Chapter 18

Enlightening Conversations

April 26

Southern Gondor

'Uncanny and disturbing.'

Bartho had said that in Minas Tirith only a week ago when he described the attack on his scouting party, and the words had become lodged in Faramir's mind, echoing almost constantly now. He looked about the charred skeleton that had once been a Gondorian town. It would have been kinder had the whole place been utterly razed, but it had not. He could still easily pick out which building had been the smithy, or the shop of a cooper, or a family dwelling. The call for aid had only come two hours ago, and he had answered it at once, leaving Bartho in command of the bulk of the men in his absence.

Perhaps normally he would have remained behind himself and delegated this to one of his captains, but he'd felt the desperate need to prevent at least a little of what the Southron queen was trying to do here. Except that she'd managed it again. He couldn't guess who had sent out the distress call he'd received, but whoever it was had likely been slain only minutes later. The charred beams were already cooling. The destruction had been completed almost before he had set out to stop it.

For a moment he wondered furiously, not for the first time, how the Southrons had penetrated the town's defenses so easily. This close to Harad such towns were well versed in the methods of protecting themselves, and the heavy stone and wood palisade around the town ought to have repulsed the invaders for a few hours at least. Mixed in with this puzzle was the matter of the traitor, Tantur. Could he, or another more highly placed traitor, be the reason for Mavranor's seeming omnipotence? Traitors were ugly things, as dangerous and difficult to see as shards of glass buried in sand. Had someone unlocked this town's gate from within?

"Lord Faramir!" Beregond's tone was insistent.

Faramir looked up from the scorched bridle bit he was absently handling. "What?"

"I called three times; you didn't answer. I was worried."

"Worry not over me."

"Someone has to," Beregond muttered, scowling his own frustration across the defeated landscape.

"I have failed again, Beregond."

The guardsman put a hand lightly on his shoulder. It was the gesture of an old friend, and in his subordinate position he seldom indulged in such things unless he and Faramir were alone. "I will not have you taking blame for this; it was not your fault!"

"It can be no 'fault' of mine and still be a failure," Faramir sighed. "I know the sensation well. These people were citizens of Gondor. Men who have fought in our wars, women who have taught our children. As such, they are under the king's protection, and thus under mine. I would that they were alive to rebuke me, but the silence shall serve that turn equally well."

Beregond shook his head in quick denial. "It will not do any good for you to agonize over it. As you go, so follow the men, and if that be to despair then who shall be here to fight for the citizens yet alive?"

"I know, my friend." Faramir turned to face him fully, his gray eyes carrying a familiar but controlled ache. "Fear not, I am not giving up hope. But I love my people, and the love that will not let me cease to fight for them will not let me pass their graves without sadness either. Come, whoever did this cannot have traveled far, and they will hardly return home after only one strike."

"Do such creatures have 'homes'?"

"Yes." Faramir's answer was firm. "They are men, Beregond. As we are."

It was a cryptic enough reply, and the next minute the steward had strode away back towards the men. It was a wonder even to Beregond, who had respected his captain from the day he had first met him, that one man could hold at the same time a head for war and a heart for such compassion. It had not been until Beregond had received his judgment from the new king — not until, faced with death, he had been granted trust and responsibility — that he had finally understood. The qualities of Faramir hailed from the days of Elessar's ancestors, when the kings of men were wise and mighty indeed, and their influence based upon more than the strength of their swords.

And if anyone could bring Gondor out of the devastations of war and return her to prosperity, it was King Aragorn and Lord Faramir.

With this thought to comfort him and with his hand resting as usual upon the pommel of his sword, Beregond followed quickly after his lord. In his current mood, Faramir probably wouldn't notice if an entire herd of mûmakil sprang from the bushes to trample him, let alone an errant assassin.

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April 28

Kopairin

Gimli let out a sigh. He had finally found a town that stood a chance having a decent inn where he could get a warm drink. The past three villages had been too small to support more than basic supplies — most of them having to do with horses.

