1. The Beacon Is Lit

Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, save for perhaps the OCs, and I don't even like one of them.

Note: This is movie-verse. As such, Denethor is craaaazy. I'm not mangling the lovely book!Denethor, just predicting how movie!Denethor might act.

March 10, 3019

A chill wind blew across the mountain-top and shuddered through the guardhouse. Tarannon shivered as the wind whistled through the gaps in his armor and clothing beneath. The icy breeze ran its fingers up and down his spine. He cursed the pointlessness of being up on the mountain-side and decided to move out into what little sun the Shadow had not covered, hoping to get warmer.

He was surprised to find it was indeed marginally warmer outside. He checked the supply of kindling by the side of the guardhouse; there was enough, he determined, and he lit a fire in the little grate that was sheltered from the wind by the protective wall. Once he had that going steadily, he seated himself on one of the stone benches built outside of the guardhouse and stared at the man-high pile of wood that was sheltered beneath a little roof. What a useless task. Guarding the beacon of Amon Din? The logical thing to do would have been to post guards at the bottom of the passageway leading up to the beacon- but no. Lord Denethor was not in a logical mindset. Instead, he had posted guards at the bottom, middle, and the top of the passage, and had just recently instituted hourly checks on each of the men guarding their various points. Tarannon suspected that Mithrandir’s arrival to Minas Tirith yesterday had something to do with it. Why Denethor didn’t want to call for Rohan was beyond him, and why so many guards were required was preposterous. If Mithrandir wished to light the beacon, Tarannon did not doubt that he could easily dispose of each of the guards, or use his wizardly powers to shoot a bolt of flame up from the seventh level.

Tarannon understood the necessity of guarding against young pranksters who would think it a great joke to falsely call for help when there was no need, but keeping the beacon from being lit when help was needed? Ridiculous.

He got up and paced towards the pile of wood and straw, then paced back and to the guardhouse. This was a route that he had walked many times before. Back and forth. Back and forth. This duty was where they put people who caused trouble. He had been assigned to guarding the highest point of the city as a punishment for getting into a fistfight with another guard by the name of Castamir while on duty two months ago. He was not at fault for that; Castamir was more than slightly inebriated and had started it. Unfortunately for him, Castamir was one of Denethor’s spies in the army, planted to listen for any subversive words towards himself. Castamir and Tarannon had hated each other ever since they were boys training to be soldiers together; Castamir had always been on the lookout for ways to get Tarannon in trouble. He told Denethor of the fight but had twisted it, making it sound as though Tarannon had been the one who had started it. Tarannon had been assigned to this position ever since. Eight-hour shifts, from morning to afternoon.

As he turned back towards the beacon, a flicker of motion caught his eye. There, along the rock wall! He wasn’t sure what he had seen- he thought it had been something grey slipping around the corner on to the opposite wall. He squinted; nothing there. He rubbed his eyes and sighed. He’d been up here too long. Perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him…

The sound of footsteps on the stairs caused him to stop his inspection of the stone and turn. The guard assigned to the hourly check had come. Tarannon looked to see who it was today.

“Beregond!” he said happily. “What did you do to get put on this duty?” The guards of the hourly checks were only assigned to the task for a few days. Usually, the guards chosen had committed minor offenses and this was their punishment.

“I was late to report,” Beregond said. “Bergil was sick, and I had to find somebody to look after him for me and had trouble finding someone on time.”

“Is he better now?”

“Oh yes, it was only a short bout. It lasted for a few days, then he was right as rain.” Beregond handed him a bowl that was about a third full of grapes.

“Thank you, my friend,” Tarannon said, taking the bowl.

“I thought I would be a good friend and bring an entire bowlful to you, but I had to give some away to the other two guards as well,” Beregond said, grimacing. “I am sorry you don’t have more.”

“You only wish that you had more for me so you could take half without feeling guilty, don’t you?” Tarannon teased.

“Well… yes, you have me figured out very well. I must be spending too much time with you,” Beregond said, laughing and pulling out a chair from the guardhouse. As the two shared the grapes, a sudden crackle from the beacon startled them. The scent of smoke rose upon the air.

Tarannon turned towards the beacon with a feeling of dread. It was alight! He leapt up from his seat, the bowl flying from his fingers, and stared at the flames that were beginning to consume the wood pile, a sinking feeling in his stomach. There was nothing to douse the flame with high up here, and the fire was already roaring. Beregond stood beside him, his face pale. Tarannon turned to him sharply.

