Traitor

-Traitor-

By: Cassia and Siobhan

Rating: PG-13

Feedback:
cassia_a@hotmail.com and siobhancl2@aol.com

Spoilers:
Maybe little ones for previous stories in our series and other LOTR stuff possibly.

Disclaimer:
We own nothing of Middle Earth or any of Tolkien’s worlds or characters. Everything recognizable belongs to JRR Tolkien; anything else belongs to us. We have no permission to use these characters and are receiving no money for this story. This story was written for enjoyment only. Please do not use our original characters or situations without asking first. Thank you.

Summary:
Fifteen years is a long time... a long time in which Aragorn and Legolas have not seen one another. When Legolas is accused of being a traitor to Gondor there are some who would like Aragorn to think that things have changed more than he realizes. Embroiled in a strange mesh of deception and intrigue Legolas’ one chance may rest with his old friend... but will Denethor’s dislike of Aragorn turn the elf into a pawn in more than one game? And can any of them figure out how they are really being betrayed before Legolas and Gondor both pay the price?

Series:
Yes, part of the massive Mellon Chronicles. LOL

Other stories in the series are:
Captive of Darkness
Hope
Father’s Love
Never Alone
First Meetings
Change of Heart, Change of Mind
Exile
Return
Mistaken Identity
Vilya
Black Breath
Sickness
The Seventh Stone
Betrayal
Legolas’ No Good, Rotten Day
Priceless Treasure
The Stars of Harad
&
Dark Visions

Also part of this series and already written, but chronologically taking place after this story:

And So The End

This story will make more sense if you have read those first, although if you want to give it a whirl by itself, we try to recap and explain most of the references back to the other stories when they pop up, but having read the rest of the series is strongly recommended.

Warnings:
Character torture and angst.
You expected any less? :o)

Additional disclaimers:
’kay, I think you all know where we stand on Aragorn’s relationship with Elrond and the twins, so let’s axe that disclaimer to save a little room up here... What else... oh yes...

We are writing this on book information alone mostly, since the parts of the movie that will deal with Gondor and Denethor are not out yet, so it may or may not conflict with the movie-verse universe when they come out, but at least, we feel, it works with the book.

The Gondorians in this story, such as Alcarin, have no relation to any persons of the same names in the LOTR decipher trading card games. LOL it seems that we just all got our names from the same place. :o)

Also, please note that we know *nothing* about military ranking and all that, so it’s very probably the at many times we totally messed up the chain of command, but it is highly unlikely that Gondor’s army followed the same ranking system that ours does anyway, and since Tolkien never saw fit to tell us exactly how it did work (or if he did I completely glossed over it and don’t even remember) we have created our own ranking system for them that goes as follows:

(top is the highest position and bottom is the lowest)

--Captain (sort of like Generals)

--Commander

(Commander is often used simply to denote someone who is above someone else as well though)

--Lieutenant

--Sergeant

--general soldiers

Obviously, there are probably other ranks, but none that are necessary for this story.

Oh, and we gave Denethor green eyes for no particularly good reason except that we couldn’t find a color in the book and the movie isn’t out yet. :o) Forgive us if we messed up. (LOL yes, considering who created him he probably had GREY eyes, but you know, that gets so boring after a while...)
Also other details in the appendixes regarding some of the events in this story may or may not have been changed or tweaked slightly for the purposes of the plot. Please accept the changes, as always, as artistic license on our part and do not flame us for them. Thank you!

Please note and HEAR YE ALL: I am going to explain this once and hope it makes sense ever after. Aragorn is a man of many names, including Estel, Strider and Aragorn, he has now added another, Thorongil. While which one people use when speaking to him obviously reflects whatever name he was currently going by (ie: the Gondorians know him only as Thorongil) we use all these names interchangeably in the narrative parts of this story so we may have Thorongil in one paragraph and Aragorn in the next. Just so you are all aware that these are *one and the same person* everything should be fine. :o)

Any spelling, date, cannon or character errors are the fault of the authors only and are completely by accident. We are not an expert on Middle Earth and have never claimed to be. So please forgive any omissions that you might find. Also please forgive the inevitable typos, spelling errors, etc. and enjoy the story anyway.

All righty then, this is now the longest header to date, so I will not make you suffer any further, but get on with the story!

___________________________________________________________

-Traitor-

___________________________________________________________

~*PART ONE*~

A man walked slowly to a small tent erected in the middle of the camp. The fires had long ago died and the soldiers who occupied their bedrolls were sound asleep. The battlefields were silent, at rest for the moment.

The warrior’s steps dragged slightly with fatigue, weariness from the long days of battle. A soft sigh escaped his lips as he dropped onto the stump that had been drug in front of the tent opening – an impromptu chair.

With thoughtless familiarity he drew his sword and began to run a rough wet stone along the blade, sharpening the razor edge and smoothing out the notches and scratches it had acquired during the long day of battle.

The stars twinkled quietly in the dark velvet of night, catching his attention and he turned his eyes towards them, seeking the ever-familiar star that shone so brightly in the northern quadrant of the sky. His movements slowed and stilled until he was simply sitting gazing at the heavens. The slight breezes moved the wayward strands of hair gently away from a battle-scarred face. A cut ran from his upper lip to just under his right nostril, a wound he had sustained in a skirmish last week. It was healing well, but it would leave a scar on his face, one that was mirrored in other similar wounds he carried on his body and on his heart.

The cool winds felt good as they combed through sweat-soaked hair. The grime of war never quite left the soul even when the body had been washed clean and he closed his eyes against the memories of the day. The southerners were fierce warriors; it took all the cunning and strength of his troops to keep them at bay. They were insidious, difficult to track and blood thirsty; nothing like the peaceful Far Harad tribes that had adopted the ranger years ago when he temporarily lost his memory. No, the men they fought now sought victory at any cost, throwing away even their own lives at will if it meant the death or injury of their Gondorian enemies. Where the fire of their hatred had come from Aragorn would never understand.

The world of men had grown tiresome.

As he watched the distant star a word slipped unbidden from his lips and he remembered a more peaceful time, a more peaceful people - the ones he called family.

“Eärendil.” The elvish word caused him to smile. “Milyon dortho a adar a terein nìn. Ingon ha lù na peltakse aen. I long for my home and my brothers and father. Perhaps it is time to return.” The sound of what he considered his native language, one he had rarely spoken in over fifteen years, rolled easily off his tongue. He whispered the words quietly to himself, nodding in agreement. Absently his fingers touched the brooch at his neck; the one his father, Lord Elrond had named him for among men.

Aragorn, known to the men of Gondor he was now Commander over as Thorongil, gazed across the quiet camp. The sentries on the edges of the encampment paced relentlessly back and forth, their gaze every once in a while flickering over to rest on their leader. Thorongil held their trust and had won their hearts as a good leader and a decent, caring man. The passage of years and the stench of war had not changed that, although it had worn the sharp, youthful edges off of the human... taking a certain measure of his innocence with it.

Slowly the ranger turned captain unfastened his bucklers, laying them aside. The battle today had been fierce and bloody; his gear would need some cleaning. Was it not bad enough that they must guard against the dark shadow of Mordor and fight the ravages of raiding orc parties that were never fully sated? Must the human world be intent on slaughtering their own as well?

