Still Day 2, the castle

Noratis listened to the chatter of Tebenor, Radures, and the loud rumbling of L’Adarac. He still felt sick. He had seen the fierce stare of Aragorn. Even in ten years – if they both lived as long – he would not have forgotten this look, and the King would remember his face among thousands. Noratis shivered so severely that wine spilled over his hand. He quickly put the goblet down on the table. His hands were shaking, and his face was white. The other men had not noticed yet, but he just waited for Tebenor, who sat next to him, to say a word about it. Tebenor still praised the Lady of Ice for her achievement, and the three men only saw the benefits of it. Or they preferred to leave out the gruesome truth. Noratis wanted to scream that they all would hang for treason, and that the chance of making it back to the White City was limited. In fact he would have felt better if the King was dead, but Lady Saborian had made herself clear: The King would stay here. Wasn’t that a foolish thought? King Aragorn, son of Arathorn, last in the line of Numenor – to serve in the Lady’s castle? He would have called her insane if he had dared.With the conversation in the background he imagined Lord Aragorn cleaning the dishes or serving at the table while Lady Saborian shared news with L’Adarac, who would ask for more wine and threaten the King with his dagger if he was not quick enough to oblige. ‘Ridiculous!’ He shook his head.

“Now, Noratis, what makes you look so worried?” Tebenor finally asked. “You seem to carry a burden too heavy to bring home. Let us know what troubles you!”

“It’s of no importance,” Noratis hurried to say. “I was just wondering how I will get back all my furniture to the city.”

Tebenor and Radures laughed so loud that the walls echoed back.

“Yes, my friend, that really is an important question!” Tebenor slapped Noratis’ shoulder soundly. “And… did you come up with a solution?”

“I will… as soon as we can really pack.”

Tebenor’s laughter stopped as if turned off.

“Sure we will. Do you doubt that, Noratis? Then let us know why.”

“No, Lady Saborian thought well of the plan before it was executed.” He felt like swimming in deep water. One minute more and he would drown. “It will work out for us. I am sure,” he added to convince Radures and L’Adarac, too, who had stopped talking. They threw him an inquisitive look, and the noble man searched for words in his completely blank mind. “As long as we keep quiet about the… incident, we will return to the White City in good time.” He cleared his throat. “In spring, or summer at last.” Another slap from Tebenor, and Radures nodded,

“Yes, that sounds better. For a moment I feared you could doubt our success.”

Noratis forced a smile on his face though as his doubts grew by the minute.

* * *

Day 6, Minas Tirith

Arwen tried to sense her husband, repeatedly and with growing desperation. She outstretched her mental fingers to touch his soul, like in that moment when she had felt his pain. It seemed as if he had built a wall around himself – or that he was dead by now. She did not want to think about this possibility.

Three days had passed since she had sent three soldiers into the forest where Aragorn had ridden with his friends. Every hour stretched to a day without a word from them or Aragorn. The wait unnerved her, and all the friends in Minas Tirith could not console her. She knew that her anxiety was probably nonsense, and that Aragorn would return within a few days. Maybe, she told herself, they had ridden further than they had intended to. The forests were full of strange magic even the elves did not always understand. It was a cold comfort.

Against the setting sun a rider approached the hill as fast as his horse would run, raising dust behind him. They both sweat and were more than exhausted. She hurried down the hallway to greet him.

The man dismounted, bowed to her, and caught his breath, while a servant led the foaming horse away.

“Lady Arwen, I’m sorry to bring you bad news. We could not find Lord Aragorn, but the three men of his company are dead.”

Arwen’s heart stopped suddenly, but she breathed deeply to regain her strength. She even held the tears back.

“So he is not dead,” she stated more to herself than to the man.

“No, my Lady, not as far as I know.”

“No sign of him then?” Her voice trembled, and she was dismayed by her weakness.

“There was a fight – four or five men against the King and his companions. But the traces were hard to read. A week old at least.”

“Where did the traces lead from there on?”

“North. But we lost them in one of the streams and could not find them on the northern shore.” He swallowed and looked at her miserably. “I’m sorry to bring such bad news.”

“It is not your fault. Thank you.”

“My Lady, if you wish us to, we will continue the search in all directions. We will find him.”

The convincing tone made her smile though she felt sick with sorrow.

“Yes, I know that. Wait for your men and take a rest. I will let you know my decision.”

* * *

Still Day 6, the castle

Vlohiri squatted in the farthestedge of the dungeon’s corridor, pulling his jacket tight around his boney knees. In the shadow no one would see him. No one would find him, for the cells were all empty and quiet, and he was nothing more than a stone. He felt as cold as it, but the shivering was better than the ugly words the other kids used for him. He drew up his nose as quiet as he could and used the sleeve to stop the dripping. He also wiped away the stains from his tears. They were angry tears, and more were coming. He could not hold them back. He felt miserable, and the words still echoed in his mind. ‘Scarecrow’, ‘bastard’, ‘son of the imbecile’, and other nicknames he did not want to recall. The maids all called him ‘Flea’, though they would not say that it was because of his build, but because it was close to his real name. It was true that he was very slender for his age, had big thin-skinned hands, and a small face with big blue eyes, shining under a mass of unkempt, straw-colored hair, which generously covered his sticking-out ears. If the maids used his name wrong Vlohiri accepted it lying down, but the other boys… He could always feel their disgust. He put both hands over his small face as if this would stop the tears and the memory. But he knew the moment he went back upstairs it would start anew. So he sat there for half an hour longer for the others did not dare to get down here. It was a cold comfort that he was bolder than they were.

