THE LONGEST NIGHT

Celebcùen

The world was a white place. A cold place. A silent place.

Landir was watching it from top of the walls, bracing himself agaist the cold of the shortest days of the year. A white blanket had covered all signs of the fierce war so recently ended. His eyes could not see them, but he knew graves were hidden by the snow at the foot of the rising where Fornost stood.

The breeze blew dry flakes of snow in the ari. Landir’s eyes moved northward as if by their own accord. There, far away on the horizon, the darkness of Angmar still lingered.  The young man’s face, tanned by the brightness of snow, twisted in a grimace of worry and anger. Was the Witch-King’s malice never going to cease menacing the future of his people?

He felt cold and hollow. Here, in the heart of Arthedain, for half a millennium defended by the Dúnedain of the north, the enemy had been met and defeated by Men and Elves together. A big victory, the just retribution for King Arvedui’s death and for the past destruction of two kingdoms. Still Landir felt no joy or satisfation. The chilly wind of the north, the black chill of the Witch-King, filtered through his cloths and flesh to his very heart.

He turned abruptly and walked to the stone stairs leading downwards, to the town. Landir looked at it while going down, the burgh where he had been burn. A silent grave, now. No house stood, but only peaces of walls like broken teeth. All of the roofs had collapsed or burned. People were gone or dead.

He reached the pavement of the town and stood by the last stair scanning the lonely street with keen eyes.

The armies had lingered long among these houses. The Witch-King had been defeated but his black minions had remained in numbers, fiercer and angrier for being lost in this white world of Men, with no other purpose than mere surviving. Eärnur’s soldiers had hunted them down for a while, and the Elves still longer. But the Orcs remained, even now that all the other had left.

Landir was not comfortable even now.

The world is a white grave, he thought. Still, we’re not alone.

He started up the street, his boots merely whispering in the newly fallen snow. He climbed to the keep. At the entrance of the courtyard, he wavered, allerted. He scanned the street behind him once again.

He could see nothing.

He did not like the silence.  

Uneasily, he turned slowly and entered the courtyard. The place that had always been full of people and soldiers training was now an empty shell of bricks and stones. Landir’s stomach twisted, his teeth grinded. How could he just swallow it down, so simply, unquestioningly?

He crossed the courtyard quickly. The snow had melted under the feet of soldiers and the hooves of horses in the days past, then had frozen again and now cracked under Landir’s boots. He headed to an archway on the other side, but stopped hallway through.

A camp remained there, under the arch. A little fire flickered inside a circle of cobblestones gathered from the street debrits. It had been built near the wall so that its warmth could be reflected back and around. Two horses, a big grey gelding and a smaller, slander chestnut, stood one against the other seeking for some additional warmth. Two bedrolls and a few tools laid scattered around the fire. No one was there.

Landir turned to the building standing tall on the opposite side of the courtyard. The ice covering the splintered flagstones did not allowed any footprints to show there, but the young man did not need them. He walked to the building without hesitations.

It was a great hall that once had bore coloured windows glittering in the sun and a great, carved wooden door recounting the coming of Isildur from Númenor. The shards of that door were now scattered all over the place, some had been burned to keep the soldiers warm in the winter nights. Nothing remained of the coloured windows but dark hollows in the blackened face of the building.

Landir clenched his jaw looking up at it. Then he climbed the few stony stairs and crossed the threshold.

His mind-eye could see the hall the way it used to be: paved of grey marble, with wall covered of tapestries recounting the history of the heirs of Isildur. A vault high over his head painted with the night sky of the day the reign of Arthedain was supposed to have been founded. Slender windows would open in the walls, glasses coloured with the effigies of the kings of Arthedain, their banners hanging from shafts protruding from walls. And ahead, at the back of the hall, on a dais only a few steps higher, the king throne carved in dark, polished wood.

What remained of that splendour was a pale, lonely carcass. Only a shattered wing remained of the vault, over the burned throne at the back of the hall. Only sky over the rest, a grey, heavy sky, shading a milky light on the broken walls, the ashes of banners and tapestries swirling in the chilly breeze, the shards of glass and wood littering the chopped pavement where the snow had melted. And everywhere stains of fire and blood.

His cousin stood at the foot of the dais in front of the throne. A young man with black hair, wrapped in a grey cloak, who looked a ghost in the milky light of the silent afternoon.

Landir walked to him. His boots would have wakened echoes in the ancient hall. They only produced a hollow thud on the dirty pavement now.

“Aranarth?” he called as he came close to him. The silence swallowed up his voice.

The younger man did not move. He stood tall, back straight, arms folded on his chest, face set in stone. His chin was high, his grey eyes fixed on the throne.

Landir stopped beside him, he gazed to the throne as well. Nothing remained of it but a stomp, what little the fire had left. The apse at the back of it would once be bright with fans of coloured sunshine, but now stood gloomy and black.

Like the black lord who had clamed it, Landir thought grimly.

“We should go,” he then said, his eyes still on the throne. “It’s not safe, here” He turned to his cousin and regarded him. “Orcs are hungry and there’s only two of us.”

Aranarth closed his eyes slowly. Landir could see his lips pressing slightly and he felt hollow, once again. Aranerth’s face was ice. Was this really the boy he would play with in the warm summers so long ago? The same boy he had taught to rise a sword and use it to defend his people? The same man he had protected with his own body in the midst of the battle? This man was as hollow as Landir felt himself and this was not right. Was there really nothing he could do for his cousin? No, he remembered to himself. For my King.

Aranarth’s head was bent as if an unbearable weight pressed him down.

“Look at me, Landir,” he whispered and the older man thought that, had he ever heard a ghost speaking, this would had been its voice. “My father is dead. My people are scattered and dead. My brothers are mere guests of Elves, in a land that has never been ours. My land has turned to ice and this shattered fortress blown by the northern winds is all I’m left with.” He turned to Landir. His eyes dark on his pale face. “Where am I supposed to go?”

Landir locked gaze with those black eyes but that costed him much. For a moment his mind went blank. He felt Aranath’s loneliness, his desperation waving against him like a cold, deep ocean which raged, willing to destroy something, anything, finding nothing to storm against.

Then Aranarth moved his gaze. He turned with not even a word and left the dead royal hall.

Landir’s jaws clenched, his eyes frowned.

He turned and followed in his cousin’s steps across the courtyard to their makeshift campfire.

