Fending for himself in the wilds was no unfamiliar task for the young man who had now adopted the use-name of Strider – a common Dúnedain pseudonym. He had journeyed out into forest and plains many times during his training, to learn the craft of the Rangers, of tracking, hunting, foraging. He knew every hiding place, cave and shelter for miles around Imladris. He knew where deer and rabbits could be found, what berries were poisons and which made for good eating. He knew how to shoot a bow, how to skin and prepare his meat, how to start a fire in damp and dry. In fact, all of this was so familiar to him that at first it did not feel as though he had run away from home at all, only as if this was just another simple adventure in the wilderness.

That feeling quickly faded. Strider hadn't given much thought to what he would do once he left, but he realised soon enough that he wouldn't be able to remain in the area that he knew. On the very second day he was nearly surprised by a patrol of Lord Elrond's horsemen as he lay by one of the clear swift streams that coursed down from the hills above Imladris, drinking and washing his face. He heard the surprisingly quiet hooves of the elvish steeds only moments before they burst out from the treeline along the deer-track, moments enough for him to worm his way into a stand of reeds, mud squishing cold and uncomfortable through his soft, fingerless wool gloves and the knees of his trews. After that he knew to be more wary, but if Lord Elrond had not called his mother and the Dúnedain to the search already, he would soon. They knew the land even better than he did. He could not stay.

So it was that Strider struck out south-west along the path of the Loudwater River, into a land that had once been named Rhudaur, skirting the Trollshaws that bordered the Great East Road northwards. It was not a land that had seen Men other than the Dúnedain for many long years. Sometimes he came across the abandoned ruins of old towns and villages, only ragged stone now, overgrown with greenery, home now solely to animals and birds. Further south, he knew, in Eregion, there were people; farmers, traders, some little prosperity. The same to the west, until you hit the fertile land of the Shire, which his mother had spoken of fondly. Strider knew the lands of the North just as well as he did those of the South, even if he had come by the knowledge in less coherent fashion than that of his tutors' lessons.

He knew of its dangers too. Rhudaur had its bears, which he avoided, and its packs of wolves, which were well fed enough to ignore him for the most part, or at least not to make a point of hunting him down. But it also had wargs. Strider had heard about these, of course, but Elrond had kept his own lands free of such creatures, hunting them down if ever they were so bold as to stray across the wider borders of Imladris. He had never seen one with his own eyes. That changed swiftly one night, when an alien howl lifted up under the light of the moon, waking him from his slumber under the well-needled branches of a lone pine. He knew enough not to linger where he was, but immediately grasped the nearest bough and pulled himself upwards into the tree. He was just in time.

A huge dark shape burst through the trailing curtain of branches and leapt for him, white teeth snapping in a spray of saliva, claws scrabbling against the trunk. Its strength propelled it upwards, but not quite far enough. It fell back, snarling, and circled, looking for a better spot to make the attempt.

For a moment Strider was frozen with shock, with the sudden violence. He could only stare, and feel the cold grip of treacherous fear numb his limbs and wits. Then he remembered himself. Remembered what he had been taught. The bow, as the sword, had been drilled into him from an early age, and though he had never been as good as any elf who had practised for more years than even Dúnedain lived, his instructors had been satisfied enough to make him think he wasn't all that terrible. He could hit what he aimed for at least, if it wasn't moving too fast, and he wasn't asked to aim for any of the tricky bits like the eyes or the great vessels. He unslung his bow from his back and retrieved its string from the protection of its waxed leather wrapping. It was awkward to put the bow under enough tension to string it surrounded by branches, but he managed it in the end by bracing it against the trunk. Then he nocked an arrow and took careful aim.

The warg saw what he was doing. If he had needed any proof of the creature's intelligence, the look of contempt it wore would have been enough. Clearly it thought little of the skills of Men when it came to archery. Strider sighted, pulled back, breathed out, and let fly.

The warg yelped as it was dealt the mortal wound. It was not the quick death it might have been had Strider been an elf, but it had been a fatal blow all the same. Only, as it panted out its last, heaving, gurgling breaths through lungs filling with blood, he found himself feeling guilty, though there was little reason for it. It had been a creature with a brain, not an animal that had no thought of the future or what might have been, and that would at least have served to fill his belly. He wished he had been able to do a better job than this prolonged, painful demise. It would have been... better.

Not that he felt too bad. It had been trying to kill him. It was only... it had been the first thinking creature he had killed.

It would have been no comfort to know how much worse killing his first man would make him feel.

Strider crossed out of Rhudaur at one of the old forgotten fords on the Hoarwell river, now far from any road known to most Men. The Dúnedain knew of the ford, because the elves with their long lives remembered when this had been the great Kingdom of the North, Arnor, Gondor's shining twin. Strider had learnt his history well, as he had been intended to. Now he was almost ashamed to have been such a good pupil. Still, another of his lessons had been in how a little knowledge could go a long way in the halls of power, and though he had no intention of going near any such place, he thought himself the better for the knowing anyway.

He had now come to more settled land in the triangle between the Great East Road to the north, the river behind him, and the Greenway ahead to the west. The land became more open, the forests bearing the mark of Men's work in cutting, clearing and hunting, deer-tracks becoming true paths and small roads. The soil here was good enough for farming, and Strider began to find himself skirting tilled fields and paddocks with high strong fences. After a few more days, upon cresting the rise of a hill he came across his first true village since leaving Imladris. He found himself hesitating looking down upon the small, quiet cluster of houses, simple and squat compared to the buildings of the elves, unsure of himself. He knew little of any people that were not the Dúnedain. Although his kinsfolk spoke often enough to those they protected, Strider had not been allowed to be present for any of it. Would they be welcoming of strangers?