His mother was a low-paid maid. She cleaned the hallways and rooms for the Lady and her companions, and though sometimes she recognized Vlohiri, most of the time she was absent-minded and seemed to live elsewhere, out of reach for Vlohiri and his misery. He did not know who his father was. He tried to convince himself that maybe his father had died in one of the great battles against the ruler of the land in the East. But the image did not soothe him. There was no grown-up person who would tell those other kids to back off. So he had no one to turn to. He was alone.

Again the tears streamed down his cheeks freely.

The dim light floating through the small windows in the cells and his rumbling stomach reminded him that dinner was close. He rose, stretched his limbs, and slowly, his shoulders sagging, made his way back to the wider corridor and the staircase.

“Why did you cry?” a soft voice asked when he passed the last cell in that row.

Startled Vlohiri jumped to the side, pressed himself against the hard stone, breathing heavily. He did not feel the pain in his left arm where he had hit a sharp stone. With wide eyes and open mouth he tried to see through the bars of that last door. His heart pumped in his eardrums,and he was afraid. Most of the time the prisoners in the cells either yelled at him or ignored him, constricted to their own misery. That was why he had preferred this long deserted tunnel. Now he did not know if he should stay or run.

A chain rattled and a bearded face showed at the bars, illuminated by the torch that stuck above the boy’s head. Grey eyes looked at him. Vlohiri coughed, still stood pressed with his back against the wall, unable to move. He was caught between fear and curiosity. Frowning he shivered and stared at the man, ready to break into a run if the door suddenly opened.

“Why did you cry?” the man repeated, and his voice sounded so different from those of the other prisoners – so friendly and sympathetic - that Vlohiri’s fear stepped down one level. But he was still cautious. The maids had forbidden him to go to the dungeon, but as with the most orders he had ignored it. He had been everywhere in this castle – inside and outside. He knew all the tunnels, the secret ways, and he could even climb the outer walls, at least parts of it. But he remembered that the maids had said that all prisoners were extremely dangerous and would kill him, for they could reach through the bars and strangle him, just because they were angry about all men living free. So Vlohiri stood three feet away from the bars, still eyeing the prisoner, calculating if the man’s arm would reach him. At the same time he felt like answering, like saying something – after all, he was out here and almost ten years old! Why should he be afraid? But there was not enough saliva in his mouth to form words. A small, weary smile came from the prisoner. “What is your name, lad?”

Vlohiri swallowed dryly. He still breathed heavily though he told himself again that he was safe. The wooden doors were heavy, and the padlock closed it for good. And the man’s look was not threatening either. He had not even raised his hands to the bars. ‘He is a prisoner,’ he contradicted himself. ‘He must have done something terrible.’ In his mind the vision of gruesome murders and floors full of blood formed. The soldiers had told many awful stories when they were drunk. With closed eyes he shook his head in disgust.

“You don’t want to tell me your name?” the friendly voice asked. Vlohiri opened his eyes again, not knowing what the man referred to. “You shook your head.”

“Ah…” Vlohiri started, then frowned, troubled bywhat he should say. Should he speak with the prisoner at all? The maids would say, no, not a word, but he decided otherwise. “Flea,” he whispered, then, after he cleared his throat, “Vlohiri,” he corrected himself and stood more erect. “My mother called me Vlohiri.” He did not know that, but it sounded good.

“So, Vlohiri, as your mother called you, I am Aragorn.”

Vlohiri felt his lips form a smile, one thatthe prisoner returned. Then, in a sudden realization, the boy broke into a run, and did not stop until he reached the kitchen.

* * *

Still Day 6, the castle, evening

The cook glanced at him with her ‘You are pure trouble, boy’-look, but in oppositeto the other maids she was a generous woman and gave him a plate of warm fish and bread. He thanked her, and while she prepared more plates for the soldiers and the workers in the castle, she asked him with her warm and lenient voice:

“Where have you been, Flea? Up in the south tower again? Or in the dungeon where you truly should not be?” She waved a ladle at him, frowning. “The Lady of Ice ordered that no one except the guards maygo down there. Did you hear that, Flea? No one.” Vlohiri nodded chewing, gulped down a mug of water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So, fine, where did you go? I told you I needed help here tonight. I could not find you.”

Vlohiri blushed. He had forgotten! Immediately he felt guilty. When his mouth was empty, he looked at the cook and said,

“I’m sorry, Narana, I’m so sorry,” and she was good-hearted enough to forgive him.

“All right, then, son, you will do the dishes. So eat up!” She turned to the oven again, smiling to herself. “Why did you disappear from earth?” she asked a few minutes later, when the boy put dirty plates in the dishwater. He kept his look down as if he had to concentrate not to break anything. “Flea?”

“Had to,” he muttered.

“You had to jump off the earth? Who was behind you? A wild boar?”

It sounded like a joke, but to Vlohiri a wild boar would have been less threatening than the boys of the other maids and guards, who swarmed the castle’s northern parts.

“No. The boys,” he whispered reluctantly.