Aranarth was there petting their two horses. The animals were cold and uncomfortable, their breath visible in the chilly air. Stormcloud, the grey one, Aranarth’s own, flattened the ears against his head – just a moment, but enough to sent a shiver down Landir’s spine. The horses were always the first to sense it. Still, the man left that aside.

“Why not to Gondor?” he asked somewhat sharply.

Aranarth snorted mockingly at him, merely turning his head. He gazed at Landir with eyes saying: I don’t believe you’re really suggesting that!

“Why not?” Landir replied as if his cousin had actually spoke. “We’re of the same blood. They won’t refuse us shelter.”

“I’m not going to Gondor,” Aranarth stated. He was not looking at Landir but the older man could see his hard profile. Again Aranarth stroke Stormcloud’s neck and that drew Landir’s attention back to the horses. His chestnut, Fieldancer, was snorting nervously, ears against his skull.

They’re unsettled by our argument, Landir reasoned. That’s why they’re so jumpy. But there was more and he knew it. Still, something more important was in his mind. He came closer to the fire. He could feel the warmth reflected back by the nearby wall and the weak tepor of the flame engulfed by the chill of winter. The fire needs to be rekindled, he thought.

“Your mother was one of Anarion’s descendants,” he said in a deep voice starring to Aranarth.

“And my father one of Isildur’s” Aranarth turned to Landir briskly, his voice a little louder, his eyes aflamed. “So what?”

The horses pounded the ground.

“Would you really deny your blood?” Landir hissed.

He felt a tendril of ice brush against him. It came from Aranarth and it was not anger or envy. It was something colder and darker. “King Arvedui your father thought that Elendir never meant to devide his kingdom, he intende his two sons to reign together. That the Dúnedain come from the West should have been one people.”

“I know fully well what my father thought!” Aranarth hissed, eyes burning. Then he turned his back to his cousin, pointedly, giving his attention back to his horse.

With two strides Landir was beside him, he grabbed one of Aranarth’s arm and forced him to face him.

“Won’t you even try? Will you just turn your back?”

Aranarth wrenched his arm free, his eyes locked to his cousin’s. “It’s not time,” he worded in a very deep, dark voice.

Landir sweyed, he could not say why. Still he persited: “Not time?” incredulously. “Have you ever thought you might be the one...”

Aranarth pushed him away, angrily, snarling nearly. He walked past him, but before he could go away, andir grabbed his arm again and stopped him.

Aranarth span and ripped his arm free. Once again his eyes burned into Landir’s.

“I’ve never imagined you’d run away,” the older man said horsely.

“Run away,” Aranarth snorted bitterly. “All I see is void. All around me and in front of me. Where should I run?”

Landir wavered once more. Somehow he could feel the void and the fear. He swallowed them down.

“Let us go to Gondor...”

“NO!” Aranarth moved away. “Tha’s not my path!”

“How do you know?” Landir retorted. He did not followed Aranarth this time.

The younger man stopped. He turned slowly, his face spirited. Landir swaid.

“I know because...” Aranarth swaid too. “I... saw...” he ripped the words from inside himself.

Landir went cold. With his mind’s eye he could see Aranarth and himself, crouched in the darkness of Fornost armory. Children, both of them. I saw a shadow coming from the north, the little prince had uttered, his face pale in the dark. I saw a ship drawing.

“What did you see?” Landir whispered, a lump in his throat. A shiver run throught his body the same way as that time in the armory, long ago.

“I saw... him,”Aranarth mouthed. His face was as white as the snow aroung, his eyes misted. “Long, dark centuries in the future. A man... he did not look like a king, but he was. The king returnd. Companion to a grey wizard.” Aranarth’s eyes cleared and focused back on Landir. He shoke his head sadly, lost.

“It’s not me, Landir.”

An utter silence wrapped the world after those words.

The frizing wind fell. The two men stood unmoving, one in front of the other.

And in that voiceless, quite world a horse snorted, scared.

Aranarth and Landir tensed. Their eyes moved to their campfire then back to exchange a gaze of acknowledgement. Their hands moved slowly to the hilt of their weapons.

Cautiously, they moved together towards the fire.

The horses snorted again. Their hooves pounded the ground, the ears flattened against their necks. A shadow moved in the flickering light of the red flame.

The two men froze. They exchenge another glance. Their faces were pale and stern. Aranarth nodded.

The horses pounded the ground and pulled wildly at the reins, snorting afraid. Aranarth and Landir unsheathed their weapons, the blades produced no sound coming out of the scabbards. Stealtitly, the two men came to the camp.

A black shadow jumped and the horses went creazy. The two men started forth.

The first black beast fell even too easily, cut down by Landir’s blade. More came behind it but they were easy killing for the two cousins. Seldomly were Orcs troubling opponents unless they came in numbers. This looked to be a small band, and weary as well.

Landir exchange a few blows with an orc while running to the horses. He broke its defences easily and ripped its troath  with the point of his sword without even slowing his run.

As he turned to the franzy horses, he saw Fieldancer smashing the skull of an orc with a flying hoof, while Aranarth was rising astray Stormcloud. A beast jumped against Landir and he just ripped through its entrils, cutting in a circle while turning to grab Fieldancer’s reins.

More black shadows were gloing in. Landir could sense them even better than see them. He jumped on the saddle. Aranartgh crashed the flat of his blade agaist an orc’s snouth then twisted onto the saddle.

“Off!” he cried. “Off we go!”

He digged his heels into the Stormcloud’s flacks and the gelding jumped forward, breath condensing around his nostrils. Landir took only a second for himself, scanning around. He did not like the idea to run but... there were only two of them and more orcs were coming. He spoored Fieldancer, who bolted forth as if he was waiting nothing else, and stormed down the main street on the grey horse’s wake. Glancig back over one shoulder, Ladir saw a dozen orcs scattering on the courtyard, but only a few of them run after and only for a little while. Then they abandoned the chasing.

“They wanted the horses,” Aranarth called out, slowing down so that Landir could reach him.

“Yeah,” his cousing answered. “And us as well!”

They stopped in the middle of the street, punting heavily men and horses alike, their breath puffing in the chilly air.

“I don’t think they’ll really follow,” Aranarth said, looking back.

Landir’s horse sidestepped and snorted, jolting his head. The man shortend the reins and that took him some effort.

“Maybe not all the band has attacked us,” Aranarth reasoned still scanning the street to the courtyard. He was having some problem with his horse too.

“Maybe there’s more than one band hiding in the burgh and around,” Landir pointed out.

Aranarth turned at him. His face was troubled.