Whether they were or not, skulking like a bandit or a thief would certainly do him no favours. He tried to make himself appear more presentable, as much as was possible for a Ranger who had been travelling wild lands for a week, then he started down the slope towards the hamlet.

It was likely that someone had spotted him early on, but one traveller alone was evidently of little concern, for no-one came out to greet him or turn him away. In fact he saw little sign of life aside from hearth-fire smoke until he was within shouting distance of the first house. Then he caught sight of a little girl watching him from behind a palisade that caged a somewhat mangy-looking cow. As soon as she realised she'd been seen, she gigged and ran away, disappearing around the corner of the house. Moments later, a stolid looking couple came towards him, both in simple clothes, with curious, careful expressions.

"Greetings friends," Strider called to them, making sure his empty hands were easily seen in front of him. He was rather aware of the fact that he was armed with both sword and bow, and they bore no trace of a weapon. He reached up slowly and pushed back his hood so they could better see his face.

"Ach, you're naught but a boy!" the man exclaimed with a look of surprise. "Surely you haven't been travelling by yourself lad? Where's your father?"

Strider found himself flushing a little, partly embarrassment, and partly anger. "I am of age next year," he said coolly, "and my father is dead."

That much made the man look ashamed. "I'm sorry to hear that lad," he said. "Here, you look like you've been travelling a long while, and it's clear you don't mean us no harm. Why don't you come inside for a meal? We've little enough, but enough to spare."

"I thank you for your hospitality," he replied, and followed them inside.

The sparseness of the place was surprising. Back in Imladris, there was nothing that had not been crafted to be beautiful as well as useful. It was certainly true enough that Strider had seen buildings which were plain and unadorned when he travelled on his short trips with the Dúnedain, but he had thought that only because these were forest shacks rather than permanent dwellings. But perhaps it was in fact simply the Mannish style.

"I am Isolt," the woman told him, motioning him to a bench seat by a low, rough table. "And this is Harvald. And our daughter, Ase." Strider nodded, watching her quick and sure movements around the single small room, uncovering carved wooden plates, bowls and cups from cunningly hidden places. Then he realised he was meant to make some reply, and hesitated.

"I travel under the name Strider," he said. "Any other name I might claim would be... complicated."

He saw his hosts exchange glances, but he did not know the meaning concealed in them. Still, they did not press the subject. Soon a mug of small beer had been put in front of him, along with a bowl of stew, a hunk of dark, heavy bread, and a small piece of cheese. He knew enough of manners shared between both Elves and Men to wait until the others were seated and served also before beginning to eat. It was good fare, after too much of meat and hard biscuit in the last weeks.

He had felt some worry that Harvald and Isolt would ask him the sort of questions he would find it difficult to answer, but instead they asked about his travels; the conditions, the dangers, what fierce and wild things lurked in wait for the unwary. That much he certainly did not mind talking about. They were surprised to hear that he had come from the east, but Strider assured them of the skills that kept him safe and his ability to look after himself.

"Still, no boy ought to have to face such wild beasts," Harvald said, shaking his head. The girl Ase stared at him wide-eyed from the other side of the table. She was very quiet, and Strider did not know enough of children to say whether this was normal. "And if you mean to keep westwards as you say, that's not the only danger you'll be running into."

"What do you mean?"

"Bandits," Isolt told him. "Robbers have plagued the road recently. The rumours say that once they would have been too scared of the Rangers to come so close to their territory – not that Rangers are more than tall tales anyway, I've not ever seen nor heard of a real one. But whether real or not, seems Rangers have other business to keep them occupied other than patrolling the highways."

Strider felt a rush of surprise, and then of shame. What if it was because of him? It could be. His mother would have called everyone she could to look for him, and he supposed he could hardly blame her. It wasn't that he doubted her love for him, only that he couldn't be sure how much she had known about Elrond's plans for him. Whether she had given him into his care so he could be raised to be the kind of puppet-king they wanted, or for the reason he had always previously been told; to keep him safe. But it was unpleasant to think that because of her search innocent people like these villagers might be in more danger.

He listened carefully as his hosts filled him in on all they knew about the situation, and felt the hollow in his belly grow. The Rangers were all of his old life he still respected, whose ideals he wanted to live up to. He had a responsibility, as one of them, as a son of the Dúnedain. He just wasn't quite sure what exactly he might be able to do to make it right.

He still didn't know by the next morning when he set off again, but that made him no less determined.

Dagmar Caravan-Mistress did not remember when the boy had first joined them. She hadn't thought much of it at the time. He had looked suspicious, but then who didn't on this road? Once you got south of the Brandywine River that was it for decent civilisation until Rohan, and if only the Blue Mountain dwarves didn't make such pretty – and more importantly valuable – things no merchant would think the trip worth it. One more thin, ragged man with a dirty hooded cape concealing his face and an old sword at his hip, looking for the protection of travelling with a group, was little to take note of. He hadn't spoken much, but he had a bow and he had hunted with it, which was more than enough to earn his keep.

Now though she was wishing she had asked a few more questions.

The bandit leader, a thug who looked as though maybe he had a touch of orc way back in his bloodline, looked just as bemused as she felt. "What are you playing at, you fool?" he said. "There's a lot more of us then there are of you, and to be honest, there's not much profit to be made in killing those that think they're heroes. Dead bodies don't make no-one any money."

"And I told you, this stops," the man said. He still had his hood up, but his voice sounded younger than she'd thought, now Dagmar actually had a chance to hear it properly. The sword was no old relic either, but shining sharp steel, well oiled and honed. And he held it like he knew how to use it.

The bandit sighed. She could see him thinking it over in his head. The stranger could probably get a few good hits in, maybe wound some of his men before they took him down, and there was no kind of reliable healer out here, or at least none that would treat someone with suspiciously sword-inflicted wounds. On the other hand, he didn't seem the kind of person much made for negotiating.

