Day 15, Ithilien

The woodcutter, his name was Dregan, helped Faramir up, pulled his left arm over his broad shoulder and escorted him outdoors. It was a cloudy day, the wind gusty and cold, but the Prince enjoyed it nevertheless. His right arm was held by a sling the old woman had made of a piece of cloth, and though the wound was healing, he still could hardly move it, and when he did it felt as if the wound would break up again. Faramir was still too weak to walk alone, and yet he urgently wanted to return home. By now Lady Eowyn would have sent soldiers to search for him, but he did not dare to hope that they would follow the river. It would not seem possible that he could have survived the fall and the cold waters. That, he added, must have been the attacker’s assumption, too. All day he thought about the fight with the hooded man and his fall. He could not recall how long he had been in the river, but when he slept nightmares of drowning, the raging waters around him, and the darkness accompanied with it, woke him bathed in sweat.

“Better, hm?” Dregan said. He never spoke much, but his strength was indispensable,so Faramir nodded and walked a few steps. His lungs hurt as much as his arm. Every breath of cold air felt like needles piercing his throat. He knew he should rest and wait, and he would have done if he had been at home, but here in the wildernesshis only wish was to regain his strength and walk home.

“Where did you find me?” he asked. Dregan raised his free arm to point the place. “Take me there, please.” It took them along time to reach the spot. Bathed in sweat and with his strength fading Faramir stared at the stones and the sand of the shore. The river made a soft turn at this point, and Dregan had explained to him earlier that he had been fishing that day he found him. Otherwise Faramir would have drowned for sure.

‘Who was that foe?’ the Prince wondered again. ‘He did not accuse me, did not reveal himself - like a murderer fulfilling his task.’ He shook violently with cold and weakness.

“We go back,” Dregan decided and slowly turned. Faramir followed until his knees could no longer carry him. The woodcutter grunted and lifted him like he had done the day he rescued him.

* * *

Day 16, the castle

Sadur placed his gloved hands on the cold stones of the outer wall of the castle. Taking in the fresh air he looked beyond the eastern tower to the mountain where his mother’s ancestors had begun to work on a mine, which had proved favourable. All the stones for the castle had come from one single place, and the rear wall of Deromonor was so close to the lowest mountain slope you could almost touch it. Still the mine worked with profit, and a part of the family wealth came from the ore, which was sold to the peasants and noble men for the forges, to use for weapons as well as ploughs. Now, after the war was over, the ore was more needed than before. The lands were devastated for all men had served in war. Now they needed spades and carts and tools, and the mine provided the material. The labour was strenuous,and only the strongest men were able to hack the stones. The Lady’s father often had used prisoners to work in the mine, and therefore – Sadur recalled with a smirk – he had had very few crimes committed on his grounds. Lady Saborian had continued this practice, but had made sure that no one died. Sadur remembered her addressing the guards that enough water and food was handed to the workers and prisoners as well. ‘Firm but just’ she was called, and Sadur was proud of his mother. She had done much to improve the lives of the workers and peasants, and even while she had lived with him in Minas Tirith she had sent messengers to Deromonor frequently to stay informed. Being home again she had rewarded Lt. Medros for his efforts, and the Lieutenant had thanked her with his loyalty.

Lady Saborian joined her son, pulling her warm cloak tight around her body. The sight of Sadur lifted her mood. She had done for him what was in her power, and she knew he was grateful for it.

“I can hardly wait that this winter is over,” he said turning to her.

She patted his arm.

“Be patient. The longest wait is over. The plan is fulfilled. Next summer the people of Gondor will chant for you.” She smiled at him reassuringly, and Sadur nodded:

“I will be a just ruler, mother. I will do what is necessary to restore the land.”

“I know that.” Pride made her smile. All that she wanted her son to become he had become. He was strong and proud, wise for his age, and as just as a noble man could be. As a Steward he would rule the land with a firm hand.

“There still is the question what you have in mind for the King.”

“You looked into the right direction.” For a minute they both watched the sun rise over the mountaintop. “I just needed the saddler to make some adjustments.” He asked her with a look, and she added, “It seemed to me that he is hard to restrain.”

“I talked to Lord Beregor. The way he described the incident was… unpleasant.”

Lady Saborian sighed.

“Well said. The Lord was ill advised to openly show off with his attack against the Prince. The King was furious – though that word does not describe it enough. And so he had no words to spend…”

“He threw himself into Lord Beregor.” Sadur shook his head. The wind freshened up, let the banner fly and rustled the leaves in the castle’s garden. A soldier passed by, bowed in astonishment to the Lady and went on. “He must know that there lies no victory in those fights.” Frowning he added, “Wasn’t Medros there to stop him?”

“As with the incidents we had had before he was present and stopped the attack quickly. Beregor was not hurt.”

“His feelings maybe.” Sadur smirked. “Beregor is always so eager to show off he will hope that no one gets to know he was pushed by a prisoner.”

“By a handcuffed and shackled prisoner,” the Lady added smiling. “We both better keep our mouths shut about this.”

“As well as about many other things. Do you trust Noratis?” he finally asked.

“The conspirators would be all blamed in the same way if one of them gave the crime away. I am sure they will all take advantage of the King’s disappearance and return to the White City.”

* * *

Still Day 16, the castle

The Lady sent Medros to fetch the harness from the saddler, who just shrugged for he had not known what it was meant for. The Lieutenant thanked him and, with a look at the thick pieces of leather carefully sewed together, asked himself why this had not been available earlier. Once put on it would bepossible to adjust the chains for the handcuffs as short as necessary and even bind the prisoner to a cart to keep him from running away. Medros hid the harness under his cloak, and, with Bayonor, made for the dungeon.

