Chapter 2 ~ Warning
Belecthor saddled up the two horses and led them to the house. The humble abode before him had just enough room for the family, but it was not cramped, like the huge palace they called home usually was. Narion and his family often sought peace and calm in their small retreat and the days spent there had been the happiest of his childhood. Even now he enjoyed them more than the days at home, but some of the light was taken from his joy by the fact that his younger sister, Hirilian, was married and living in Edoras and they could no longer ride headlong through the trees.
He smiled as his youngest sister, Morwen joined him outside. They had lost the firebrand of the family, but they still had their docile little Morwen. She had never enjoyed tearing through the forest on a horse as Hirilian had, but she was still an incomparable horsewoman, as were all the ladies descended from Queen Éowyn.
"Are you ready, Belec?" Morwen questioned her brother with her beautiful smile.
"Only if you are," he answered, helping her into her saddle.
"Then let us go."
He mounted and they started their steeds into the forest. They did not take the path as Belecthor had long since tired of riding the same route. Their light mounts padded near silently over the pine needles coating the forest floor and the only sound to be heard for some time was the swishing of branches which the two riders carefully pushed away from their faces.
When they reached a small clearing, Belecthor paused his mount to allow Morwen to draw her horse up next to his. After a moment of simply enjoying the calling of birds and the quiet sounds of the forest, they again started their horses.
"Why have you not gotten married yet, Morwen?" Belecthor asked suddenly, turning to look at his younger sister.
She turned to meet his gaze. "Why do you ask?" she inquired with a curious grin.
"I do not know," he replied, once more concentrating on the low hanging branches in their path. "It is just that lately I have been watching you. Ever since Hirilian married Ceorl, actually. I worry for you. All the young men at home adore you and follow you around like a pack of loyal dogs, and yet you show no interest in any particular one of them."
She was obliged to duck under a pine branch and after righting herself in her saddle she answered. "I have no interest in any of them. They have become more of a nuisance every day."
"Then why do you not send them away?"
"You know as well as I that I do not wish you hurt any of them. After all, they are only boys, really, and they will soon mature and realize that I have no cares for them."
"But you merely antagonize them, Morwen," he insisted. "I am a man, and I have the heart of a man, the same as they. Were I not related to you in any way, I believe I would also be one of those annoying suitors constantly hanging on your tail. You are a beautiful young lady and you are as gentle as a lamb. If you allow your entourage to dangle after you for much longer, treating them as you have up to this point, with friendly smiles and no harsh words, they will soon come to blows over you.
"You do not realize what you are doing to them. Each believes that he is the only one for you, and that you feel the same. You must turn them away sometime, and the sooner the better, I say."
"And what of you, Belecthor?" Morwen questioned pointedly. "You have just as many young ladies trailing behind you as I have young men. I, too, have watched. You are kind, gallant, chivalrous, and polite to each and every one.
"I realize that this is just your nature, to treat every woman with the respect due her, but you, too, are going to hurt them when you turn them away at last." She paused. "I suppose we must both listen to our own council and discourage our following. It will be hard, though. I deplore hurting innocent young people."
"Yes," her brother answered, "but many of those young men you do not wish to hurt are not innocent young people. In fact, I have seen many of them courting other ladies of the court; not only you."
Morwen halted her horse and turned swiftly. "Who? Who have you seen doing this? Each of those young men has sworn to me that he can see only me, though I have not asked it of them. It is not my hurt pride that forces me to ask you, my brother, only my pain that they would lie to me."
"I can give you no names, dearest sister," Belecthor answered, also halting his mount. "I can tell you only that you should turn them all away without further delay. I yearn only for your happiness."
"I know this. I will do as you say, but you must promise me to do the same. It pains me to see you followed by so many young women, who’s company I know you find distasteful."
"I shall do so, then. But whom will you marry, Morwen? Have you not even an idea of whom you would wish to marry?"
"No. There is no one for me, Belecthor. The men at home are all so wild and unruly. Those of high birth, whom people say I should marry, are spoiled and weak. I wish for someone who can support me and love me for myself, not my beauty."
"No one can help loving you for your beauty, my dear," he answered, "but someone who would love you, not only for your beauty of face, but your beauty of mind and character, would be most heartily approved of by both myself and Father, should you love him."
She smiled her silent thanks and urged her mount forward once more. "And what of you, Belecthor?" she asked. "Is there none you would wed?"
"That is just it, Morwen," he answered ruefully. "I, too, have no one. That is one reason I worry so much for you, and enjoy visiting Hirilian and Ceorl as much as I do. They have found happiness in each other. I am left adrift without a place to dock, and you are left ashore without a boat to anchor at your side. Together we must remain. Together, and yet alone."
They rode on in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. Suddenly Morwen’s mare shied violently, nearly throwing her from the saddle, and the challenging call of Belecthor’s stallion rang out through the forest.