“Oh, Flea, you have to get along together. They could be your friends if you would not hide all the time.” Vlohiri kept his mouth shut. She did not understand that he hid because of the boys and the nicknames they used for him. She was twenty years older than him and would never be called names. He knew that. Narana was well respected among the personnel, though she was slightly fat and had a round face with freckles all over, and a nose that was as round as a mushroom. “You are too much alone.” Still he bowed to avoid her friendly stare. He thought about his mother who would sit somewhere with a bucket and a scrubbing brush in her hands, not knowing what to do with it. He had found her several times in a corridor, frowning about the towel in her hand, shaking her head and walking away suddenly. He could not talk to her normally. She would look at him puzzled, talk gibberish, and return to some place else, already forgotten that Vlohiri existed. In those moments he felt desperate. He needed his mother and her help! He was just a boy! And when the other, stronger boys found him a single word was enough to make him cry and run away. “Don’t forget the bowls,” Narana reminded him, and he quickly fetched them from the big table. “So, now, tell me for real, where have you been?”

Vlohiri scrubbed the first bowl heartily as if he wanted to wipe off the pattern. He knew that he could trust her, but had she not said that the dungeon was forbidden – for everyone? How could he then tell her about his encounter with this prisoner, who had been so different from all that scum he had seen before? (Even that would upset her more than he wanted to and get a tirade going against him.)

“South tower,” he said and felt uneasy for his lie, but he saw no other way. He vividly remembered the prisoner’s – ‘Aragorn’s’ – face and his soft voice. For the first time in his life a man had not treated him like air. The soldiers considered him a burden and shoved him away, and the maids always gave him work when they saw him. (Of course, that, too, was a reason to prefer invisibility in the castle.)

“I told you a hundred times,” Narana instantly answered, “you should not go there. It’s not safe. Some stone might fall on you! And no more climbing outside, do you hear me? Last time I saw you way up there on the eastern tower my heart stood still.”

“All right,” he gave in, not meaning it. Where was the fun within these cold walls if every little adventure was forbidden? And he haddone harder climbing than the eastern tower.

“I hope so, Flea. Now, off you go! You did enough.”

“Thank you, Narana,” he said happily, “the dinner was great as always.”

“Oh, don’t try to charm me!” she laughed, and with a smile Vlohiri left the kitchen.

* * *

Day 8, Minas Tirith

Arwen woke from a nightmare that left her shaking like a leaf.

She had seen her husband in a place bare of any light, surrounded by thick, grey walls, caging him in. It was quiet there, as if the place lay deep down in the earth. The walls moved in on him, making the prison smaller and smaller with every breath, until there was no space left. She heard her husband cry for release, but there was no one to rescue him.

But the images that woke her gave no indication where this place was, and though she hoped Aragorn would not suffer such awful fate, it was the first glimpse of him she had for a week.

She rose and dressed, knowing she would not sleep again this night. She walked over to the window. The night was star-lit and cold, and she warmed herself with a long woolen cloak. She could see the torches at the entrance to the Kings’ quarters. Two soldiers were changing guard, talking, laughing. The man leaving slapped the others’ shoulder and headed home. Lady Arwen wished she could turn back time and bring her husband back. For the first time in both their lives they had openly kissed each other, enjoyed company and conversation, meals and meetings with friends. ‘Why is happiness so short-lived?’ Her dreamshad told her Aragorn was alive, but she had not known where to send the soldiers to search for him. The captors had taken him north, and so she had asked the soldiers to follow all leads and ask the peasants living in the northern part of Gondor if they had seen anyone. To enlarge the area she had sent one messenger to Faramir and a second to Éomer in Rohan. She hoped that both would be home, but it would take them at least two weeks to gather a group of men and start a search.

The wait from day to endless day was hard, but she would not leave the city before she had word from the Prince of Ithilien and the King of Rohan.

* * *

Day 9, the castle

Vlohiri hurried down the corridor of the northern wing, but he did not bear in mind that the maids were cleaning the rooms and corridors at just this hour of the day. He could not escape them. Within minutes he got buckets to carry, linens to change and towels to bring down to the big washhouse. He was further delayed by the older boys blocking the main way out of the northern tower. He had to use his escape route, but still heard their hateful shouts – “Hey, scarecrow, why you run so fast?” – “Hey, imbecile, seen your crazy mother today?” – until he reached the lower level of the main building. He quickly evaded a soldier, who would never bother to look where he walked, and made it to the dungeon two hours later than expected. He was out of breath and truly disappointed when he saw three guards with clubs enter the stairway. One of them was Lt. Medros. He feared him. Once he had grasped him by his hair to draw him out of the dungeon, and since that day Vlohiri always got gooseflesh when he only saw him from afar. He hid in a corner nearby, waited long minutes. From downstairs he heard shouts – “Get back from the door!” - and rumble, chains rattling and suppressed screams. Vlohiri frowned and was not sure if he should stay any longer. If the guards were angry they did not bother aboutwho got the blame. But when he was about to rise and leave, the three guards brought a prisoner up the stairway. He wore footchains and was hooded, and his hands were bound tightly to his back. He could only take small steps, and the men shoved him to make him go faster. Vlohiri squatted deeper into the corner to make sure he would be completely out of sight. He shivered with fear when he recognized Lt. Medros face. It was usually ugly, but right now it was distorted by anger. Vlohiri did not dare breathing or moving a muscle until they had passed his position.

“Why did she not come down?” a guard mumbled, and Medros hushed him at once.

“You are not questioning her, understood?”