“You know that you willhave to knock him out to even get close to him?” Bayonor warned when he was filled in the plan. Medros agreed. “And… did you bring a hammer with a long handle? Or do you just want to ask him politely to stand where he stands?”

Medros did not laugh about the mockery. Since the day they had captured the King his laughs were rare.

“I know that he will not pull this on like a coat, but…”

“Yes, tell me… the Lady wants it and we do as ordered.”

“You are quick-witted, my friend.”

“I’m a poor soldier with a need to sustain my wife and three children,” Bayonor somewhat ruefully contradicted.

A short moment Medros smiled.

“You are lucky to have them! Ey, Lanar!” he shouted to a soldier passing by. “Give us a hand.” The man looked like arguing, but an intimidating glare from Medros made him falter. He followed them down into the dungeon, mumbling to himself that his shift was over. “It will be over when we are done here.” He let his voice drop. “Here… that is what we have to put on him.” Lanar sighed deeply. “And as we know it will not be easy. So we have to be determined.”

“More than anything we have to be fast, “ Bayonor reminded them. “In my opinion we should throw stones at him before we even think about opening the door.”

“That would not be in the Lady’s interest – and then not in ours,” Medros warned and together they entered the corridor. He pulled the key for the padlock, peering through the bars. “You stay where you are, prisoner. We will take you to work. So you better give up at once.”

Aragorn rose, and though he was in pain from the preceded confrontations, he stood upright, sternly facing his foe.

“If you come in, Medros, you will find out about my will to give up.”

Medros exchanged glances with Bayonor and Lanar.

“We are three, and we are armed. There is no need to prove yourself in a fight you cannot win.”

“I am no beast you can lead around on a chain.”

“You will work in the mine, and our orders are to take you there.”

Lanar weighed the club in his right hand and took position. Until now it had never been necessary to be on alert like this. He sweat with fear he might do something wrong. He had seen Aragorn fight the first time, and now he was not even handcuffed! Swallowing he tried to calm himself. The Lieutenant and his friend were experienced fighters. He did not need to worry.

With a quick nod to Bayonor Medros opened the padlock and took it out of the eye. Aragorn reached the door the same second. Pushing it open he attacked in a fluent motion, fast and viciously. He threw himself against Medros, pressing him with all his weight against the wall. The Lieutenant hit the back of his head, lost grip on his opponent, stunned. Aragorn turned, blocked Bayonor’s fist with his right arm, punched him hard in his face. Bayonor screamed. Instantly dodging Lanar’s too slow swing with the club, the King grabbed the guard’s arm, tore it back and, with his left hand, pushed Lanar’s forehead against the wall. Breathless he sent Bayonor unconscious to the floor with another blow. Medros was about to move when Aragorn ripped the key off the chain. A quick hit to his chin ended the fight.

Aragorn looked around hastily. Knowing that other guards would swarm the castle within minutes, he hurried to open the shackles, took Bayonor’s cloak and club, and hastened up the stairway, driven by fear of discovery. His outer appearance gave him away so he had to leave the castle immediately. He did not count on finding a hideout within the castle walls. Aragorn needed orientation for every time he had left the dungeon he had been blindfolded. A young servant looked in his direction, suspicious at once, and Aragorn, with the hood drawn up, strolled of, down the corridor, searching for a way out.

Medros shook his head, but the pain remained like a hammer falling on an anvil. He opened his eyes and cursed viciously. A boy stood above him, shook his shoulder, and he shoved him away.

“How long…?” he murmured.

“I don’t know, sir, but a man in a green cloak ran away.”

“When?”

“Not long ago.”

Medros was outraged and got up too fast. He had to stop for a moment to catch his breath. The dungeon seemed to turn around him.

“Damn it!” he cursed, and the boy turned and fled. Lanar and Bayonor had bruises on forehead and cheekbone, but the Lieutenant was not interested in complains and moaning. “Up! Quick! He’s ahead of us!”

Lanar’s vision was swimming; Bayonor coughed and slowly rose to his feet.

“He… doesn’t know… where he… is,” Bayonor stuttered, one hand at the wall, the other in his face to check if he was bleeding.

“I don’t care!” Medros bellowed. “He will find it out soon enough! Up! Run! We must find him before he leaves the castle!” With the shackles in hand, he led them upstairs, gathered five more soldiers on the way and sent them to search the nearby corridors and rooms in case the prisoner had hid himself. “He’s tall, lean, dark-haired. But be careful!” he warned them. “He will even kill you to escape! And – if you kill him, the Lady kills you – all of you!” The soldiers broke into a run, while Medros gathered his hunting gear. It had not been in use for some time, but he always kept it handy. Then he headed for the main gate. It was open as always in peaceful times, and Medros cursed again under his breath. He quickly ordered the guard at the gate to collect his dogs. “The poacher just escaped! Make haste!” The man obeyed and brought five hounds from the cages. Medros held the shackles to the dogs’ noses. “He cannot be far.”

“All right then,” the guard answered, “let them run!”

Medros whistled to the groom, and he saddled up four horses as fast as his trembling hands allowed. Big-eyed he brought them, but did not dare to ask what happened. Medros was still cursing when he and his men rode of, following the dogs as fast as they could. Medros’ headache worsened by the minute. He could not see clearly, and only his long experience kept him in the saddle. Lanar touched his forehead several times, but the pain remained the same. Only Bayonor had fully recovered and was eager to find the prisoner. He would not again try to escape! He spurred his horse when the woods drew nearer. The hounds were way ahead of them, their barking almost inaudible. But it was still before noon; they would have enough daylight to locate the King and – Bayonor swore to himself – make him suffer for his attack!

