A/N:  I don’t own Gilraen or Aragorn (but if wishing made it so . . .).  All other characters in this chapter are mine, all mine, and I can abuse them as much as I want, he he.  No copyright infringement is intended, and I’m certainly not making money off of this.

Cairistiona and Calenlass Greenleaf are my awesome betas.

One quick note—this chapter contains some dark themes including elements of child abuse that IMO are more disturbing than the ones in the last chapter.  You’ve been warned.

As evening approached, Aragorn was up and toddling around the cabin.  Gilraen had bathed him and gotten him to eat some bacon and way bread.  Now the child scurried about, trying to inspect every corner of his new realm.  Gilraen stumbled after him, frequently pulling little hands away from live coals and razor edged bodkin arrows.  Thorondir watched from his seat at the long table, absently repairing a damaged bridle as he waited for Arandur to return.  Gilraen had pleaded with him to sleep, but Thorondir knew he couldn’t while the patrol was out; someone had to keep watch over Gilraen and the little one.

There came a soft sound from outside—the distant crunching of boots over dry leaves.  Thorondir rose and moved to peer out the narrow window.  Gilraen, seeing his motion, came to stand by his side, a squirming toddler resting on her hip.  The woman moved to open the heavy oak door, but Thorondir stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.  Pursing his lips, he let out a careful whistle.  After a moment, he heard two short answering whistles.  Still, Thorondir was cautious, cracking the door and checking before he let his older sister step outside.

Maldir’s patrol emerged from the forest in a ragged line.  Arandur walked at the front with the patrol leader.  A step behind him came Belegion, a member of Arathorn’s patrol.  For a moment, Thorondir wondered at his presence then he realized that Fornost-Eden must have sent a messenger with tidings of the battle.  Behind him came two more men bearing a limp form between them.  Thorondir’s eyes narrowed.  He could not fail to recognize the green cloak and copper star of a young Ranger.

As Thorondir approached, Arandur turned to the men supporting the boy.  “Take him to the stables and bind him.  I don’t want him near the child.”

Thorondir’s eyes flashed with confusion.  “What’s wrong, Arandur?  Is the boy hurt?”

The leader of the Dunedain spared his brother a quick glance.  “Yes, but that’s far from his chief concern.  He was found armed and unbound in the middle of an orc encampment—and he tried to flee from us.”

The younger Ranger’s face paled.  “Then you think he . . .”

“I don’t know what to think, Thor.  We’ll know when he wakes.”

Gilraen watched the exchange, her face stricken.  Arandur forced a smile for her sake.  “Let’s get our little chieftain inside.”  Arandur stayed in the cabin only long enough to direct Gilraen to the store of tea leaves and grab a hunk of way bread for himself.  He paused by the fire to fill a mug with water from the large basin before stepping through the door into the stable.  Thorondir followed in his wake.

The three horses whickered a greeting, and Thorondir spared a quick pat for each before following his brother to the fourth stall.  There, two Rangers stood, their hands resting on their sword hilts.  The still form of the boy was stretched out on the straw between them.  The youth’s hands were bound in front of him with coarse rope.  That same rope stretched down to encircle his ankles.  The boy’s face was pale and dirty, but Thorondir felt a shock run through him; he knew this child.  “Halpharn,” he whispered.

Arandur nodded grimly.  “Lothiriel’s son.  As though the woman has not experienced enough tragedy.”  The man knelt by the youth’s side and drew a dried leaf from the herb pouch at his belt.  Crushing it between his fingers, Arandur sprinkled the herbs into the cup he held.  Thorondir crouched by the boy’s other side and gently raised his head off the straw so that Arandur could lift the cup to his still lips.  The older Ranger carefully tipped half of the mug’s contents down the boy’s throat.