Vlohiri watched the back of the men and allowed himself a shallow breath, congratulating himself to be left unseen. He thought that Medros would have ripped him apart, and again a shiver ran through his body. The prisoner tried to get rid of the arms holding him; without rest he tore at the guards, but he didn’t say a word. The guards answered with more shoving, made him stumble. He fell onto his knees and was pulled up again roughly. To Vlohiri it looked like a bitter game – one that cats played with mice. The small animal never won.

* * *

Day 9, Ithilien

“Ah, there you are!”

He slowly opened his eyes, squinted against the sun shining in his face, found out even slower that he was lying on his back, and that the face he saw above him was that of a complete stranger. He opened his mouth to form a question, but at the same moment the hands to that face above him lifted his head slightly, and a bowl of water was brought to his lips. He drank, swallowed and let his head sink back again onto a rustling, scratchy pillow. He heard a river nearby, birds singing, and someone chanting. Again he tried to form words. There was much he needed to know: Where he was. Who that old woman was. How he had got here. But he felt weak, and in pain. His right arm seemed to be on fire and could not be lifted. He let his gaze wander around. He was lying in a small wooden house, near the door, and the singing came from outside. The chopping of wood accompanied the rhythm.

“Where…?” he started, his voice raspy and only a whisper.

“River Anduin,” she smiled and pointed outdoors.

“How…?” He coughed and had to stop.

Again a toothlesssmile. She raised the bowl again and helped him drink.

“Found you. Riverbed. Half-drowned.” She nodded to the woodcutter. “Brought you here.” She stroked his forehead with her callous skinned hand. “You lucky. Say us your name.”

He swallowed. The words were swimming in his mind. He had been drowned?

“Faramir,” he said. “I am Faramir.”

* * *

Still Day 9, the castle

After lunch – swedeand potatoes cooked in water with some herbs – Vlohiri was occupied with the dishes and washing the floors. He wanted to make it good, so Narana would be proud of him. He still felt guilty for his lie the day before, and he knew that it had always proved advantageous to him to work hard. Sometimes Narana came up with some apples or carrots she had saved for the evening. Or even some fresh baked bread. He loved her self-madebread.

He spent the whole afternoon on his knees, scrubbing and sweating, but it felt good to work. And Narana praised him when he was finished. As he had hoped, a big piece of bread was in her hand and quickly in his.

“Thank you!” he exclaimed, and, with his prey in hand, escaped through the open door. He hid the bread at once and changed direction to escape the gang of the elder boys. Taking two steps at a time Vlohiri fled down the stairway and made it to the eastern tower in less than ten minutes, which truly was a new record.

Breathless he looked where he was and left the small hall. Too many maids and servants worked here, and he wanted to eat his reward undisturbed. So he made his way to the dungeon. The guards were gone; it was quiet down the corridor. Vlohiri looked back, but he was alone. He remembered what had happened in the morning. He did not check out who it had been under the brown hood, but it had been a tall and lean man. Putting the thought aside he entered the corridor and made for the shadows. It might be that the guards were on patrol. ‘No one is allowed to the dungeon except the guards,’ Vlohiri heard Narana’s voice in his head. ‘Good,’ he thought. ‘Than the others will truly not come down here.’ He squatted against the wall in the farthestcorner and slowly ate the delicious bread.

Satisfied and proud of himself that he had escaped the boys twice that day he stood up again and walked the way back.

“You again?” the soft voice from the first cell asked, and Vlohiri was startled anew, but caught his breath quickly. He halted at the opposite wall. “Should you be here?”

“I can go where I want,” Vlohiri answered somewhat obstinately and held back the rest like ‘And you cannot.’ “I do not need to ask permission.”

“I see.”

Vlohiri felt sheepish. There was no need to defend his behavior against the prisoner. He was a boy born in this castle (he supposed) and he could do and go whereverhe wanted. He changed the subject.

“Was it you this morning… taken by the guards?” Involuntarilyhe stepped closer to lower his voice and, he had to admit to himself, to get a look upon the prisoner, for this time the man did not come to the bars. Bent forward, he sat on the wooden bench.

“Yes.” Vlohiri saw the long brown hair fall into his face, and then the prisoner turned his head only slightly so that the rest of daylight fell on his features. “It was I.”

Vlohiri exhaled as if hit by a hammer, and gaped at Aragorn.

“You… your face…” the boy stuttered and stepped back. He was horrified, andshook his head unbelieving. “But…” Unconsciously he touched his own cheek, where Aragorn’s was swollen and dark with dried blood. “Who… uh, that… must hurt.”

“Go back to your friends,” the prisoner said wearily and as if he wanted to safe the boy from the cruel reality.

Vlohiri stroked one hand through his unkempt hair, tried to regain control, find words, the right questions to ask. He had never seen something like that before. True, the soldiers had talked, and Vlohiri’s vivid imagination had made the rest out of the stories, but these injuries were for real. He had seen the man’s face just the evening before. And now he…

“Tell me,” he whispered, stepping closer again. His curiosity won. “Where did they take you? The mines?”

“The Lady has a mine?” Aragorn asked back and stifled a cough.

“Yeah, and a lot of other things. She’s really wealthy.” He wetted his lips. “So you see the mine?”

“No.”

Vlohiri stood on tiptoe, put his hands to the bars, forgetting what Narana and the other maids had said. The prisoner changed his position on the bench, grimaced in pain. The boy imitated the look.

“So where…?”

“Hide.”

