreadful flower and that it made his nose drip uncontrollably. She'd always laugh him off and continue to wear the perfume anyway.

"That's good to hear. It seems like such a trouble to write so much and to so many people. It's good that you enjoy it," said Otholdis blithely. Aharenor bit his tongue and said much less than he would have liked to.

"Yes," he said, the word curt and perhaps a little sterner than it should have been. "Did the dinner go well?" He asked. "I'm sure it was nice to see your friends one last time."

"I ended up not going."

"Oh?"

"Neithoril and Saereth had just been invited to a play by a cousin of theirs, and it would have only been Anweth and I if we had gone through with the dinner, so we all decided it would be best to keep our goodbyes short."

"Well I suppose that just means you'll have even more to talk about when we get back."

"That's what they said as well. Yes, I suppose I will, " said Otholdis, but her frown betrayed her cheerful tone. "My brother gives us his well wishes."

"He does?" Asked Aharenor, sounding more sceptical than he meant to.

"Yes, he does. A letter came in from Emyn Arnen. He must have stopped there while out on his duties."

"Hm."

Aharenor didn't so much as glance up from his desk. The swan-feather pen in his hand danced back and forth across the letter he'd moved on to while Otholdis spoke.

"Well then…" Said Otholdis. She waited for Aharenor to chime in with a question on how she faired, or a tasteful comment on the dress she wore. But he simply continued to work away at the letter.

"You look quite nice today, darling." She said, now a little sour.

"Yes, yes of course," said Aharenor, attention elsewhere. A full silence followed. Aharenor stopped writing. He suddenly felt as if something was terribly, horribly wrong. It was if he could feel Barad-dûr itself looming over him, it's malice (which was lavender scented?) perforating the very air that he breath-

"As do you, darling," he said, correcting himself.

Otholdis stroked his shoulder and the sense of dread dissipated. His bride-to-be leaned over, pet his cheek, and placed a kiss there.

She always lingered for a moment longer than she should, for she had learned from lovers past that it conveyed a sensuality that something curt left for wanting.

He quickly kissed her back and told her that it had been so dear of her to visit him but that she should really hurry along, for he had many more letters to write and he would hate to bore her with them. She told him that it would be no trouble, and that she could stay a little while longer to keep him company, but he insisted that she should hurry back home before it grew dark out. So, she left, feeling more than a little scorned.

It had been a small thing, his kiss. Otholdis had barely felt it when it graced her skin, but what she had felt was stiff and drawn up. There was little weight behind it, either in pressure or intent. She remembered when she'd first felt one of his kisses. She had thought that it had just been his nerves and that once he'd familiarised himself to her, and she to him, he would grow less guarded in his affections. But, six months down the line and with no improvement to speak of, Otholdis had resigned any expectations in the way of intimacy. She felt a bit sad for the man, but she spared most of her pity for herself.

She thought he was impossibly plain. Certainly hearty, but plain nonetheless. A bit like a well-made loaf of bread, she surmised. Good for one's health, not likely to upset any stomachs, but rather boring when compared to what else might be on the table. Still, she had felt so very secure in his presence when she had first met him, so very pleased by his inoffensive looks and ways, that she had been charmed. The fact that he stood half a head taller than the average man, was in possession of a low voice, and had the sort of golden-yellow hair that she found becoming had helped too. She had thought, and continued to hope, that she and him could be comfortable together.

Otholdis walked down the long hall of his family's manor, thinking of what she must have done or said to earn Aharenor's ire that evening. She was soon at the towering doors at the front of the house, where her escorts greeted her to take her back home.

When Otholdis returned from Aharenor's residence she shooed off the two housemaids that had walked her there and back and went to sulk in the garden. The flowers did little to fix her mood.

The manor did not feel like home. Not yet at least. Her family had, of course, only settled in several months prior, but Otholdis had hoped that the great stone walls and alabaster columns would soon become as warm and inviting as the vineyard villas of Lossarnach. It had not been so. But what the manor, and by extension Minas Tirith, lacked in comfort it made up for in class, and Otholdis could not deny the joy she felt surrounded by such lavishness.

And yet, she often found that there were little ways in which the "lavishness" was lacking.

A prime example waddled up to her while she glared at a daisy. She looked down at the feathered intruder and, defying the limits of sour moods, glared even harder.