After a moment, the youth stirred and coughed.  Thorondir sprang back as Halpharn turned his head and began to retch.  He needn’t have worried; though the boy hacked and coughed, nothing came up from his empty stomach.  “Be still.”  Arandur’s tone was cool, but his hand was gentle as it lifted the boy’s head and raised the cup again to his lips.  “You’ve two large knocks on your head.  Drink this.”  The boy downed the draught thirstily.  As the herbs took effect, he seemed to become more alert.  His eyes grew brighter and his hands twisted as he discovered the bonds.  Arandur kept him still with a firm hand on his thin shoulder.  “Now, Halpharn, perhaps you can explain to us what you were doing away from your post in the middle of an orc encampment just hours after Fornost-Eden was raided?”  The youth looked away.  Arandur placed a hand under his chin and forced the child to meet his gaze.  “Do not think to lie to me, son of Balarion.  You know it will do you no good.”

The boy seemed to wither under Arandur’s keen gaze.  His voice was almost too low to hear.  “He just wanted the Heirs.”

Arandur’s gaze sharpened further.  “Arathorn and Aragorn?”  The boy’s silence was confession enough.  “Who wanted the Heirs?  Answer me!”

Halpharn swallowed.  “I never saw his face.  He wore a mask.  I just know that it was a man.  The orcs listened to him.”

For long moments, the only sound was Arandur’s carefully measured breathing.  “So, this man set out to destroy the line of Isildur.  What did he need you for?”

The boy’s voice was panicked.  “I didn’t want to help him, but he would have killed her—“

“That may be an answer to some question,” Arandur interrupted over Belegion’s startled gasp, “But not the question I asked.  What service did you do for this commander that he allowed you to stay in his camp and retain your weapons?”

Halpharn looked away.  “I told him which patrol the Chieftain rode with.  I . . . I described Lord Arathorn’s horse, so he’d know him when he saw him.”

A ripple ran through the assembled Rangers, but they were too well-trained to respond aloud.  Halpharn squirmed, pinned by Arandur’s fierce gray eyes.  “What about the fire?”

Though he made no sound, a tear ran a grimy track from the corner of the boy’s eye.  “He made me set that fire.  He said . . . he said it was the only way he’d leave without destroying the whole village—if Arathorn’s son died in the fire.  I didn’t want to hurt him, but . . . I didn’t want my mother and brothers to die.”

“But it didn’t work, did it?”

Halpharn shook his head.  “Lady Gilraen wasn’t home.  And Mama’s house caught fire too, and my little brothers almost got caught.  He was so angry . . .”

“Tell me about the night of the attack.”

“He’d ordered me to meet him at the camp, but I had guard duty and Sarnbarad wouldn’t let me go.  So when his back was turned, I hit Sarnbarad with a rock and put him in the guard house.”  The boy’s voice caught.  “The man . . . he said I’d failed.  I tried to reason with him, but . . . he made me stay while most of the orcs marched on the village.  Something went wrong, and he left for a while.  Then he came and took . . . he took . . .” The boy’s face threatened to crumple, but he swallowed his tears and closed his eyes.  “I’ve said too much.  He’ll kill her.”  And the boy could not be convinced to speak again.

“Sir, that’s all we’ll get for now,” Maldir said at last, “Perhaps he will speak more once he’s rested.”

Arandur looked up at the older Ranger.  “Who will decide his fate?”

Maldir’s face was sympathetic.  “Justice has ever been the province of the Chieftain.  We will respect your decision.”

The acting-chieftain sighed.  “Feed him and treat his wounds.  After that, he’ll have to sleep for a while.  As must I.”

~

It was after midnight, and the cabin was filled with snores and gentle stirrings.  Every bed was full.  Belegion stood watch at the door, Malphor in the stables, but even so, there were not enough cots to accommodate the full company.  Thorondir and an even younger Ranger slept on the floor in their bedrolls. 

The Rangers were a weary lot.  Some, like Arandur, had not slept in as much as five days.  Even so, when a piercing whistle reached their ears, every eye was open in an instant.

Gilraen sat up and pulled Aragorn closer.  She was suddenly surrounded by a forest of tall men.  The safe house rang with the distinctive scrape of steel against leather, and many swords gleamed in the low light of the dying hearth.  For a moment, everyone held their breath, then another whistle reached them—this one more complicated with two high notes followed by a long, lower tone.  Blades were sheathed, and Maldir hurried to light a lantern.