The same moment Vlohiri heard it, too: Heavy footsteps on the stairs, the clanging of the weapons and armour. No time to leave the dungeon. He had been sloppy. Running he escaped to the far end of the dungeon’s corridor, knowing that he would be found. He squeezed his eyes shut. He did not want to think about the consequences.

“Why that? Why does he…”

“Stop it, Bayonor, one last time!” It was Medros entering the corridor, and his loud, harsh voice echoed from the walls. “I told you not to question her!”

“But should he not be treated like the other …” Bayonor stopped. “All right,” but hedid not sound convinced; he just gave in.

“We do as ordered. And this will be the end of it, understood?” Medros added and pulled the key for the cell. “Stay where you are, prisoner, or there won’t be no meal today.” The door was opened, and Bayonor put the bowl and bread on the floor.

“It looks like she wasn’t satisfied with your behavior this morning, prisoner,” Bayonor sneered.

“The satisfaction of a traitress was not my goal,” the man in the cell answered, and Vlohiri lifted his head.

“If you were a noble man,” the guard spat, “I would demand satisfaction for this impudent reply!”

“If you were noble, your actions would reflect it.”

Vlohiri almost leaned out of his hideout. The voice of the prisoner had changed completely, as if another man was speaking. Menacing. Demanding respect. Suddenly the boy was afraid. ‘All prisoners are dangerous,’ the voice of reason in his head said.

“You …”

“Let him be, Bayonor!” Medros called out. “Get out! Right now!”

The padlock was set in place again and, cursing and complaining, the guards left the corridor. Vlohiri sat in his hideout, shaking with fear and relief at the same time. The guards had not searched for him; had not even assumed that there was a boy who must not be here. He waited a few minutes longer; his knees were too weak to support him. He did not know what to do when he finally reached that first cell again. His feet stopped all by themselves, but he leaned against the wall.

“You do not need to be afraid. Not of me, anyway,” the voice behind the door said, and it sounded as smooth and friendly as before. Vlohiri doubted the words.

“What did you do?” he whispered, and, when no answer came, repeated it a little louder.

“I cannot answer this, for there is no crime I committed.”

Vlohiri thought about this answer for a long time. He could not grasp the meaning. The maids always told him that all men in the dungeon were dangerous, able and willing to kill, and that they all had to be in those cells to prevent them from further thefts or even murders.

“But you are here,” he stated stubbornly, “and they beat you up. Why?”

There was a long silence. Vlohiri heard the prisoner eat and finally put down the bowl. He coughed again and suppressed a groan when he sat on the bench again.

“How old are you, Vlohiri?”

“I’m ten,” he said reluctantly, expecting to hear that he was much too young to understand the answer the grown-up would have to give.

Aragorn just sighed.

“It is difficult.”

“It always is,” Vlohiri replied annoyed.

“You are wise for your age.” The prisoner almost sounded amused, and Vlohiri’s anger rose.

“It is what they always say: ‘Too difficult to understand for you,’ he mimicked Narana. “ ‘You are too young.’ ‘Don’t think about it.’ – Is that all there is?”

“No, Vlohiri, but sometimes the answer will not satisfy you, but leave you with even more questions. Now- you can believe it or not – I did not commit any crime that would be punished with imprisonment in a dungeon.”

Vlohiri’s head was swimming, and he could not understand a word of what Aragorn had said. Angered and in a way disappointed he could not explain he left.

* * *

Still Day 9, the castle

Nila announced that the young Lord Sadur had just returned from his hunt.

Lady Saborian greeted her son with a warm smile, handed him a goblet of wine and invited him to sit down. Admiringly she let her gaze wander over his features. His face resembled his father’s, but his hair was still dark brown, his beard thick and well kept. Under the now dirty cloak his broad shoulders were to be seen, and his appearance had often intimidated his opponents. He had a loud voice that would reach the farest corner of the castle, but right now he smiled and said softly,

“Are you well, mother?”

“Yes, Sadur, I am. The plan will be fulfilled soon. Next summer…”

“You mean …” He leaned out of his chair. “…the King is dead?”

Lady Saborian indulged in his excitement. Her smile brightened.

“Well, some would say, he had not so much luck.”

“He made it a fierce fight, you mean? I could have told you that before. I watched him on the Fields. He is a master with his sword.”

“With all your admiration, do not forget that he occupied your place,” she reminded him with a sudden earnest that made Sadur nod.

“Sure he did. But … he waskilled then? Lt. Medros was successful?”

“He was. And the King is here. Under his supervision.”

Sadur simply gaped at her. The Lady was annoyed by his surprise. She poured herself wine and breathed deeply to check her temper.

“I’m sure there is a special reason for this… measure?” Sadur finally managed to say.

“Yes, there is.” She fixed her eyes upon him. “He is here to remind you every day what you had almost lost.”

Sadur nodded solemnly.

“You are right, mother.”

“Beregor asked the same,” she continued in a lighter tone. “And I told him that Denethor worked his whole life keeping the eastern border safe. He was a devoted man, someone who never lingered. There would have been no kingdom to conquer for Aragorn if not for the restless efforts of the Steward. Your father.” She paused for a moment, staring at the goblet on the table. “Now – I will make Aragorn work. He shall see what strenuouslabor really is like.”

“I’m proud of you, mother,” he stated honestly, raised his goblet in her direction and drank. “And the others – Noratis, L’Adarac? Do they already know?”

“I informed them a week ago while you were hunting.”

“Are you sure it was necessary to involve them? The castle is quite far away from Minas Tirith.”