* * *

Still Day 16, Minas Tirith

The rush of feelings made Arwen tremble. It was like a waterfall suddenly returning to a long deserted river, tearing her off her feet. She grabbed a hold at the table, moaning, closing her eyes. She had to sit down, and the maid quickly went to her side, touched her arm.

“Are you all right?”

Arwen nodded, unable to speak and unwilling to. This moment should not be broken. She breathed fast and shallowly. The feelings intensified. Freedom. Anxiety. A glimpse of happiness. Hope. More than all – hope. She was so relieved she smiled. Finally, after these long days, she could reach him, though she still could not tell where he was. But after the long wait she was overwhelmed. Aragorn was still alive! And right now he had taken his fortune into his own hands. She suddenly knew how tense he was; that he was running – escaping someone. Still the danger was not over. She knew enough about his strength to trust him to outrun or face his enemies. He was the best fighter with the sword; he had proven himself worthy of all the songs Elves and Men sang about him.

Arwen remained at the table, sharing his emotions, concentrating on him, trying to hold the bond. She feared in her heart that the mental connection would be gone from one moment to the other. Her fingers still hold fast to the wooden table though no physical act would keep him in her reach. She felt his tension rise, the return of fear like dark clouds covering a blue sky.

UnconsciouslyArwen whimpered, kept her eyes firmly shut. With the fear anger rose, followed by a wave of determination. His foes had found him. He had to fight, but still there was hope.

* * *

Still Day 16, the woods at Deromonor

The hunter was the first to recognise the figure among the trees. The hounds barked ferociously, snarled, ready to bite. Medros yelled:

“Don’t let them kill him!” and the hunter spurred his horse to gallop,dodged under low trees and outran the guards. Medros’head hurt so bad he felt sick, but the thought of the Lady’s outrage if he did not return with the King kept him in the saddle. Pushing the thought aside that he might fail he fingered for the net he had brought. “For God’s sake, make them stop!” He could not understand the reply, but rode on, following the barking somewhere into the shadows of the old forest. Bayonor’s face was contorted with anger while Lanar looked determined enough to make any usual escapee give up at once. They both would suffer the same mockery – and worse - if they returned empty handed. ‘What a shame!’ Medros thought bitterly. It would spread like wildfire that he had lost against a poacher! No contradiction would quiet the rumours that he could not even hold a stupid poacher.

When they caught up, Lanar and Bayonor dismounted and drew their swords. Aragorn was cornered by the dogs, which were tearing at his cloak, his trousers, trying to jump at his arms. He clubbed one of them, but the others quickly attacked the other arm and his legs. The King fought on, making the hounds whine. His look was fierce, menacing. He already bled from a gash on his right arm, but used the club with the same skill as with a sword, keeping the hounds at bay as long as possible. But they were fast and had served for this purpose before. They instinctively knew when to retreat and attack again. Their ripping, tearing, and barking continued no matter how fast the King swung the club.

Lanar stepped forward.

“Give up before they tear you to pieces!”

Another blow. One of the hounds fell to its side, paws twitching. The second hung at the back of the cloak, making the King stumble backwards. He spun around, hitting the hound on its back. It let go. The third bit into the already torn trousers, throwing the King off balance with his weight. He fell on his back, swung the club, when another dog sank his fangs into his wrist. The Kings stifled the scream, but dropped the weapon. Another dog tore at his left sleeve immediately, forcing the King to lie down. On a whistle the other dogs kept a distance now, and quickly Bayonor grabbed the club, taking it out of reach. Lanar sheathed his sword, but getting closer, the King kicked him. Without thinking Lanar was over him, holding a dagger to his throat. The King did not flinch, threatening his opponent with his stare.

“One more move, prisoner, and you are done for!”

“You do not dare to kill me!” Aragorn growled, struggling to free his arms now hold by Bayonor. The hound nearby bared its fangs, ready to bite again if the prey moved too fast.

“If I have to I will!”

“Enough!” Medros dismounted and shackled the King’s legs in spite of his defence. “Turn him!”

“Even if you cage me again you cannot deny who I am!”

Lanar reluctantly took away the dagger and, with more force than needed, turned the prisoner on his stomach, pressing his wrists into the handcuffs, while Bayonor almost knelt between the King’s shoulder blades. “Up with you!” Lanar gladly pulled at the King’s arms and was rewarded with groaning and hissing. The King was bleeding from several wounds, but the worst was on his wrist, where the hound’s sharp teeth had held him. “They are right… you are as dangerous as a cave troll.”

“I prefer their company to yours,” but it was a weak reply, and Medros only smiled venomously.

“You are beaten, prisoner, for the – help me count – third time? Or is it the forth? From now on the mines will teach you obedience.”

“Your Lady will hang for treason – even if she tries to hide me. The search will go on.”

“I will stop these insults right now.” The Lieutenant pulled the gag out of his pocket, noticing that the hunter was occupied with his hounds and would not have heard the conversation.

“You are an accomplice, Medros, and you will be punished for it.” He turned his head to avoid the gag, but Bayonor was eager to hold him firmly until it was done. He even brought the hood. The Lieutenant thanked him with a nod, while Bayonor took back his cloak, almost whining about the holes it now carried.

Medros used a rope to connect the belt of the prisoner with the saddle, mounted and spurred the horse. Aragorn had no choice but to trail along. He stumbled frequently, but Medros did not even bother to look, just kept his horse going. He brought the poacher back – and feared at the same time that this would not be enough to satisfy the Lady.