Men fighting men. Fighting, killing... for what?

Aragorn shook his head sadly; almost ready to condemn his own race, but the soft, wise voice of an elf cut through his dark thoughts. His father had told him of the ancient times, of the struggles of the elves, when immortal fought immortal brother and many were slain.

“Often my son, freedom and wisdom are found through pain and war. And as much as it is detested it is at times unavoidable. You may chose not to have conflict with a people, but they have the free will to choose to have conflict with you. Never rush into battle in anger, let fighting be your last resort...”

Aragorn smiled at the memory. Such a long time ago. He recalled that certain lesson, how his father had caught him scuffling with one of the town children that often found it fun to taunt and torment the young orphan. When Elrond had broken up the scuffle the child had run home to Strayton but not until after Aragorn had taken it upon himself to make sure he learned just how well the elvish-raised youth could fight. Well-aimed punches had broken the child’s nose and Aragorn had been highly angered that his father had not allowed him to continue teaching the other boy a lesson. It was at that time that Elrond had sat him down and begun instructing the young man about war, fighting, battle and the nature of the beast – anger.

“I would wish for you that you may never experience war, but I fear that I would wish in vain. However, I foresee that that is not in your future for some time my son.” He had pulled Aragorn in a tight embrace and gently kissed the boy’s head before looking him over for injuries.

Aragorn smiled softly as he remembered the way Elrond had touched his cheek, the elderly elf’s eyes so sad at the thought of his son’s future... and he had been right. Aragorn fought back the memories of the men slain earlier that day, the southerners who had lost their lives so needlessly and his own men who would not return home to families and loved ones. How would he ever tell them? Some of them had been his friends.

What road had he traveled that had brought him here? His thoughts filtered through his time with the Rohirrim, the free spirited proud people of the horse lords who roamed and protected the Riddermark. That was long before he had come to Gondor. He followed his memories down through to his recent past, lighting on that fateful day when Éomund, no longer such a youth as he had been, had introduced him to the Steward of Gondor, Ecthelion II.

The tired warrior dropped his gaze to his hands; hands that held his sword, now cleaned from the blood that had stained it earlier. The elvish writing interwoven on the ornate handle, perceptible only to one who knew how to identify it, caught his attention. Waves of memories washed over him once more and he fled into their sweet release, letting the faces of friends that he had lost be replaced by dear ones from his younger years.

He thought of Legolas, perhaps the best friend he had ever had or ever would have and wondered how the elf was fairing. Last news from the north he had received was months and months out of date, but it seemed that all was mostly peaceful and he was glad that none of his dear ones in the north were facing anything like he was down here. He wondered if they ever thought of him as they went about their lives. He knew his father did, for every now and again he would still receive letters from the elf lord. He treasured those touches of home, but he wondered if Legolas or his other friends remembered him still.

It was so easy in the day-to-day stress of battle to forget. The sheer overwhelming necessity to stay alive replaced all thoughts of family and friends with its obsessive drive to return home that night, to save the man next to you, to simply make it through the day. Aragorn realized with a touch of sorrow that he hadn’t even thought of Legolas or his brothers or his father in a few days.

“I miss you mellon-nín.” He whispered again to the dark of night, “But I am glad you are far from this place. Perhaps I will come to you soon. To all of you.”

Yes, the world of men was wearing on him. If they could secure Gondor’s borders and stop the push of the Haradrim through the southern road by summer’s end, then perhaps that would be enough and he could leave in good conscience. The thought struck him that this was what his heart had been planning all along.

Aragorn glanced quickly up again as the winds stirred around him; something was coming. Nothing had changed, the night was still peaceful, the men still slept, yet everything was different and nothing was the same as it had been only a few moments ago. Whether it was his foresight or just intuition he was not certain, but one thing was as clear as the bright night sky - his future lay with men only a short while longer. It was time to go home.

He missed the smell of Rivendell in the mornings when the dew was still on the ground. He had forgotten how it felt in the valley when the wind would chill slightly before the snows fell. And most of all he missed the ring of his brother’s laughter and the warmth of his father’s hearth. The ranger’s heart lay in the woods, in the hills... his spirit ached for the elves, for home. A smile touched his lips as his desires hardened into resolution.

Soft footsteps alerted him to the presence of another. Tarcil, his second-in-command, approached him softly. The Gondorian warrior was worried over his Captain, it seemed that Thorongil slept rarely of late and his heart seemed weighed down. The Commander walked quietly up to his superior’s tent.

“Thorongil?”

Aragorn turned at the soft question. A small smile that did not reach his eyes greeted the soldier.

“Yes, Tarcil what it is? Shouldn’t you be sleeping with the others? What keeps you awake?” He glanced up at the man who stopped in front of him. The Gondorian bowed his head slightly out of respect.

“Lord Denethor requests your presence. He wants to discuss the casualties and our plan of attack for tomorrow. But if you like...” The man faltered, unsure if his opinion should be voiced aloud. He had learned that in times like these it was not always wise to speak openly what was on ones mind.

Aragorn raised an eyebrow, tilting his head to the side and encouraging the warrior to proceed, “What it is Tarcil? It is all right, you may speak freely, we are alone.”

With a small nod the warrior continued, “It’s just that, if you like I will tell Lord Denethor that you are sleeping. You need not recount the day with him now. Surely it is more important that you get some rest, you seem... well my lord you seem overly tired of late. A good night’s sleep would do you well, he cannot deny you that. And...” Tarcil shifted slightly. “Well, beg pardon sir, but sometimes he seems to forget that you are the same rank as he and aren’t bound to report to him. I mean no disrespect, he just seems to request a lot of you, that is all.”

The man’s worry over his commander touched Aragorn’s heart and he stood slowly to his feet. Re-sheathing his sword and dropping the sharpening stone down on the wood stump, he clasped the soldier’s shoulder affectionately and turned the warrior toward his own bed. Aragorn set the man at ease, “Worry not Tarcil. Denethor is simply concerned about the outcome of the war. He wishes to give his father a good report of this day. I will see to it that he can and then I will retire immediately.”

When the Gondorian turned back on his leader with a questioning look, Aragorn laughed softly, “I promise, now off with you. I can't have a sleepy second-in-command tomorrow, we have that valley pass to take back before this over.” He gave the man a gentle shove and watched as the soldier nodded, pleased with his commander’s answer and walked off to find his own bed.

For the first time in months Aragorn realized his heart was light, thrilled with the decision to head for home at the end of this warring season. He walked off to find the other Captain and give him the report he sought.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Legolas Greenleaf turned his face towards the sun, enjoying the blissful caress of its warmth and the gentle brush of the breeze through his long golden hair. He loved the trees of his home, but sometimes it was good to leave the shadow of the wood and walk in the green meadows where the shadow that had fallen over his home did not extend.

He had not left Mirkwood for the better part of ten years. Not a long time for an elf, but just long enough for the prince to enjoy the prospect of a change. Considering the fact that for the first two thousand years of his life he had hardly left the forests of his home at all, it was ironic that he could consider a mere decade of any significance at all. But, the prince supposed, his close associations with the human world these past few decades must have rubbed off on him a little.