However this town, a sprawling settlement right along the river, seemed to have more than its share of inns and supply stores. He frowned a bit; it looked as though the place had recently suffered some kind of attack. There were the remains of a few burnt buildings, and men were clearing away the rubble, while a great many Rohirric guardsmen patrolled the streets. For some reason the picture had an uncanny resemblance to the kind of trouble which followed Aragorn and Legolas so faithfully, though he couldn't say for sure why…

The dwarf chose an inn at random; it looked busy and full and he favored that sort: it meant late delivery, but it also meant the invaluable position of being forgotten the moment he left. Reaching the door of the Unbridled Stallion he pushed it open to reveal a fire-lit room full of patrons, busy conversation, and the smell of roast meat.

"Look, another one. Were they all kicked out of the mines at once?"

Gimli caught the words of a man sitting nearby and for the first time really concentrated on the primary source of noise. A group that sat near the center of the room were having a heated discussion and Gimli at once recognized many of his own kind seated and standing by a table.

Most noticeable was a young dwarf with a short beard who was giving the youngish looking human before him a very impertinent look. The one who appeared to be the bartender stood behind the man and at least two other dwarves were on their feet. One with red hair was positively seething. And that was when the words reached Gimli's ears.

"I have a right to say what I like!" The young dwarf pouted absurdly.

"I'll be the judge of that," the young man replied firmly, running a hand through his sandy blonde hair.

"Tell the man what happened, Kori — it will go better for you if you do," a dwarf standing at the young one's elbow spoke up.

"They don't have any right, Nowin! You tell them! You tell them who my father is!"

The one called Nowin sighed and turned towards the man. "I apologize, Mayor, he's not usually like this."

The red haired dwarf snorted at that.

"Kori, you have a right to tell your side of the story, but you will lose it if you do not speak soon," said the young mayor, obviously tired of the whole ordeal.

"He said I'd already had too much to drink! He doesn't understand I could drink my weight in ale and walk in a straight line same as you!"

"Kori!" The red-haired one was clearly on the edge.

"Finish it — tell him the whole thing," Nowin broke in, placing a hand on the red-haired dwarf's arm.

So Kori told him.

Gimli winced.

"I see," the mayor said after a pause. "I hope you understand that was not the peaceable response, Kori, neither was standing on his table and punching him in the jaw." Kori frowned at the bartender hovering at the mayor's elbow. "However, Master Merdane does not seem inclined to press the point to the length of your being thrown into the gaol. If you apologize to Master Merdane, pay your bill, and leave, I will call that the end of it."

Gimli glanced at the young dwarf. He didn't think apologizing was very high on that one's list of preferences, but when Kori looked to Nowin for support the dwarf simply stared back at him.

Ducking his head sulkily, Kori mumbled an apology into his beard.

"Will that suffice, Merdane?" The mayor turned to the bartender who shrugged.

"I suppose, Valihondo, but I stand by what I said before: the dwarf's had too much to drink."

"Aye," Nowin and the red-haired dwarf accidentally concurred at once.

"And we'll be out at once, Mayor," Nowin finished quickly.

"If you can control your friend, you may finish your drinks first." Valihondo nodded at the others, seemingly pleased that the incident had been resolved so easily. The dwarves began to reseat themselves and the general noises of a crowded inn resumed.

Gimli caught the red-haired dwarf speaking gruffly to Nowin under his breath, "Please just let me kill him."

"Now, Rorin, how would we explain that to Lord Dorm?"

"Tell him he ate a bad piece of meat. Happens all the time," Rorin growled, drinking moodily from his mug.

Valihondo began to move away from the dwarves and suddenly Gimli's thoughts were moving quickly as he recalled his odd thought about the state of the harbor town. It was a stab in the dark, but perhaps worth a try.

"Mayor!" Gimli called, walking up before Valihondo had gotten three steps away from the seated dwarves.

"Yes, Master Dwarf?" Valihondo smiled courteously down at Gimli, slightly bemused at the sudden inrush of dwarves to Kopairin.

"I am Gimli, Gloin's son. I am passing through, and I was wondering what happened here? Your town is in pretty poor condition."

"Oh, I see," Valihondo nodded. "We were attacked recently; some foreigners tried to destroy the harbor and steal a shipment that came through. We fought and won, but they escaped. The damage was a great deal less than it could have been, though."

"That is good." Gimli nodded, then hazarded his question, "I was wondering if an elf and a… er… a ranger were here by any chance?"

Valihondo smiled in understanding. "Ah yes, Legolas and Strider were here."

"They were?!" Gimli was suddenly very glad that he had trusted his instincts, Legolas would be unbearable if he ever found out. "How long ago?"