* * *

Still Day 16, the castle

The people in the little village at the foot of the castle gaped at the procession led alongside their homes – “Look, the poacher! They’ve caught him!” “See, no one escapes his sentence!” Medros kept a stern face. Behind him the blindfolded prisoner, clothed in ragged trousers and tunic bearing several wounds and scratches, stumbled in his misery, and Medros felt a grim kind of satisfaction that in the end the King had lost again. But the hunt had been as necessary as a stab to the heart. Even if the King would from now on work in the mine, as the Lady had ordered, and could not escape again, it was a stain on Medros’ reputation. For all the years he had been known as a commander who knew everything and acted appropriately. It was because of those decisions that the Lady had called him a Lieutenant in the guard and gave him the special order to capture the King. Pride had flowed through him, and he had eagerly taken up the challenge. Now it looked like the King was too much for him to handle. Again Medros cursed. It all had gone wrong from the start. He should not have announced what he was about to do. He should have gone straightforward to overwhelm the prisoner and not given him the slightest chance to defend himself. He had experienced before what the King was able to do. It was his fault, and Lady Saborian would see it that way. He despised the thought of confronting her with the news of the King’s close escape. She had given strict order that no more people than necessary should know of that prisoner. Now it seemed that not only the castle’s servants but all people from the village knew about him. Another reason to curse violently.

The sudden thud behind him made him turn in his saddle. The prisoner lay in the mud, must have fallen over an obstacle that had promptly vanished for Medros could not see anything in the way. With keen eyes he sized the men and women lining the pass to the castle, and, halting his horse, ordered Lanar with a nod to dismount and help the King up. A few men grinned and turned away, and Medros could not blame them for playing pranks. Poachingwas a crime, and it was even worse because the prisoner did not come from their village. In their eyes he had no right to be here. He knew if he left the prisoner behind they would kill him.

Shaking his head, Medros let his horse walk slowly up the bridge and themain way, then slid out of the saddle and returned the rein to the waiting groom.

“You were successful, sir, congratulations!” the man said cheerfully and with a broad smile. “The Lady now truly will sentence him to death!”

Medros took the end of the rope, nodded without listening, and pulled to make the prisoner walk behind him. He knew what had to be done, and he would only be happy when this task was fulfilled.

“Was it your purpose? To tell every man and woman in these lands who that prisoner is?” The Lady stood in the shades of the hall, hands crossed in front of her bosom.Her lips were tight, her eyes angry, and even her long brownhair, meticulously draped over her slender shoulders, did not soften her look. Medros felt the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. He noticed that the hall was empty, no guard or servant in sight. She must have waited for his return. Her anger had risen during that time, and he could only hope that the saying ‘firm but just’ would also apply for him. Medros swallowed and bowed to the Lady of Ice.

“No, my Lady, it was not. I apologise for my failure. It will not happen again.”

“All the incidents should not have happened, Lt. Medros,” the Lady hissed. Lanar and Bayonor had reached the hall, bowed and waited silently for new orders. “Only thiswas the worst. I thought you would be able to keep him under control.”

Medros took the accusation lying down. He did not remind her that she had ordered to give the King some freedom of movement within the cell. He had not at all speculated for the reason.

“Your orders are still the same?” he asked cautiously, praying that she would not continue to list up his failures in front of the guards and the prisoner.

“Yes, Medros. You still have the harness? – Very well.” She paused and stepped aside to have a closer look at the swaying King, whose chin almost touched his chest. Her dark blue gown rustled with every step, and the prisoner slowly raised his head, but seemed too tired to make a move. Blood had run down his fingers, dripped on the floor. “Bayonor, you will pay Lomac a visit and asked him for ointment and bandages. I do not wish the prisoner to die because of these bite wounds.” Behind her back Bayonor’s eyes bulged, and his mouth was agape, though he did not say a word. He knew as well as the Lieutenant that their situation was bad enough without further arguing. “And to keep your surprise in check you will treat the prisoner in his cell.” The guard’s nostrils flared, and he was about to contradict when Medros silenced him with a fierce look. “You may now take him there. Secure him at the wall if necessary. Take him to the mine tomorrow. And,” she added with a stare that made Lanar and Bayonor tremble, “next time you have to catch a prisoner, you would be well advised to avoid further damage.”

“Yes, my Lady,” Medros forced himself to say, and, when she had left, he exhaled and tugged on the rope to lead the King down to the dungeon again. Lanar followed, mumbling to himself, while Bayonor had taken a different corridor.

“I don’t know what is on her mind,” Lanar finally said, walking closer to the Lieutenant to avoid the King to listen. “He should be dead by now. He deserves it!”

“Don’t be a fool, Lanar, she decides and we follow her order.”

“They’ll all expect it! It is…” He broke off. Medros made himself clear – no arguments.

They reached the dungeon. The place still looked the same – the wide open door, the harness and the key to the cell on the ground – and Medros remembered the boy who had shaken him to wake him up. He could not even recall his face, and when he tried, the headache returned with renewed force. He longed for a rest and the loving hands of his wife.

The torches at the wall needed to be changed for the night; the light was already dim. Medros pulled on the rope and made the King walk the last steps into his cell again. Lanar followed swift, handed him the key the King had dropped after freeing himself, and was about to take off the hood when Medros stopped him.

“No, leave it. We chain him to the wall as ordered. Sit down,” he commanded and stressed the order by pressing the King’s shoulder. He gave in, sat on the bench, and only then Medros opened the right hand’s cuff. Immediately his hands were greased with blood. The prisoner moaned quietly when the wrist was restrained again in a metal band at the wall. Medros did the same with the left hand. After that he took off hood and gag. Though Medros had caused it himself, he was taken aback by the look of the prisoner’s face. The pale, sweaty skin was still bruised, the cheekbones crusted with dried blood, and as dirty as the rest of his clothing. His hollow eyes stared forward without seeing. He spat on the ground, but Medros knew it was not out of resistance but for the taste of the gag. The Lieutenant put it back in his pocket.