The rolling countryside of Gondor rose up to meet the elf and his light steps moved swiftly across the green grass as he breathed the sweet spring time air. It wasn’t just the change of scenery that was inspiring him and he knew that; it was the prospect of being reunited with a very dear friend whom he had not seen in some time.

The passing seasons had fled away so quickly... it did not seem like fifteen years since he and Aragorn had parted last on the green fields of Rohan. Again the strange paradox of an elvish - human friendship was apparent, because to an elf, those fifteen years seemed of small consequence. Legolas was unchanged, the passing years mattered little to those of the immortal race. And yet... Legolas knew that for Aragorn those years were probably long ones. That was the way with the human world. Everything happened so quickly and so much changed almost overnight. It was almost frightening sometimes.

Legolas had once heard Lord Elrond refer to the human race as a bright flame, and the analogy fit well. For while they came and went so quickly as it seemed, their passion for life burned hot and bright, warming those near... at least that was certainly true for his and Aragorn’s relationship, the prince knew.

That was indeed the reason that Legolas had undertaken this journey in the first place. He knew not how the human wheel of time would spin things, but he wished to see his old friend again before many more seasons passed. A part of his heart was almost fearful... he really did not know how it was with humans... would the years have changed Aragorn very much? Would the young man he had come to know and love as such a dear friend still remember him in the same way, or did time change things like that in the world of men?

Still, on a beautiful day like this one Legolas couldn’t let his heart rest on those faint, nagging doubts. It was going to be good to see his friend again and borrowing trouble from a possible future did no one any good.

Mirkwood and Rivendell kept in much better contact than they had in former years and thus Legolas had remained updated on Aragorn’s whereabouts, for Elrond had his ways of knowing what was going on in the world and often his thoughts strayed to his youngest son, now so many years absent. So it was that Legolas knew he would find Aragorn in Gondor, in Osgiliath to be precise, or so the last word he had on the subject had said. Although exactly what nature of business the human had there or other such particulars the elf prince knew not.

Save for one venture into these lands some years past on his way to Harad, Legolas knew nothing of this area of the world, so he simply followed the Great River, remembering from his previous trip that Osgiliath lay near the Anduin.

Upon crossing a hill and rounding the steep bend at its base, Legolas saw in the not so very far away distance a small troop of men laboring along the southward road. They had many wagons and pack animals with them, but by their armor and the devices on their shields, they were soldiers of Gondor, not traders.

Legolas had known there were others in the general area for some time now, but the presence had not felt evil or threatening, so he made no effort to alter his path.

Almost just as he came into view of it, he saw disaster strike the little caravan.

One of the wagons, heavy laden with bulky items swathed in protective burlap, jolted in a deep rut, upsetting its load. The heavy contents shifted sharply to one side, placing a great deal of stress on the rear axle of the wheel that was still in the rut. The strained joint snapped suddenly, causing the cart to topple sideways, directly onto the two soldiers walking beside it.

Reacting quickly, Legolas sprinted towards the site of the accident, reaching it almost before the other soldiers in the party did. Caught on the good wheel that had skidded sideways and driven deeply into the earth, the heavy wagon teetered precariously over the heads of the two men trapped beneath its weight, threatening to crush them completely at a moments notice.

Only one other soldier was already present. The others, having been strung out over a greater distance, were still arriving on the scene. The soldier was valiantly leaning his shoulder into the slipping cart, trying to save his friends, but the wagon just dipped further downward.

Bracing his back against the center of the tipping wagon and planting his feet firmly, Legolas pushed back against the crushing weight. The groaning load creaked to a halt. The man who had been pushing started at the fair being’s sudden appearance and just stood for a moment, staring in surprise as the elf supported the weight of the heavy load alone.

“Push!” Legolas told the man somewhat shortly. Now was *not* the time for wonder. Whatever was in the cart was truly heavy and Legolas could feel the strain against his taught muscles. He was at least as strong as any two men, but he could not support the wagon indefinitely by himself. The soldier quickly pulled himself together and threw his weight next to Legolas’.

Fortunately the few minutes Legolas had bought them were enough, for the other soldiers arrived on the scene very quickly and through their combined efforts the cart was righted, freeing a pair of severely bruised, but unbroken soldiers.

Legolas stepped back, pulling out of the way and straightening his tunic as the two men were retrieved and the broken cart stabilized.

Presently a tall man with dark hair turned his attention towards the newcomer. The white plume on the soldier’s crested helmet set him apart as the ranking officer of the group.

“Most welcome is the help that comes unlooked for,” the young man managed to find gracious words and not stare at the elf as was his first inclination, which was more than could be said for some of the others who were gawking with unrestrained curiosity.

The lieutenant shot his men a withering glare and everyone quickly went back to their business, hurriedly unloading the now useless wagon and distributing the extra load onto their other carts. “For your timely aide we are sincerely grateful. Forgive my men, but we do not often see any of the firstborn in these parts anymore, although I hear that that was different once. Might I know who we are indebted to and to what errand we owe this happy chance?”

The man was courteous, but, Legolas could tell, cautious. He wanted to know who this stranger was and what he was doing here, but without seeming so rude as to ask outright. The elf smiled slightly.

“I am Legolas son of Thranduil of the woodland realm, I journey south towards Osgiliath seeking a friend I have not seen in some time. I am glad that I could be of assistance, although I think you had better secure the weapons you are transporting more tightly before you continue if you wish to keep such from happening again,” the prince offered helpfully. He knew they would not know his or his father’s name, but introduced himself properly anyway since he had nothing to hide.

“We also follow the road to Osgiliath,” a hint of suspicion crept into the man’s voice as he eyed the elf. “You know your way around here well then?”

“Not well,” Legolas shook his head, his tone cooling as he understood that the human did not trust him. “I have been here only once before and I did not stay long for my errand at that time called me down into Harad.”

“Harad?” The Officer’s ears perked up at the name and his body posture stiffened slightly; that was disquieting news given their current political state. “Tell me, Legolas, how do you know what we carry?” It was supposed to be more or less of a secret. “And why do you travel thus from the far lands alone? Our scouts have given no report of you, although you must have been near us for some time now. What brings you to seek an elf in the lands of men?”

“I do not require a body guard nor a companion to slow me down,” Legolas said somewhat briskly. Caution was one thing, suspicious prodding was another. He had done nothing to earn this man’s distrust, nothing except being different, and the prince was tired of his race always placing him in a suspicious light when he walked among humans. “And I am not following you if that’s what you are asking. If your scouts did not observe me I cannot account for their lapse. As for the person I seek, I do not count only elves among my friends, but men as well else I would not trouble you with my presence.” He would say no more of Aragorn to these or any men because he knew that his friend’s very existence was often a carefully guarded secret and his affairs really were no business of theirs anyway. “As for your cargo, if you wish to hide what it is do not wrap it so tightly that one can see the shapes of breast plates and swords through the burlap. Now, if everything is under control I will be on my way and bother you no more.”

“Wait,” the soldier shook his head. “Your pardon Legolas, I did not mean to seem rude or ungrateful, nor was it my wish to offend, as it seems I have done. My name is Alcarin, lieutenant commander of the Ramanna division. It is my job to be wary, but I believe you mean us no harm. You are welcome to travel with us for a time if you will, since our roads lie together and perhaps give me a chance to make amends for my initial greeting. Much of Gondor’s history lies with the elves or so they tell me, but I have never had the chance to know any of your kindred for myself. The times we find ourselves in now have given us reason to be cautious and wary of anyone not known to us.”