He had barely sparked the wick when the cabin door burst open to admit Belegion followed by three more Rangers.  The tallest man had something draped in his arms.  Arandur stepped quickly to this man and began murmuring instructions.  “Take her to my cot.  Boil some water.  Where are those herbs?”

A flurry of movement followed.  The youngest Ranger hurried to the bed in the corner and pulled back the blanket and top sheet.  Thorondir hastily poked up a fire while Maldir filled a large pot with water.  Aragorn stirred and pressed himself against his mother.  Gilraen wrapped him in a blanket and stood, her child in her arms, to get a better look. 

One of the newcomers was speaking in a quick, low voice.  Gilraen had to strain her ears to hear him over the bustle.  “ . . . patrolling to the northeast when we came upon signs of a horseman passing with great speed over one of the old trails.  We followed the trail a few miles to where it turns south along a creek bed.  There, we found signs of a struggle and a small set of tracks leading off the edge of the ravine.  We found her unconscious at the bottom of the ditch.”

“Did she fall or was she thrown?”  Arandur’s voice was taut with tension.

“We can’t know for sure.  We found large boot prints at the same sight—probably the rider’s—and then hoof prints continuing south.  Whoever it was, he left her there.”

“How long?”

“The trail was maybe a few hours old.  We found her at sunset and came here as quick as we could.  But, we did not look to find you here, Arandur.”  Gilraen could hear the question in the Ranger’s voice, but Arandur merely grunted.

The woman tried to edge around the taller men with little success.  Then, the crowd parted briefly, and Gilraen caught a glimpse of the newcomer as he carefully laid his burden down on the low cot.  To her horror, she could make out the battered form of a child.  Filthy, bare feet and bruised, swollen legs stuck out from beneath a ragged dress.  The dress itself was so dirty that its original color could only be guessed at.  It was caked in places with blood, ash, and worse.  A curtain of long, matted hair covered the little girl’s face. 

Arandur squatted by the child’s head and pulled out his belt knife.  As her brother carefully cut away the ruined dress, Gilraen swallowed a gasp and clutched her son tighter.  It seemed every inch of this child was bruised or bleeding.  Her legs were the worst; they ranged in color from angry red to muddy brown.  Unnoticed by the Rangers, Gilraen edged closer, even as she turned Aragorn’s head away from the grisly sight.  The men pressed close and seemed concerned.  Gilraen didn’t know why; surely this child could not still be alive . . .

As Arandur prodded the largest bruise, the child stirred and batted weakly at his hand.  The man murmured a comforting word and brushed a gentle hand over her brow, pushing back the hair.  For a moment, Gilraen stood stock still, gazing at the little face in disbelief.  The child was no older than six.  Her face was battered and bruised, with a black eye and swollen lip.  Yet, even these disfigurements, even with the soot that coated her face, Gilraen recognized her.

Laleth.

~

Dawn was still hours away.  The only light penetrating the darkness of the forest was a dim, orange band thrown through the window of the cabin to gently illuminate the darkened clearing.  Gilraen sat on a stump, her bundled child resting fitfully in her lap.  Maldir stood a few feet behind her, having replaced Belegion as sentry.  The woman ignored him.  Her shoulders were hunched against the chill.  She rocked Aragorn gently back and forth, singing softly.  The boy stirred in her lap as another hoarse scream drifted from the cabin, followed by the murmur of men’s voices.  Gilraen hunched closer and sang louder.

There was a soft rustle of leaves to her left.  Thorondir eased himself into a crouch beside her.  He kept his voice soft.  “Laleth’s legs were broken at least two weeks ago, and they’ve been healing wrong ever since.  If she is to run again, Arandur must reset the bone.”

Gilraen swallowed hard.  “She will live, then?”

“If she does not succumb to infection.”

“Lothiriel thought she was gone forever . . .” Gilraen trailed off, then sharpened, “Has Halpharn been told?”

“Belegion is with him now.  He’ll see her when Arandur is done.”