When her family had first arrived at the manor, she had begged her father for swans. And at the end of a weeklong search across Minas Tirith, he'd come to her with apology on top of apology. There was not one swan to be bought in all the white city.

So, in the end, she'd been given geese. Large white ones, with necks longer than most, but still geese.

She hated them.

The one at her feet let out a little call, and soon its flock-mates came running in from every corner of the garden. They sallied around Otholdis and started honking for food she didn't have.

"Get! Go on!" She hissed, but they only circled in closer. She tried shaking her hands at them and was rewarded with a nip to the fingers. Otholdis yelped and yanked her hand back.

Someone laughed.

"I see they're still as ill-tempered as ever."

Otholdis turned around. Her brother, clad in cape and leather, stood smiling behind her.

"I was worried I wouldn't come home in time to see you," he said.

"Aglorn!" Cried Otholdis. She rushed to him and threw her arms around him. "I didn't know you would visit!"

"Nor did I, but I convinced my captain to let me come home for a day, if only to see you off before your trip," he said, laughing at the strength with which she hugged him.

Otholdis smiled up at her brother. No one could deny that they were kin. He was as pale and dark-haired as she, and though a fair bit taller than her, similarly thin in frame. But the one thing that betrayed their likeness was the worn look he had about him. It showed in the small creases beneath his eyes and the silvery scars that sometimes appeared when his sleeves rolled down his arms. But most of all, it showed in the way he held himself. A man of his age would have had a restless way about him, but Aglorn often stood in conversation without so much as a twitch of the eye. And when he did move, it was with such intention and slow grace that it put one in mind of a crane stalking through a marsh. Such was the way of a ranger of Gondor.

Otholdis had never understood what had made him choose such a path. His duties often took him to the edge of civilization and into the mountains for weeks on end. He'd often steer conversations away from his travels when they began to move in that direction, but sometimes, when it was late at night and his tongue was loosened by the pain of ill-gotten memories, he would give Otholdis little details: The number of men he'd embarked with, the number of men that had come back. How red the eyes of an orc could be. He never shared anything more than that. It seemed to be for his own sake rather than hers.

Otholdis hoped that his latest expedition had been uneventful. She also hoped that he had brought back another little trinket for her. She wondered what it would be made of this time. Silver, gold, ivory? She hummed wistfully. She'd been starving for ivory since she'd last seen a friend flaunt a pair of whale-tooth earrings.

As if sensing the inquiry that was about to be made, Aglorn reached into a satchel at his belt and pulled out something wrapped in paper.

"Here, I thought to get you a little farewell present. I know I'll be seeing even less of you than I normally do, so I looked for something special," said Aglorn, and with a playful whirl of his hand he ripped away the paper. He pinched a small, pale comb between his fingers, its teeth impossibly thin. It was flat and dainty and the heavenly colour of pearls. Otholdis plucked it from him and nearly wept from joy.

"How dear! Oh, you shouldn't have Aglorn," she said, holding the comb as if it were the key to all the world. Her fingers traced the scenes of foreign animals that had been etched into its shaft.

"It's ivory from one of the great war beasts of the Haradrim. The merchant called them Mumakil," said Aglorn. He pointed to one of the little animals on the shaft of the comb. It had stump-like legs and a strange appendage hanging down from above its mouth.

"Mumakil! Those wretched things that stomped across the Pelenor Fields?" Asked Otholdis.

"The same."

"Oh that's frightful Aglorn. But this is such lovely ivory. I suppose some good came of those beasts after all."

Otholdis clutched the comb to her chest and felt as if all was right with the world. She couldn't believe how wonderful the bone felt under her fingers.

"Are you ready for tomorrow?" Asked Aglorn.

"Goodness no. Packing, travelling, speaking to foreigners. It's going to be such a chore," replied Otholdis, sticking the comb up through the bundle of hair at the nape of her neck.

"I've a bad feeling about it all. Mordor, however tame the roads, is still Mordor," said Aglorn. His voice grew quiet and distant, as if in recollection.

"I dislike it as well. We'll be travelling day in and day out, and I fear there'll be little time for bathing. And we'll be staying in a tent, Aglorn, a tent."

The man huffed and gave her an incredulous look.

"Is that what you're afraid of? A tent? Not bandits? Not orcs?" He said.

Otholdis laughed and waved away the question.