“It’s time to go, Aranarth,” Landir pressed.

“All our things are back at the campfire,” the younger man said, unconvincingly.

Landir smirked. “Fancy to go back get them?”

Aranarth glanced at him darkly, then spurred his horse towards Fornost gates. Landir followed after in a whirl of drifting snow.

* * *

They burst through the shattered gates of the city, Aranarth first and Landir behind him. So it was that the letter saw it.

“Aranarth!” he called out.

A shadow jumped from a chunk of ruind wall and reached out at the riders. Aranarth had only time to turn and rise one arm to protect himslef, then the orc, the man, the horse – all of them fell sprowling in the snow.

Landir rode past them, forcing his horse to a wide circle to come back. He saw Aranarth fighting hand to hand with the orc to stand up, and Stormcloud kicking the air wildly to gain a standing position, delivering a couple of kicks on the orc’s back in the process. Landir grinned, barred his sword and ran back, a whirld of snow drifting around his horse’s pounding hooves. 

Aranarth disengaged and found space enough to unsheathed his blade. The orc bore down at him. He had a large rusty weapon that did not look sharp, but could brack a grown man’s spine combined with the beast’s strenght. It cut down at Aranarth, but the young man intercepted and diverted the blade. In that moment Landir ride over them, swearling the snow around, and cut the orc’s head clear without even slowing down his run. The black orc’s blood splattered around, staining the white snow. Aranarth bent and rose one arm to cover his face, falling in the snow while doing it, unbalanced.

Landir span Fieldancer around and came back to Aranarth at a canter.

“You’re all right?” he asked, worried.

“I think so,” Aranarth replied gasping, trying to brush the black fetid blood off his face.

Landir scanned the gate and the walls nearby. He resheathed his sword.

“Looks like it was alone,” he consider. “Strange...”

He turned to his cousin.

Aranarth was getting up, leaning to Stormcloud who had come back to him. The young man’s eyes were fixed away on the field of snow in front of Fornost. Forseeing the worst, Landir turned to that way too.

A cart was crossing the field, pulled hard by one exhausted horse digging his way int he knee-high snow. A band of sever orcs was running after it.

“Damned!” Landir hissed thorugh his teeth.

Aranarth jumped on the saddle and bolted forth. Landir followed in his wake.

The orcs had already rounded the cart, crying, running around, and did not realise the coming of the two riders. Aranarth crashed into one of the orcs and Stormcloud’s hooves smashed its skull like a nut. Landir tried the same with a second orc, but the beast dogeded. The man just passed by and dropped over another orc, slashing at its head which flew in the air followed by a black wake. Landir spanned Fieldancer and it was then that her saw a man fighting desperately on the front of the cart, a long dagger in one hand. And at the same time he heard a cry coming form the rear of the cart. A child and a women.

A moment hesitation, a glance at Aranarth, who was chasing down an orc with a huge sword, Landir turned his chestnut to the cart, sword at the ready.

An orc was climbing to the rear entrance. Landir glanced a woman crouched in the gloomy inside, wielding a tool he could not recognise. He bolted there like a lightning wielding his blade in a circle. The sharpness of the sword and the strenght of his arm combined with the horse’s momentum nearly cut the orc in two peaces. Blood exploded everywere. The woman jumped back with a cry and covered two young children with her own body.

Despite the cries, looked like the family was quite fine inside, so Landir’s worryflew back to Aranarth and the young man on the front of the cart. He span Fieldancer – and he barely glanced a shadow over his head A weight pressed down on his sword arm and a foul breath brushed against his face and it was on mere instint that Landir let off the rains and pounch the orc squarly into its snout.

The beast arched under the blow but did not let go. Fieldancer swaid, unbalanced, bending on the orc’s side. He was too afraid to be guided by Landir’s legs only, so the man kept pounching the orc, that never stopped clinging at him with claws ripping at Landir’s shoulders and arms. Landir felt panic rising and he swallowed it down angrily. His eyes were misting for the pain, he felt warm blood running down his arm and back, the orc was grawling right into his ear and Fieldancer was running wildly around. Landir saw the bridles flying in front of his face and just grasped them, pulling sharply. Fieldancer spanned and run, nighing. Landir saw the world spinning in accord, he saw the sky and the forest and the snow field going around and glenced Aranarth engaging two orcs from his horse, but did not see the cart coming closer then crashed agains it. Horse, man and orc dashed agaist the side of the cart, shaking it, but the orc had the worst of it. It was the one who actually connected with the bords and was shaken so badly it let off of Landir and fell. The man quivered, his head confused, but he clinged to Fieldancer’s bridles and let the animal found his own balance. He saw the orc’s body spinning in front of him and just lashed out with his sword, cutting through the beast stomach side by side – even in the orc’s body could already be brocken, for what Landir could guess. He pulled the reins powerfully... and the worlf stopped spinning.

Someone was crying.

Landir was gasping more than breathing, his sight was trying to deside where up was and were down was. With an effort, he turned to the front of the cart. The young man was not there. There was the women in is place and she was crying, cloths ripped, hair wild, tears drawing pale stripes on her dirty face. Two children were clinging at her. She was calling out a name.

Landir turned to the direction she was calling at. A black figure lied ont he ground in a pool of balck blood. Another was figthing a man hand to hand.

Landir bolted that way, slashing out, but the orc heard him coming and dogded his blow. Unable to stop his horse, Landir forced him to a circle and came back toward the two opponentes. As he did so, he saw the orc slashing out at the man with his broad sword and the man went down on his knee. The woman’s cry ripped the silence of the snowy fields. Landir digged his heals in the horse’s flancks, bolting forth with a snarl, but his cousin arrived first.

Aranarth slashed out at the orc’s back. The beast whirled, spreading an arch of blood in the crispy air. But Stormcloud did not withdraw, he ruther turned on himself seemingly on his own accord and dashed breast-first into the orc, that lost its balance and fell. Stormcloud reared, spurred by Aranarth, and when his hooves fell they smashed the orc’s skull like a ripe fruit, spattering black blood, grey matters, white shards of bones all around. All went black: the snow, the man lying still on the ground, Aranarth’s boots and Stormcloud’s leg almost to his chest.

Landir reached in a cloud of dusty snow and jumped out of the saddle before Fieldancer could even stop. Aranarth had already knelt beside the man on the ground, he riesed his eyes on his cousin, a dark shadow cast over his face. Landier’s throat tightened. As he knelt beside the other two men on the bloody snow he could see the man’s wound was sever.