"I would say about ten days ago, if my reckoning is correct."

Gimli's face fell at this. Ten days? How would he ever catch up to them?

"You know them, I suppose?" Valihondo questioned.

"Yes, and it is imperative that I find them." Gimli frowned. "Tell me, was anyone…with them?"

"Actually yes, they were reunited with a friend of theirs here. A Gondorian man… Tantur, I believe his name was."

Gimli cursed under his breathe.

"Do you know him?"

"Let's just say he means trouble for Strider."

Valihondo's expression was suddenly very grim. "You are going to warn them." It was not a question.

"As fast as possible."

"Pardon, dwarf, but did you just say 'Strider'?"

Gimli glanced past Valihondo at Rorin who had spoken up from the table.

"Yes, what of it?" Gimli nodded, puzzled.

"We met with him just a few days ago," Nowin put in from beside Rorin. "Him and an elf, Legolas; do you know them?"

"I do." Gimli was immediately very eager to be back on the road. "Was a man named Tantur with them?"

"Yes…" Nowin answered slowly.

"Kori here clubbed him with a stick. Thought he was a rabbit." Rorin glowered at the small dwarf still sulking beside him.

"Good for Kori," Gimli muttered. "I must find them at once. Where exactly did you meet them?"

"On a road west and north of here, through the forest there," Kori answered quickly. He was sitting up straight now; he could have sworn that dwarf had just said 'good for Kori'.

"I don't know where they were going." Nowin looked apologetic. "They just said they were on an errand."

"No it's alright, I know where they are going." Gimli started for the door. "And I must follow them." Forgetting all about the drink he was ready to enjoy, Gimli left the inn and began to walk back towards the edge of town.

Valihondo followed him out and pulled him to the side, out of the way of listening ears.

"Master Gimli," his voice was hushed and he glanced warily over his shoulder, "you mean to warn your friends about this man, is that correct?"

"It is, and with all the haste I can manage."

"They are mounted now and you'll never reach them with ten days between you. Allow me to at least provide you with a beast to ride the way."

"I appreciate your help." Gimli nodded in gratitude. "My last pony misplaced me in a river. But I have to wonder, mayor, why you want me to reach them so much…?"

"Strider and Legolas aided us in the battle and rescued my daughter, among other innocent prisoners…" Valihondo let out a breath before finishing, "and I am loyal to my king. Whatever his mission, I wish to aid him."

It took Gimli a moment to realize what the young man had just said. "Did Strider—?"

"The hour is late, Gimli, Gloin's son," Valihondo broke in smoothly, leaving the dark alley and moving out into the streets. Gimli followed at his heels.

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April 28

Just outside Runda Garrison, Southern Gondor

It was an interesting study in geography, Erynbenn supposed, that the further south of Gondor one went, the flatter the land became, and the further north one went, the more mountainous the land became. The result had been a middle ground which consisted of all the above, with miles of wide, canyon-like rifts thrown in for good measure. Understanding the lay of the land on Gondor's southern borders was only a stone's throw from sheer impossibility.

"Fine place to set up your major defenses," Bartho muttered at his side, and Erynbenn nodded, sighing neither for the first nor the last time over the Runda Garrison. It had been placed on a narrow shelf of land which dropped completely away into a gorge in the front, rose straight up into a bluff at the back, and was only accessible by two hillocks abutting it on the narrower ends of the plateau. They were walking at the moment to spare the horses who were ambling along behind their Dúnadan masters like faithful hounds.

"In all fairness, this stretch doesn't need as much defending as the others do. The maze of gorges through here would deter Sauron himself. The difficult places are going to be the flatlands farther east — you can rest assured that the Southrons will bring as many mûmakil as can survive the trip."

"True," came the grunted agreement. Bartho hadn't said much since he had come back from Minas Tirith the evening before. Not that that was necessarily unusual for Bartho, but there were qualities of silence, and Erynbenn had developed a knack for gauging his friend's mood.

Then, as the younger man's eyes examined his companion sidelong, looking for explanations… he found one. It was subtle, and so outrageous he almost dismissed the possibility, but Melima had worked hard to educate him in the realm of women's fabrics, and the bandage around Bartho's shoulder…

"Silk for a bandage, Bartho? It is a wonder to me you sought so hard to be freed from the healers; they do not seem to have mistreated you." A maiden at the Houses? Was such a thing even possible??