Gilraen stared off into the blackness.  “She loved flowers.  When the first lilies started to bloom, she begged Lothiriel to take her to the riverbank.  Her mother knew it was dangerous, but . . .” the woman shook her head, “It took them longer than they had thought to get back to the village.  Orcs came upon them in twilight.  They ran, but Lothiriel was carrying the twins, and Laleth couldn’t keep up . . .” Gilraen swiped at a rebel tear.  “That must be how they were controlling Halpharn.”

“Yes, but it will likely make no difference.”

“No difference!”  Gilraen’s head came up.  “He’s a child; he was frightened; he thought his sister would die!  Do none of those count for anything?”

“He’s a Ranger, Gil,” Thorondir’s voice was gentle, “He had a duty, like all of us do.”

“Duty!”  The woman spat the word.  “My husband is dead, my child is hunted, and all anyone speaks to me of is duty!  What about my child?  What about Lothiriel’s children?”  Thorondir didn’t respond.  Gilraen sighed.  “What’s the worst that can be done to Halpharn?”

Her brother hesitated.  “In Arador’s time, a man murdered his wife and younger daughter in a fit of rage.  Arador ordered him put to death.”

“To death?  Surely we’re not going to execute Halpharn?”  Thorondir didn’t respond.  “Thor, he didn’t kill anyone!”

“Didn’t he?”  For the first time, Thorondir’s voice flashed with anger.  “Twenty-four Dunedain are dead, Gilraen!  One of them, your husband.”

Lothiriel’s pale face flashed in Gilraen’s mind.  “He’s a child, Thor.  He didn’t know what he was doing.”

“Then that will be taken into account.”  Doubt still clouded Gilraen’s face.  Thorondir sighed.  “Arandur will make the final decision.  You know he’s not a cruel man.  Don’t fret so much.  The important thing is, Halpharn is no longer a threat to you or the child.”

The woman’s voice was almost inaudible.  “What kind of world is this, when even our children can be a threat?”

~

Halpharn sat by Laleth’s side as dawn crept through the windows.  Belegion stood behind him, one heavy hand on his shoulder.  The little girl slept, finally.  Halpharn had been given a few minutes to speak to her before Arandur fed her one of his sleeping draughts.  Her legs, tightly bound with splints, were raised a foot off the mattress by a system of makeshift pulleys.  Halpharn stared at the puffy red feet sticking out from the bandages, and wondered if his little sister would ever skip along the riverbank again.  He ran a hand over her brow as his eyes welled up.  He wished he could be here to find out.

The Rangers had bathed her as best they could and clothed her in one of Belegion’s old shirts.  The material swamped her and hid the worst of the injuries.  Still, Halpharn stared numbly at the bruises on her arms, some yellow and almost faded, some just now purpling.  Her wrists were bandaged where the orc shackles had cut into them.  Her fingers trembled slightly, and Halpharn gripped the hand closest to him.

They’d had to cut off all her pretty hair; it was too matted and filthy to work through.  Now, only a few dark tufts remained.  Her face seemed much smaller without the matted mane.  Lord Arandur had said that she would survive.  Halpharn had to believe him; he had to trust that Laleth’s days of suffering for her brother’s sins were over.  The acting-chieftain had not yet passed judgment on Halpharn, but the boy knew what it would be.  He had committed the worst crime possible of a Dúnadan:  treason and murder against the Chieftain himself.  The ultimate crime demanded the ultimate punishment.  Arandur’s sentence would be bloody, and it would come soon; there was little time for sentiment in the wild.  Halpharn stared at his sister, drinking in the lines of her face, trying to savor the moment forever.  His sister would live.  That was more mercy than he deserved. 

 “I didn’t understand, at first, how she could have escaped.”  Belegion’s voice broke through Halpharn’s reverie.  “Then, one of the men told me he found this.”  Halpharn turned to look.  His uncle held a naked dagger, its hilt wrapped in leather.

“They let me . . .” Halpharn’s voice was croaky.  He swallowed.  “They let me keep my sword and knife when I was in their camp.  When I knew they were heading for the village, I went to sit with her.  I slipped her the dagger when the guards weren’t looking—made her tie it under her dress.  After the man tied her to the horse, she must have cut through the rope.”