“Beregond. Go.”

“What? I-”

“Go now!” Tarannon shoved him towards the stairs, talking quickly. “Get to the guard in the middle of the pass, as fast as you can. Don’t act as though you’re in a hurry when you reach him. Act surprised when you hear the beacon is lit. If anybody asks, you didn’t see this. You left before anything happened. Just go!”

“But-”

“Think of Bergil!” Tarannon hissed, and gave him another shove. “You need to keep out of trouble- you have a family. I don’t. Go! If you don’t, I swear I’ll push you off of this precipice,” he added, trying to joke, though his face was tense. “I’ll be fine.”

Beregond gave him one last sad look and left, dashing down the stairs as quick as he could. Not thirty seconds later, when the fire was roaring, he heard a voice cry out from far below him, “The beacon! The beacon of Amon Din is lit!” Tarannon sighed. Beregond should have reached the middle guard by now. He would be safe from suspicion. Tarannon slumped onto the stone bench, waiting for the Tower Guards to come and arrest him.

How did this happen? Nobody had come up the stairs, as far as he knew, and there was absolutely no way anybody could have climbed the mountain- it was practically sheer, and the handholds and footholds that could be found were too small for any man to use. Mithrandir, if it had been him, could have used his powers and shot a bolt of fire or enchanted a bird to carry a torch to light the beacon, or something- but that seemed like a ludicrous idea. It was going to look as though Tarannon had lit the beacons himself. Or worse- that he had been fraternizing with Mithrandir and had done it at his bidding. He moaned and put his head in his hands.

He was doomed. Lord Denethor would have his head for this- perhaps literally. The best he could hope for was banishment or a lifelong prison sentence. Now all he could do was wait.

Three Guards arrived within half an hour, one bearing a proclamation from the Steward that he was under arrest and was to be brought before the Steward for questioning. Tarannon went quietly. What else could he do?

The Tower Guards dragged him into the throne room and threw him upon his knees before the Steward’s seat. He dared not look up into Denethor’s face until commanded, for fear of incurring a greater wrath than had already been set upon him. He studied the tiled floor carefully, keeping his head bowed. After a long time, Denethor spoke.

“Tarannon, son of Tarcil.” Each syllable was filled with cold fury.

“Yes, my Lord Steward?” he replied, desperately trying to keep any emotion out of his voice.

“Look at me.” Tarannon slowly raised his head and found himself looking into the black eyes of the Steward, which were glinting madly. His face did not match his eyes- it was a mask of terrible calm, like the sea before a great storm broke out. Tarannon held his gaze steadily- he knew that if he didn’t, Denethor would think him guilty. Then again, he would interpret anything as guilt. Or insolence. He was in trouble no matter what he did.

“The beacons are lit. The guards say that no-one ascended in the passage, save for the hourly guard, who came down before anything happened.” At this, Tarannon gave an inward sigh of relief. Beregond was safe. “How did the beacon come to be lit?”

Tarannon had been thinking of all of the things he might say that would not incriminate him. The list was depressingly short, for one gaping hole in his story remained: where did the fire come from? He had finally decided to tell the truth, omitting only the fact that Beregond had been with him at the time.

As he told Lord Denethor his story, the Steward’s face became even more frightening- if anything, his eyes grew wilder and his face as expressionless as a stone. When he finished, Denethor sat in silence. Tarannon felt his insides churning. He knew how absurd his story sounded. He had been sitting by the guardhouse when the pyre burst into flame. That did not help him in the slightest.

Finally, Denethor pronounced his judgment. “Take him to the traitor’s prison in the first level,” he said to the Tower Guards, black eyes blazing. “He is to be branded as a traitor to Gondor for directly disobeying my commands and deliberately lighting the beacons. He shall be held in prison for a fortnight before departing. None may communicate with him, and he may speak to no one, save for perhaps his jailer.” He turned to Tarannon, looking upon him as he would a piece of filth. “You no longer exist to this country. You are banished from the realm of Gondor forever.”

Tarannon stared at him in horror. Banishment and branding? Those marked as such were not permitted to speak to any citizen of Gondor ever again, nor were the citizens supposed to speak to him. Numbly, he felt himself being pulled to his feet by the Guards and led away to the traitor’s prison.