“That’s better.” Lanar nodded with a grim smile to the chains leading from the wall to the handcuffs. “If we could leave him like that…”

“Stop the chatter,” Medros ordered, and Lanar opened his mouth to contradict when Bayonor entered the cell. “Do your work,” the Lieutenant cut him off, and the young guard growled an unfriendly reply. “If you want to sustain your family any further, I’d better not hear this.”

Bayonor nodded and, with the help of Lanar, took care of the various scratches and bite wounds, but Medros could see his reluctance with every movement. He wanted to kill the King and put an end to the suffering of all of them. He agreed that it was a waste of time and men to hold Aragorn captive, but he would never openly doubt the Lady’s decision. He had made enough mistakes with that man and would not lengthen the list.

The King leaned his head against the cold stones and closed his eyes. He grimaced with pain at every touch, and clenched his teeth to avoid any sound. For the time Bayonor treated him he did not move. Medros could not help but admire the strength and stamina the man summoned up to attempt to escape every time his hands were unbound. Right now he looked beaten enough, but the Lieutenant knew this would be just for a short while. Recovered he would think of another possibility to flee the castle and ride or even run home.

“Done.” Bayonor did not conceal his disgust. Medros looked at the red coloured water in the bowl and made a step forward to put on the harness on the prisoner. “Why all that care?” the guard hissed on the doorstep, but he knew the answer before Medros looked up. “I go and fetch water for him to drink.”

* * *

Still day 16, Minas Tirith

The spell was broken.

Lady Arwen let her head rest on her hands on the table and cried bitterly. Hope was gone like a candle that had burnt strong but only for a short while. Anger had risen, but was replaced by defeat. This had been the last glimpse of her beloved husband – the feeling of loss. As if he had been in reach for freedom and happiness, and then was torn away from that open gate. He could not pass it, and his hope diminished by the second that he would be able to return. During the fight she had almost seen him – though not in ways she could describe, but there had been more than just his emotions. There had been the rich smell of wood and soil, the whistling of leaves, and the presence of strong beasts. And, above all, his determination, his strength and his will.

Now those impressions were gone. Emptiness remained, and it was as gruesome as a hard fall.

Arwen told herself not to despair for there would be hope as long as Aragorn lived. Even though she did not know where he was he would be found. She must not give in her sorrow. Her hope lasted on Éomer and Faramir. She was determined not to wait in the City until her husband was found. There was more she could do.

“Lady Arwen?” It was the soft voice of her maid, and Arwen slowly raised her head. “Shall I send the petitioners away?”

“No, of course not.” She rose, blotted her cheeks. “I will be there in a moment.”

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

No matter who had captured the King, she would not linger and let the Kingdom stand alone until he safelyreturned.

* * *

Still Day 16, the castle, evening

“He is and will be a threat!” Lanar exclaimed loudly and slammed his beer mug down so hard that the liquid spilled on the already greased table.

“Stop it!” Bayonor warned him at once. “You drank too much. Go and sleep.”

“But will you… don’t you agree?” the other guard demanded to know and reached with his hand across the table. Bayonor leaned forward. “It’s a shame that we have to take care of him as if…” He raised a hand in lack of proper words.

“Stop it, Lanar, it was a bad day, yes, and now it is over. You got a free day ahead of you, so, go now.”

Lanar mumbled a reply and, after emptying the mug to the last drop, bade Bayonor farewell and went to his room. Bayonor sighed deeply.

“This is all wrong,” he said to himself and only glanced at Vlohiri, who was on his way through the hall. He did not bother about the boy and his whereabouts. So many lads lived in the castle that it was hard to remember all their faces. But the thought made him stand up and look for his own wife and children.

Vlohiri’s heart almost jumped in his chest. He had feared that the Lieutenant would be in the hall with his friends, but obviously he had gone to bed early. All the things the boy had heard in the kitchen – from the maids and servants and from Narana – were swimming in his mind like pieces of carrots in a broth. The poacher – escaped – captured again – brought back chained and hooded – Lt. Medros losing a fight in the dungeon! It was all too much to grab a hold on within the hour he had worked among the plates and bowls. The servants all had told different stories about the prisoner’s behavior and what he had done. The guard from the main gate, who was a hunter as well, praised the speed of his hounds and that without them the poacher would have escaped for sure. Others had contradicted since the prisoner had had no horse, but the hunter defended his opinion strongly. But they all were convinced that now the Lady of Ice had the right to sentence the captive to death.

He reached the stairway to the dungeon, made sure he was alone, and quickly ran down the steps.

“Aragorn?” he whispered, waiting at a save distance. No answer. “Aragorn?” He swallowed. Thinking about the awful actions the captive had taken it was not wise to step any closer, but Vlohiri had to see him. He stood on the tip of his toes  at the bars, peering into the near darkness of the cell. “Aragorn?” He feared that the prisoner had been taken to another cell. He would not dare to search all the corridors at night.

“Go away,” came the reply with an urgency that made Vlohiri try even harder to see the man behind the bars.

“The guards were about to kill you the servants say,” he stated indifferent of Aragorn’s misery. Still no answer. “The hunter said the hounds got you.” He pressed his nose through the bars and could not help but shiver. The man was restrained to the wall, sothat he could neither lie down nor lower his hands for the chains were too short. “You should not have tried to escape.” Aragorn sighed lowering his head. “Narana says it was very generous of the Lady to let you live.”

“Yes, perhaps it was.” Aragorn tried to shift on the bench. Vlohiri heard the clanging of the chains and soft moans.

“But she can always change her mind…”

“Why are you here, Vlohiri, as your mother called you?”