The young man was gasping febly. He turned his head with enormus effort to Aranasth, he opend his eyes just enouth to look at him. “My children...” he mouthed. “Careys.” He cloused his eyes and lay still.

“Berdan!”

The woman ran to the man in a whirld of snow, but stoppend dead beside Aranarth. Her bearth stopped, her muscles froze, her eyes widened, her face paled. She let herself drop to the gournd like an empty sack.

Landir stood and looked to the cart. There were black bodies and pools of blood all around in the snow. Two children were looking out to their parents from the front of the cart. The bigger boy was holding the smaller.

Careys reached out with a shaking hand to her husband’s face. Her lower lip was quivering. No tears ran down her cheek. Then she ripped her gaze away from Berdan on to Aranarth.

Who met her gaze sternly.

“It’s a bad wound,” he whispered.

Careys shivered violently and broke out in sobs bracing herself, bending her shoulders. Landir stood, swaying a bit. He had seen this like hundreds of times on the battlefield, still he was never able to accept it unquestionly. He felt a familiar void at the pit of his tomach. Aranarth rose his eyes at him and Landir knew: he was feeling the same.

Shaken, Landir moved to the cart. The bigger boy was staring grimly at him, holding his sobbing little broder. His face was stern, but lined with tears.

“You’re hurt?” Landir asked.

The boy shook his head.

“My father...” he wavered. “He’s...”

“He’s badly wounded,” Landir said. Careys’s sobbing was the only sound in the world. “He fought to save you and your mother.” The boy nodded. His expression never changed.

Landir took the reins of the horse joked to the cart  and guide it nearer to Aranarth.

Careys was calming her down and started when she heard the cart aproaching. She then straightend her back and looked up.

“We should go,” Landir said.

Aranarth scanned around, then nodded briskly. Ho stood up helping Careys doing the same.

She stood, she swayed, she looked at her children – and suddenly she pancked. Her eyes widened and her lip trumbled, but Aranarth said: “We’ll take care of your husband.” His voice was soft. He took one of her elbows gently. “Come.”

She let him guide her to the cart, even if she kept looking back to Berdan.

Aranarth helped her get up the cart, then came back to his cousin. His face was troubled.

“If we move him...”

“I know,” Landir cut off. “Do you think I don’t know it?” They spoke in whisperes. “But we’re dead – we’re all dead if we stay here.”

Aranarth nodded slowly, eyes downcast. Then he unclasped his cloak and spread it beside Bardan.

The two cousins had learnt how to move the wounded on the batterfield, but it was a hard work for the two of them alone. As the cart moved, creacking, towards Fornost, the sky was getting dark in the ovest.

* * *

The barracs were bolted. All the squared, little windows were barred, a milky, frizing air filtered in through them. Outside it was silent. Aranarth and Landir had chosen that place of all Fornost because it was the safer and more easily defendible. Nothing had remaind since the armies had left, Arnarth had to walk the city wide and large in search of an apothecary’s to find some of the herbs he was looking for. He had to slay two orcs in the process, getting himself a few scratches.

Now the cart and the horses were inside the barracs and the door was closed. They were safe... as long as they did not decide to leave.

Landir climbed on the cart.

Only one candle was lit. Berdan lied on one side. He had never stired, he was as still as dead even now. Aranarth was beside him on his knees. His shoulders were bent, his hands laid nerveless in his lap. His head was bent too, as if pressed down by a burden.

Landir crouched beside him and studied his hard profile.

“You’re doing all is in your power,” he said at lenght. “Nobody can ask you for more. Not even yourself.”

Aranarth said nothing. He did not move. Not even a muscle twetched on his face.

Landir placed a hand on his cousin’s shoulder.

“Come,” he said. “Careys has prepared something to eat.”

He stood and left.

A fire had been built nor far from the cart. The barracs were little warmer than the plain air, but at least the nearest wall was biginning to give back the warmth of the fire. Careys was busying herself with supper. Her face was stern and dark, and it only brightened a bit as she adressed her two children, that crouched silently beside her. The little one was hexsausted and disconsolate. The older one wore a stern, nearly adult expression on his face.

Landir studied him closely as he reached the fire. He had been a boy his age, once. He thought he guessed what was going on in the boy’s mind. Careys rose her gaze as she heard the man approaching. Darkness cut black shades on her face. “I’ve prepared something warm, my lords,” she said feebly, and Landir realised Aranarth had silently followed him. “There’s not much left of our provision, but...” She had a faint, shy smile.

“That’s very welcome,” Landirsmiled back. “It’s kind of you.”

He sat in front of the woman and Aranarth set beside him. His cousin was of a gloomy mood, Landir thought: it was not of Aranarth let a kind thought go unnoticed. Landir looked at him closely and for the first time worry pang in his chest.

Careys offered a bowl of soup to both of them.

“You saved us from the orcs,” she said, “and I haven’t even ask your names.”

Landir wavered, the bowl in his hands. He glanced at Aranarth – who looked as if he had not even heard the question.

“I’m...” Landir started tentativelly. “I’m Shaft,” he finally said. “And this is Blade, my cousin.”

Careys’s looked from ne to the other.

“Thise are strange names,” she considered, and the shadows that flashed throught her eyes gave away the question she was not uttering: why are they hiding thier names?

Landir smiled riassuringly between spoons of soup. “Not so strange,” he said.

“Are you soldiers?” the older boy asked.

Landir moved his gaze on him and saw his eager expression.

“Are you soldiers of the King?”

Aranarth barely rose his head moving his gaze on the child.

“Farur, don’t annoy our guests,” Careys warned. But Landir rose one hand to signal there was no problem.

“The army of Arthedain is no more,” he said and he could not hide his bitterness. Farur’s jaws clenched and that made his young face look older. Careys had a little shiver. “We’re...” Landir faltered, swallowed hard, but then he his rose chin. “We’re rangers,” he said and nodded, thoughtfully. “Yes. We care for the land and the people.” He could nearly feel Aranarth quivering beside him.

He grasped his wooden spoon and gulped down a spoonful of soup. Yes, that was the truth, he thought, he was not lying.

He was not lying, but bitterness filtered again inside his thoughts. Glancing at Aranarth, Landir noticed his cousin had not touched his soup at all and the bowl laid forgotten in his hands. His gaze was dark and downcast, but he was listening.

“I want to become a soldier,” Farur said, matter-of-factly.