“Yes, and these men will be my eyes and ears out there. They all wanted to get rid of the King, and they will pay the price for my service.” She paused, then asked, “Did you bring some deer?”

“Yes, of course!” he laughed. “It seems to me that while men were fighting orcs and other evil creatures the deers had a good life. I gave them to Narana. It will be a holiday’s feast once they are roasted.” He clicked his tongue as if he could already taste the meat.

The Lady returned a smile.

“Very well done, my son.”

“It will be enough for all of us – I mean for the servants and maids, too. I think that after the long fights they should be rewarded, too.” He rose. “If you agree.”

“If you see it fit, I agree.” She escorted him to the door, laid a hand on his shoulder. “Take a rest, my son. We can talk later.”

“One more thing, mother.” He turned back to her. “Did you already hear about people searching for the King? If his body is not found they will …”

“No, I don’t know yet. But I have someone in Minas Tirith who will keep us informed.”

“Very well.” He slightly bowed and left the room.

* * *

Day 10, Rohan

The messenger had been given two horses, but the hard and long ride had left man and beasts completely exhausted. The man almost fell from his horse when he reached Edoras. Strong hands helped him on his feet, and though he could hardly stand he demanded to be brought before the King at once.

“Hold it, young man,” the guard said with a laugh. “We take you there, but take a rest first! You look like you would break down any moment.”

The messenger shook his head decisively.

“No. I need to see him right now.”

And they took him before the King of Rohan.

The man, tall and strong, fair-haired and with a look that had intimidated his foes, waited for him in Meduseld. He wore a night blue tunic, fitting trousers and riding boots. Upon entering the messenger bowed and had to steady himself at the next table.

“Sit down, my friend!” Éomer exclaimed and came down the steps. “Bring wine for this man – right now!” He himself came forward and took the opposite bench. “Now, will you tell me your name? I already know that the King must have sent you. I recognized the horses.”

The man shook his head violently and gulped the wine he was handed.

“No, not the King,” he uttered, putting down the goblet. “Lady Arwen sends me. My name is Hamamin, I am one of the King’s guards in Minas Tirith. The King… he has disappeared.”

Éomer, until now quietly amused with the haste of this man, bent forward.

“What did you say?” he asked with a worried expression. “Disappeared? What happened?”

“He was on a hunt, but did not return.” And Hamamin told the King of Rohan what he knew.

Éomer gazed through the open door. Sunlight was fading fast. His face had a fierce expression when he turned back.

“We will gather the men tonight and ride with the first light tomorrow,” he decided and rose. “Take a good night’s sleep, Hamamin, it will be a hard ride.”

* * *

Day 15, the castle

Beregor hastened up the steps to the Lady’s private rooms, his cuirass and sword clanking loudly. In the corridor he met with Nila. Her eyebrows indicated how upset she was, but Beregor stopped her litany before she could gain enough breath to speak.

“I need to see the Lady immediately. It’s important.”

She lifted her chin as if to say that nothing a dirty, sweaty, rude soldier would have to say could be of any importance.

“It is late,” she stated the obvious, and Beregor clenched his teeth. He kept himself from throwing the woman aside and step over her unconscious body, and repeated his message. “I heard you the first time, sir,” Nila replied coolly and reminded Beregor of the Lady herself. “And I recommend you to wait until tomorrow morning. After breakfast it would be fitting.” The soldier was furious, close to screaming at the maid, when he recalled his manners and just shoved her aside. “He, how dare you…”, but he had already reached the room, knocked and moved in without further delay. Nila almost threw herself behind him. “My Lady, he pushed me!” she complained. “I tried to keep him outside! I really tried!”

“My Lady… ,” Beregor bowed and waited while Nila punched him against his shoulder. She shook her hand then for the man’s shoulder was hard as stone.

Lady Saborian turned away from the window. She already wore her clothes for the night and quickly pulled over the morning gown, which Nila handed her. The maid stood before her Lady protecting her from being seen before she was dressed correctly. Beregor lifted his eyes.

“You have a message for me, Lord Beregor?” Lady Saborian asked and hushed Nila out of the way. Upon her glance Nila left the room and closed the door. Her look meant that the Lady should not be alone with a man, but she obeyed. The Lady’s features softened, and Beregor cleared his throat before answering,

“Yes, my Lady, though it is late, I thought you would want to know right now. Prince Faramir is dead. He fell into the River Anduin and did not surface.”

The Lady took a deep breath, keeping a clear mind.

“Tell me exactly what happened.”

“The Prince located my hideout, but I overwhelmed him. In the fight he fell over the cliffs. I followed him eastward, but he did not reach a shore.”

“Did you see his dead body?”

Beregor frowned.

“No, my Lady, it was clear to me that he had drowned. The river runs fast, my Lady, and it is deep and cold.”

“Very well. What about the traces of the fight? Will anyone find out what happened?”

            “I covered up my tracks immediately, my Lady.”

            “His horse?”

            “I let it go. After that I rode as fast as I could, but avoided the villages. I’m sure that no one will ever find out what happened.” He stepped forward. “His sword, my Lady.” He put the weapon on the table in front of her. “The traces might read that the Prince went for a walk, slipped and fell.”

            “Very well done, my friend. You exceed all my expectations.” The Lord smirked. “Your reward will be as promised.”

“Did your men accomplish the second part of your plan?”

“They did.”

“And is he still alive?”