Bartho flinched, an odd reaction, and his opposite hand almost moved reflexively to cover the cloth. "It did not come from the healers."

"Oh?" Worlds of question lurked in the one word. Melima would have been proud.

"Yes. It was given me by — by a friend."

Erynbenn almost stopped dead in his tracks. It was possible! And skeptics claimed Ilúvatar no longer worked miracles. The only question was, after pressing for this for so long, how should he handle it?

"A good friend, it would seem," he tried, putting some warmth in his voice. Maybe he could draw Bartho out…

"Aye."

A long pause. No dice. Oh well, nobody could say he hadn't tried subtlety.

"And if he looked good in pale blue silk, I'm imagining he was probably an elf… or a she."

"Erynbenn," Bartho growled, to which the man thus named raised his eyebrows innocently. "Please."

The tone caused Erynbenn to sober almost at once. "Is it really so bad as all that?"

Bartho didn't seem able to answer.

"Does she love you?"

The Dúnadan winced — an actual expression of pain. It was a question no one, not even himself, had dared to ask. But now Erynbenn was looking at him expectantly… and what could he say?

"I don't know…" he tried.

"Yes you do. That is what scares you." Erynbenn lengthened his steps to give his friend a few more feet of space. Being more familiar with the palace and who lived there he tried to sort out who might have finally caught Bartho's notice. None of the healers, and certainly she didn't have blonde hair, whoever she was. The maids probably wouldn't wear silk; there really weren't any courtiers to speak of currently in residence… Then it hit him hard. It was so obvious, he wondered why he hadn't tried to orchestrate it!

"Is it the Lady Arien?"

Bartho sighed. "Aye."

"She is one of the most charming women I have ever met, my friend! Bested by Melima, of course, but everything you could possibly hope for in a life companion. She is intelligent, she is not flighty, she is skilled, loyal, humorous, graceful and beautiful. Tell me again, what is amiss?"

"I—" the older man's cheeks paled to the color of ash. "I cannot speak to her, Erynbenn…"

Erynbenn turned and braced his hands against Bartho's shoulders, bringing the man to a halt and looking him square in his tortured, brooding eyes. "You're afraid."

"No."

"Yes you are. You're frightened out of your wits. Did Lindamar take so much from you? Aye, she betrayed you. No small matter. She received your love and she distrusted it. She took the very best you could give her and left in in the mud. But you have to understand that she is no more a rule of women than Gollum was of hobbits!" He paused.

"I must beg your forgiveness, Bartho. I did not realize how long you had brooded over this. I thought you long since over it and merely happiest when on your own, or else disinclined to be pushed into love by me. I should have said this to you a long time ago, and I can only hope you will not let it be to late. Stop listening to that pessimistic head of yours! It is too tainted to give you a fair report anymore. And it has never been the better part of you, my friend. Never." For a moment he rested his right hand on Bartho's chest, feeling the thudding of the man's heart beneath his fingers. The heart that had extended to take an upstart young ranger lad, teach him, and eventually accept him as a friend. "Do you understand me?"

For a long time Bartho stared at him, the protective shell around his soul splintering at the edges. When he blinked, it was with defeat — but a little of what Erynbenn had said was lodged inside his mind. Along with the last images of a certain dark haired woman in a blue sleeveless dress… or balancing a large stack of trays and laughing… standing on the stairs, looking down at him from the shadows… clutching the last pieces of a shattered vase in her hands… watching him leave with tears still on her lashes.

"I don't know… I'm sorry." He genuinely was. He could feel his own long-reviewed misgivings weighing him down like fetters.

Erynbenn sighed and released him. Together they started walking again.

"Will you at least admit that you want to love her back?" the younger man asked half-heartedly.

The answer was instinctive and decisive, startling both men as Bartho voiced it.

"Aye."

As Erynbenn was shocked to a complete halt and Bartho passed him, the older man could feel his friend's wide, exultant grin warming the back of his head.

"Then there's hope!" Erynbenn cried triumphantly. "Even for you!"

True to form, Bartho only replied, "Maybe."