Legolas smiled somewhat dryly. “Do you make such an offer out of sincere desire for my companionship or to keep me near so you can maintain a watch on me until you decide if I truly am who I say?”

The lieutenant met Legolas’ smile without embarrassment at being guessed out. “Perhaps a little of both. You are free to do as you will of course, but the offer stands if you care to take it.”

Legolas chuckled softly. Humans. So suspicious. “I fear that I much prefer to travel alone,” the prince admitted. “But if you wish it, and to prove that I have no ill intent in your lands, I will go with you as far as the Dalthad.” Legolas knew the humans would only slow him down, but he also knew that despite the lieutenant’s gracious words the soldiers could detain him if they truly thought he was a threat to their mission.

The prince was quickly realizing that he had stumbled upon no ordinary column of troops conveying supplies. This party was guarding a rather large arsenal of newly crafted weapons and armor. Legolas hazarded a guess that they were dwarf-work that the Gondorians had contracted for, which would make them even more valuable. That understanding made Alcarin’s skittishness about strangers who appeared out of nowhere and were going the same direction as they were even more understandable.

Legolas did not know that Gondor was currently at war with the Haradrim forces in Near Harad, but if he had he would have understood even better how unsettling his earlier introduction had seemed. Besides, he knew that the burden of proving his good intentions lay on him since he was the stranger in these lands. It would be no different should a human have entered his father’s lands.

“Good, then we may travel as friends,” Alcarin smiled, obviously relieved.

Legolas took the extended hand and nodded.

___________________________________________________________

~*PART TWO*~

“Have you ever seen it, Aragorn? The White Tower of Ecthelion, glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver, it's banners caught high in the morning breeze... Have you ever been called home by the clear ringing of silver trumpets?”

“I have seen the White City. Long ago.”