"No," he said after a moment. "No, I think we will kill you."

The bandits moved quickly. They had no weapons quite as nice as the young man's, but they had wicked-looking axes and spiked bucklers, and odds and ends of armour, and they were clearly no strangers to violence. And yet when the ragged stranger leapt into the fight against them, all of a sudden they seemed as clumsy as children playing with sticks. Dagmar watched with wonder and not a little fear as the young man dodged and parried axe-swings, fending off four men at once with such skill that they got in the way of the others trying to come for him. Then with a flash of steel and a sudden spray of blood, one of the thieves was on the ground with a hand clamped over his throat and his jerkin rapidly turning red.

In the moment of stunned silence that followed, Dagmar realised that no-one was watching her own caravan guards any more. She kicked the ankle of the man standing beside her, who still had his belt-knife even if his halberd had been confiscated and motioned to the half-turned back of the bandit who had been the one to take it. He got her meaning quickly enough.

It was over not long after. The bandits saw which way things were going, and the profit-cost analysis worked itself out rapidly in their heads. They took off, leaving their dead behind along with those too wounded to walk, who would be becoming dead sooner rather than later. The young man watched them go, a sheen of blood clinging to the edge of his blade. His hood had fallen back during the fight. His hair was an unwashed tangle clumped into a horse's-tail at the back of his neck.

Then he turned his head, and in the pale, shaking, shocked expression of his face Dagmar saw just how young he really was.

Summer 2950

Galadriel was ill at ease. She had been so ever since the fortress and the mountain, since dragon-fire and ancient evil thrust into the light. Had that year been merely a year of Sauron she would have been less discomforted; he was an old foe but familiar in his age and in his deeds. She knew him and the manner of his thoughts. But the new evil that had come into the world she did not know. It distracted with its smallness and was all the greater danger for it. It had powers she in all her years had never seen and had no knowledge of. It was nothing that had come out of the West, but something that seemed to have arisen here in the centre of the world unnoticed by any of the great and wise.

Lothlórien was preparing for what was to come, as much as any of the realms of her kin. Even Lord Círdan, who concerned himself little with affairs beyond his own lands, she had convinced to turn his thoughts to war. It was a future lying heavy on the present. Her mirror showed her many things, water blessed by Nenya's power, visions of fire and ruin, and dominion over all lands beneath the sun and moon. Shadow and wings against a sky turned black with rising smoke. She had heard from Legolas Thranduillion that their enemy had found another of the Urúloki, or in a suspicion she had not yet chosen to share, perhaps had brought it forth out of the silence of a former death. If so there might be others, but she had been unable to divine the number or nature of the wyrms.

There had been a plan. The White Council had agreed on it together, and she had thought it wise enough at the time for all that it relied so much on the strength of Men. Now though, their King-to-be had disappeared entirely, an event coinciding suspiciously with a visit of Curunír the White to Imladris. Galadriel did not trust Curunír in the way that she trusted Olórin. His mind was a maze that concealed much. Yet it would be of no gain to him for the child Estel to be lost to them.

She walked the star-lit paths of Caras Galadhon, feeling the feather-light press of the grass beneath her feet, the wash of Elbereth's light in the arc of the sky overhead. She was not the only one to be awake at this late hour. Lamp-light flickered in branches above, and her keen ears picked out the murmur of voices in speech or song that her mind then put faces to with easy touches against their own.

In a clearing ahead, a more familiar mind than most moved.

Her grand-daughter was dancing a sword-dance. A slender elven blade flickered in the dark as she moved between shadow and light. Galadriel watched her for long moments, considering her form. Arwen had not been studying the ways of war for very long, but the same was true of many of those who had only taken up arms when they heard of the new darkness that had come. She had a natural talent for it, which made up for some of the experience she lacked, although not enough that she would be comfortable to let her daughter's child go unsupported into danger or the thick of battle.

"Hello grandmother," Arwen said, once she had finished, and sheathed her sword once more. She was a very little out of breath, and her hair had begun to escape from the braid she had tied it into.

"You work harder than you need to," Galadriel told her gently. "The danger is yet far off." She did not say that with every year they let it lie, their enemy grew stronger. If it did so, then so did they, and she must be confident that theirs grew faster.

"I should not have been content to let my brothers become warriors without me," Arwen replied, starting to unwind her braid back into a fall of dark hair. "It might have suited them more, but now I will not be able to do as much as they will." She was frowning.

"The time of darkness seemed long past. We did not yet know Sauron lingered in Dol Guldur, nor that the One Ring might arise again after so many centuries lost." Galadriel did not wish her grand-daughter to lay blame where none ought rest.

"My father has never been happy that it was not destroyed when it should have been," Arwen said. "He has always been cautious about the dangers of the world, but I paid less attention than I should have. Now I have much lost time to make up for."

"And so you practise in the dark."

"Sleep had deserted me."

Galadriel inclined her head in amusement, since she could hardly make any reply to that when the very same was true of herself.

"Is it because of Estel?" Arwen asked. "I know he was important, although I don't remember very much of him. Just a very little child getting underfoot when I left Imladris to visit you here."

"The Dúnedain will find him, or your brothers will. And perhaps it will have been good for him to see more of the world and those who must live in it. A King must know those he rules, and he will have seen little of Men in Imladris."

"And if they don't find him in time?" Arwen asked. She had begun to braid her hair up again. Galadriel felt the direction her thoughts were tracing.

"You wish to seek him yourself."

"He is not the only one who needs experience," Arwen replied. "You wanted me to stay here these past years to keep me safe I know, but I've learned enough now to be in no danger on the road. And I feel... that I need to travel."

