Chapter 3

Concerning Bartho and Erynbenn

April 6

Minas Tirith, Gondor

It was three days after the king and queen's return that a powerful looking soldier on horseback, much spattered with mud from his journey, reached the outer gates. The password he used proclaimed him to be a general in King Elessar's army, and it was a much awed gateman who let him in. Usually such riders were couriers; Gondorian military of high rank seldom rode unescorted.

Leaving his horse at the outer stables — for none but the king and queen and their retinue, or urgent messengers, were permitted to bring horses inside the centermost circles of the city — the general plodded his way towards up the long road to the palace.

As he was wending between the market people in the fifth circle a passing soldier, not recognizing his rank under the heavy cloak, asked, "Will you be passing through the second circle?"

"Barring fire or robbery, yes," the general said dryly. "What service do you wish of me?"

"Oh," the young man laughed, reddening a little, "how did you know I had a service to ask?"

"The city of Minas Tirith is not yet so peaceful nor so content that you would ask after my destination merely to satisfy a raging interest in a fellow citizen's well-being."

"An excellent point, sir," the soldier laughed again. "I had hoped perhaps you could bear this message to the gatekeeper there."

"I will do so," the general nodded, accepting the message and making an elven gesture of farewell.

The young man paused in confusion midway through the Gondorian farewell, but by the time he had recognized the other's salute the general had disappeared around a corner.

Anárion, the gatekeeper at the inner circle, was not as puzzled at the sight of an unattended general as the outer gatekeepers had been, but he was surprised to find one carrying a common message.

"He ought not to have asked it of you," Anárion protested seriously.

The general snorted. "Doubtless he has faults enough, and ignorance is a common malady, but perspective must be kept. He did not ask me clean his boots or muck out his stable or murder his landlord."

A captain entered the gatekeeper's lodge in time to hear the last sentence and his face lit into a wide smile. "Bartho! How good it is to see you! How came you here? I had thought you attached permanently to the southern borders, so seldom do you visit us. I'd wager you've not been this far into the city since King Elessar took the throne!"

General Bartho's face was a dour as ever, but he could not help the light of pleasure that livened his dark eyes. "Greetings to you as well, Captain Erynbenn. I see you still exaggerate. I have been to the city a good many times, and the palace frequently too. But you already knew that full well."

Erynbenn grinned and hugged his old friend, thumping him affectionately on the back as the taller man returned the embrace. "Come, you must dine with Melima, Tavarion and I."

"Gladly, once I have spoken with the king."

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Bartho's report was gruff and to the point, rather like his personality, Aragorn thought.

"So Osto has been refortified and supplied with men and weapons. What are the odds that the increased defense is only to keep Queen Mavranor safe from the other Haradic kings?" the king asked, examining the map while watching his general from the corner of his eye.

"That is most likely," Bartho agreed. "But there is also a chance she is expecting a counter-attack from us."

"A counter-attack requires an attack," Aragorn pointed out. "Is there any evidence that she is getting ready to launch one?"

"No."

"Then there is little to do one way or the other."

Bartho accepted the goblet of wine Aragorn poured for him and nodded slowly. "I fear I must agree, though it seems to me that we have been too long without an attack."

"A year is too long?" Aragorn asked rhetorically.

"I brought you this intelligence myself hoping I might take another company of men back with me."

The king nodded, gazing thoughtfully out at the setting sun. "Yes, of course. If you feel it is necessary, I trust your judgment. I believe Erynbenn's contingent is the only one currently in decent enough order to accompany you. Eression's men were sent east to aid Osgiliath in the reconstruction."

The general nodded his thanks. "I've also a good many supplies to obtain along my return, so I should leave soon."

"Of course."

They talked a while longer of various matters until Bartho mentioned that he had been invited to Erynbenn's house to dine and Aragorn promptly ordered him off. The general made his way through the halls, feeling an unfamiliar worry at the back of his mind that he would not be able to make his way out. He had been in the palace before, but never for long enough to memorize its layout. Dúnadan though he was, he soon found himself in front of the entrance to the kitchen with no recollection of how he had come there.

"Doubtless I shall be too late for dinner," he rumbled under his breath.

The door swung open and he stepped out of the way, looking purposefully down the hall so as to conceal his uncertainty. There were prolonged clinking sounds as if the person exiting had become stuck in the doorway.

"Pardon me, sir, but would you be so kind as to hold this while I close the door?" a female voice asked, the words lilting with humor and frustration.

Bartho turned to find himself facing a tall woman, short to him, with her arms full of small trays and a pitcher tucked precariously under one arm. Her brown hair had been fastened back, but it was loose now and coming down in strands about her shoulders, clinging damply to her brow after the warmth of the kitchen.

Quickly he relieved her of several trays, allowing her a free hand to close the door, but when she reached out to take them back he shook his head. "Give me your destination and I'll carry them. Accidents happen too often when one is not laden like a pack mule."