--Boromir and Aragorn, FoTR

~~~~~~

The air was crisp and cool as the war-weary battalion crossed the long plain of the Pelennor. They were some of the last to return and these units had suffered some of the greatest losses. Yet the moment they sighted Minas Tirith in the distance, rising from the earth like a glittering white gem, every heart seemed to lift a little more and weary steps became swifter.

The Haradrim had finally been beaten back, but the cost had been high. A traitor in their ranks had very nearly caused the loss of three entire companies when they were ambushed in the little wooded valley of Ravenbrook. Fortunately for them, Thorongil had judged something amiss when he came upon the enemy’s trail and rode swiftly to the aide of the beleaguered troops.

Mounting a daring and nearly suicidal rear-assault on the carefully airtight attack of the Haradrim, Aragorn and the small company with him had driven a hole in the enemy’s defenses, allowing the trapped legionnaires to break free. The ambushers became the ambushed and the tide was turned. It ended up being a rather spectacular victory for Gondor and a deciding moment in the war. Very soon after the Haradrim began to retreat and press their attack no further.

With the situation at last firmly in control, the weary troops were slowly being called home as border outposts were refreshed and re-outfitted with new battalions. Even with the war over, Gondor could never afford to lax on the security of its borders.

Denethor and Thorongil’s main hosts had been some of the last to be recalled, staying until they knew that all was truly peaceful and under control once more. Wounds had been tended and rest taken in the weeks they had waited to be called home, so it was a proud, freshly scrubbed host of men who marched towards Gondor and a victor’s welcome. The nearer they got, the more you could see the anticipation on their war-weary faces.

Aragorn, riding at the head of his column, saw the White Tower of Ecthelion gleaming in the early morning sun like a beacon to lead them home. From their high vantage point the tower guard had already seen the returning soldiers and the moist air carried the sound of trumpets ringing already within the city to herald their safe return.

Aragorn glanced at Denethor, riding at the head of his men some distance away. The future steward smiled slightly when the sounding of the trumpets reached his ears. Many of the soldiers did. The horns called to them, welcoming them home, filling them with pride for themselves and their city, despite all the horrors and death they had seen.

Aragorn could not deny that he felt that pull in his own heart as well. Yet as he entered the massive gates he could not help thinking how very far removed the city seemed from the events happening outside its protective circles of walls.

Here life went on, babies were born, chores were completed, children played in the streets, running out to see the returning soldiers, smiling and waving and cheering. And that was as it should be. It was, after all, what they fought for; to keep these lands safe for children to be children and for the general populace to continue its normal existence unhindered.

Aragorn let his eyes drift back to the white tower ahead of them as they passed slowly through the different layers of gates that crossed the main road leading towards the palace. As much as he wanted to go back to the lands of his youth, he knew he could not leave until the threat that was promising to devour these people was gone. And despite what everyone seemed to think, he knew this was far from over. Aragorn had that responsibility to them... to his people. No one else may ever know it, but he knew, and he would see them protected from the threat that was even yet waiting to fall upon them.

Many people gathered by the sound of the trumpets, turned out to cheer the returning troops home and the faces of the men, taught and drawn from long months of fighting eased and smiles began to appear.

The word “Ravenbrook” was on a number of tongues and it seemed that news of that particular venture had already reached the general public. Thorongil looked up, surprised to realize that many of the well-wishers were chanting his name amid their cheers.

He was complimented, obviously, but in a way he wished they wouldn’t. He wasn’t the one to be praised; it was the men under his command and their courage that had won the day. Yes he had led the way, but they had followed him into that death trap without a moment’s hesitation.

Aragorn stole a sideways glance at Denethor, now riding abreast with him and withheld a silent sigh. The future Steward’s dark hair fell in clipped waves about his face, pulled back from his forehead by the thin circlet resting on his brow. In all honesty he looked a little older than Aragorn, although in reality he was a year his junior.

At the moment Denethor’s face betrayed little, but a distinct rigidness in the corners of his mouth told that he was not pleased to ride in the shadow of the people’s admiration for another. Aragorn knew that this conflict, and especially the treachery surrounding the attack at Ravenbrook had taken a strong toll on the other Captain and he warranted that Denethor was not looking forward to having to make the report that they both knew lay ahead of them.

The crowd’s adulation was doing nothing to ease the growing tension between the two Captains, although there was unfortunately little that Aragorn could do about that. He had tried his best to be a friend to the other man, but Denethor would have none of it.

When they reached the innermost set of gates, horses were left behind as was the law, and the soldiers were lined up and then dismissed. Denethor and Aragorn alone entered the last sets of doors and made their way into the great hall where the Steward of Gondor was waiting for them.

The two Captains strode up the length of the long hall together, their plumed helmets tucked neatly under one arm. With their armor cleaned of battle stains and their uniforms fresh, they did not look as ones who had been fighting a long and wearying set of campaigns, save for the grim lines of their faces. They stopped before the Steward’s seat.

Both of them bowed respectfully, saluting in the manner of the city, and then stood at attention.

Ecthelion II was no longer a young man, although his stature was undiminished and he held his snowy-white head with the dignity and bearing of his long and powerful bloodline. The Steward rose to greet his returning captains. His eyes lit up and he smiled. He went first to Denethor, resting his hand on the young man’s shoulder and giving him a gentle squeeze. “Welcome home my son, it is good to see that you are well.”

The Steward then crossed to Aragorn and touched his shoulder. “And you as well Thorongil, stories of your actions proceed you. That was a brave thing you did.”

Thorongil nodded respectfully. “Thank you sire, but I did only what was necessary, the men are the true heroes, especially those who did not return.”

Ecthelion smiled, Thorongil’s selfless answer only raising his opinion of the younger man. That however, was hardly necessary, for he already openly favored the Captain as something close to a second son.

Denethor’s hand tightened on the helmet clasped under his arm but he said nothing.

Aragorn glanced furtively towards the younger man. He wanted no strife between them. “We were fortunate that Lord Denethor had fortified the northern hills so well already, if the enemy had been able to come down on us from that side as well many more lives would have been lost.”

Ecthelion nodded, looking back towards Denethor. “Then my son at least did not totally disgrace himself. However I would hear how he allowed the men to be taken in such a trap in the first place before I judge that.”

Aragorn flinched inwardly for Denethor’s sake. Denethor had not been present at the battle of Ravenbrook, but it was he that had ordered the men to go thither. Aragorn knew that question was the one that the other Captain had been dreading.

Denethor’s gaze did not waver but his knuckles whitened slightly. “We were betrayed. My senior officer, Mardil, broke trust with us and gave away our position to the Haradrim.”

“Mardil...” Ecthelion shook his head. That was grave news, but unfortunately not entirely unexpected. “Did I not tell you that he had changed Denethor?” the Steward’s voice was sharp. “He was with you on this mission against my better judgment.”

“I know that father and I... I am sorry,” Denethor ducked his head quickly before bringing it up again. “Mardil has paid for his crimes. I will not make such a mistake again.” Denethor and Mardil had been friends as children; the shock of the betrayal was still an open wound inside him although he let no one close enough to see it.

Ecthelion touched the side of his son’s face gently, directing the younger man’s eyes towards him. “Denethor your people are counting on you, I expect more from you than this.”

The younger man nodded once, his features taught.

Ecthelion sighed slightly and turned away. “Now then, the borders are secure once more for the time being. What say you both? Do you think the Haradrim have taken significant losses to make them think twice before trying such tactics against us again?”

“Yes sir,” Denethor nodded quickly. “All together their casualties number in the thousands. Their warlords are power hungry, but they are not united and internal fighting continues to keep them much occupied. We should not have to worry about them for a long time.”

Aragorn’s face became troubled. He feared that he could not concur with his fellow officer’s assessment.

“You don’t agree Thorongil?” Ecthelion turned his keen gaze upon the other captain, sensing the man’s hesitancy.

“Respectfully, I’m afraid I do not,” Aragorn shook his head slowly. “My Lord, if the Haradrim warlords were all that were behind these attacks, I would most certainly concur with Lord Denethor’s conclusions. However I believe that the battles we have fought thus far have been tests only. Distractions to measure our strengths and weaknesses, to see our tactics in action.”

“I see,” Ecthelion nodded thoughtfully, pacing slightly in front of his great seat as he considered the other man’s words. “But if the Haradrim have some overriding goal as you say, it shows a level of unity that we have yet to see from any of them.”