"Some are not meant to stay in one land all their lives," Galadriel said. "To some is given the urge to wander. If this is in your heart, know that I have faith in you. If you wish to leave, go with my blessing."

"Thank you grandmother." Arwen bowed to her, hand over heart. "I will prove worthy of your trust."

"That I do not doubt." Already she could feel the slender threads of the future shiver as they changed in the most subtle ways. "In the morning, you will be outfitted for your journey. Go forth and learn of the lands of Men."

Autumn 2951

Clouds were always gathered over Mordor now. Ecthelion saw them each morning from the window of his room, staring out at the distant mountains jagged as the teeth of some great beast. That land had fallen into darkness, as the old records said it had once done long ago, when Gondor's old enemies called that place home. Something had returned to the black depths of Mordor, and he knew what that something was even if no-one yet had spoken its name out loud. Rumours were more than loud enough.

Sauron. Laid low by Isildur, before the poison Sauron left behind corrupted him and led to his death. And where there was Sauron there rode his dead servants, those who had taken Minas Tirith's once-beautiful twin city and made it a grave, who had tricked the last King of Gondor to his death. With such terrible and desperate days on the horizon, how could Ecthelion do anything but fear?

His father no longer had the strength to rule. His days were coming to an end. Soon Ecthelion would be Steward in name as well as in truth. That made all of this real and immediate in a way it had not quite been before. And what then would he do to protect his people? The treasury was impoverished, the army weakened, their defences untested and far from the old days of their glory and strength. He knew what some of his advisers would say. The words of that old soothsayer all those years ago had taken root in the minds of many of his people; this half-myth of a powerful lord in the North; Kulkodar who would come to save them in Gondor's hour of need. It was the same old stories about the lost Kings in a new form, and worth about as much. He had sent envoys to find out the truth, and none had ever returned.

No, Mithrandir had convinced him that there was nothing good to these tales of Kulkodar. Indeed in days like these he was grateful for the wizard's council, although neither of them could do much to quash any of the rumours Ecthelion would rather not see spread in the White City. For the past eight or nine years Mithrandir had been a fixture at court, busying himself with some wizardly studies of the great archives of Minas Tirith. Something about the old Kings and the line of Isildur, Ecthelion knew little of the details. He was merely happy that it kept him here where his wisdom was so needed.

"Good morning Lord Ecthelion," Mithrandir greeted him, when he stepped into the Great Hall that day.

"And to you Mithrandir," Ecthelion replied, "although when you come to me so early, I regret it is rarely with good news."

"Well," the wizard said, smiling, "unlike many rulers I have known, you have the wisdom and good manners to actually listen to me." He hesitated a moment, leaning on his staff. "And, perceptive as ever, you are right. I do have news. Orcs are moving in greater numbers in the mountains of Mordor. The Black Gate is manned again, as is Minas Morgul. Tremors have been felt in the earth in Ithilien. I fear Sauron has grasped enough of his old power to reawaken the fires of Mount Doom and begin reconstruction of his fell tower Barad-dûr."

Ecthelion sat down heavily upon the Steward's chair. "Ill news indeed."

"You have already begun work to rebuild the defences of Gondor," Mithrandir told him. "And it will be some while yet before any move is made against you. You are not the only enemy Sauron has."

"I can think of few so close and so near to his thoughts."

"There you are wrong," Mithrandir said. "The lands which once fell under his power – Harad, Umbar, Rhûn - have long been free of him, and may not be so eager to bow before a dark lord much reduced in his strength. He will have work to do in persuading or re-conquering them."

Ecthelion had never given much credence to the claims that Mithrandir kept things from him. Of course he would have his own secrets; he was a wizard after all, and as inclined to be cagey and private as any of his ilk. Saruman was proof enough that wizards did not let their words flow freely. But when it came to advice, he had always trusted it. And yet... it was not that it rang false, for he imagined the return of Sauron's rule would be as though some dark mirror of Isildur himself walked into this hall expecting to sit upon the High Throne – as many would be wary of him as a trick as would welcome his coming. Often it was said in his hearing, as though to flatter, that Gondor needed no King. But still he could not imagine Sauron thinking of such once-subjects as his enemies, and the word had such weight in Mithrandir's mouth...

Kulkodar, the thought flashed across his mind before he dismissed it. No. If Gondor needed no King then it needed no tall tale to save it either. Let Sauron come for them; it would be years down the line if Mithrandir's claims ran true, and in that time Gondor would make itself strong. Through long centuries Gondor had held, against dead Kings and their armies Gondor had held when its sister Arnor crumbled and fell, and now would it hold too, against whatever terrors the future held.

That was his promise to his people.

Early Winter 2951

Gimli son of Glóin was going to see the King. Or rather, his father was, as one of the members of the legendary Company, and Gimli was joining him. It was the ten year anniversary celebration of their victory over the Elves and Erebor becoming dwarvish once again. There had been a massive party all throughout the day, with feasting and drinking and singing and many, many speeches which became less coherent as the hours went on. Although everyone in Erebor had been invited to the main event, even the people of Dale who had technically been on the wrong side a decade ago, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield were having their own party afterwards, in the King and Consort's halls, with all of their families. Gimli had been excited about it ever since he'd been told it was going to happen.

Gimli had at least managed not to spill anything on his clothes during the feast earlier, and he was still too young to be allowed strong dwarvish beer, or even much of the weaker stuff the Men preferred. His mind was therefore clear of anything but anticipation as they climbed the great stair. His father and mother had both been drinking as much as anyone else, but he didn't see any signs of it in them now. They both looked very fine in their ceremonial mail, covered over by jerkins embroidered with thread-of-gold. His father wore gold braid clips marked with the symbol of their house, and his mother had put her hair and beard up in ornate loops studded with beads of turquoise and lapis, bright against her fiery locks. His own clips were silver for his youth, for although he had come of age two years ago, he hadn't yet found his Craft or Calling.