“Why did you try to escape? The hunter said the hounds bit you…  Would have bitten you to death if he had not stopped them. Is that true?” In the dim light Vlohiri saw the mouth of the prisoner twitch, but he got no answer. “They did bite you, right? Does it hurt – bad? I never get close to them. They snap!” Still Aragorn did not even look at him. The boy bit his lip and continued, “You would not be killed for poaching.The guards say poachers are here for three weeks.”

“Then my weeks will never end.”

“Answer my question!” Vlohiri suddenly demanded. “Why did you run?” He was sick of listening to Aragorn’s misty words.

“I just wanted to return home.”

“Where is your home?” His anger made way for his much bigger curiosity.

“The White City.”

Vlohir’s eyes bulged with surprise.

“Really? You live in the White City? But…”He closed his mouth and frowned. “Only rich people live there. You are cheating me.”

Aragorn wetted his dried and chapped lips. His voice was low and exhausted.

“Who says that only rich people live there? It is a normal city with workers, peasants, soldiers.”

“No.” Vlohiri waited a moment in silence. He had heard a sound, but was not sure from which direction. When no further noise occurred he grabbed the bars again with both hands, steadying his view into the cell. “Narana says it is only for noble people and that no one is allowed to live there if the Steward forbids it.”

“Do you know that the Steward no longer reigns overGondor?” he asked with so much sadness in his voice that Vlohiri frowned.

“The soldiers say the King has returned. But…is that not the same? Some man who sits on a throne?”

“Do you know the King’s name?”

Vlohiri squinted, trying to see the prisoner’s face clearly. Did the eyes of the man shimmer with tears? He was feeling awkward and… tested. One guest of the Lady had done that with him before and laughed when he could not answer the question. He did not want to repeat this humiliating experience.

“Only what the soldiers say – it’s Ela… Ele…” The boy exhaled frustrated. “I don’t remember it.”

“Elessar. That’s how the Elves called him.” Vlohiri saw the prisoner’s chin drop to his chest, and, as it seemed, with great effort he raised it again, facing the boy. “Elessar of the Dunedain.”

“That does not mean much to me,” Vlohiri answered stubbornly.

“To Men he is known as Aragorn, son of Arathorn.”

Causing a squeaking sound the boy lost his grip. He stumbled backward, frowning, disbelieving. Then, when he was sure his surprise had gone unnoticed he returned to his place.

“You say…,you mean…, you are Aragorn? That son of… You mean… the King?” The prisoner nodded slowly, but Vlohiri shook his head decisively. “No, this is not possible. The Lady would never do that! You are a poacher! You lie to me!”

He ran off.

* * *

Still Day 16, the castle

Vlohiri ran until he could no longer breathe and his sides ached. He did neither see the servants looking at him in surprise nor the boys gathering in the lower level of the northern wing. When they blocked up his way he came to a halt, catching his breath, coughing, the face streamed with tears.

“Hey, scarecrow, we really missed you,” the biggest boy snarled and shoved him aside with his big hand. The other four of the group laughed. Vlohiri stumbled back, his mind still running around like a caged-up rat with the idea that the captive in the dungeon might be no poacher. ‘It cannot be!’ a part of him screamed. ‘He is a poacher and must be guilty! The Lady is just. They all say that!’ But that other part, seldom heard of before, forced him to rethink. He was only ten years old, but he had seen injustice before. From normal people – father and son, maid and other maid. But then… how should he doubt the decision of the Lady? “Hey, come on, Flea, son of the imbecile! Do something!” Another hard push. Vlohiri fell on his knees, but even the pain caused no reaction. No matter what he did they outnumbered him five to one, and he had no chance against the biggest of them in a fair encounter. It was all in vain. “As crazy as your mother, huh?” the boy shouted at him, stepping closer for the next attack. Vlohiri looked up, unable to even contradict, and again, he felt that every word he would say was in vain. They would not let him go no matter how convincing or menacing he spoke. He was pushed against the wall and stayed down. His right shoulder was bruised, but he did not even flinch. Somebody was lying, and still he did not dare to think it was Lady Saborian, who was well respected. But then… that prisoner was a liar, and he had lied to him about everything. He was not better than the other prisoners in the dungeon, who yelled at him or talked gibberish! Tears welled up again. “Hey, get up!” The boy grabbed his upper arm, pulled him to his feet. Vlohiri stared at the floor.

“Let him be,” another said, sounding bored. “Let’s get away before Narana finds out.” And they strolled of, not without hitting the slender boy onelast time. But it did not hurt anymore.

Crying with despair Vlohiri sat alone in the corridor. So alone as if the whole castle was emptied of its people.

* * *

Day 20, Ithilien

Dregan looked at the young man shouldering a little sack with water, bread, and a blanket they could spare. His wife had said that the wound hat not yet healed and that she did not think he would make it home, but on the other hand he was like a young bird fleeing the mother’s nest as soon as he was able to spread his wings. They would not hold him back any longer.

Faramir stood near the riverbed, the cold wind in his hair, the smell of the sweet water in his nose. He raised his head and squinted against the white sun. His arm still hurt and he was not able to move it fully, but this was not his worst thought. He hoped that the searching soldiers from Ithilien would meet him somewhere for he knew that his own strength would perhaps not last long enough. But he could not wait any longer. Winter was drawing near, the nights were freezing, and he feared that he would not be able to reach his home before it was too cold to survive in the wilderness.

Faramir bade the couple farewell. He looked back once, and the old woman waved to him. He owned them his life, and they had taken good care of him. With a smile he turned, breathed deeply and climbed up the slope to walk westward.