Aragorn shook his head once more. “Lord Ecthelion, I do not purpose that the Haradrim *are* behind these attacks at all. It is my belief that they are being used. Either directly, with their paid consent, or indirectly as unwitting decoys. The real enemy we have to fear is the ones who have stirred them up for this purpose. Sire, the Corsairs of Umbar have been our enemies time out of mind. I see their fingerprints in the doings on the borders. Weapons forged in Umbar have been found on many of the Haradrim dead and I believe that the Corsairs stirred up the old blood feuds between Gondor and Harad for their own purposes. Umbar has always maintained that Gondor should be theirs and I believe that they are massing their power to strike, and strike hard.”

It was too much for Denethor, who shook his head in disbelief. “You *believe*? They hate us, yes, it has always been thus, but do you honestly think they would be so foolish? They are nothing but pirates! Rabble! You overestimate them I think Captain Thorongil.”

“Do I? I think not,” Aragorn refuted quietly. “For twelve years now they have been building their massive fleet to new proportions, stockpiling weapons as a farmer stockpiles wheat against a long winter. These attacks we have weathered are only the first wave. If we allow them to continue with their plans and strike first, the losses will be high.”

“And if we start a needless war with Umbar, the losses will be higher!” Denethor’s tone rose slightly. “We have just returned from a war Thorongil! The people are weary of strife; it is draining our resources and our country. And you would have us now assail a power of that level and start another bloody conflict, and for what?”

Ecthelion was still deep in thought, his brow creasing, but he raised his hand to halt the debate between the captains. “*If* the Corsairs *were* prepared to strike as you say Thorongil, what would your council be?”

“Strike first,” Aragorn answered calmly. “It does not have to be long or bloody. They are not yet ready. All their arms are designed for attack, not for defense. A swift blow now would cripple them. Catch their ships in the harbor where they are useless and cannot maneuver, do not wait until they have sailed down the Anduin and are pummeling our cities with death! Already their ships have been sighted on the Anduin as far down as Lithiant, what could they be doing there other than gathering recognizance?”

“What proof have you of all this?” Denethor questioned. “What proof that we would truly be avoiding a conflict and not merely be starting one? You speak of ships and sightings, but have you seen them? You speak of weapons, where are they? We have seen naught but the swords of the Haradrim and the reports of a few soldiers and some peasants who may or may *not* have known what they saw. This country needs peace, not more war.”

Inside, Denethor’s heart seethed. He fancied that he could see through to Thorongil’s true motives in this matter. Surely, the other captain would like nothing better than another chance to further his name on the battlefield. To march into Umbar unannounced and unprovoked to ‘subdue’ the supposedly hostile area and become a hero as the savior of Gondor, no matter how many needless lives were cost in the process.

“Yes, they need peace, but sometimes peace comes at a cost, and cannot be obtained by waiting until it is too late,” Aragorn replied quietly, but with conviction. He was as weary of war as the others were, perhaps even more so. He wanted nothing more than to go back north and see his family again. But he could not leave knowing what he knew. Ecthelion had to be made to see the threat hanging over them all or the cost would be very high indeed. “And there is an even graver reason. The shadow on our eastern borders rests not. If the Corsairs attack and our defense seems at all uncertain, rest assured that Mordor will not squander an opportunity to empty its wrath on us and unloose total obliteration on our heads. We live in an uncertain world my Lord, surrounded by enemies, we cannot take that chance.”

“And what if by inviting war with Umbar we bring down that very shadow that you claim to fear Thorongil?” Denethor questioned tersely. “I say again, that I do not see the need for this.”

Ecthelion looked between the two captains. He could tell that they both held stoutly opposing views on this subject and he sighed slightly. “Your words fill me with unease Thorongil, for the Corsairs have been heavily on my mind of late... and yet Denethor is right. We have no solid proof, and I would not walk into a war that could be avoided.”

“But your highness...” Aragorn started to protest, Ecthelion however raised his hand for silence.

“Hear me out. I would not start a needless war, but neither would I discount your concerns, for your council has always been wise in these matters. Therefore, it is my decision that we need to look into this matter further before any decision is reached.”

Denethor did not look pleased.

“Captain Denethor, you and Captain Thorongil will lead a force of men to Lithiant *together* to check on the rumors of activity coming from there. Report to me what you find and we will discuss this more at that time.” He hoped that working together more closely would resolve whatever conflict was slowly growing between the two men. As the heads of the Gondorian army, the two captains had conducted campaigns together, but they had never shared command of a single force. “I expect you to aide one another in order to get to the bottom of this. Captain Denethor will be in charge, but Denethor I want you to listen to Thorongil, because he has wisdom in many matters that it would do you well to learn.”

Aragorn cringed inwardly. That remark was *not* going to help his and Denethor’s relationship at all, although the Steward did not realize it.

Denethor bristled slightly, but only bowed his head. “As you command my lord.”

Ecthelion nodded somewhat wearily. He was tiring more and more easily of late. “Then you are dismissed my son, I will see you later, I wish to speak to Captain Thorongil now.”

Denethor nodded stiffly and bowed once before turning on his heel and exiting the room darkly.

Aragorn sighed as he watched him go. This was not going to be an easy task.

“You do not think I handled that well?” Ecthelion surprised Aragorn with the question.

The younger man shook his head quickly. “It is not my place to judge your actions M’Lord. If I gave such an impression it was not my intent, I would never offer you such disrespect.”

Ecthelion smiled. “And yet you do not approve, why? I expect you to speak the truth to me Thorongil; you always have in the past and that is something I count on. I know you must understand that I cannot rush heedlessly into conflict with the Corsairs on your word alone, however trusted it may be. And on top of that my son does not support your cause. If we are to war, it must be with common purpose, Gondor is too weak to support disunity. Is it that you do not like being under my son’s authority?” the older man chuckled. “If I thought I could reverse the positions I would, but I would not wish on you the problems that would cause Thorongil.”

“No sire, I have no reservations about serving under Captain Denethor and I understand your reasons in all these matters. I hope that our trip to Lithiant may uncover something useful. If you sense hesitancy in me my lord...” he paused. “Permission to speak to you freely sir?”

“You know you always have it,” Ecthelion nodded.

“I... I fear that your son thinks your opinion of him is ill,” Aragorn admitted. “Mardil’s betrayal hurt him deeply. When the treachery was discovered, Denethor was forced to take Mardil’s life with his own hand,” the Captain spoke softly. “He feels shamed.”

“As he should for not listening to my council in the matter,” Ecthelion looked saddened despite his words. “Or yours. We both warned him. His folly almost lost us the war.”

“He wants only to prove himself in your eyes my lord,” Aragorn said quietly.

“And you think I treat him too harshly,” the Steward nodded, understanding now.

“That is not my place to presume,” Aragorn shook his head. “I speak only what I see.”

“Know then Thorongil that that is more than my son would do for you. He would like only too much for you to fall out of my favor, don’t think I haven’t seen that,” Ecthelion shook his head. “Denethor is a good man, but he is proud and too often lets his emotions lead him, as this Mardil case is an example. He will be a fine Steward of our people... but understand this Thorongil,” Ecthelion paused, his gaze suddenly very serious. “I do not have much longer to live, I can feel my years failing me. If I seem to push Denethor, it is because I know that his time is coming all too soon and I would have him ready for it.”

Aragorn nodded. “I understand sire, but... I wish you would tell *him* that.”

Ecthelion let his breath out slowly, wearily. “My son and I... we have almost become strangers Thorongil. I cannot talk to him like I talk to you... I wish he were more like you.”

Aragorn looked away.

“There is something else weighing on your mind Thorongil, I can feel it.”

“Yes,” Aragorn looked back. “When... when this task is completed and whatever end can be reached is reached... I would humbly request your permission to leave your service.”

Ecthelion nodded slowly and held the other man’s eyes. “I would not keep you unwilling Thorongil, but I would grieve to lose you. Tell me one thing, and I will be content with what you decide should that time come. Is it because you do not wish to serve my son when he replaces me?”

Aragorn shook his head. “If I thought he would accept my service he would have it, but it is not that my lord... my heart yearns for the lands of my youth and I feel that my time here is drawing to a close.”

Ecthelion released the younger man’s gaze. “Then you have my blessing Thorongil. You will be sorely missed when that day comes.”

“Thank you sir,” Aragorn nodded and bowed. “One request if I may?”

The Steward nodded.

“Say nothing of this to anyone if it please you. I would not have the men think that I sought to abandon them at the same time that I wish to lead them into war, for that is in no way my intention.” Aragorn knew that Ecthelion himself would hold no such notions, but he did not wish for others to become confused.

“I will do as you wish on that matter Thorongil. May your mission be successful in leading us to a course of action, whatever that course may be.”