The door to the King's halls had pillars to either side carved with the signs of the house of Durin, and over it were the wings of the Raven, the symbol of the Royal Line of Erebor. Dwalin was there to greet them with a wide grin on his face. He looked very different in casual clothes compared to the last time Gimli had seen him, when he'd been dumping him flat on his back during weapon's training when Gimli moved too slowly to get out to the way of his axes. That was one of the things about your father being a member of the Company – you were trained by the Captain of the King's own Guard himself! If only Dwalin was a little less intimidating...

"Glóin!" Dwalin cried out as he saw them, spreading his arms wide in greeting. "And Mizim, beautiful as ever! And you young Gimli, you clean up well enough when you've brushed the dust out of your beard." He laughed in an affectionate kind of way that made Gimli redden in embarrassment. "Fíli, Kíli and Ori are all here already; they'll be glad of another young one to talk to."

Gimli brightened up at this. The princes were older than him, but not by much, and they were very friendly. His father didn't approve of him spending time with them outside of 'professional areas', meaning training with Dwalin, and any other lessons that they might happen to have together, which weren't many. He wasn't sure if this was because the princes were much more important than his own family, or if Dad didn't approve of their friendship with Erebor's dragons. But either way, Gimli liked them, and they were certainly easier to talk to then his father's friends, a dour lot he was always having over to the house and talking with in the back rooms where Gimli wasn't allowed to go.

Most of the rest of the Company was already there, seated around a large table with a top inlaid with patterns in marble. Bifur, Bofur and Bombur were there, Bombur already laying into a plate of roast beef, cheese and pickled onions with his famous appetite. Kíli had told him that Bombur had once fit twenty boiled eggs into his mouth all at the same time, which Gimli only half believed was the truth. Uncle Óin was sitting intent on a mug of foaming beer, and had to be jostled in the side by Balin before he noticed that they were here. Of course then he stood up and pulled Gimli into a bone-breaking hug.

That over, his uncle directed him to the other young dwarves, who were in the adjoining room. Gimli made his way through to see that Fíli and Ori were engrossed in a game of hnefatafl whilst Kíli looked on offering 'advice'.

"You should move it here," Kíli was saying as he came in. "Look, he's left it wide open."

"That's because it's a trap," Fíli replied, sliding a different soldier piece forward somewhere else.

Kíli considered this a moment whilst Ori grinned at him. "So it is," he admitted, then looked up to see Gimli watching them. He smiled brilliantly. "Look who made it! I thought you might be snoring under a table somewhere by now."

"Aye, perhaps I would be if a'dad allowed me to drink anything stronger than boiled water!" Gimli replied.

"I do like a nice cup of tea," Ori said, still mostly concentrating on the board.

"A cup of tea is not what a good party needs," Gimli said. "It needs ale! Dwarves need ale!" He hadn't realised he felt so strongly about it until he had started talking.

"No need to tell us," Fíli said with a sigh. "Do we look like people who've been drinking all afternoon? No, because Thorin made us promise not to 'act in a way inappropriate for the House of Durin'."

"No fun, this responsibility business," Kíli added. "Sitting up there at the High Table looking all serious and royal."

"But that part of it's all over isn't it?" Gimli pointed out. "You don't have to do that any more."

A wide grin started to spread over the brother's faces. "Well done that dwarf," Kíli said. "That's a very good point. And I do know where Uncle keeps his drink."

"Are you sure he won't mind?" Ori asked nervously.

"Of course not," Fíli told him, patting him reassuringly on the shoulder. "Not when it's us at least!"

It was a decision easily made after that. Kíli rummaged in a set of storage cupboards skilfully concealed inside the walls and produced several clear glass bottle full of golden liquid. "The Dale-folk distil it from barley," he told them. "Fire-water they call it, from the colour and the taste. Just the thing for a band of dragon-friends."

Gimli said nothing to that, but a little of his thoughts must have shown on his face because Fíli said, "Well, and you're from a Firebeard line, so of course it's appropriate for you as well."

"True enough," Gimli replied, and accepted the bottle eagerly enough as they passed it around.

Some time later, although through the warmth suffusing his blood it was hard to tell how long it had been, Gimli found himself desperately needing to answer a call of nature. He disentangled himself from the pile currently leaning against one of the couches, which arose from the floor as one block of stone and had been carved out when the room itself was made. Kíli, who had been rambling at some length about some mischief or other he had been up to with Ancalagon and Calarus (the black and the copper dragons, Gimli remembered), raised his voice in momentary protest at the sudden lack of warmth at his side, but went back to his story quickly enough after dragging some cushions off the couch to replace him.

After taking advantage of the convenience of dwarvish plumbing, Gimli was just on his way back to rejoin the others when he noticed his father leaving the main hall. Gimli stopped, concealed at the junction, waiting to see where he was going. There was a strange furtiveness about his movements that seemed odd. Glóin turned down the passage that led away from Gimli, towards the King and Consort's rooms. Curious, Gimli followed, hanging back. In the soft leather of his party boots his footsteps were surprisingly quiet. Certainly his father had no idea he was there.

Glóin bypassed what turned out on Gimli's passing to be Thorin's sleeping chambers, and turned a corner to another room where he slipped inside. Gimli went up to the doorway and peered through the crack that his father had left between door and frame. It was a large room with walls polished to the sheer shine of the public areas, although private rooms were often left dull or rougher depending on a dwarf's personal taste. At first Gimli thought the lines of gold worked throughout the room were just the traceries of natural seams, but a closer look revealed patterns. Maps. This was Erebor; every hall and corridor, every mine and smithy, and considering whereabouts this was, probably a great deal of secret ways besides. Everyone knew that there were hidden ways in the mountain; the side-door was only one example.