“Don’t you trust me, Lord Beregor?” she teased.

The Lord quickly shook his head.

“Of course I do trust you, my Lady. But – if the question is granted – why do you let him live?”

“Shall we speak about this tomorrow?” Her smile was less friendly than before. “You must be tired and need a rest. Nila will show you to a room. We will meet in the hall after breakfast.”

“Very well, my Lady.” He bowed and left.

Lady Saborian stood at the table and carefully, with relish, stroked the blade and hilt. It glowed in the candlelight.The victory was hers. And it was complete. Faramir’s accident would leave the throne of Gondor empty – until next summer. She hid the sword in a cupboard and went to bed.

* * *

Day 15, the castle, evening

For six days he had not been in the dungeon. He could not even describe his feelings. He brooded over what Aragorn had said to him, but it looked like written words: He could not read them. In one moment he was infuriated, in the next sad. He did not know what he should believe – that all prisoners were guilty and it was right that they were in the dungeon, or what Aragorn had said – that he had not committed any crime. ‘No crime that would be punished with imprisonment in a dungeon.’ What did that mean? A crime like … cheating? Did he cheat in a game? Or did he steal the wife of another man? Vlohiri had heard people talk about these things. It happened. Was Aragorn a thief?

“Were you looking for your mother?” Narana asked quietly when he cleaned the bowls and cups from the servants’ table.

“No.” The question for his mother was the least he wanted to hear right now. He had seen his mother that day, but as usual she had only looked at him, and after a few tries he had given up. This time he had walked away, crying silent, angry tears. He needed someone to trust. Someone to explain to him what he needed to know.

“Flea, what happened to you?” Her voice was very close to his ear now. The round cook had knelt beside him, worry in her big, lenient eyes. “I never saw you so… unhappy.”

He stared at her. Was she the one to trust? To ask for help?

“Is it true that all men in the dungeon have done something… terrible?” he asked her hesitantly. “Like… cheating?”

Narana frowned. Vlohiri saw the suspicion in her eyes and regretted the question immediately.

“No, Flea, not cheating. If the Lady sends someone down to the dungeon he has done something really, really terrible.”

“Like what?”

Narana rose again, slowly and with a grimace.

“It’s getting cold. I can feel it in my knees.” She smoothed her apron and put a hand on her back. “But, lad, there are many crimes worth it – theft, murder, poaching.A poacher was arrested two weeks ago,” she added in a lighter tone. “Lt. Medros and his men caught him when he shot a deer.” She looked at him curiously. “Is that enough as an answer?”

“And who says that the man is guilty?”

“The Lady does,” Narana said as if it was self-explanatory.

“She always knows it? How? Is she everywhere?” It was a thought he feared. If she werethat mighty she would know of his escapes to the dungeon!

Narana shrugged:

“Someone else witnesses the crime and tells her about it. Or it’s one of the soldiers – like with that poacher.”

The boy was relieved – in a way after all. But he still was not satisfied.

“Did you see him?”

“The poacher? No. As you should know – nobody is allowed to go to the dungeon except the guards.” ‘And you better listen to me,’ her look added.

“I know, I know,” Vlohiri hastened to confirm, dried his hands on his pants and was gone, escaping further comments and well-meant pieces of advice.

Outside he still wiped his palms against the cloth and made a decision: He wanted to ask the prisoner atonce why he did not tell him the truth. Determined he strode down the corridor. It was cold and through the slits of the windows wind was whistling. With his hands under his woolen jacket he had got from one of the maids, he rounded the corner – and almost ran into the oldest boy, the leader of the pack. He was two feet taller than Vlohiri, had a round face with a large nose, real muscles under his tunic, but little brain under his light-brown mass of hair.

“Hey, scarecrow, so alone?” the boy snarled, looking down upon him. Vlohiri stopped, evaded, but the other boy mimicked his movement. “Looking for your imbecile? Saw her up the south tower – fell through the floor.” He laughed alone. Vlohiri’s heart beat faster. He could not escape that boy! He pulled his fists out of his jacket, but the older boy was much faster, slapped his face with his big hand. Vlohiri stumbled backward, but used the chance to break into a run in the opposite direction. He heard the laughing behind him, but he knew that the boy would not follow him. He was too slow. With his shrill voice he called for the others.

Breathlessly Vlohiri ran through the corridors, looked back from time to time, making sure that none of the boy’s friends saw him. His cheek was burning hot with pain, and while he ran he did not feel the tears streaming down his face. He felt as if he had lost everything. His mother, his father. Nobody was on his side. God, how he hated being alone!

For a moment he stopped to blot his face with the hem of his shirt. When he looked back he had a second to evade – the big boy’s younger brother watched the corridor - then ran away. Vlohiri knew that he could not return right now. They would have swarmed the northern part of the castle to make sure at least two of them would catch him before he could tell a maid what happened. So he continued his way to the eastern tower. Usually the boys were called back by their parents at night. Then he could return to his bed.

He waited until he was sure the dungeon did not hide any guards just waiting for him, then, slowly, he went downstairs. The torches were still lit which was uncommon, and he hesitated again. Looked back the steps he had come. Nothing. Quietness. Cautiously he left the stairway and entered the corridor.

“Aragorn?” he whispered in the dark of the cell. He heard the rustling of straw, coughs and moans. A chain rattled. Further down someone was shouting in a language the boy did not understand. Vlohiri was frightened and his heart beat fast. He let his gaze wander between the stairs and the corridor. He did not want to be cornered again. When the prisoner looked at him through the bars, Vlohiri was startled.