“We’ll talk about it later, Farur,” his mother said, tiredly. “We’ve already talked this over.”

“I want to become a soldier,” the boy persisted glancing challangingly at his mother. “I want to be of use to my people as well as to my family.”

“Farur...” Careys wavered. Her hands were mistreating the cloth of her skirt. Her eyes were haunted and dark. “The army of Arthedain is no more, have you not heard?” Farur turned his eyes away. Aranarth placed his bowl on the graund and braced himself, his hands hidden under his elbows.

Careys was troubled. She bit her lips then looked at Landir.

“We had word...” she faltered almost afraid to utter it aloud. “We had word that King Arvedui’s dead,” she finally breathed.

Landir inhaled and tensed. He felt Farur’s burning eyes on him and Aranarth’s chilly gaze firmly on the ground.

“The king’s...” he felt a big void inside himself, but finally said: “... not far,” and stole a glace at Aranarth. Who turned his head away from him, to the darkness of the baraccas. Landir did not fliched even if he did feel is stomach squeeze.

“And...” Careys was aghast. Her voice quivered between incredulity and hope, “and will he save us?" she dared to ask.

Landir turned at her and looked straight into her eyes.

“I’m sure he’ll do all he can,” he said.

Aranarth stood up abruptly, startling everyone but Landir. The little boy shivered, his lower lip trambled. Farur put and harm around his shoulders. Aranarth turned and without a word strolled into the darknes at the far end of the barracs.

Careys took the younger boy in her harms and he curled there, weeping.

“What happened?” she asked, worried, looking at the darkeness where Aranarth had disappeared.

Landir was looking that way too. He turned to Careys and his face was dark.

“Forgive my cousin, lady,” he said. “The war had taken much from all of us.”

Careys hold her child faster.

Landir smiled.

“Why don’t you two boys go get some sleep?” he said, addressing the little one. Who hid his face in his mother breast but nodded.

Careys smiled faintly to Landir and stood up.

“Do you want mummy to come as well, Tally?” she asked her child. He nodded again, clinging to her. She  walked to the place where she had prepared their bedrolls near the cart. Farur stood and made as if to follow.

“Farur,” Landir called. The boy stopped and looked at him. “You make good guard over your mother and brother,” Landir said and wincked at him.

Farur broke in a surprised smile and nodded.

Landir remaind alone by the fire. He looked the way Aranarth had hidden. He felt the urge to follow him, but resisted and remained by the fire all through the rest of the night.

* * *

The new day crept in greyly through the bars of the windows. It felt even chiller than the day before. The sky was as heavy and dark as lead. It was going to snow again.

Nobody had spoken through the night even if no one had slept much. Only the children had nodded off occasionally, but always they had then snapped awake in the silence. As if noise and danger had hidden inside their dreams, Landir thought that morning.

When dawn broke, Aranarth came out of the darkness, went to the cart and lit a candle. Landir did not follow him, but from his position against the wall he could see the inside of the cart. The candle gave out the faintest of light in the grey morn. Landir could see Aranasth moving like a shadow in that pale halo: he was applying the medicine he had prepared the day before to the wunded, his face stern and concentrated.

Landir never move from his nest. He wrapped the cloak even more tightly about himself and waited, with a strage oppressive feeling siezing his chest.

Shortly after Careys stirred herself and started praparing breakfast with heavy movements, glancing to the cart every few moments, spying for the time when Aranarth would come out. But Aranarth carried out his task throughly and when he was done, Landir saw him pausing there, knelt motionless at Berdan’s side.

When he finally came out, Careys jumped up, forgetting all about breakfast, and came to him hastily, with very big eyes and very pale face.

Aranarth met her gaze for the briefest moment, then dropped his eyes and let her pass by. She jumped up and took Aranasth’s place beside Berdan. Landir saw her brushing lovingly the man’s hair – and that chilled him more than the frizing morning.

Aranarth walked to one window and gathered some snow to wash his hands, then some more to refresh his face. His dark hair was dripping on his forehead when he finally appreached Landir, who still had not moved from his night nest.

“Care to go for a hunt?” Aranarth asked.

Landir frawn in the dusk. That did not sound like a good idea.

Aranarth leaned slightly towards him. “I must go out of here,” he mouthed.

And that did sound like a good idea!

They saddled the horses, that looked as willing as the men were to go out, and rode down the main street to a gallop.

They were not disturbed. Not a shadow moved on the broken walls. At the burgh gate Aranarth reined in and turned Stormcloud to look at the rock, far and high.

“Their leaving,” Landir answered the unspoken question. “They’re leaderless and lost. It’s getting chiller. No food around.” He shrugged when his cousin looked gloomly at him. “They can’t eat us, we’re too smart. They just move to easier prays.”

The joke did not crack any smile on Aranasth’s face, who said darkly: “And where would those prays be?” He shook his head sadly. “Winter is still so long,” he murmurd, and looked back at his father’s keep.

Landir clenched his fists on the reins. He could nerly hear his cousin dark thoughts.

“It is,” he agreed, and made an effort not to make his voice sound too harsh. “But not as long and dark as it may appeare.” Aranarth lowered his gaze but did not meet his cousin’s. “Do you know what night is tonight?” Landir asked to the silence.

Aranarth was staring to the white snow at his feet.

“The winter solstice,” he murmured nearly to himself. He rose his head and looked in the distance. “We would have a big bonefire in the courtyard, and people would dance and enjoy, would eat sweet winter fruit and cakes, would laugh and chat, if...” his voice trailed off. He bit at his white lips.

Landir pushed his horse closer to Aranarth’s and his cousin turned to him, feeling him closer. His face was that of a ghost and Landir felt his heart squeez. Still, he forced a faint smile on his lips ad said: “The Bonfire Night has always been my favourit,” he said against his cousin’s moking glance. “Yes,” he persisted. “Because, isn’t it amaizing, cousin? Even when the longest night comes, a bright new morn will follow.”

Aranarth’s eyes turned black. He stared stright into his cousin’s eyes and Landir met his gaze without flinching. Aranarth wrenched at Stormcloud’s reins and the horse protested for that mistreatment, then obeid his master and galloped toward the distant forest. The thudding of his hooves drifted in the muffled silence.

Whiout hesitation, Landir followed after.

* * *

It was the middle of the day when they came back to the barracs. They galloped up the main street quickly so to avoid accacks. They had only stopped orcs from afar during the day in the forest. They had been mostly finghty among themseves, like a hungry pack of crazy beasts.