Those didn't seem to be the only maps in the place either. There were great sheets of parchment, vellum and paper laid out on the central table. His father had gone over to them and was going through them, scanning their contents with a speed that suggested he was looking for something in particular. Gimli hesitated. He wasn't sure he should be watching this. He was certainly sure his father shouldn't be doing whatever this was. He glanced away up and down the corridor, but they were empty and utterly silent. When he looked back, his father was tucking something into his jerkin.

Gimli took a quick step back, then began to steal away as quietly as he could. He didn't want his father to catch him; that was bound to be trouble, and he had to think about this first. About what his father might have wanted and why. His head was whirling with confusion, although some of that might have been the drink.

Something was going on in Erebor, and he wanted to know what.

It was astonishing how much silver could be forced to fit inside a small hammered band. The first time, with iron, Thorin had not quite understood the strange alchemy of the craft, and so the resulting piece had been thin as thread and refused entirely to change size in any way. Now though, after much practise, he felt he had begun to achieve something better than apprentice-work. The runes he had inscribed on the bars of silver shimmered in the heat, unbroken despite the blows of his hammer that compacted and bonded the segments together. Their light seemed to pulse in time with his voice as he sung the words Bilbo's Ring had taught him.

The songs of spells fitted his throat better than he would have anticipated. Dwarves had never had much truck with the magic of Elves or Men. Mahal had given them the secrets of runes, in the time before the Awakening, and that had been more than enough for his people. But he liked the way this magic echoed around the forge, the way it thrummed in his bones, vibrated in his chest.

"More heat?" the dragonet asked him.

Thorin nodded, stepping back. Sweat beaded on his skin, dripping from his brow as fire bloomed in front of him. Another thing about crafting rings; they needed a forge imbued with magic. The Elves no doubt had had their ways, and the sorcerer, Mairon or Sauron or whatever he called himself, had used the fires of the very earth itself. Here, he had the dragons. Each one heated the materials for their own rings, as Thorin had been assured this would let them make better use of them.

Tighter and tighter the silver packed itself, driven by hammer and song. He could feel it, like some unnatural weight, like the thickness of air in a deep mine. It drew his strength out of him, but he had much strength to give it.

Gradually, he brought the Ring to life.

Spring 2952

Akhôrahil did not believe he could be said to enjoy things as a general rule, but he did feel a certain sense of pleasure in being in Umbar. The culture here had changed little in the past millennia; they held on fast to the memory of ancient Númenór, their ancestors who had conquered these shores in ages long past. Things looked as he remembered them from the days of his own rule. Zawiyet el-Meitin, city upon the bay, lay spread out before him, white and cream, sandstone and limestone shining in the sun. Upon the waters boats of many kinds moved, square sailed or lateen sailed, some with oars, some with nets over the sides, some with prows painted with eyes in red or blue or black. At mid-day the temple fires could little be seen, but at night they would glow like red stars.

"My lord," a voice said behind him. He turned. Semerkhet, one of the courtiers he had seen about the palace, stood holding aside the curtain-door of the room, looking nervous. Not nervous merely because it was a Nazgûl he spoke to; Akhôrahil knew the taste of the fear he caused well enough. This was a fear for another reason. Akhôrahil beckoned the young man to enter.

"Dread lord," Semerkhet said. Hesitated. "What I must say should not be overheard," he whispered.

Akhôrahil raised a hand. A spell of silence was a simple enough one. "Speak," he said. "It shall pass unnoticed."

"I was at the court of King Ar-Azruzagar this morning. He had called the envoy of the Eye there – he has made his decision, and not in your favour my lord."

Akhôrahil's line of thought stopped momentarily in his shock. He had not thought it would go this way. The Black Númenoreans had never been the most loyal servants of Mairon even when he last ruled, for their pride was great. Even now there was a great monument of solid gold in one of the squares near the palace in the likeness of Ar-Pharazôn triumphing over Mairon in the last days of old Númenór, albeit one tainted with the knowledge that it was that very prisoner whose cunning words had led to its eventual downfall.

But for all that, and all the promises he himself had made to Ar-Azruzagar, it seemed more recent history was preying on the King's mind. Gondor. It all came down to Gondor, a weakened but still powerful giant to the north, a conqueror who had claimed ownership of Umbar and parts of Harad since almost two thousand years ago, when their armies had come south under the banner of King Hyarmendacil I. Those wars had continued ever since in one form or another.

"When does the King intend to move against Gondor?" Akhôrahil asked.

"You are wise to see my King's reasoning, lord. I am afraid I do not know," Semerkhet replied apologetically. "That much was not agreed this morning. But it must be soon I am sure. The messenger of the Eye promised support in the endeavour, in return for our support later on against your faction, dread lord."

"Yet you come to me with warnings," Akhôrahil noted.

Semerkhet hesitated. "I read," he said. "History shows us that the Eye is not reliable, and is loath to keep its promises. I would rather we are not caught up in its plots again, although I suppose it is unavoidable."

"How long before the sorcerers come?" Akhôrahil asked.

"A few hours yet," the boy replied. "When Ar-Azruzagar summoned them the Grand Master said they would need time to prepare – they are afraid of you lord, and your strength."

"Then I shall save them the trouble of testing it," Akhôrahil replied. "It is clear I can do no more good here. Not at this time."

But there were other places that might be more susceptible to persuasion. Harad had many Kings, and all it took was one causing Mairon trouble to set things a little back in their favour.

