A/N: As you can see, Nostos is currently undergoing some construction. Chapter 1 has been reposted, with a full explanation. PLEASE, if you have not already done so, re-read Chapter 1 so that you understand the changes I've made. They're kind of big, as in, you won't understand some of this chapter if you don't read the new version of Chapter 1.

Reviews are, as always, appreciated. Thanks for your patience.

Started: 25 August 2012

Finished: 3 September 2012

Posted:

Here begins PART 2

Nostos

-11-

The Ghost Story

F.O. 73

Minas Tirith

"And we shouldn't be here at all, if we'd known more about it before we started. But I suppose it's often that way. The brave things in the old tales and songs, Mr. Frodo: adventures, as I used to call them. I used to think that they were things the wonderful folk of the stories went out and looked for, because they wanted them, because they were exciting and life was a bit dull, a kind of sport, as you might say. But that's not the way of it with the tales that really mattered, or the ones that stay in the mind. Folk seemed to have been just landed in them usually- their paths were laid that way, as you put it. But I expect they had lots of chances, like us, of turning back, only they didn't." (The Two Towers, The Stairs of Cirith Ungol)

.

I haven't much time left now to write to you- just a good-bye. No time, when most dear is time now to me. We ride tomorrow for Gondor, and I feel it in my bones that we come to an end of sorts. If I do not live to see you once more, I would have you know that your words have been to me a light in many a dark place. Would that I could say to you all that must be said to one who has been so dear to me, for so long. If I survive, you shall never read these words.

- Éomer, Third Marshal of the Mark, to Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth (unsent and unread)

"The archives?" he said.

"Yes, my lord."

Eldarion Telcontar, crown prince of the united kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor, finally gathered up his bottom jaw, which in the course of the short conversation had found its way to the floor. The page boy looked very nervous, as if he was somehow responsible for the resulting deformity in his prince.

"I believe you just informed me that Alphros, Prince of Dol Amroth, has not only abandoned his sea-drenched mausoleum and ventured into the White City, but has also dragged his old creaking bones into the archives?"

The poor boy opened and closed his mouth. Eldarion took pity on him. "Never mind. Er, thank you."

He fumbled in a pocket for a coin. He ought to take up the pages' cause with his father; they weren't paid enough to live in the same city as their prince. Valar knew that it had taken every single ounce of his mother's patience- acquired over two thousand years of life- to raise him to adulthood without flinging him

Strange, that he and Alphros had managed to become such good friends, given that the Prince of Dol Amroth was some forty years older than he. But then, Alphros understood the burden of being born to living legends. Certainly Imrahil had not Elessar Telcontar's fame, but still, Alphros's grandfather had been no small figure. Both men had managed to raise, Eldarion thought with a rueful chuckle, abnormally spoiled children. Spoiled rotten, his uncle Éomer had called them. Alphros had outgrown the phase, as had Eldarion. Still, Eldarion never thought the day would come when he would find Alphros in the archives.

Once upon a time, they had both been young. His uncle Alphros had been the talk of the town then, always had a new lady on his arm and a flask in his hand. He had taught Eldarion to hold his drink well, but that had been before the king and queen had sent Eldarion away, to the Elves left in Middle-Earth.

It was fall in Minas Tirith; the leaves were turning crimson and gold and yellow, carpeting the stones in scarlet. Winter was a promise in the air. Eldarion wound his way through the levels of the city until he found the archives.

In the archives the air was close, warm and still, like the belly of some great beast. Its caretaker, Parvion, was- in the words of the Steward himself- a cantankerous old man. In the words of Eldarion's father, the man had spent too long buried with his relics, and not enough time among the living.

Upon seeing him, Parvion scowled. "Good, good. The Prince is here. Hasn't been drinking, has he?"

Alphros's reputation, it seemed, had preceded him.

"I should hope not," said Eldarion.

"Good." Parvion looked uneasily about the vast maze that housed some of Gondor's most sacred writings. "He's got a lamp with him, covered, but if he sets so much as a corner on fire, I shall set fire to him."