The two men smelled something was wrong as they reached the barracs door facing the courtyard. They slew the horses down and looked to each other. When they came closer, they saw the door was opened. Landir scanned the melted snow at the entrance but he could only see the footprints of a boy amongst the other prints of the horses, coming out, roaming around errantly, then coming back inside.

He streined his sensies but could hear no sound coming from within. He glanced to Aranarth and saw he had stiffened on the saddle, his face very pale, his hands clenched on the reins.

Landir jumped out of the saddle, unsheathed his sword and came cautiously in.

The inside of the barracs was particularly gloomy after the brightness of the snow outside, but it was also quiet. Landir paced in, glancing around. He could see no one about. The fire had died away and now embers were glowing broodily inside the circle of cobbles.

In was in that moment, when he was near the fire, that Landir heard the sound. A muffled sobbing coming from the cart near the wall. It was then he started to understand.

He hastened that way, the sward forgotten in his hand.

All the family was inside the cart, wrapped between the darkness and the feeble light of a candle. Careys had sprowled across the unmoving body of her husband and was now crying over his chest, sobbing unconsolably.

Tally was crying too in his brother’s arms. Farur was the only one to realise Landir’s presence: he glanced toward the man with sparking, angry eyes. Just a moment.

Landir’s shoulders bent. He felt a weight pressing down on him. He clenched his hand around the hilt of the useless sword and bent his head, sadly, leaning with one hand to the side of the cart. With very heavy movements, he shethed his blade.

And suddenly he whirled to the door, remembering, and there, black agaist the whitness of the outside world framed in the doorway, he saw Aranarth. For a moment only. Then his cousin turned an ran across the courtyard.

Landir wavered, ripped between the desire to do something for the family and the urge to help his cousin. A short, sorrowful battle, the, once again, he chose.

“Aranarth!” he called out as he saw him crossing the door of the King’s Hall. Aranarth did not listen.

Landir pressed his lips and ran after.

He found him standig by the burnt throne, a hand on the blackend armchair, his back to him.

Landir slew his walk down. His heart was running, his breath was short – and suddenly he felt a lump in his throat and a nauseating void inside his bowels. The same feeling as he felt before a battle. And as he always did in those occasions, Landir swallowed the lump down and went on resolutely.

“Aranarth,” he called softly as he reached his cousin by the throne, his voise bounced on what remeind of the hall’s walls.

“I wanted him to live” Aranarth said without turning. His voice was a mere whisper.

“I know,” Landir said. “You did all you could...”

Aranarth whirled suddenly, his face enraged. “But he died!” he cried. “I did all I could. I gave all I have. Still he died!” His eyes were rimed red, but dry.

Landir stood unmoving in spite of what he felt inside. A muscle flinched on his jaw. His fist clenched.

“Bad things do happen Aranarth, in spite of all our efforts,” he said, and he heard a voice inside his head, the voice that once had told that to him. The voice of his father. “You know this.”

Aranarth was shaking. His face was mortal white.

“I faild him,” he croaked.

Landir felt dashed down. His heart galloped madly. His cousin was saing those words, still, Landir himself could...

“I failed everyone!” Aranarth cried out. Landir shook his head. He felt all the blood draining away from him. “This is my people, Landir, can’t you see? I should protect them, I should be their shield. But look at me!” He reached out with his hands, pulms up, as if offering them to the bounds. “My hands have no power, have no strenght. I’ve lost my father, I’ve lost my blood, I’ve lost my land, and my kingdom has become just snow and cold and void. That’s what I am!”

Landir swayed.

Aranarth was sobbing now, still his eyes were dry. The air was so cold and so upset around him, that Landir could feel the ice forming inside his own self. He felt the void and the uselessness. And he feared.

“Look at me Landir,” Aranarth cired. “I’m not like my father. I am no king!”

And something clicked.

“Stop it!” Landir cried into Aranarth’s face. A fire erupted in his chest and spread everywhere inside himself. He grabbed his cousin’s arm. “Stop it!” he cried again, demandily.

Aranarth wrestled his arm free so violently he felt back, onto the burnt throne. “Leave me alone!” he cried blindly agaist Landir.

Who stood there, in front of him, quivering for his own anger and that of his cousin washing against him. And then, as it had come, Aranarth’s anger receided, leaving him shivering and forceless on the black throne.

In the King’s Hall silent fell once again. The grey clouds sailed overhead, the chilly breeze brushed fans of snow in the air.

Landir withdrew one step. His fists clenched.

“Hear me, Aranarth,” he finally said, his eyes burning, his voice firm, “and I’m talking like you’re captain, my king.” Aranarth did not move or showed to listen but for the shiver that ran through him at the sound of the word king. “We faught many battles together. We flee in the snow to the Elven kingdom together and together we came back, to claim our land from the hands of the Enemy. We fought shoulder to shoulder and I had the privilege to protect your life in the midst of battle. As I’d been prepared to, and as I was willing to. And I hope I’ll have the honor to do this again and again  in the battles to come, because I think that my life is enriched in being shared with that of a man and a leader as you are.”

Aranarth had not moved. His eyes were downcast and Landir could hardly see his face, because a veil of black hair covered it.

The older man came a step closer, his face was set in stone, his eyes aflamed.

“Listen, Aranarth, and I’m talking as your elder cousin, now.” He placed one foot on the dais of the throne and a hand on the armchair onto which Aranarth himself was leaning. “There’s nothing we’ve spared in here. All the power, all the strenght we have, whatever it might be, we gave for our land and our people. It may not be enough, but that doesn’t mean we faild. Because it’s not over. So many things remain to be done. Things are only over when we let them go. Then we’ve faild.” He leaned toward Aranarth and his voice became lower but not softer. “Now I’m going to go there, in the barracs, to console a woman who’s just lost her hasband, and to give some words of confort – the best I can offer – to her children. Then I’m going to give that man the burial he’s worth of.” He stood tall briskly, eyes of stone. “You do as you like,” he finished sharply. Then turned and strode away without a backglance.

Aranarth had never moved and so did now. He remained there, alone, in the burned down, destroyed King’s Hall. Then, slowly, the hand on the armchair bolled, clenching tightly, his eyes focused and his face set in a stern expression.

He snappen on his feet and, resolutely, he strode on his cousin’s footsteps.

* * *

They went down at the foot of the rising where Fornost rose when the snow started folling again. There, all those who had  follen during the battle had been buried by the men of King Eärnur before they left. They came on the rockety cart. Careys washed her husband with melted snow and dressed him with his best cloths helped by her children, weeping all the while.