"Oh be sensible," she said. "We'll not be anywhere near the mountains! Besides, there will be many good men accompanying us. Aharenor has seen to every single detail."

"That's what worries me."

Otholdis stuck a stern look at her brother. "When you insult him, you also insult my judgement in choosing him," she said.

"You insult him more than anyone else! What I say is only a fraction of what you say."

"But that's different. Being his betrothed I've a right to insult him, perhaps even an obligation at times. But it's not right for brothers-in-law to get along so poorly."

"I've at least made an effort to warm myself to him. What friendly gesture has he given me? None, that's what. And if he intends on making himself distant, then I see no reason to go out of my way to reach him!" He said, and then his expression turned serious. "You could always choose another. You're not married yet, you know."

Otholdis narrowed her eyes at her brother and crossed her arms, but her tone grew playful.

"And who would I marry, hm?" She asked.

"What about Derufin? He was always sweet on you."

Otholdis smiled glumly and thought of the man. "I know."

"You liked Derufin too," said Aglorn, voice softening. Otholdis heaved a sigh and shook her head.

"He's not the marrying sort," she said.

"What of Bornagar? He's a charming fellow," offered Aglorn.

"His hair's too red. I don't like redheads."

"Then what about Erion?"

"Erion?"

"Yes, he's a good man. Kind, dependable. A bit of a romantic, too. Goodness knows he could use a wife."

"What's this with auctioning off your friends to me? Besides, I couldn't choose Erion. How would that look, hm? Leaving Aharenor for the man that I met him through? And it's not as if I'm already promised to another, " growled Otholdis. The geese around her seemed to hiss in solidarity.

"It's not as if promisings aren't broken every now and then. It happens! And the loss in reputation is much less than what you would think."

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," said Otholdis. Her voice had lost its playfulness. Aglorn sighed and stared down at the geese. Twelve beady eyes stared back. When he looked back up at Otholdis, she realised, with a bit of anger, that he was pitying her.

"He is so cold to you Otholdis. I don't want you to find yourself chained to a man who has no regard for you."

"Stop it Aglorn," warned Otholdis.

"And travelling to Mordor with him? His disposition isn't going to change over there any more than it's going to change over here. And…and I know that the 'roads are safe.' Or at least, I know that the officials who say those sorts of things think that the roads are safe, but I spent enough time in those lands after the fall to know that they can never-"

"I don't want to hear another word of this! I'll be going with Aharenor whether or not you approve."

"This isn't just about him-"

"And who knows, maybe we will run into orcs."

"Do not say such things," said Aglorn, and at hearing the slight whine beneath his voice Otholdis was put in mind of the way they'd quarrelled as children. It seemed like she'd always known exactly what to say to get on his nerves, and as a little girl with few other ways to get a leg up on her older brother she'd adored playing with him that way.

"Yes, they'll come through and rip us apart. A whole pack of them!" She gasped, clasping her hands to her face and feigning fear. "There, you've jinxed us with your worrying."

And just like that, Aglorn's face went red and his fists grew tight and the ranger disappeared. Instead, Otholdis saw a little boy about to stomp his foot and threaten to go tattle on her to their parents. Had it really been so long since she'd teased him like this?

"This is not a subject for jests Otholdis," he said, "Too many people have been lost to that wretched land."

He sounded so cross, so much like he had all those years ago, that Otholdis couldn't help but giggle.

"Well too bad for them! At least they don't have to suffer the incessant nagging of the living," she said impishly, and poked him in the chest. He swatted her finger away and she laughed at the way he pouted. "I think I pity them, those happy, dead fools," she continued.

"Have some respect, Otholdis," warned Aglorn, but Otholdis did not notice the way his voice had grown stiff and pained. She thought of something quite funny and laughed while taking Aglorn's hand into her own. The geese honked along with her.

"Oh please! What do they care? No amount of gentle words is going to pick their bones out of the orc dung they ended up-"

Aglorn wrenched his hand away from her so quickly that she startled backwards.

"You've no right to speak of the dead that way!" He barked.

Otholdis stilled. The boy was gone, and Aglorn was suddenly a ranger once again. Otholdis could not see a hint of youth in him. Her brother's eyes were dark and still, but it was not anger that they held. No, it was a deep sorrow, the depths of which Otholdis suddenly knew that she would never be able to understand. The weight of all she had said settled upon her and drove the teasing smile from her face. She felt as if she were shrinking.