"Understood."

Parvion's hands, though aged, were steady as he lit a glass-enclosed candle for Eldarion.

"Thank you," he said, and set out to find the Prince of Dol Amroth.

His friend and distant relation was buried amidst the debris that accompanied any halfway decent library. The scrolls he had spread across tables looked to be in fine condition- recent, then, not remnants from ages long past.

"Cousin," said Eldarion courteously, setting aside his light. His cousin did not look drunk, though he looked very old. It had been many years since they had last seen each other, and the Prince's hair had gone completely white, the flesh wrinkling and folding over protruding bones.

Alphros started, then a smile spread across his face as he glanced up. "Why, Eldarion! You must have run to have appeared so quickly."

"Or perhaps my legs are not so wearied as yours," said Eldarion, clasping the other man's forearm affectionately. He tried not to see how thin Alphros had become, how the flesh had begun to sag and distort the once-sharpened features. His cousin was aging. How old was he? Nearing on eighty, he thought. Eldarion himself was not yet four-and-forty, but the blood of Númenor ran strong in his veins, so that he looked as a man half his age.

"That is true," said Alphros ruefully. "Long days in the saddle are beastly. I remember now that it is not your city I despise, but the journey."

"If you so detest it, what brings you here?"

The other man shrugged. Then he said, "You received my letter?"

"Yes- a week past. It was… intriguing."

"Intriguing?"

"Very," Eldarion nodded. "It was true? All of it?"

Alphros snorted. "If it were not true, then I would not be here."

Eldarion felt his mouth twitch. "I had expected you would be at the taverns."

"Ah, the Frog," said Alphros with relish. "You remember that one?"

"Of course I do- it is hardly forgettable."

"That man could drink."

Pints, in matters of minutes, if Eldarion's memory served him correctly. But then the memories that survived nights on the town with Alphros were far and few.

"He used to play those ghastly songs on that lute of his," said Alphros dreamily. "And when one had to use the necessary- d'you remember that one?"

"Of course."

Raising his voice an octave or two, Alphros began to sing, "We know where you going, we know-,"

"Alphros!" hissed Eldarion. "We are in the archives!"

"Oh yes." The Prince looked as sheepish as a man of eighty could manage. "Apologies."

"Now you've done it. Parvion will come and throw us out."

And indeed, the esteemed master of the archives did appear within due course; his scowl was formidable. Eldarion bowed quickly and kicked Alphros's ankle. "Apologies, Master Parvion. It will not happen again."

"See that it does not." He sealed it with a scowl before stalking off.

"How did he find us so quickly?" Alphros wanted to know. "This place is massive-,"

"Alphros," Eldarion interrupted, "what in the name of the Valar are you doing here?"

"Ah, yes." Alphros's shoulders slumped, and he suddenly looked very old, the animation fading from his face. "About that. I wanted to see if my aunt's story was recorded. Here is all I could find pertaining to Dol Amroth during the War-," a sweep of his hand encompassed the scrolls and parchment on one of the long tables, and very nearly sent one of the ingenious little lamps to the floor; Eldarion moved quickly to steady it. "I found a brief mention of the battle at Tolfalas."

Eldarion went to look through the records. They were well-preserved compared to much that was housed here; most records had been copied and the originals stored elsewhere, in case of fire or disaster, but even so, most were in poor shape. "Alphros," he said slowly, "why have you here an account of the Rohirrim's journey to Gondor?"

Something like embarrassment settled on the Prince's face. "It is a whim."

"Do share."

"I wondered if perhaps my aunt had managed to happen upon the Rohirrim on her ride back to the city, once Tolfalas had been defeated."

At this, Eldarion laughed aloud. "What a thought! You know well that the Rohirrim rode from the north, and the Queen from the south." Alphros did not flinch, and Eldarion hesitated. "What is it?"

"She told me," he said slowly, "a ghost story." He unfurled a great map. "I have found the records of the commander of the fortress, a man called Tercil the One-Handed."