* * *

Day 20, the castle

Vlohiri worked harder than before for Narana, trying to quiet his mind, to focus on the simple task of washing the floors and cleaning the dishes, and being rewarded with an extra piece of bread or meat. They had had a feast in the castle, and all people present were cheerful and happy about it. Lots of mugs with beer and goblets with wine were emptied, and Vlohiri had served at the tables and was thanked by the cook and a servant that he had done his job well. For a short while he could enjoy the warmth of being regarded as a valuable member of the castle, but not soon after that night he was ordered by Bayonor to help out in the mine. He knew from theolder boys that they had to carry water for the workers and deliver food at noon. But it was uncommon for a boy so young, and when Narana got word of it she complained to Bayonor, but the guard needed another boy for many were sick. The days and nights were cold now, and the winter was drawing closer.

Bayonor put his big hand on his small shoulder.

“It will be only for a few days, my son,” he said apologeticallyand led him through the corridors to the eastern tower. A broad way was built to enter the mine from this side of the castle. Another way led directly from the dungeon’s farthesttunnel to the entrance. “Have you ever been there?” the tall man asked when cold air swept through the open gate. Vlohiri shivered and shook his head. “It is not that bad, you will see. But keep away from the prisoners, I tell you. Some of them are mean – or even dangerous.”

“What shall I do?” Vlohiri asked shyly, for he was truly intimidated by the torch-lit darkness of the main entrance into the tunnels. Sharp stones almost pierced his soft shoes, and he sidestepped a large rock on his left side. The almost black walls of the tunnel glimmered with bronze and green-colored ore the further they got into it.

“You will bring water to the workers,” Bayonor explained and asked for his name. “Oh, so you are Flea, right?” The boy nodded, not daring to correct the guard.

The tunnel became narrow to the left side but continued wide to his right. Men passed them by, all of them covered with dark grey dust, carrying pickaxes or shovels. Some of the men were shackled and mostly accompanied by other workers. Vlohiri stepped aside and glanced at them only for a moment. Their stare was fierce, and when the boy had walked for the length of the northern wing he understood. The labor was harder than anything he had seen or heard of before. The men sweated all over their bodies while trying to tear some stones out of the solid wall. It seemed that the men needed more strength to just swing the pickaxe than he would have to carry it. His imagination had never reached so far as to think of what he now looked upon. He shivered involuntarily. ‘The mine’ had always been just a word for him. He had no elder friend, and therefore the tunnel seemed to grow out of a nightmare.

Two men approached and they had to get out of the way. The first, tall and lean, pulled a cart with stones. Sweat poured down his dirty face, and he looked tired, but his eyes suddenly gleamed with recognition. He wore a kind of harness with handcuffs at its sides, shackles, and was gagged with a piece of wood bound to the back of his head with cord. Vlohiri almost forgot to breathe. The prisoner was Aragorn, and the sight of him raised pity in his heart, pity he could not explain or understand. He could not help but stare at him. Should this be a King? Vlohiri had always thought Kings walked around in precious robes, even more precious than those of the Lady. The outer appearance of this man made it impossible to think of him as anything else but a poacher.

“Don’t stare!” A harsh voice from behind the cart startled the boy. It was Lt. Medros, and Vlohiri swallowed hard. His heart beat fast. Had he done something wrong? Would he be sentenced, too? Medros reached him and halted to set his eyes on him. “You shall not gape at the prisoners, lad! He is gagged because he uses bad language and he spits. Might even bite you! Now go about your work!” He exchanged glances with Bayonor and quickly followed the cart. “Hurry!”

With soft pressure Bayonor led the badly trembling boy on.

“Here.” The guard halted at a little place, no more than five feetin diameter. Buckets stood at the wall, covered with wooden lids.  Besides water some bread and vegetable in pottery was put on a small table. “You will take a bucket and a ladle…”Vlohiri did not hear the rest. His attention drifted to the captive he had just seen. He turned to gaze after him. He had bent his back and bowed to put all his weight in pulling the squeaking cart. The chains around his ankles rattled with every step, and though he was already a few feet away he could still hear his strained breathing. Medros yelled some commands, and Vlohiri turned to Bayonor. The guard’s lifted eyebrows and angry look made Vlohiri shiver.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“You shall listen, Flea. Now, take a bucket and a ladle and walk down the tunnels. Give every man who needs it to drink. Understood?” Flea could only nod. He was glad that he was not punished for his inattention. He took the first bucket and trudged through the tunnel, while Bayonor left the mine.

Morning became noon, and still Vlohiri had not reached every worker. The tunnels were built in deeper than the castle was big, and at every place workers as well as prisoners demanded water and food. He ran back with the eighth empty bucket and was about to carry the next one when Medros grabbed him at his shoulder, and pulled him on his feet. Vlohiri was so startled he froze – big-eyed and open-mouthed.

“Now this one,” he ordered, and under his fierce stare the boy took a full ladle – careful not to spill a drop – to Aragorn. “If you make but one sound, prisoner, this will be it.” Only then the gag was removed. Vlohiri, who did not dare look at the man, held the ladle so he could empty it and waited shyly for the next command. He felt as if a hammer would hit him any moment and he could not even make a step to avoid it. “All right, out of the way!” Medros shoved Vlohiri so hard that he fell on his side.

“Do not hurt him!” Aragorn accused the Lieutenant loud enough that another worker turned his head, and Vlohiri’s eyes widened. He quickly retreated to the bucket and lifted it, ready to flee.

“I ordered you to remain silent, prisoner! Now…you be it.”

For a second Vlohiri met Aragorn’s gaze. He gave him to understand that he should leave at once while Medros fastened the gag again.

Vlohiri lifted the bucket higher in front of his body and ran away.