Aglorn stepped away from her. He swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head in an unsettled way that looked as if he was remembering something foul. He choked back a weak noise that Otholdis just barely heard. She made no sign that she had, for his pride.

When he regained his composure, he spoke. His words were flat and full of formality.

"I have some business at the barracks that I need to attend to before I leave. I'll see you off at the lower gates in the morning."

Otholdis began to speak, and almost found the words for an apology, but he held up his hand and silenced her.

With that, he turned and left.

Otholdis stood in silence among the geese, feeling small and wicked.

Otholdis was in no better mood when she finally retired to her room for the evening. It worsened when she remembered she still had yet to pack.

She found a trunk that had been shoved into one of her many closets and pulled it out and into the middle of the room. It was small and plain and Aharenor had bought it for her. It was less than half of what Otholdis had expected and less than a quarter of what she had requested.

After being sat down by Aharenor and being told, quite cautiously, that she was to travel with him to Mordor, she was put in such a nasty frame of mind that she had sworn to sell her promise band unless she could have her whole bedroom packed. Bedding, mattress, dresser and all. It had been a cruel bargain, and she had said it more out of her wish to vex him than anything else. But he had agreed and told her he'd buy her a trunk so she could pack it all herself. Herself. The trunk before her could hardly fit a summer wardrobe, let along her whole bedroom. But she had said that it would be no chore at all and wished him luck with his own packing. She'd cheerily told him not to forget his darling little love letters, should he want a reminder of home while they travelled. He had flashed red with shame at that, and Otholdis had taken a cruel pleasure in his mortified expression.

Standing before the trunk, she felt a little guilty for the comment, perhaps even regretful. She hadn't meant to let him know that she'd seen the letters, read the thinly veiled declarations of love, and smelled the fragrant oils that their sender had spritzed them with. But then she reminded herself of the indignity of packing her own luggage and mourned that she hadn't pretended to know who had sent the letters.

Looking at the trunk, she had half a mind to call in one of her maids and have them pack it for her. But then Otholdis thought of the small chance of one of them mentioning it in the morning while in Aharenor's presence, and the quiet, disdainful mood he'd be put in for the rest of the trip.

If it was even possible for him to become more disdainful of her.

"Damn him then!" thought Otholdis and called for a maid anyway.

The one that came rushing to her room was a portly little thing, shaped not unlike the body of a teapot. She had a small, soft face and such a homey look about her that when not cooking, cleaning, stitching, or tidying, she appeared woefully out of her element. Otholdis had only known her for a few months, about as long as her family had resided in the manor, but she liked the way Hildy folded the dresses and tidied the bed. She was a much better worker than the old hag that Otholdis's family had employed in Lossarnach. Otholdis wondered if she'd dropped dead yet.

"Hildy, I think it's time I started packing," she said, and with a gesture to the trunk the unspoken part was made apparent.

"And by 'I', I mean 'you'."

Hildy bowed her head and went to work. Otholdis instructed her to start with the essentials: jewellery, perfume, and fancy little soaps with flowers in them. The maid hurried between closets and boxes of trinkets, rushing to find a specific necklace or bottle of fragrance as Otholdis requested them.

While the poor woman sweated from the exhaustion of racing back and forth across the large room (and also from the scare her lady's mood was giving her), Otholdis pulled up a chair to her dresser and began to rummage through her jewellery boxes for her more cherished pieces.

It was not soon before it was night and the trunk had been filled to its limit. There had barely been enough room for the soaps, and Otholdis still had a shop's worth of rings, brooches and necklaces laid across her dresser, waiting to be packed.

Hildy struggled over the trunk, and sitting her entire weight onto the top of it, was able to push the lid down just enough to close its latch. When she sat up, she fell backwards from fatigue. Looking at the close-to-bursting trunk, she stood up, wiped her hands off on her apron and nodded proudly to herself. Then, she started to walk towards the door, ready to go off and have a well-deserved sleep.

"Hildy? Where are you going?" Asked Otholdis. Hildy looked at her with an air of caution.

"The trunk's been filled my lady. I'm heading to my quarters," she said.

"Hildy dear, we haven't even gotten to the handkerchiefs yet! I'll need you late into the night if I'm to finish."

"But I…I've yet to pack myself, my lady," said Hildy wearily.

"Oh but you can do that in the morning. You don't have much that you could pack anyway, do you?"