The call was answered, not by an acceptance, but by a call of submission; a weak, painful call of submission. On the ground before them lay a soldier of Gondor and in the distance Morwen and Belecthor could see a gaunt, travel worn courser making its cautious approach in their direction.
Belecthor dismounted and looped his reins over a branch to restrain his eager mount. He bent down and gently rolled the man over. His face was covered in blood and one eye was terribly swollen. His hair was matted with dried blood and his clothing was torn in many places, each rip sporting small blood stains from the cuts beneath.
As Belecthor searched for any signs of life, the young soldier cried out feebly in pain. Morwen dismounted swiftly and dug into her saddle bags. She came out with a small vial of water and some bandages.
She set to work immediately, gently washing away the blood from his face and letting a few drops of the water trickle down his throat. He moaned weakly as Belecthor lifted him. "There is naught we can do for him here, Morwen," he said as he carefully picked the wounded man up in his arms like a child. "We will take him back with us. Mother has more supplies there than we have here. Moving him might not be the best thing for him right now, but without help he will surely die here."
The wounded man cried out deliriously as Belecthor stepped up into the saddle with him. His fiery steed pranced about in an attempt to keep Belecthor from mounting, but the young Gondorian had been trained by the best and the blood of Rohan flowed through his veins, even if diluted by the blood of Gondor.
Morwen was able to lead the wounded horse behind her own with no trouble at all. The low branches caused a problem for Belecthor while riding in the front, so he had Morwen go ahead of him to clear the path somewhat. She broke the branches or bent them back and was able to clear most of the obstacles, but Belecthor’s stallion did not like the strange horse traveling ahead of him and he struggled forcefully against Belecthor’s hold.
By the time they reached the small clearing, both Morwen and Belecthor were well worn out from the exertion and were ready to reach their destination. They made better time through the clearing as Morwen was able to ride behind, thus removing the stranger’s horse from the sight of Belecthor’s feisty steed. But when again they entered the trees Belecthor had had enough.
"Morwen," he called back to her, "I am of a mind to switch horses. I could more easily lead an extra horse and hold a man before me on the saddle than control Celebros in this position."
"Very well," she answered, dismounting and taking hold of the silver-grey stallion’s reins. Belecthor dismount easily and remounted, still holding the unconscious man before him, on Morwen’s mare. Morwen then took her place on Celebros and led the way, resuming her job of clearing the path.
They soon reached the house and pulled up before the front stoop. Morwen dismounted and held the door for Belecthor while he carried the stranger into the house. "Mother, Father," she called, carefully shutting the door behind her.
Narion and his wife came from their room, smiling a greeting. Upon entering, however, their smiles vanished and Lady Annariel gasped. "Bring him to Hirilian’s old room," she ordered Belecthor.
Obediently, Belecthor carried his burden into the back of the house to the empty bedroom and placed him carefully upon the bed. Annariel and Morwen followed, gathering up what items they needed.
"Where did you find him?" Narion asked his son as the women began caring for the stranger.
"Lying on the forest floor, his horse a short distance away."
"How far was he from the main path?"
"Maybe a full afternoon’s ride, possibly more. He had quite obviously lost his way or he has been unconscious the entire time."
"Southrons!" the wounded man called deliriously. "Tell . . . Faramir . . . aid."
All in the room looked nervously at one another. "That does not sound good," Belecthor stated matter-of-factly.
"No," Narion agreed. He crossed the room to the young man’s bed. Motioning to Morwen, who moved out of his way, he sat down in a chair next to the bed. "What must you tell Prince Faramir?" he questioned loudly, hoping he might possibly get through the delirium clouding the young man’s mind.
"Southrons . . . attacking . . . King . . . asks . . . aid . . . show . . . loyalty."
Narion turned to his family. "If what he says is true," he stated gloomily, "Gondor is under attack. The Southrons are invading and King Elessar asks father’s aid as a show of our fidelity. Belecthor," he addressed his son, "you must ride home and inform your grandfather of the danger. Be sure to tell him that the information source is far from completely trustworthy and that he should send his men to Minas Tirith to confirm the warning before attacking the South. We do not want to begin a war for no reason."
"Yes, Father," Belecthor answered obediently. "I shall go immediately." He kissed his mother and sister and went to gather what he would need.
They heard him gallop away some time later. No doubt he had taken the time to care for both Morwen’s horse and the stranger’s mount before leaving. Narion left the women to their work and went back to his room. They would have to remain there for the time being. It was critical they did not move the wounded man until he was more fully healed; the ride through the forest had nearly done him in as it was.
He would have taken his entire family back home, but that would have left the wounded man to die alone. He could not do that. Nor could he have gone with his son, for that would have left the ladies alone with only a wounded man to protect them. And he could not leave his son here to protect them while he ran home to his father. It just would not have felt right to him. Still, he wished there was more he could do.