Landir and Aranarth dug a grave in the frozen ground, fighting the solid soil with tools they had found in the abandoned burgh, and with their bare hands at times. They spoke little but did not need to. They laboured shoulder by shoulder, as they had always done. And often did glance to the gates and the main street. They sensed they were not alone.

It was dark when they watched upon Berdan’s mound. Careys had never really stopped wepping and was now starring at the black earth agaist the white snow, pressing her two children agaist her own body as if wanting to take them back inside herself.

Aranarth watched nervously at the gates every now and then.

Landir said: “We should go back to the barracs.” Careys started. “It’s too dangerous here, in the dark.”

Careys’s face showed she was not willing to go, but she nodded and pushed her two boys towards the cart. Farur did not move. He stood there tall beside his father’s grave, a dark expression on his face.

Landir came to him and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Wouldn’t you lead the cart?” he asked. “Blade will go forth with his horse and I’ll follow with mine. You can protect the cart from inside, will you?”

Farur did not rise his face, but nodded and let Landir guide him to the cart, where his mother and brother were waiting.

They climbed the street in the gathering darkness, the cart creaking every moment, the two men watching mistrustfully at every shadow.

It was Aranarth who spotted the danger. He reined in abruptly, his hand flew at the hilt of his sword and he cried: “Orcs!” before he even saw the first one rushing out of the darkeness of the road ahead of them.

Landir bolted forth and the first thing he saw was a black shadow dasching agaist Stormcloud who, in spite of Aranarth’s disengaging monouvre, was taken aback, lost his balance and fell on one side. Landir slew down the moment he needed to see Aranarth standing up, and immediatley he gave his attention to the second orc coming into view. He glanced a third shadow jumping by, but could do nothing about it.

He had seen a lot of orcs during the war, but these looked particularly feeble and hungry. The beast jumped agaist him, trying to ride him down, but Landir bounced him, hitting its snouth squarly with an elbow. The beast fell back but immediately thrusted at him with a ugly-looking, rusted blade. Landir turned Fieldancer and cut the air in a circle. An unuman cry ripped the dusk. The orc’s blade few away with the hand still attached at it in a wake of black blood. Landir thrusted again and the orc went dow, his chest opend up.

“NO!”

Landir turned over.

“Farur!”

It was Careys.The cart waved tremendously. A child was crying. The horse yoked to the wagon neighed and pounded the ground furiously, trying to get free in a shawer of melted snow. Beside the cart, Landir saw Aranarth fighting hand to hand with another orc.

Landir wavered, troubled. He looked at the cart, sword in hand. He looked at the fight – and in that moment Stormcloud bit at the orc, who turned just the second Aranarth needed to reach out at his sword lying by in the snow.

Landir bolted to the cart and with a jump from the saddle, he landed on the seat to the front. Inside he could only see darkness and the clearer square of the back openeing at first. Then he saw Careys crouched in the corner nearest to him protecting one of her children with her own body. And then he also saw two shapes fighting black agaist the gloomy brightness of the snow outside.

Careys rose her white face on him. “Farur!” she pleaded, holding thight her younger boy.

The cart waved again. Landir nearly lost his footing. He grabbed the side of the seat, then jumped with a battle cry on the two fighters.

The bigger and more twisted of them turned to him, claws contracted. This was a thiner and wicker orc than the regular ones – renegade of the packs, the thought flashed through Landir’s mind – still when it jumped agaist him, its weight and its momentum unbalanced Landir, who had to fight to stand.

The orc tried to bit at Landir’s troath, but the man warded himself with an arm, crashig that same elbow agaist the beast’s nose. The orc’s head jerked on one side, snapping nearly. It stepped back open-armed and Landir grabbed the hilt of his sword more securely even if his balace was still unsettled. He saw the orc become two in fornt of him, then one once more, and then he slashed out, cutting the air in a circle. The orc crouched, dodging the blow and jumped on Landir again. Too close to use his sword effectively, the man siezed it by the upper part of the blade and crashed the hilt agaist the orc’s snout.

The beast staggered back, its ballance completely unsettled. It waved its arm to stay up – and then froze.

Landir did not wonder why. He flipped the hilt back in his hand and faned the blade in fornt of him. The orc’s head toppled back in a spray of black, nauseating blood. It lolled on his back, attached to the neck by a mere lap of skin – and finally the body fell, revealling Farur standing there, the dagger in his hand dripping blood.

Once again it was silence, disturbed only by Careys’s soft sobbing.

Landir swayd slightly. His head was spinning and he had to lean against his sword to avoid falling. Farur was as still as a stone, his face pale, his eyes as wide as coins and his brething heavy and laboured.

Landir walked to him slowly and patted one hand on his shoulder.

“Good boy,” he gasped.

Farur rose his gaze to him briskly and started to shiver.

“Go to your mother,” the man said and pushed the boy gently towards the woman’s stretched arms. Farur staggered to her, numb-minded. She grabbed him and hold him thight, shaking.

“Shaft!”

Landir turned and went to the front of the cart. Aranarth stood beside the upset cart horse, a worried axpression on his face and black blood dripping from his sword. The young man’s face showed all his releaf as he sow his cousin.

“Everithing’s fine,” Ladir said, sheathing his sword. Then he beckoned to the other man: “Come help making some clearing up here.”

* * *

They climbed the main street quickly, but no other orcs appeared. They found the barracs bolted as they had left them, even if they noticed that the wood of the door was splintered and scratched. They entered and closed the door behind and Aranarth, who was leading the cart, stopped it in a different spot from the day bofore.

Careys was still holding her two children as if they could disappeare the moment she would let go. She did not move when the cart stopped.

Cart and horses settled, the two men busied themself with building a fire and preparing a light dinner. The family never appeared.

Aranarth looked gloomely at the cart many times while eating some food. It was dark now, and it was chilly, and only whisperes came from the hidden family.

“It’s a hard test for them,” Landir said softly. Aranrth turned to him silently. “But they’ll come out of it.” He smiled thinly. Aranarth’s face remaind dark.

Later, Landir left the fire and looked for a place he could sleep through the night. He found one near the horses. He crouched agaist the wall and Fieldancer bent his head and brushed his nose agaist the man’s cheek. Landir chuckled and stroke one of the horse’s strong legs.

“Good lad” he murmured.

Stroking his horse’s leg absentmindly, Landir turned to look around.