Hildy wilted.

"No, my lady," she said.

"Then you can help me a while longer. Go fetch another trunk for me," said Otholdis, and bade her rush to the storage closet down the hall. While Hildy left the room and thought about other houses she could be employed at, Otholdis took count of the pieces of jewellery she had laid across her dresser.

She worried that she wouldn't have the room to pack her cherished ruby necklace from her aunt. Nor her cherished amber earrings from her second cousin. Nor her cherished silver ring from her great uncle thrice-removed. Nor her cherished pearl bracelet from her friend of a nephew of a wine merchant she had once met on holiday in Pelargir.

"I am the poorest of all women. What have I done to deserve such hardship as this?" She thought bitterly.

Otholdis slumped in her chair, and something small fell out of her hair and onto the floor.

She had almost forgotten about the comb. No, not 'a comb.' Her cherished ivory comb from her brother.

She picked it up and traced the carvings once more. She noticed an animal on the back of the comb that she had not seen before. She could not tell if it was a goose or a swan.

She did not know why, but she began to weep at that. She dabbed away the bitter tears with the sleeve of her gown and flung herself across the gossamer sheets of her bed. She thought of how her friends had called off their dinner with her, the way Aharenor had seemed more than eager for her to leave his study, and the way she'd distressed her brother.

But as she wallowed in her misery, her sadness turned to anger and soon an icy hatred came to grip her heart and inspire thoughts of malice and cruelty.

"So damn them! Let them despise me. See how much I care," she thought.

Of all the people that had cast her off that day, her mind settled upon Aharenor most of all. Soon she was feeding her anger with the thought of the journey she would be forced to depart on with him.

"That wretched man! Taking me to Mordor?! What right does he have to pull me along behind him as if I am some mule? I am not yet his wife, and he treats me as if I were a slave!" She seethed.

She imagined all the nasty little things she could do to him to show him the error of his ways. She could drag him along on a day-trip to the market when they returned home. Before she left, she could tell her extended family how happy he'd be to start receiving letters from them, and that once he came back he wanted to hear from them every day.

Why, if she had the gall, she could even expose his infidelity when she and him were welcomed by the countrymen of Nurn. She could let everyone know how true, how noble the man really was. The thought of his face, pained with shame, was so delectable Otholdis thought she might die for want of it.

"But he would still hate me," came a voice in her mind, and some of her joy died with the thought of the disappointment he would look at her with. Then, another voice came, and it was laced with such venom that it could only be her own.

"And who could blame him for disliking a woman such as yourself?"

At first, she thought the thought should sadden her. But it didn't. Instead, a great feeling of wickedness came over her. But it was not the sort that made her feel small and trodden on. No, it was the kind of merry wickedness that sent a person cackling. With a startle, Otholdis realised she liked it. She liked it so much that she frightened herself. She buried her face in a pillow and tried to beat back the feeling. There was a knock at the bedroom door. Hildy popped her head in.

"My lady, I have the-"

"Out! Won't you give me one minute of peace?" She snapped, glaring up from her makeup-smeared pillow. Hildy startled back like a pecked hen.

"But my lady, you said you needed another trunk-"

"Go!" Barked Otholdis, and with a hurried nod Hildy excused herself and shut the door.

Otholdis felt a needling pang of guilt at seeing how quickly the woman fled but forgave herself. She was sure Hildy hated her as much as Aharenor and… and maybe her brother. So why should she care for her feelings? And how could she be expected to control her temper with a life as woefully unfortunate as her own?

The moon, plump and pale, was fixed in the night sky to the East. Aharenor finished his last letter with the help of its light. His final candle had melted down to a nub hours ago, and he had decided it would be cruel to wake the servants to fetch him more.

As he gathered the letters, folded them, and sat them in a pile to be sent out on the morrow, the sound of chirping drifted in from outside. Aharenor realised they were the first crickets of spring and set about finding a glass and bottle he could toast them with. The room being his personal study, it did not take long to find some.

He found a half empty bottle, gave his blessing to the crickets, wished them many long months of jolly song-making, and poured himself a generous amount of wine. He took a sip. It was no Dorwinion wine, but its taste was inoffensive.

The bottle had been a gift from Otholdis. It had made the journey from her family's vineyards in Lossarnach, up the many levels of Minas Tirith, and into his cup. If there was an upside to their engagement, it was the seemingly endless flow of drink that Otholdis's family supplied him with.