Her eyebrows rose. "That is the first time I have been likened to a mule. I am flattered… I think," she said. Bartho frowned, recognizing the irony but not the cause. Seeing his puzzlement she added, "Thank you for your help. If you'll just follow me."

Moving with the ease of long residence the woman went up several flights and down several halls until she reached a small, private dining hall with the sound of children's voices within. Taking back the trays so that he could open the door for her, she bent her knees in a perforce abbreviated curtsey. "Thank you again, my lord."

She was about to move into the room when Bartho stopped her. "Excuse me… I am uncertain as to the direction of the doors from here. The maze in here would confuse a rabbit."

The woman laughed then, a low, rippling sound of mirth. Her brown eyes twinkled. "Then I am a mule and you are a rabbit; you have quite the silver tongue, my lord. You must travel straight down this hall, to the right, and down the stairs. It is not far at all."

"I'm grateful, er…"

"Arien," she said, still smiling upon him as she might upon a charming lad.

"Lady Arien," he bowed. Turning about he left her and with a last chuckle she moved into the dining room with her load.

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"There you are, my friend. We feared that one of the horrific fates you have so often predicted for yourself had finally befallen you!" Erynbenn jested, standing aside in the door to let Bartho into the small house.

From the kitchen Melima appeared with hers and Erynbenn's small son upon her hip, her blonde hair tied in a knot at the nape of her neck and her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She smiled brightly at Bartho, pale blue eyes vivid in the after light of the set sun.

"Hello, Bartho! My husband and I have missed you — he especially." She turned with a special glance for her husband.

"Do you need help, dearest?" Erynbenn asked, his attitude still utterly infatuated after three years.

Melima had smiled at him one day when he was making his way through the market and the rest had only been a matter of time, in spite of Bartho's none-too-subtle warnings about women in general and smiling, fair-haired ones in particular. The doomsayer had soon had to admit that he had been wrong in his advice — at least when it came to Melima.

"Eryn, will you take Tavarion for me? He begs to be held, but I cannot coddle and cook at the same time; I know of no one so capable." She laughed.

"I do," Erynbenn replied. He reached to take his son and kissed his wife gently on the cheek before she returned to the kitchen, her face rosy.

Turning back to his friend, Erynbenn opened his mouth—

"No," Bartho said firmly.

"How did you know what I was going to say?"

"Because every time I visit you here you tell me I ought to wed. Erynbenn, few people find bliss in marriage."

Erynbenn sat down, allowing one-year-old Tavarion to stand between his knees. "How would you know? You've never been married."

"I've been close enough."

His friend ignored him. "Besides which I can name you a goodly number of people who enjoy absolute happiness in their marriages. Myself, as you well know, and Aragorn and Queen Arwen, for another easy example. Lord Faramir and Lady Eowyn, King Eomer and Queen Lothíriel, Beregond and Veronda—"

"Enough, enough, I see your point," Bartho grunted.

His friend smiled, knowing from many long years of companionship just when to stop pressing him. "Where do you go from here?"

"Back to the border. And I have in my pouch orders for you to accompany me."

"Really?" Erynbenn asked in some surprise. "Is something wrong?"

"Not yet."

The typically dark reply seemed to reassure rather than worry Erynbenn. "Melima will not be pleased."

"You could take her with you."

"I know it's permitted, but I don't like to think of her and Tav so far from the safety of these walls. The border is not yet a secure place to be. No, my friend, it is best for her to remain in Minas Tirith."

"And you call me paranoid," Bartho pointed out dryly.

Erynbenn laughed, causing Tavarion to giggle in response. "True! But paranoia in small amounts is called by a different name: 'caution'. It is a healthy thing to have, Bartho," he glanced sidelong at his friend, "but don't let it control your life."

"Dinner is finished at last," Melima called gaily and both men rose as one, Erynbenn passing Tavarion to his startled friend.

"Here, he likes you."

With a grin the younger man went to the table, leaving Bartho to stare the small boy in the face. Tavarion returned the stare for several silent minutes and then smiled around his fingers, displaying six teeth and squinting his brown eyes into a laugh.

Bartho recalled that he liked laughing brown eyes, though he could not discern when he had first developed the preference. Shaking the thought away, he followed Erynbenn to the table.

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April 6

Somewhere in Northern Gondor

The last rays of the sun had long disappeared and the moon rose, revealing a low woodcutter's house. The woodcutter himself had disappeared inexplicably several months before, but for the most part the local villagers had declared good riddance to the cruel drunkard's passing. At least the new tenants kept themselves to themselves instead of chasing the village maidens. In truth, no one could admit to having ever laid eyes on the new occupant of the house, and it was assumed that the new owner had not yet arrived after all. Whatever the case, Gondorians were not hobbits, and their curiosity did not last long; whether anyone lived there or did not, it affected their lives not at all and was not worth their attention.