* * *

Day 20, the castle, evening

When his shift was over Vlohiri ran as fast as his tired legs would allow back to the entrance. There, in the fading daylight and cold, he stood for a few minutes, breathing the fresh air, enjoying not only that his work was done for the day, but the simple fact of being out of the mine again. He now understood why usually only older boys were sent to work as water carriers. He could hardly bear the thought to come back the next day, but Bayonor had told him he would work down there for at least a week. Hungry, thirsty, and with his hands, feet and face dirty, he walked through the gate and back to the warmth of the kitchen. Narana had a cooking fire going, and he did not need to ask for a bowl of broth. With a pitying sigh she handed it to him as soon as he had washed his hands. Greedily he ate.

“There is more if you want to,” she said with her lenient voice. He looked up. Normally Narana was not generous with food, and he nodded hastily. After the second bowl he felt better, satisfied and warm. He fetched himself a cup of water and while he drank he remembered the second encounter with Lt. Medros and the prisoner.

The chief of the guards had allowed Aragorn another ladleof water but no food. He had given no explanation, and Aragorn had stared at the guard so menacing that it was hard even for the boy not to dwindle. Medros had stood firm. If those looks had been arrows, both men would have been dead by now. Vlohiri had not dared to utter a word and gotten out of the way immediately. There were enough other workers he had to serve. But that feeling of pity had risen again, and now, when he was satisfied, it came up to him like a rush of guilt. He took a look around in the kitchen. Sure, Narana would be surprised about his appetite, but she was good-hearted enough to let him have some carrots and bread. With her permission he quickly hid three pieces each under his dirty jacket and left the kitchen after biding the cook good night.

It was a bad game to find the best route from the kitchen to the dungeon in the eastern tower. He thought he would not make it, for one obstacle followed the other – two boys on strife; a guard, drunken enough to need the whole width of the corridor to find his way home, and a servant with both hands full of linens trying to make him help. Vlohiri excused himself with another order by Narana and quickly left.

Sighing he reached the dark and deserted dungeon, waited a moment until his eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and hurried down the corridor. A voice in his head said that he was crazy (bringing a sentenced prisoner food) and stupid (he could still be caught), but he did not falter.

“Aragorn?” He waited, silently praying that the cell was the same and that the man was not bound again to the wall. Otherwisehe would not be able tohelp. He heard chains rattling, and his heart sank, but a moment later the bearded and dirty face of the prisoner appeared at the bars. He sighed loudly.

“It is dangerous, Vlohiri, to come down here,” Aragorn whispered, but shut up when the boy – grinning from one ear to the other – held up a carrot in one and a piece of bread in the other hand. He handed both through the bars, and the prisoner took it quickly.

“I have more,” Vlohiri announced in a low voice while he just heard the cracking of the carrot.

“Where did you get it?” Aragorn asked between two bites.

“In the kitchen.”

“But nobody asked when you took that food?” Another piece of bread was gone.

“I’m a just a boy. It’s expected that I snatch food. I’m always hungry. Maybe not like you, but…”

            “I do not want you to get into trouble – but, thank you anyway.” It was a true smile, and Vlohiri returned it.

“Don’t you get anything to eat?” he asked when the last piece of food was gone.

Aragorn put his hands on the bars and sighed.

“Not today – no.”

Vlohiri’s eyes widened with astonishment.

“I would have starved!”

“Be quiet,” Aragorn hushed him at once, and the boy looked out for the stairway. Nobody came. From a distance, in one of the other tunnels, he could hear shouts, but they were not drawing nearer.

Vlohiri turned to Aragorn again.

“Who did this?” he asked pointing with his chin to the bandage around the prisoner’s right wrist.

“One of the guards.”

Vlohiri could not disguise his surprise.

“But… why? I mean… you…” Biting his lips he evaded Aragorn’s gaze.

“You mean I deserve the wounds? Being bitten by the hounds because of my attempt to escape?” he asked softly. Vlohiri felt foolish again, even more because Aragorn did not accuse him.

“I don’t mean to…” He broke of again. This was too difficult. He felt split in two parts which were unable to combine again.

“I understand.”

“No, you do not.” For the first time Vlohiri openly contradicted and felt good and bad at the same time. Good because to the prisoner he could say what he thought, and bad because he took advantage of the situation. He grimaced with guilt, begging for forgiveness. “This is all wrong. I… today Lt. Medros lied.” He chewed on these words like it was a hard piece of bread. “I mean, he said you would use bad language and spit, but this was all wrong! You never did that! The other prisoners do – sometimes. And they have no gags.”

“Calm down, Vlohiri, and lower your voice,” Aragorn warned.

“I’m sorry.” No more than a whisper now. “I don’t know what to think.”

“You could ask Medros.”

Vlohiri gaped at him.

“No… I could never.”

“You fear him?”

“Yes – almost everybody does,” he added as an excuse and bit his lip again. “Do you?”

“It is not the man I fear. It is his obedience.”

Vlohiri had never wanted so badly to be already grown up.

“His obe… Why? I don’t understand what you say,” he complained, and stubbornly raised his chin. “You always speak in riddles. I thought only wizards do this.”

“You are right.” Another fast-fading smile.

“Right… with what?”

“Wizards speak in riddles – sometimes.” Aragorn sighed as if he was remembering something. Vlohiri waited. “Medros is dangerous because he does not think for himself.”  The boy made it clear with just a look that this did not help him at all. “He will do what Lady Saborian demands of him – without question.”

“He is the Lieutenant of the guard,” Vlohiri said as if it was self-evident. “He has served her for a long time – even when she did not live here. What else should he do?”

“Yes… what else should he do?” Aragorn prompted and could hardly stifle a groan. “I have to lie down. I’m so tired. Thank you for the food, Vlohiri. But,” he stopped the boy already on his way out, “do not do that again. They might catch you.”

Vlohiri grinned and made for the stairs.

* * *