"What sort of a name is that?"

"He lost his hand at Tolfalas," explained Alphros. "His diaries are preserved at Dol Amroth and they tell a little of the battle there."

"Do they mention your aunt?"

"Only briefly. The battle itself is only very quickly sketched."

"Many men do not wish to remember defeat," said Eldarion.

"Yes," said Alphros. "I imagine, rather, that he was too wearied, and too grieved, to remember. Or else he never intended his writings for the eyes save his own, and such a memory was burned into his mind."

Eldarion nodded. He could remember with dizzying clarity the battles he had fought. Gondor knew peace now, yet the prince had seen enough blood to make him a warrior. So had been his father's insistence, though his advisors had balked at the thought of the king's only son in harm's way. "What says Tercil the One-Handed?"

Alphros tapped a gnarled finger on the map. "I remember him well, and liked him. He spent some years in Rohan as my aunt's chief guard. In his journals he sets out the path they took. From here," he stabbed his index finger at the Ethir Anduin, "they rode along the Anduin, passing through Pelargir and through Lebennin and Lossarnach before crossing the river into the White City."

"What of this ghost story?"

"She told me," said Alphros slowly, frowning, "that in Pelargir, she dreamt of a ghost."

.

So, thought Lothíriel calmly, I am dreaming.

It was the same sort of dream that had found her upon the hill, watching as her cousin was killed. A true dream, then.

She looked around and saw that she was in a wood. The trees were thick and dark, but here and there she saw firelight and smelled smoke. The trees seemed to sigh very softly, and the air that settled on her skin was very chill.

The dream seemed so lucid that for a moment she wondered if it truly was a dream. But no- she remembered falling asleep on the cold hard ground, somewhere outside of Pelagrir. Or was it? She couldn't quite remember. The days of hard riding from Tolfalas to Minas Tirith seemed to blend together, the weariness sinking deep into her bones.

"Hello?" she called. She trudged on. Behind the trees lurked shadows.

"I suppose," she said to the dark emptiness, "I am here for some reason. Would you please tell me why?"

The wind sighed through the trees, but it seemed to her that it tugged at her. This way, it seemed to say.

Lothíriel followed, and, navigating an uneven patch, came around a great oak tree to make out a dark form.

"Good evening," she said cautiously. Was it human? Well, whatever it was, it did not seem to have heard her. She drew closer until she was only a few feet away, and saw that it was a man. His back was to her, and he gleamed dully in heavy armor. His head, though was bare, and she saw that his hair was bright and fair. There was something familiar about the tense lines of the broad, proud shoulders, and she drew closer, circling about him. If only she could see his face!

Footsteps crunched from behind Lothíriel. "My lord," said the approaching figure, and the seated man turned and raised his head.

Éomer.

The breath deserted her lungs, or so it seemed; she gasped. How she knew him, she did not understand. How many years had it been? Yet she recognized him with sudden, blinding awareness, and she called his name.

"Over here, Éothain," he said, as if she had not spoken. "I am well."

"Éomer!" she said again, more desperately. She could not tear her eyes from his face.

"There you are," said another man. He too was armored, his helm in his hand. "What troubles you? I tell you what, you just need something to drink." He proffered a flask. "I have been saving it." He was bare inches from Lothíriel, and she reached out, experimentally brushing at his shoulder, but he did not even flinch.

Éomer drank some and pulled a face. "That tastes like mule piss!"

His friend roared with laughter. "Who says it isn't?"

Grinning now, Éomer stood in one fluid motion. "Dreadful stuff. I've drank better in the meanest of ale-houses. You may have it."

"You look like hell," his friend said bluntly. "You need it more than I do."

"I am fine."

"If you say so. At least come by the fire- this forest is strange." He looked about himself uneasily, his eyes passing over ghost-Lothíriel as though she did not exist.

"It's alive," said Éomer.

"Unnatural," said Éothain.

"There are ghosts here," said Éomer, as though he had not heard his friend.