Tonight, however, as the stars came fully out there was movement by the secluded house. A gray hawk sailed in on a moist spring breeze, a roll of parchment tied to its leg. From the doorway stepped a tall figure, graceful and silent as an elf, ensconced in a black cloak. He held up an arm that had no falconer's glove to protect it and whispered something in a hoarse voice as the bird landed. Shifting its weight, careful that its claws should not injure its master, the bird waited as he removed the message and gave it a piece of meat as a reward before releasing it towards the old hen coop that was its home.

There was the sound of flint and steel striking and a lantern sprang to life, illuminating the small scroll. The shadowy figure read it carefully once through, memorizing it instantly, and then set fire to it. The orange light reflected in his dark blue eyes as the message fell to ashes.

"Gentlemen," he called, his voice harsh and guttural in contrast to his smooth movements.

From the house there came three other men, each harmless looking tradesmen — if it weren't for the peculiar gleam in their eyes. They had been corsairs once, masters of their own ships and honored for their victories in battle. Now they were a blacksmith, a cooper, and a carpenter, all of them Gondorian (it was believed) and living in a small Gondorian hamlet. And they were only too impatient to claim their revenge upon the king who had brought them to this pass.

With eager expressions they waited for their hooded leader to give them their orders. But he paused and looked over their shoulders, calling a second time in an even raspier tone, "I meant all of you."

A fourth man joined them, also cloaked, and seemingly ill at ease. "I am here, no need to shout."

"Good," the leader nodded. "The queen has spoken and we will have need of you, Hablak." It was a Southron word meaning 'traitor' and the corsairs smirked at its use, though the traitor himself scowled.

"Are you certain you will not go yourself?" the traitor asked. He knew of the leader's strange skill in assassination.

The leader nodded, making his way behind the house. "Certain. And do not question my judgment. In here is the weapon; take it with you now, else you may not have a chance to come back for it without being missed. Unless I send different orders, the day of the attack is set for four days from now. You know what is needed between now and then. Do not fail."

"I won't," the traitor promised, gingerly accepting the woven basket that the leader gave him. "You will have the gold ready for me upon completion of this task? I may not be able to come and claim it right away, but again I might."

"Of course." Where the shadow of the leader's hood ended, the moonlight illuminated a thin mouth which curved into a smile.

Nodding uneasily the traitor turned and strode into the trees. Hidden within the wood was his horse and, if he rode quickly, he would be back in Minas Tirith before sun-up.

"Sir?" the corsair-blacksmith asked.

"Yes, Talas?" the guttural voice was heavy with amusement.

"What are our orders?"

"Ah yes. Come with me and I'll give them to you. Your long waiting has ended. The war will finally begin."

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April 7

Minas Tirith

It was cool the next morning and Bartho rose early, volunteering to go ready the horses so that Erynbenn could bid his family farewell in privacy. Mist clung to the stone streets and only a few craftsmen were about, on their way to their shops.

"You will be home soon?" Melima asked. Her blonde hair wisped about her face and glowed slightly in the white light of daybreak.

"As soon as may be," her husband replied feelingly. "If there is no danger, then we should not have to stay long. Besides, when Eression's men return his company will likely be sent to relieve us."

"That is good," she nodded. The motion of her head seemed to shake some of the moisture from her eyes, sending it trailing down her fair cheeks.

Erynbenn's face contracted with pain and he reached up to gently cup her face in both his hands, wiping the few tears away with his thumbs. "Dearest… please don't cry. I can bear anything else in the world but that."

She closed her eyes, the wet causing her lashes to cling into points, and let herself be drawn against his chest in a close embrace. "I'm sorry, Eryn. It is only that… you just came home. I miss you so terribly when you are away."

"And I you," he whispered into her hair. "I shall send you letters as often as I may and I shall return home soon. I love you, melda." The word was elvish, drawing something of the eloquence of that people. "Like water and air and life itself."

She tilted her head to look up at him, her tears having left dark streaks on his coat. "Am I that much to you?"

"More."

A small smile graced her lips, chasing the shadow from her blue eyes. "Tavarion and I will leave a candle in the window for you, so you will find the house when you return."

"Thank you."

He smiled with an expression of pretended impatience as she adjusted his cloak against the morning chill and handed him his riding gloves.

"I love you too, melda," she whispered. "You take my heart with you."

With a last long look at his small home nestled against the inner wall of the circle, and at the woman standing in the doorway, her pale blue shawl wrapped tight about her shoulders, Erynbenn turned and strode into the mist.

When he arrived at the stables, Bartho was already mounted and holding his horse ready for him.

"Ready?" the general asked.

"Yes." The words were carefully light and sardonic. "Let us go where more great and deadly danger awaits us."

"Not to mention rain, if we don't have a spring frost. We're due for it."

"Naturally."