The place was dark and silent, the night chill filtered inside by the little windows letting in the milky halo of the snowy moonless night.

Into the cart all was silent. A candle was lit near the back door of the wagon and Farur’s pensive shape was siholuetted againt that light. Warm as it was that light, it was too weack to light the inside of the cart, so that Landir could hardly make out Careys’ shape sleeping on a blanket on the floor, curled around her little son.

Not far away, Aranarth sat by the fire, arms resting on his knees, a pensive expression on his face.

Landir shifted looking for a confortable position, wrapping himself in the cloak. It was silent and chilly, no songs in the longest night of the year, no dances around the bonefire. Still two light shone in the dark, and that gave him a  good sensation. His lips curled in a faint smile as his eyes closed.

He was wakened by a whispering in the hour before dawn.

“My mother’s scared,” Farur was saying. “She fears she’ll loose me and my brother as well.”

The boy sat by the fire in fornt of Aranarth, who looked like he had never moved all through the night.

“These are dangerous times,” Aranrth whispered back. “We all have something at stake.”

“What happened to my father may happen to my brother and my mother as well,” Farur said passionatelly “Should I just stand and watch?”

Aranarth did not answer. He merely shook his head, eyes downcast.

Landir stood up and walked silently towards them.

“I want to go to Gondor,” Farur stated. “I want to join the army and help fighting the Enemy! How can this be wrong?” His voice was firm but his eyes gave away his upset.

Aranarth rose his head and a faint smile cracked his face.

“That’s not wrong at all,” he said. “Defending the people we love, and the land we love...” He shook his head sadly once more, dropping his gaze. “That’s not wrong at all,” he whispered so softly.

Farur was looking at him intently. Landir was close behind his cousin’s back, now.

Aranarth rose his head suddenly.

“Eärnur may be a moody man, but he will defend our land as best he can. I’m sure of it. You do good in joining in his army.” His voice was louder and steadier now.

Farur’s lip curled shyly, but his smile quickly faded. “But my mother says I’m too young. I’m only twelve, she says. I can wait a bit longer.” He shook his head, frowning stabbonly. “I’ve already killed the enemy. Surely there’s more I can do!”

Aranarth smiled feebly.

“There is,” he said. “I’ve been twelve too, a long time ago. I...” his voice faltered. “I thought...” and treiled away.

Landri placed a hand on his shoulder.

“We would pretend that Blade was the king of Arthedain,” he said, smiling to Farur. “And I his trusted captain.” Aranarth did not look up at him, but Landir could feel the shiver in his shoulders. “We would pretend to fight the enemy side by side, protecting each other’s back, rising our blades against anyone who would harm our people and our land.”

Farur’s face was shinign now, his eyes shimmering.

“And now that’s what you’re doing!”. His gaze shifted and he looked past Landir’s shoulders. The man turned and saw Careys revealed buy the first light of dawn. She was bracing herself, tears rolled down her cheeks, still she rose her arms towards her son. The boy stood and ran to her. And they embraced each other. Careys was sobbing, brushing her son’s hair. At last she streightened, brushing her own tears away with the back of one hand, pushing her son a bit aside with the other.

“Come,” she said with still trembling voice. “We have to talk.”

Mother and son came back to the cart.

Landir sat by the fire, beside his cousin, who rose two dark eyes on him.

“And that’s what we’re doing,” he repeated, pensively.

Landir smirked.

“Good, clevel boy, isn’t he?” he said.

Aranarth met his gaze – and for the first time in a long while, his chuckled.

* * *

Landir found Aranarth on the walls of Fornost, watching out at the fields and the woods stretching to the horizon in their blanket of snow. The sky was still covered, but the morning breeze had ripped throught the clouds so that fans of sunlight cut the crispy air, making the snow glimmer like a carpet of tiny gems. The blackness of Angmar still lingered on the horizon, far, far away. But it looked so distant that morning.

Landir leaned on the walls beside Aranarth.

“They are heading to Gondor,” he said, looking out to the fields. “Looks like Farur won his firth battle.” He smiled.

“He’s a little brave man,” Aranarth said.

“He is.”

The breeze blew in the silent that fell.

“Do you remember when we were twelve?” Aranarth finally asked.

“Didn’t you hear me, then?” Landir asked, playfully.

Aranarth’s expression remained serious.

“I really thought I was going to be king of Arthedain and would fight the enemy from this Fortress, like so many of my forefathers.”

Landir turned to Aranarth. He was serious too, now.

“You are king of Arthedain, heir of Isildur and Anarion.”

Aranarth met his gaze. He still bore that sad smile on his lips.

“Avedui my father was the Last King,” he said plainly. “Arthedain is no more. I’m the king of shadows.”

Landir made as if to reply but Aranarth stopped him with a movement of his hand. “One day, Landir, Elendil’s kingdom will be one again.”

“I know,” Landir said passionately, but once agian Aranarth stopped him.

“My father knew it too. He thought that was my destiny. But it isn’t.”

Landir stood in front of him, aghast.

“You saw the one...” he mouthed. “You really saw him.”

It was Aranarth’s time to smirk and joke: “So you hadn’t believe me, uh?”

At once his face was not sad any longer. His eyes shone the way they had use to before Fornost fell. With a shrug, he added more lightly, “I’ve been thinking one thing: we could make a part of the journy with Careys and her sons. She’ll need some help on the road.”

Landir started to smile and seeing that Aranarth added: “But don’t insist me, I’m not goign to Gondor, I’ve already told you. That’s not my place.” He turned to the fields and the woods and leand to the walls as if listening to a call. “ This is my place.” He whispered, as much to his cousin as to himself. “I may walk large and far, I may answer the call of kinship as far as it can take me. But my heart will always beats here, were my blood is mixed with the soil of the earth.” He paused, and siftly he added: “I’m not going to he City of Kings. My path is a different one, a darker, more secret one. I’m no longer afraid to walk it.”

The sun breached through the clouds and shone on the snow. The air felt a bit warmer.

Landir smiled. There was something warm inside him too.

Aranarth turned suddenly to him.

“So... Shaft, tell me what you think about this: we’ll help Careys and her family walk the path to Gondor, first.”

Landir nodded sternely even if his eyes were shimmering.

“Sounds like a good ranger’s plan – Blade,” he said.

“I thought as much,” Aranarth agreed grimly. And suddenly he smiled like a boy. “Then, when we’ll come back...”

Landir smirked: “We’ll have a look around.”

ENDS

© Sarah Zama 2007