"Éomer!" she cried, as loudly as she could, and he started, unsheathing his sword in a breath. He heard her! Emboldened, she went to him, to grasp his arm, but though her hand rested on his flesh, he did not seem to feel it. "Éomer!"

"What is it?" asked Éothain.

"Someone called me," said Éomer. "Did you not hear? Someone said my name."

"I heard naught but the wind through the trees. Éomer, come with me; you are not yourself."

"No," said Éomer, "no, I am not."

Éothain's brow was furrowed. "Friend," he said quietly, "I know not where you wander, but come back with me."

"Can't you hear me?" Lothíriel asked him. She tightened her grasp on his arm, and he shivered suddenly.

"Yes," he said decisively, "I could use something to drink, and eat. Tomorrow we ride on."

"To death and glory," said Éothain, with the air of one long accustomed to such rhetoric.

"To death," said Éomer bleakly, "and mayhap glory, but certainly death."

Lothíriel watched as the two of them left her, wending their way about the trees, towards the distant fires and voices and smoke, and she felt very alone.

"Éomer?" she called again softly. Then she said, more to herself and the trees than to anyone in particular, "It is not fair, you know. Why can I not speak to him? It is almost worse to see and not speak than to know nothing at all. May I go back now, if I can do nothing more? I would have liked to say good-bye."

She heard movement behind her.

"Tell me what troubles you."

Lothíriel spun around, her heart in her mouth. She knew that voice, and, turning, she recognized the darkened figure that stood at her shoulder. "Dánaron!"

He smiled at her, kindly and quietly. He was shrouded in darkness, but she made out the gentleness in his eyes, the peace in his stilled form. "Princess Lothíriel."

"What are you-?" She could not finish her thought.

"I wanted to say good-bye, and then I will pass through the veil," he said.

"You waited for me? To say good-bye?" The tightness in her heart loosened just a little.

"Time is very different here." There was peace in his face. "You must not blame yourself."

"No?" she asked and sat cross-legged on the ground. "I was the one who brought you to Tolfalas."

"Tercil would have lit the powder and blown the fortress but I took his place. Long have I wished for an honorable death."

"Did it hurt?"

He thought for a moment. As usual, he measured his words carefully and gravely as he spoke. "For half a moment, it hurt very much. And then I was at peace. And this peace- it is worth more than all the pain of the world."

"I don't want to die," she said very quietly but very fiercely. "I am so afraid."

"You are stronger than you could ever imagine," he said, and she thought of another who had written those very words to her. "You did not die at Tolfalas. No matter what comes to pass," he said, "you will find the strength to survive."

She closed her eyes and then, suddenly, blindingly, she knew he was right. She raised her chin- she was her father's daughter - and said, "I will be strong."

"I know," he said. "You ride now to Minas Tirith?"

"Yes, with the men who are left. Tercil leads us- they think to join with the armies in the White City. We have heard in Pelargir that we did not fight in vain."

"No?"

"No," she said. She wanted to take his hand, but feared that she would find he was made of nothing but air. "No, we held the Corsairs long enough that a great force came to Pelargir, and there defeated the Corsairs."

"Well," he said, "then we- you - have succeeded."

"Wait!" she cried as he made to rise. "Éomer- will he die? Why am I here?"

"Nothing is for certain," said Dánaron.

"You must leave me now, mustn't you?" she asked him.

"I am going home," he said.

"Oh," she said faintly. "Well, then this is good-bye."

"Not good-bye," he said.

"Will I see you again?"

"Do not be afraid," he said. "At the end of all things, I will bring you home."

"You promise?"

"I promise," he said gravely. "I will not leave you." He turned and suddenly, his face was illuminated, as though the sun shone upon him, and he stepped away. In a moment, he was gone.

She felt the loneliness only for a moment before the darkness swelled about her. Someone was shaking her body, telling her it was time to wake, and she remembered that they were to ride on today.

Yes, she thought, I must go home. For now.

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