Summer 2952

All of Dale and Laketown had turned out for the funeral, which was more than the old bastard deserved. He had never ceased being a thorn in Bard's side, and even in death it seemed the Master was still causing problems. Bard had never asked to be anyone of importance. His ancestors might have been Kings, but he had never much cared for the idea although he had never managed to persuade the Master of that. And then he had been sent to see a dragon, and somehow that had impressed Erebor enough that he had been chosen to oversee the rebuilding of Dale – although more likely the Master was hoping he would annoy the Kings under the Mountain enough that they would have him killed. Bard had expected that he would make a great mess of things, but organisation seemed to come naturally to him. People seemed to find him likeable in a way they hadn't before. It probably helped that he didn't stink of fish all the time as he once had. And anyone who showed him too much favour in the past would have had the Master's wrath to cope with.

But that same likeability was now the cause of a new and particularly unpleasant problem. They wanted to make him King. It had first begun as rumours amongst the common folk in the last days of the Master's final illness, words that he had heard before if never so loud or so openly spoken. His lineage seemed to impress people, although it oughtn't. Bard was not his fore-father, and put little stock in blood as a measure of a man's worth. Better to judge by deeds, and his were of no particular greatness or grandeur. Then the Master had declined further, slipping into the last days of his ilness, and the words began to be spoken by more important people, people with money and influence.

The lands that had once fallen under the banner of the Kings of Dale had long since been carved up by those barons who had owned them when the dragon first came. When the city burned, they had been free to make their own way in life, setting themselves up as independent lords of their own domains, with no need to bow to laws or pay taxes to a greater authority. As the years went by, Bard knew, those families had only consolidated their rule as Laketown built itself alone and began to claw back some kind of livelihood from those trade caravans that had not yet heard that there was no longer a Dale to trade with. It had never been easy even despite their advantageous position, but things had, perhaps, gradually been getting better even before the past few years. If nothing else, at least the Masters had always been chosen for their good heads for money, Bard reflected.

The barons though, they liked wealth as much as any, and whilst they had been content to use Laketown as a kind of independent market where the merchants of each domain's master would at least pay no duties to any other lord, when the Mountain opened, they had come to take a greater interest. Bard had cared little, so long as none interfered with the restoration efforts that were his charge. Now he thought perhaps that laxness had given them the wrong idea about him. He held few illusions about why barons would chose him as their lord, rather than one of their own number.

They were watching him even now, from pride of place by the Long Lake docks, in seating build for the purpose, as Bard accompanied the City Guard bringing the funeral carriage down to the boat which had been laid out for the Master's final journey. Like as not some of the talk going on amongst them was how best to approach him now.

But, Bard realised, they were not the only eyes upon him. It was an uneasy feeling that made him turn looking, made the more so when he saw the three figures in their own open circle of space and silence. Two tall and clad in black, fell as death, the other shifting as smoke with eyes of fire. Kulkodar and his Nazgûl.

Erebor had sent a dwarvish delegation down already, led by Lord Balin the Steward, but no mention had been made that one of the two Mountain Kings would be coming for this. Fire and Stone they called them, admiring the dwarf-king's strength of heart and will, and his ability to stand against – no, to care for – such a fearsome creature as the one who commanded dragons. A decade might have passed, but none had forgotten the battle at Erebor's foot where the very ground shuddered and moved at that dark lord's command. Bard had not been the only Man there, nor the only to come back alive., and that kind of tale was long-lived

Still, he could not wonder now what purpose they might have in being here. The procession had come to the water's edge, and a quartet of bier-bearers lifted the Master's shrouded body from the carriage up onto their shoulders. They brought him out along the pier and laid him down in the barge, his belongings piled around him. He had no family that they might go to. Retreating, the men loosed the ropes tying the barge, and two small row-boats began to drag it out over the waters. When they too had done their job, they cast loose their own ropes and moved away, leaving Bard to step forward and do his part.

The arrows he had already prepared, although he would not need more than one. He nocked one to his longbow, and dipped its end in the brazier in front of him. The pitch-soaked rags coating its head bloomed into flame. He raised the bow, sighted, and let fly.

Afterwards, as the crowds began to depart, Bard expected the barons to find him, but someone else got to him first. Gazing at the dead men at Kulkodar's back, he wondered if he might have preferred the nobles. There was always this unnatural fear when the Nazgûl were about, not something that came from yourself but from outside. Some kind of aura they carried around them that you simply couldn't fight against. Bard had never been one to bow to fear though. It seemed to rather harden something in him, make him both stronger, but also more merciless. He didn't like the sensation of what he thought he might become when truly afraid.

"I'd offer condolences," Kulkodar said, "but I think that would be more insulting than comforting given the circumstances."

"I thank you all the same," Bard replied warily. He did not yet know what this was about, and disliked the not-knowing.

"I hear in fact that congratulations would be more in order."

It was never precisely easy to meet the eyes of the King of Fire, given that his form never seemed to be settled but constantly shrouded in shadow so that not even his height could be made out, but in his irritation Bard made a good try of it. "Nothing I want anything to do with," he said.

"Really?" the creature seemed amused.

"You were never the Master's puppet," the dead man that Bard thought might be the one called Khamûl said, in a voice that made his skin prickle. "They have taken notice of you only as much as they thought they needed to. They are being fools. Take advantage of that foolishness."

"And what do I want with any of this?" Bard asked with scorn, gesturing to the three of them and indicating thereby the whole concept of ruling. "I am a glorified quartermaster, and before that a bargeman."

"You aren't concerned what might become of Dale if one of them was to rule it?" Kulkodar asked him.

"Enquiries have been made," the other dead man said. "Not men much given to kindness, or justice, it is said."

"They're my people yes, but not mine to rule." He had the sense that somehow he was losing an argument that never should have touched his resolve.

"Poor and miserable and suffering they will become," said the second Nazgûl. "As you were once."