Belegion’s gaze was solemn.  “You saved her life, Hal.  Whatever happens, remember that.”  The boy nodded, choking back a sob.

“Halpharn,” The youth looked up.  Arandur stood silhouetted in the doorway, his face haggard.  “It is time.”  Halpharn swallowed and lowered his head to plant one last kiss on Laleth’s forehead.  Swallowing his tears, he stood.  He would accept his fate, as a Dúnadan.

Arandur led Halpharn out into the clearing, with Belegion trailing in his wake.  His hands were not bound, for which he was grateful.  An impromptu court had been assembled near the edge of the forest.  Grim faced Dúnedain stood in a wide half circle.  Arandur moved to the center of the arc, indicating that Halpharn should stand before them.  His uncle lingered, a few paces behind him.

Halpharn scanned the faces of those gathered.  He noticed Lady Gilraen among them, though the child was nowhere to be seen.  He looked away; if he had to look at his neighbor and think about the pain he had caused her, he would lose all control.  Instead, he forced himself to meet Arandur’s cold gaze unflinchingly.  After a moment, in which all the assembled held their breath, the acting-chieftain began to speak.

“Halpharn, son of Balarion, you are here to answer to the charges of abandoning your post, assaulting a fellow Dúnadan, consorting with the enemy, conspiring to murder, conspiring to assassinate a member of the royal line, and committing high treason.  These are serious charges, made all the more grievous because they were committed against your own kinsmen and neighbors.  We know of your guilt by confession of your own mouth.  Have you anything left to say in your defense?”

Halpharn’s mouth was a desert.  “No, my lord,” he managed to rasp.

At that, the lines in Lord Arandur’s face deepened.  A great sadness seemed to fall over him.  “Very well.  Halpharn son of Balarion, I, Arandur son of Dirhael acting in the stead of Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur and Chieftain by right, find you guilty of all charges.  Of old, the penalty was death.”

A strangled gasp came from behind Halpharn.  He didn’t turn.  He couldn’t look at his uncle without losing all control.

After a pause felt by all, Arandur continued, “Yet, having taken into account your relative youth, I have chosen to spare you.  Of equal import, was the involvement of your sister as a hostage of the enemy.  She will recover and return to her people.  But, as for you, Halpharn, you are no longer the son of Balarion.  Your name will be struck from our records.  You must depart at once from all territories patrolled by the Dúnedain.  Should a patrol come across you in a month’s time, they will treat you as they would any wandering orc.  Malphor, hold him.”

Another Ranger approached and gripped Halpharn by the shoulders.  Malphor rolled up the boy’s right sleeve and extended his arm, palm down.  There came a sizzle from somewhere behind him, and Halpharn felt a sudden sense of foreboding.  Arandur spoke again, “To ensure that you will be recognized anywhere you stray in our lands, you are to be marked as a traitor.”  Maldir approached, holding a piece of metal still bright from the fire.  Halpharn paled and set his jaw.

He didn’t resist when the Ranger pressed the hot brand against his forearm.  He squeezed his eyes tight against the sudden, blinding pain.  Malphor’s iron grip kept his arm trapped.  His jaw locked.  A foul odor reached his nose—his own charred flesh.  His eyes watered.

Make it stop, make it stop, makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop . . .

 And a suddenly as it began, it was over.  The brand withdrew, and the pain receded to an almost tolerable throbbing.  Malphor loosened his grip, even as Halpharn relaxed his own clenched fist.  Though there were small red cuts where his fingernails dug into his palm, he had not cried out.

Maldir had set the brand aside and now approached with salve and a bandage.  Halpharn risked a glance at his own arm.  The burn was in the shape of a seven-pointed star—the emblem of the northern Dunedain—but angry red, instead of silver.  While Maldir applied the balm and bandaged the arm, Arandur spoke, as if he’d read Halpharn’s mind.  “It will fade to black in time, for you are but a shadow on our people.”