His mind wandered to her visit that evening, and ultimately, to her. He thought of how he had paid her little heed when she talked, and the sad way she'd tried to entice him.

In truth, he pitied her. He pitied her even more than he pitied himself, for any delusions of love he may have had when he first decided to court her had not lasted long, as in the end that was what they had been: delusions. He'd been a little disappointed, but whatever hope he'd had for he and Otholdis had not had much time to grow, and so its passing hurt less.

He downed his glass quicker than he meant to and poured himself another. As he drank, he settled back into the chair at his desk and looked at the map that had been revealed by his diligent work that evening. It'd been sitting underneath the heap of unwritten letters for at least a week, maybe more. He didn't remember when he had received it. What he did remember is that he should have reviewed it long before his journey. Certainly not the night before it.

"It's been a difficult few weeks…" He excused. And that it had. But there was a nagging feeling at the base of his belly that he'd done something very foolish by neglecting to take a thorough study of their journey. As if he would soon regret it.

He found a bit of comfort in filling his glass, which had somehow already been emptied.

Ironically, as he looked at the map, he was more familiar with the paths that weren't written than the one that was. It had been his duty to memorise all the paths that were utilised by the King's men. He had ingrained in his mind every ranger's trail, ever soldier's route, every miniscule footpath that was in use in the eastern half of Mordor, and by extension, eastern Nurn. He had been recommended, nay, forced to do so at the behest of his superiors, who had assured him that the premiere matter covered during his meetings with the Nurn-folk would be the rights of whose soldiers were to wander where. Though the men of Nurn had welcomed the aid Gondor had provided, now that they had some bearing on self-governorship they had become more guarded in their dealings with outsiders. What warriors were going where on their lands and in what strength was at the forefront of most negotiations. Aharenor didn't fault them. After being slaves for so long, and never having anything to call their own, it was expected that they would be protective of the one thing they were in large supply of: land. Despite this, relations between Nurn and Gondor had been grand. More than grand, really. Aharenor blessed his lucky stars that he hadn't been sent off to Harad or Rhûn. He'd sat in on a few meetings with emissaries from the two lands not long after The War had ended, and though an agreement between the three peoples had been reached, he couldn't help but notice the sense of indignance that oozed from the Haradrim and Easterlings. Their pride had very clearly been wounded, and they did not hide the bite behind their words. He'd had the pleasure of attending a private banquet with the foreigners, and though as the night went on he found that they made good company (drinking company, at least), the things he'd heard slurred about his king and his country had made him feel treasonous just listening to them. He'd been quick to remind them that their late master would have given them no such mercy as Gondor had, and that they had altogether been treated very well as guests of the king. That sent them fidgeting in their seats, looking equal parts embarrassed and guilty, and for a moment Aharenor thought he'd been too strong in his words. But the mood soon lightened again, and the squabble was forgotten.

Aharenor's thoughts went to the spiced Rhovian wine he'd drank with the emissaries that night, and he found, once again, that his drink had disappeared. He poured himself another glass, this time nearly missing his mark.

He scowled at the map, finding it was much harder to focus on. Eventually he found what he was looking for: a little dot in Eastern Nurn with the name 'Bain' written above it.

He remembered what he'd been told about the river-town. It was a sizable settlement along one of the western tributaries of the Sea of Nurn, or at least sizable compared to the other towns the men of Nurn had cobbled together after the War. It's proximity to Gondor had made it the preferred location for all manner of diplomatic meetings. The way there had been clearly marked in ink on the map.

He traced the line. It struck out from Minas Tirith, slipped through the Morgal Vale, then headed south before nearly crashing into a cluster of mountains that branched out from the Ephel Duath. The line then made a sheepish retreat from the little line of mountains, which Aharenor thought strange. He knew that there were a fair number of rangers that often journeyed to that area, and having men of the cloak and sword nearby would surely be a boon to aband of travellers.

"To make such a wide berth," he thought, "seems inefficient." And with a fuzzy head he took a pen and drew a dashed line that split from the path and hugged the edge of the mountains. The shortcut would save the party a few days of travel, he reckoned.

Aharenor thought it was a sensible change, something he decided he would confer on with the party leader when they embarked in the morning. For who could object to spending less time in the wilds of Mordor? Yes, they would be in Nurn before they knew it.