The garrison was completely full, with tents set up on ever square foot of extra ground outside the walls. Most of the men were not there to stay but simply passing through and resting for the night, or else they were injured. What healers could be assembled from the army itself or the nearby villages were already all too busy. The Southron troops had been wounding them like a spear, plunging in just long enough to leave them bleeding badly, and then withdrawing before a real counterattack could be launched. It was the sort of attack that most of the Gondorian military commanders did not understand — especially not from the Haradrim, whose tactics were not generally so subtle. It suggested the aged Queen Mavranor's brain had not followed the frailty of her body.

With Faramir now present things were beginning to improve. He had a better understanding of such fighting, having engaged in it constantly while warring in Ithilien, and thus understood better how to thwart such attacks before they cost too many lives. Things had now reached a precarious stalemate while both sides spread out and prepared themselves for the true battle.

They had ridden the last hundred yards up the hill and as Erynbenn dismounted and guided his mare between the tents to the horse pickets, he could see the tension in the eyes around him. They were waiting for the first blow and wondering who would strike it.

"Fidgety, maybe?" Bartho muttered.

"Understatement, perhaps? Watch your feet."

Bartho sidestepped a tent peg just in time.

Erynbenn grinned wickedly, still warm in the victory of Bartho's admission. "Wouldn't do for the senior general to arrive with a face full of turf. And imagine what Arien would say…"

He received a pained but forbearing look for his trouble. Bartho was too familiar with his jesting.

The other captains were located, but there was no telling how long any of them would stay. It took an hour for Erynbenn to finally track down the orders he and Bartho had come to retrieve. Bartho read through them with his heavy brows knit tight together.

"What is it?" Erynbenn asked, guiding both the horses so that his friend could have his hands free.

"In brief?"

"Please."

"Lord Faramir has realized that, with the Southrons' current tactics, these gullies aren't a strength, they're a weakness. For now he's mustering and organizing troops further west of us, trying to keep the villages there safe, but he'll return soon. When that happens you, he, and I will split up most of the garrison here and cover the surrounding area. He doesn't want the enemy slipping in unnoticed."

Erynbenn nodded, looking thoughtfully out across the lush green zigzag of rifts. "I see his point about the ravines. It'll be no easy task, though. It's one thing to lead five or six Dúnedain through thick undergrowth; its quite another to five or six hundred foot soldiers through the same."

"It's a disaster waiting to happen."

Looping his horse's rope to the picket and removing its saddle, Erynbenn shrugged. "Of course it is. Hand me the— thank you." He took the proffered tool and lifted his mare's right foreleg, scraping the dirt from her hoof and searching for other debris. A moment later he found a stone and removed it, lowering her leg and patting her scruffy neck. "I thought as much."

Bartho nodded. "Come. We'd best eat."

"If we can find any food," the younger man retorted, only half joking. Whatever devilry Mavranor was exercising to keep one town ahead of Faramir's troops, she was further using to disrupt the army's food shipments. Rations were becoming slimmer by the day, and the most available foods had been so well dried for long marches as to be completely tasteless.

"There're always mushrooms."

Erynbenn snorted loudly. "Don't remind me! To this day I cannot understand what hobbits see in them. Rubbery brown fungus. As I recall you didn't like them either, my friend. Though that could be because Maggot's dogs had just finished—"

"Watch your feet."

Automatically Erynbenn changed his footing, but the two tents he was passing between had been so closely set up that their lines crossed in a dozen places and his altered course didn't help him. With a 'twang!' his boot caught on a second rope and he was sent falling forward, only just managing to push himself into a flying somersault and avoid landing on the web of ropes waiting to entangle him. Rolling back onto his feet in the same motion, Erynbenn smiled sheepishly. "Let me guess: I had it coming?"

"You should teach that flying hedgehog maneuver to the men. It might aid the gorge scouting trip," Bartho deadpanned.

Nodding good-humouredly, Erynbenn brushed off his cloak. "You could be right. Do you not wish that you could perform such a trick?"

"No."

"Alas! You have spoiled my opportunity to crow over you like the young upstart that I am."

"You're not so young as all that."

"You refuse me the last word as well?"

"Aye."

And the two men headed towards the crowded mess hall.

Authors' Note: We would like to take a quick moment to apologize for our lateness (again), and to wish our sister Chloe a very happy 17^th birthday! She is a fine fanfic writer herself, a graphics queen, a lover of fairies and animals, and a cool sister all round! *breaks out the root beer and lembas* Cheers, Cleo!