Aragorn bowed once more and then left. Walking back out into the sunlight he turned his face towards the warm rays as the brilliant light glinted off the silver and blue of his uniform. He had a feeling that this mission was going to prove very... problematic.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The lights of the soldier’s fires danced cheerily in the dark night. At first Legolas had sat apart from the Gondorian troops, but the week’s travel had worn the edges off their unfamiliarity and he now regularly joined Alcarin and his men around the fire circles at night.

“If the spiders are that big, I would hate to see the flies!” Elan, a young man of perhaps seventeen shook his head in wonder at the information Legolas had shared about his home. The young soldier had a pretty obvious case of admiration for the elf after having been treated, at request, to a sample of the prince’s marksmanship and other abilities. Legolas found the young one’s attention both endearing and humorous.

“You need more than a flyswatter to handle them I’d guess!” another soldier laughed heartily.

Legolas smiled at their mirth. He knew they had finally begun to trust him because there was no longer a guard posted carefully out of sight of his sleeping area. They thought he didn’t know, but of course he had known all along. He did not grudge them their wariness, a stranger in his father’s realm in such a situation would have been treated just as carefully until their intent was known. As a prince, Legolas could appreciate their position, but he could also appreciate that they were at last beginning to trust him.

The men liked hearing stories about elves and the lands to the north where they had never been, and for the most part the prince had been warmly welcomed into their little group. There were a few, like Castamir, Alcarin’s second-in-command, who still kept his distance from the stranger and preferred to have little to do with him, but it was the exception rather than the rule and Legolas was pleasantly surprised by how easily these men had accepted him. In Gondor at least, the elven race was not feared, even if the common folk still knew little enough about them.

Dalthad was only a day or two’s march distant now, and Legolas fully intended to part ways with them there. The slow pace of their travel, further hampered by over-burdened wagons, had begun to chafe at him. Still, his time with the troops had been a good experience.

Little did he realize as he lay down to rest that night just how quickly everything would change.

___________________________________________________________

~*PART THREE*~

Legolas didn’t know what it was that woke him but his senses were instantly on the alert and he automatically reached for his weapons as he sat up. The rest of the camp was still sleeping and his quiet movements did not wake them. Trying to figure out what had alerted him, Legolas slipped his quiver over one shoulder and picked up his bow, sliding quietly to the edge of the camp and peering into the darkness beyond.

Nothing stirred, nothing seemed amiss, and yet...

The elf moved quietly towards the woods on the far-left flank of the camp, sliding away from the others and passing over the starlit grass without so much as a whisper to give away his passage.

He paused. The sense of danger pressing near made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle warningly and he fitted an arrow to the string of his bow, looking around, straining to see any movement in the dark, moonless night that would give away the nature of the threat that was screaming in his mind.

Nothing. Silence. The wind in the tree branches. What had drawn him over here?

Was he the only one that sensed something wrong? Had the sentries heard and seen anything he wondered? Turning back towards the camp, now some ways distant, he scanned for any sign that the two men standing guard on the perimeter were on alert... that’s when the elf realized that there was no sign of the sentries. But there *were* a number of dark shapes moving silently around the wagons on the opposite side of camp.

Legolas shouted a warning, but was now too far away to rouse anyone. Suddenly a volley of arrows from the shadow of the trees behind him hissed silently by his head and grazed his side in the dark. Feeling the sharp, passing bite of the arrow, the prince threw himself to the ground and rolled out of the path of the second volley.

One of the mules nickered and brayed in irritation as it was quickly hitched back to the wagon it had only recently been freed of.

Startled from his sleep by the sound, Castamir rolled up on his elbow and saw the moving forms. Then his gaze fell on the empty sleeping place across the fire from him; Legolas was gone. Swearing loudly the soldier jumped to his feet and raised the alarm.

A cry of warning went up as the sleepy troopers jumped to their feet, looking around and trying to see what had happened, but the alarm had been sounded too late, their position was already surrounded. Absolute chaos erupted as the unknown attackers clashed with the awakening troops, attempting to overwhelm them and press their surprise advantage. Cold steel crashed and slashed under the stars and in the darkness it was difficult to tell who was a friend and who was an enemy among the mass of churning bodies.

Rolling swiftly once more, Legolas came up on one knee, stringing an arrow faster than sight and letting it fly into the darkened woods. He had nothing to aim at other than the direction that the projectiles were coming from but he whipped off a few in that vicinity anyway. No more arrows came from that direction but a swift rustling of the trees on his immediate right made the elven archer spin and swiftly dart off another two rounds. There was a muffled cry and a crash which told Legolas that this time he had definitely hit something.

Turning towards the camp once more, the prince saw that most of the wagons had successfully been pulled away by the attackers, who now had the soldiers completely encircled. Running back to help, Legolas put an arrow on the string... but in the darkness and with everyone moving so quickly it was hard to tell the soldiers from their attackers and he could not shoot. Relinquishing his bow for his knives, the elf jumped into the fray.

However the attackers did not seem interested in obliterating the soldiers, only keeping them detained long enough so that the wagon loads of armor and weaponry could be safely gotten away.

Less than a half-hour later nearly all the attackers had either run off after their fellows or were dead.

Breathing heavily, Legolas sheathed his knives as he watched the last two attackers fall at the hands of the men across the camp. Suddenly a strong set of arms grabbed him from behind and threw him forward to the earth. The elf squirmed around quickly, ready to deal with the new threat, but when he found himself staring up into Castamir’s angry face he stopped, thinking the Gondorian had mistaken him for an enemy in the dark.

Instead of releasing him however, as Legolas expected, Castamir pressed his bloody blade against the elf’s throat. “Oh no, you’re not getting away too. Don’t move a muscle if you know what’s good for you.”

Legolas’ eyes registered shock and then anger. “What do you think you are doing?”

“That’s what you have to answer elf,” Castamir ground out through his teeth, keeping Legolas pinned firmly on the ground.

Torches were quickly being kindled and soon the ruined camp was illuminated by the twisting, dancing glow of firelight casting skipping shadows across the forms of the dead and dying.

Alcarin kicked over the body of one of their fallen enemies. The apparent feelings of disgust and anger were ones that were shared by all the soldiers present. The armor and weapons they had been transporting were gone; stolen right out from under them, and on top of that a number of their own were now dead. They dare not follow the numerically superior force that had attacked them while it was still dark and by morning they would be miles away. This was a catastrophe.

The lieutenant’s eyes caught on Castamir and Legolas, finally taking in the situation. Several other soldiers had also seen and gathered round.

“What?” Alcarin’s voice was short and clipped, his eyes demanding an answer from SOMEONE about what was going on.

“Ask *him* that,” Castamir gave the elf under him a small shove. “I woke up and raised the first alarm, guess who *wasn’t* in their bed.” Several of the other men nodded hesitant concurrence. It was true; they had seen the same when they were rudely awakened.

With a jolt Legolas realized what the man was accusing him of. “Something woke me, there was movement in the woods and I went to look,” he protested quickly and not without a hint of indignity. “By the time I saw the danger to the camp it was too late. There were attackers in the woods and we traded arrows. I returned here to help with the fight. Let me up.”

“Convenient,” Castamir growled. “You thought there was something out there and you didn’t bother to wake any one else? You’re either a liar or an idiot.”

“I did not realize the danger was so near at hand. I shouted a warning but was too far away to be heard.” Legolas leveled the soldier holding him down with an even glare. “It may have been an error on my part but it does not make me a traitor or whatever else you are thinking right now.”

“Let him up,” Alcarin jerked his head at Castamir, silencing his under officer with a motion when the other man started to protest. “He says there were arrows fired by the woods. It’s easy enough to check. Some of you men go and look around there for what may have happened. Bring torches and be wary in case there is anyone still out there. Roel, Hurgil, see if you can figure out what happened to the sentries. I want to know why we had no warning of this! Tegan, Mannon, make sure the area is secure and there is no one else about. The rest of you... care for the dead,” the lieutenant issued a rapid string of orders to his men before his eyes fell back on Castamir who still had his sword at Legolas’ neck, kneeling over him.

“It is not in our law to assume people guilty on circumstance alone Castamir. I said let him up,” the young man repeated somewhat tersely. “Watch him, but let’s not jump to conclusions, do you understand me?”

Castamir nodded grudgingly as he slowly backed off and allowed Legolas to sit up.

“Your pardon Legolas, but understand that I don’t know what to think right now. So I’m going to ask you to stay right here and not attempt to do anything until we have a little more information to work with,” Alcarin requested, catching the elf’s eyes for a moment.