Halpharn looked away.  He refused to shame himself by weeping now.

Arandur approached slowly, holding out a pack.  “We give you a change of clothes, supplies for tending your arm, and three days’ provisions—enough to get you to the nearest village.”  Arandur took Halpharn’s dagger from Belegion and extended it to its original owner.  “This belongs to you.  Your sword we will keep, for it belonged to Balarion and should pass to his new heir.”

Halpharn took the knife with trembling fingers and slung the pack over his left shoulder.  Maldir put the finishing touches on the bandage.   His arm barely hurt now; Ranger salves worked fast.  Far more painful would be leaving his people behind.  Halpharn thought of the long road ahead and wondered if a death sentence might not have been more merciful after all.

Arandur stepped back.  Halpharn knew the moment had come.  “Go, Halpharn.”  With those simple words, he turned to stand like a statue, with his back to Halpharn.  The other Rangers, taking their signal from him, also turned away.  All but one.  Halpharn locked eyes with his uncle and shook his head slightly, trying to convey regret and resolve and sorrow and hope in one, all too brief, span of time.  After a moment, Belegion, too, turned to face away from Halpharn. 

The youth drew a deep breath.  There was no reason to linger; there could be no sentiment in the wild.  Steeling himself against the bitter years to come, Halpharn the disowned Ranger set his face to the woods and slowly walked away from everything and everyone he knew.  He didn’t linger to watch the Rangers disperse, a few to the north, a few to the east.  He didn’t see Lord Arandur slowly pick his way towards the cabin, moving as if he had aged a century.  He wasn’t there to see, finally, the young woman who stood alone in the clearing, her face as pale as death itself.

~

Thorondir stood by Begilaith’s head, his nephew in his arms.  Aragorn giggled as he ran his chubby fingers through the filly’s russet mane, trying in vain to braid the knotted tresses.  The stable door flew open with a slam.  Thorondir turned to look, but Aragorn was quicker.  “Mama!” The little boy cried, squirming energetically in his uncle’s arms.  Thorondir quickly set the toddler on his feet before he could drop him.  The child ran to his mother, who greeted him with a quick hug and a distant smile. 

Looking closer, Thorondir noted that his sister’s eyes were bright with tears.  He swallowed.  He could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen his sister cry.  Consulting with his brother earlier that day, Arandur had warned him that Gilraen might not react well to Halpharn’s sentencing.  Nevertheless, this was . . . disturbing.  He approached slowly.  “What’s wrong, Gil?”  Before he could finish the question, the woman was in motion.  As Thorondir stood bewildered in the middle of the stable, Gilraen grabbed a harness and bridle from the small storeroom and strode into Rohiridan’s stall.  The woman had the bridle over the startled gelding’s head and was adjusting the straps with quick, expert fingers before the young Ranger again found his voice.  “What are you doing?”

“What I should have done days ago,” his sister snapped.  Rohiridan shifted uneasily as Gilraen swung the saddle too quickly onto his back.  Thorondir instinctively reached out to calm him, even as the man struggled to calm himself.

“Gil,” he reached out to clasp his sister’s wrist only to have his hand slapped away as she tightened a girth strap.  “Gil, talk to me!  Where are you going?”  She pulled the girth tight and fastened it so quickly that Rohiridan turned to give her a disgruntled look.

“Away,” she responded shortly, “Riding hard, I may be able to overtake the Elrondionnath before they reach Bruinen.  If not, I’ll follow the river north until I find them.”

“You mean to take the child to Imladris—you’ve changed your mind, then?”

“What choice do I have?  Should I raise him here, being shuttled from outpost to outpost, leaving a trail of raided villages in his wake?  Or hide him in the hills, guarded night and day?  What kind of home is that for a child?”

“Gilraen, you’re distraught, you shouldn’t be making this decision now . . .” He placed his hands on her shoulders, trying to still her.