"And what of your family if you refuse them?" said the first. He said this in a way that sounded... like silk. Like oil. Fine and rich but something sickly about it. "Your son is a fine man now, yet he looks to you to stoke his ambition and you have none."

"Your eldest daughter dreams of running away with elves, spending her days sleeping in trees, leaping through branches under starry skies at night," the second again. "Your youngest believes herself unworthy of happiness, for do you not believe the same of yourself?"

"You know nothing of any of this!" Bard said, with real fear now and sharp anger. Kulkodar's eyes seemed to burn him like brands for all that he did not speak. "You do not know me and you do not know my family!"

"But these nobles know them," said Khamûl. "Where you live, where you sleep. If you are not their pawn, so they say amongst themselves, then you are a threat for what you could be, and as you are you have no strength to protect those you love."

"So you say what? Bow to them or not? You contradict yourselves!" It was an odd thing that no-one was looking at them, a strange sight though they must make, and Bard half-shouting at them. But that was magic; little to be trusted, and ever playing tricks.

"Bow at first. Bow and gain strength, then turn when they are weak and you are strong," said Khamûl. "You shall be King of Dale, Bard the Bowman, and we prefer you whom we know to a lesser noble of little character."

"I will promise nothing to you," Bard said, but he could already feel himself wavering. He had never sought out power, but nor had he done anything to make the Master fear him less, and he had gone to his post here in Dale willingly enough. "Though I imagine things will turn out the way you want them in the end."

"I look forward to your coronation," said Kulkodar, as warm as though his dead guards had not just been throwing threats every which way. "Good luck, Bard."

The boy was troubling him again. Tarben was not a man given to introspection and few things gave him cause for concern, but the boy was one of them. He had seen many things in his time, many of them unpleasant. Strider would not be the first child he had seen wield a blade, kill with it. It was never a happy sight and it spoke ill of the past he would not speak of, but such things happened in the world and Tarben had no illusions about his own ability to change it. And it was better, all things considered he thought, that he had given the boy this job where at least someone could keep an eye on him, else he would like as not be off wandering the countryside until something even more unpleasant happened to him.

Even as good with that sword as he was, unpleasant things were sometimes unavoidable.

Still, it was that skill which made up part of what bothered him. Tarben's father had been part of a mercenary company – and there was plenty of work for such as they in lands far to the south – until he had met his mother and settled down in Rohan, and he had taught Tarben from the time he could first hold a stick in his pudgy little hand. He knew he was good at what he did, which was why he charged so much for the services of himself and his men on the Edoras to Ered Luin route. But the boy Strider... the sword was in his blood, to fight like that. Practise alone couldn't do it, although Tarben had no doubt he would have been diligent in that too. Some were natural masons, natural carpenters, natural weavers, natural bards. This boy was a natural warrior, and he had come to it far earlier than he ever should.

The path that lay before a boy such as that could not be a good one, in Tarben's mind. Strider would not be satisfied staying here forever, killing bandits and Dunlendings. They might have been more active in recent months, but that danger was settling down again to the levels it had generally always been at. The boldness of lawless folk waxed and waned, but for the most part the job of caravan-guard involved a great deal more walking and waiting than it did fighting, and that would not satisfy him.

Tarben was roused from his thoughts by the sound of hooves from the road ahead. Two figures on horseback came aound a turn in the track at a light trot. They wore green cloaks with the hoods up, and they were armed with sword and bow. Their mounts were nothing ordinary either, sleek muscles sliding with restrained power under the gleaming hides. Despite the dust underfoot, it seemed none of it was inclined to stick to them.

The two slowed, then stopped. One dismounted, and waited as the caravan approached. Tarben strode out to meet them, curious.

"A good day to you," one of the strangers said, in a surprisingly muscial voice. He put a hand over his heart and bowed slightly.

"And to you sir," Tarben replied.

"I wonder if perhaps you could help us," the stranger continued. Tarben could see little of him beneath his concealing hood, save sharp eyes in a sharp-boned face, clean-shaven. "You see, we are looking for someone – our little brother, to be precise."

Tarben looked them up and down. If he had been in Rohan he'd have said they were Jarls, or of those families. As it was the wild lands between Rohan and Ered Luin had no nobles or rich folk of any kind. They barely supported those farming families, villages and little towns that did manage to scrape a living there. Whoever they were, these two must be very far from home. "A terrible thing to loose your kin in lands like these," he said. "What happened?"

"He had bold ideas about seeing the world," the stranger said. "He ran off, I am sorry to say. But we have no doubt he is out here somewhere."

There was a confidence in his words that stopped Tarben from pointing out how unlikely it was that their younger brother was still alive let alone in any position to be found. It would be an extraordinary child indeed who managed to... A thought crossed his mind.

"How old did you say your brother was?"

"He has the look of a boy of fourteen or fifteen," the man said, his eyes suddenly hungry. "Have you seen such a child then?"

Tarben did not trust either of these strangers. Strider hadn't told him anything of his past, but no-one ran away for any good they truly were Strider's family, then what exactly would he be sending the boy back to if he told the truth?

"I haven't as yet," he told the pair. "But if I do, where might I find you to let you know?"

"There's an inn in Eharbad called the Broken Sword. Leave a message there for a lady called Gilraen, and we will be indebted to you." The man leapt back onto his horse with uncanny grace, nodded a goodbye, and set off again with his companion following close behind.

Tarben rejoined the caravan with a pervasive sense of unease. His eyes searched out Strider, and eventually found him emerging from beneath one of the carts. He'd been right – he was the one those men had been searching for. Strider saw him watching and gave him a brief smile of thanks. Yet there was still a nervous tension in his body that made Tarben think he wasn't going to be staying with them much longer.

Sure enough, when the caravan stopped that night, Strider was no-where to be found.