“Of course,” Legolas nodded. He was innocent and had no intention of trying anything that would make him look otherwise.

Castamir eyed the elf in an unfriendly manner but did as his commanding officer bid him.

More torches were kindled and soon the entire area was as bright as daylight. Fifteen or twenty long minutes passed with soldiers going back and forth and carrying out their tasks, removing the dead, salvaging their goods and other errands that did not hold the prince’s attention.

Despite how much he would have liked to help, Legolas stayed kneeling on the grass because Castamir glared at him every time he moved and seemed to consider even the thought of the act of standing as a breech of the orders Alcarin had given.

He looked up when the small group of men that Alcarin had sent to check the woods returned. They were carrying two bodies with them and Legolas supposed they were some of the attackers he must have shot.

The looks on the men’s faces were grim as they greeted Alcarin and without knowing why, Legolas’ heart gave a funny skip as a small feeling of dread crept back into his stomach.

“We found no arrows on the ground anywhere near the woods or any signs of a fight. What we did find... was what happened to the sentries,” the soldiers reported with a dark tone as they laid their burdens down.

Two dead men... but no. Not just dead men. Dead soldiers. Young Elan and his friend Krit. As the soldiers laid them down they were forced to let the bodies roll on their faces, because a single long arrow protruded from the back of each of the slain sentries.

Legolas eyes widened with a flash of horror he could not suppress because he knew whose arrows those were. They were his.

“We found them just on the edges of the woods. They could have been dragged there and left but we found no marks to indicate such, so it is more likely they fell where they were killed,” the soldiers continued, their looks bitter. It was hard to lose the young ones like this.

Alcarin squared his jaw as he knelt to examine the bodies, pulling the arrow from Elan’s back. “Bring me his quiver,” he gestured towards where Castamir had deposited Legolas’ weapons after removing them from him before.

“There’s no need,” Legolas said quietly. “You are right in your guess. Those arrows are mine.” It would have done no good to deny it; elves used a unique spiral-bound fletching technique to make their arrows fly straighter, one that men had never picked up. Legolas’ arrows might as well of had his name written on them, which as a matter of fact some of them did.

An outraged murmur rippled through the camp and Castamir’s gaze turned deadly.

Legolas wanted to say it wasn’t what they thought, that it wasn’t his hand that loosed those arrows. But... could he be sure? If their attackers had killed the sentries and disposed of them, they never could have used his arrows to do it. He *had* fired into the woods... someone had been hit. If no other bodies had been found... that thought hurt, a lot.

“Why?” Alcarin was shaking his head slowly, his gaze locking on Legolas. “Why?! Elan followed you around like a puppy dog. How could you do this?”

Legolas shook his head, still reeling in shock from this whole turn of events. “I didn’t! Or... at least not what you’re thinking!” he protested with a hint of anguish in his voice.

“I told you, I fired into the woods. First at where the arrows were coming from, but then there was movement from another direction and I shot again. I hit someone. It was dark, I could not see into the trees to know.” Legolas still didn’t think he could have hit *both* the soldiers, and perfectly in the back no less, but right now he couldn’t figure out what to think and his heart was hurting that he might have been able to make such a horrible mistake. He swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. He knew he wasn’t a traitor, but if he were even accidentally responsible for the death of these young ones he wasn’t sure he could ever forgive himself. “There was no reason to believe any of your men would be out there, the sentries had no business in the woods. I-I cannot tell you truly if I did or did not deliver the fatal shots, but I swear to you by everything true that if I did it was purely by accident and never, *never* intentional.”

“So you say,” Castamir ground out bitterly. “But what *would* they have been doing in the woods? Unless someone they trusted had brought them there, perhaps saying there was danger? Is that how it happened? Look at them!” he gestured angrily at the corpses. “These arrows were obviously fired at close range. You lured them away from camp by faking having heard something in the woods. Elan would have done anything you told him to. So you brought them out there where we couldn’t hear and shot them both in the back, isn’t that what happened?!”

“No!” Legolas shook his head desperately. “No! I would never have hurt them wittingly! I have no reason to!”

“Oh I’d say a small fortune in armor and weapons is a pretty compelling reason,” one of the other soldiers shook his head. “With them gone there was no one to alert us to the danger until it was too late.”

“Who?” Alcarin’s voice cut in again, quiet and stony. “Who were you working with Legolas. Why?”

“No one! I didn’t do this!” Legolas continued to defend his innocence, but his sinking heart told him that no one was going to believe him. The evidence against him was overwhelming and he could not explain it away even to himself. He didn’t understand what had happened or how. “I didn’t,” his voice fell to a whisper.

“The facts say otherwise Legolas,” Alcarin shook his head. “You say you were shot at, yet there are no arrows but yours out there. Elan and Krit would never have let a stranger near enough to shoot them like this and if they were killed at their posts, someone would have heard something. This is my fault,” his eyes hardened. “I should never have trusted you.”

“I don’t know how to explain it either, but I swear to you I did not do this!” Legolas shook his head again, still in shock from this sudden turn of events.

“I wish I could believe you,” the lieutenant said quietly. “But that is not mine to decide even if I would. Legolas son of Thranduil you are under arrest for high treason against the people of Gondor.”

Legolas blinked numbly as Castamir pulled his hands behind his back, securing the elf’s wrists firmly with tight cords. He couldn’t believe this was happening. “What are you going to do with me?” he asked softly.

“By our law cases of treason can only be tried by the Steward himself. You will be taken to Minas Tirith to await the judgment of Lord Ecthelion,” Alcarin informed. “Only he can decide your fate.”

Legolas dropped his gaze as he was prodded to his feet. His head was spinning. Everything seemed to have happened so fast it was unreal. An icy bite of familiar fear was working its way through his insides. Part of his mind was screaming for him to run, to not let this happen, but the other part knew that even if he got away that would only confirm his guilt in everyone’s mind and leave on him the shameful mark of a murderer and a traitor. Besides, there was no way to run without having to hurt or possibly kill more of the soldiers. And that Legolas would not do.

The elf steeled his jaw and lifted his head. So, he would plead his case to the Steward then. If he was a killer, it was only an accidental one, and no real connection could be proved between he and whoever attacked them... or so he hoped. After tonight he wasn’t sure of anything anymore. But still, this was Gondor, not some backwater town full of superstitious ignorants who would just as soon hang an elf as look at one, so that was some comfort at least.

Legolas had no choice but to put his trust in the hope that justice still worked in Gondor... and pray to the Valar that that was true.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Legolas sat quietly with his back against the tree he was bound to. Darkness covered the small camp and only the sentries stirred on the fringes of the dying firelight. The elf however was not resting, nor was he likely to find any this night. It was not because his position was that uncomfortable, although it was far from pleasant. No, it was his own troubled state of mind and the heaviness in his heart that did not allow the prince the sleep his weary body was asking for.

The soldiers had followed the trail of their mysterious attackers but it did not go very far before it led down to the river’s edge. The wagons were left empty and abandoned on the sandy bank and it was obvious that the thieves had loaded their pilfered cargo and the cart animals onto a ship that had been waiting to meet them.

The whole venture had obviously been far too well planned to be the work of mere highwaymen, or a crime of opportunity. It had been pulled off with a great deal of forethought and cunning; they had obviously walked right into that trap. More disturbing than even this however, was the fact that without a doubt, the soldiers knew who had made off with their armor and weapons.

The Corsairs of Umbar.

It could only be they. No one else would have a ship capable of carrying such a heavy load and yet also navigating the oft-treacherous river shoals. Besides, no one else had a motive; the Haradrim had already been totally beaten back and in any case, the Haradrim were definitely not water-men. Such a bold move on the part of the Corsairs was highly unsettling. Alcarin had questioned Legolas very thoroughly after that, but of course the elf was able to tell them nothing. He knew less of their enemies than they did. To him the Corsairs of Umbar were just a name, a far away people with an ill reputation. He had only ever had experience with one of their kind before and that had been millennia ago and nowhere near here.

Many of the other soldiers had obviously wished to use more stringent methods of questioning than just words and threats. Fortunately for Legolas however, they abided by their laws regarding the treatment of prisoners who had not yet received fair trial or judgment and the worst that the prince got for the moment was dirty looks and rough handling.

Still, it was hard. So hard how quickly and how much things had changed.

Legolas tilted his head back against the tree trunk behind him, half looking up at the stars above. With idle grimness he wondered how long their restraint would last. The prince had never been the pessimistic sort, but no matter what he tried to hope,