“No, Thor.”  She jerked back and met his gaze for the first time.  “I have to make this decision now while I still can—while I still have some semblance of reason.”  She slowly lowered herself to sit on a tool box, drew Aragorn to her, and began retying his shoes.  Her voice was soft.  “Today my brother gave the order for a child to be branded like a wayward steer and tossed out into the wilderness.  And, I don’t know if he was wrong.  My son looks to me to teach him what he needs to know about the world—about the Dúnedain—and I can’t even tell him whether branding a child is right or wrong.”  Aragorn looked up at her in confusion, clearly not following the conversation, and she pulled him to her.  Her words, though, were directed at Thorondir.  “You told me that there is little time in the Wild to second-guess.  But, more and more it seems to me that there is little room in the Wild for anything.  Dreams, justice, mercy, hope—it all gets left by the wayside so we can survive one more day.  I can’t raise my child like this.  I won’t.”

Thorondir sighed.  “You don’t mean for him to become a Ranger, then?”

Gilraen looked down at the child in her arms.  “The Dunedain of this kingdom have ever given their children in service of a cause.”  She glanced up at him.  “Mother gave you to defend our borders,” she gazed down, “And me, to carry on the line.”  She ran a gentle hand through Aragorn’s curls.  “I know I’m no different; someday, I’ll have to return this little one to lead his people.  But, not yet.  Let him be a child for a while longer.  Let him be raised in safety.”

“Tell Arandur.  Let him provide you with an escort.”

The woman shook her head.  “He won’t understand.  And . . . I fear being swayed by his counsel.”  She stood, her child on her hip, suddenly all business.  “It’s better this way.  I’ll send him a letter from Rivendell.  He’ll forgive me in time.  The patrols likely won’t notice a single rider slipping out of these realms, and Arandur desperately needs to rest.  Keep your peace, and it may be hours before he notices my absence.  You can tell him you only left me alone for a minute—that you don’t know where I’ve gone . . . Thorondir?”

The young Ranger had turned and was briskly leading Begilaith from her stall.  “A good plan, sister,” he said mildly, “But I’m afraid I won’t be able to cover your escape.”

Now it was his sister’s turn to be bewildered.  “Where are you going?”

“With you, of course.”

“But Thor, you’re on duty!  You can’t go without Arandur’s leave.  They’ll remove you from the patrols!”

“If you think that’s a punishment, you’re clearly unfamiliar with patrols.”  His tone was glib, but Gilraen saw through it.

“Thor . . .”

He stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.  “Don’t ask me to turn my back on my duty, muinthel; it’s the only thing I’ve ever been sure of.”  He released her and turned his attention to his mount.  “We’ll need provisions.”

“It’s all still in the saddlebags:  three days’ rations, though the bread’s a bit stale now.  What about weapons?”

“Mine are inside, but your bow and Arathorn’s sword are with the rest of the gear; I meant to bring them in this afternoon.”

“Thank Eru for your irresponsibility.”

“You’re one to talk, sister.  Can you even still bend that bow?”

“A fair sight better than you can, little brother!  You’re welcome to the sword, though; I can barely lift it.”

Things moved quickly after that, and almost before Thorondir knew what he was doing he found himself slipping from the stables, leading two horses.  Inside the cabin, Arandur slumbered peacefully, unaware that his family was slipping away in the night.  There were a thousand things Thorondir wanted to say to his brother.  All of them remained unsaid.  He left a brief note tacked on the door to Begilaith’s empty stall.

Arandur,

We’re taking Aragorn to Imladris.  We are well supplied and expect to arrive in two day’s time.  Forgive me for the manner of our departure.  Valar willing, I’ll be back to face your judgment in a week or less.

Respectfully,

Thorondir

Twilight was falling, and the moon was rising in the murky east.  Thorondir closed his eyes and tried to imagine his reunion with Arandur.  He thought of his brother’s fierce anger, the endless lectures he could expect, the hours of punishment work cleaning tack or washing dishes or scouring the smithy.  He struggled to ignore the niggling voice in the back of his head that warned that he would never see his brother again.

A/N:  And I’ll leave you to stew on that for a while.  The fifth and final chapter should be up in a week or so.  In the meantime, please please please leave a review and tell me what I’m doing right *and* wrong.