“Still up so late, Vlohiri?” the prisoner asked and seemed truly astonished.

“You are the poacher they caught, right?” Vlohiri accused him the same second. “You shot a deer.”

“That’s what the guards told you?” Aragorn coughed again. His face was still bruised, and the cut on his right cheekbone was healingslowly. It looked even worse in the restless gleam of the torch. Vlohiri didnot want to look at it, so hestared at the scratches on the wood of the door.

“Narana did.”

“Narana is…?”

“The cook. She told me you were captured by Lt. Medros,” he said stubbornly, looking up again. “And that the Lady said you go to the dungeon for that crime. She knows you’re guilty.”

Aragorn exhaled and closed his eyes for a moment.

“Guilt is a hard word,” he then said and looked at him again. “Before you can talk about guilt you have to say what is the crime.” Vlohiri stared at him. He had expected the prisoner to defend himself, saying, he was not guilty and that the deer had already been dead. Something like that. “I cannot convince you, lad. You either believe me or Narana. You do not know me. So it is your right to trust who you know.” Another pause followed. Vlohiri felt the cold creep up his legs and arms. He shivered and rubbed his arms. The prisoner down the other side of the corridor whined bitterly. It sounded awful in the cold darkness. “But still – I speak the truth. I did not kill any beast on the Lady’s lands. I had not even been there when I was captured.”

Vlohiri locked eyes with Aragorn, not knowing what to think. He wanted to be convinced that all men locked up in these cells deserved their sentence. This was what he had been told since he could understand words. But Aragorn had not reacted as he expected it.

“I’m so confused,” he admitted and almost broke into tears.

“Go to bed, Vlohiri.” Aragorn stepped away from the bars, and slowly Vlohiri made his way back into the hall. Aragorn’s answer was like mist he could not see through. ‘Confusion’ was a word too weak to describe the trouble he felt.

Deep in thoughts he forgot about the boys and the soldiers hanging around near the fireplace. He just felt the warmth floating through him. The numbness of his feet slowly faded. With his hands in his armpits he walked to the corridor leading to the bedroom of the maids.

“Ey, you, bring us beer!” a big man shouted at him. First he just turned and thought he could not mean him, but the man with the red beard repeated his order louder, pointing at him with his stout finger.

Vlohiri’s heart sank. He had hoped to slip under his blanket – hopefully without being beaten up by the boys – and now he was a servant suddenly. He ran for the beer and returned to the table with a full pitcher and mugs. When he put it on the table he recognized Medros among the men waiting, and he almost dropped the last mug. His hands were shaking. He stepped back, bowed and was about to leave when the red-bearded soldier mused:

“That poacher makes some trouble, it seems.”

Vlohiri left the hall, but halted behind the corner, pressed himself into the darkness, making sure no one was behind him.

“Yeah,” Medros answered slowly, obviously unhappy about the subject.

“I heard the Lady ordered you to bring him up to the main hall.” Medros did not answer, so the man continued, “Quite unusual, right?”

“Right.”

“Was it him again – five or six days ago – on the way to the hall? With cuffs and hood?” Medros exhaled noisily. “Quite a poacher, hm?”

“He is strong, yes.”

“And hard to restrain, too. Why did she want to see him? And then twice – or even three times, if that servant, Bestin, or what his name is, can be trusted. She never did that before – as far as I know. What did she want to know from him? How many deer he shot?” He seemed to smile with that sentence. “The only ones I saw were brought in by Sadur. And that was days later. Did you not take the deer?” Medros grumbled something the boy could not understand. The beer mugs were put back on the table. Vlohiri almost stopped breathing, so excited he was.Again he checked if he was alone. The corridor behind him was cold and dark. “For how many days did she send him to the dungeon?”

“I cannot say.”

“Well, he has been there for two weeks now. Last time a poacher was captured she sentenced him to three weeks. And then he was thrown off the lands.” He laughed silently.

“He will not get away with three weeks now,” Medros qualified reluctantly, growling.

“No? Well, maybe then one should tell the other poachers waiting in the woods that the sentence has risen.” He laughed loudly about his joke. “But, my friend, what made her change her mind?”

Vlohiri peered around the corner to see Medros’ face. The Lieutenant clenched his teeth and stared at his mug.

“I do not know.”

“Now, Medros … do not try to tell me you do not know. Was this deer a friend of the Lady’s? Or was there anything else he did? Did he break his chains? Strong as a wild boar? I heard that Bayonor was hit?”

“Anything else you want to talk about?” Medros eyed the soldier angrily.

“I did not say it was your fault.” The red-bearded soldier emptied his mug and poured more beer. “Why is Lady Saborian so interested in this man? What makes him special?”

“She does what she wants to do, Trebor, you know that.” Medros now sounded angry and bored at the same time.

“Yes, and you always know what she wants. Quite a coincidence that you were in the woods with your men.”

Medros’ eyes pierced the other man.

“Enough of that now!”

“Medros, please, my friend, calm down,” Trebor said defensively. “Curiosity made me ask, not accusation.”

“Well, then, enough of that for tonight.”

The subject changed to the feast they longed for, and Vlohiri left his place. His feet and hands were cold again, so he spurted to the maids’ room.

Slipping under the cover he still thought about the poacher, but sleep came quickly.

* * *