Add Story to Favourites The Weight of Power by Nefhiriel
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thorongil rohan

Surely he was insane. He must be, to have willingly taken on this task. Either insane, or suicidal.

Stolad strode through Edoras swiftly, but as he neared Araedhelm’s house, he began to wonder if he dared go in. Perhaps if he shouted loud enough, and then ran as quickly as he could, he could get the message to Araedhelm, but be out of throwing distance before the man himself appeared.

Suppressing such involuntary feelings of fear, he forced himself to stand calmly in front of the door. He knocked, albeit softly, and with the secret desire that no one would answer. But someone did answer. Araedhelm himself.

“Stolad?” Araedhelm said in surprise. “What brings you here so early?”

Stolad bit his lip. He found speech was possible, but all of the sudden it seemed extremely undesirable…

Araedhelm frowned. “Is something wrong? Has there been news of the King?”

Stolad cleared his throat nervously. “No…no news of the King, as of yet.”

“Well then what is it, boy, speak up. Did Feorh send you?”

“Yes…she did…” Stolad hedged. He cleared his throat again.

Araedhelm shook his head. He couldn’t decide whether he was frustrated or amused at Stolad’s obvious reluctance. “Well, I’m glad to get one ‘yes’ out of you—are you waiting for another question, or are you going to volunteer some information?”

“Sorry… Feorh did send me, she sent me to give you a message. A very important message…”

Araedhelm raised both eyebrows. “Yes, I’m waiting. What is this ‘very important message’?” As he watched Stolad, his emotions settled on neither frustration nor amusement, but worry. The boy was truly frightened. “What has happened?” he asked, this time seriously.

Looking up, Stolad bravely met his eyes, and said in a stronger voice than he knew he possessed, “Captain Thorongil has been put under arrest by Lord Eothald, and thrown into the dungeons on the charge of treason.”

As soon as he’d said it, his fleeting courage seemed to desert him, and he looked down at the ground. The seconds ticked by slowly. He wasn’t entirely certain what he’d expected Araedhelm to do once he’d revealed Thorongil’s predicament, but it definitely wasn’t this—not this prolonged silence. When he finally gathered up enough resolution to dart a glance at Araedhelm, he immediately wished he hadn’t.

Treason?”

Stolad flinched as the lieutenant exploded at last. “Please, sir—”

Araedhelm paid him no head, hardly appearing to see or hear him, as his hand automatically found hold of his sword handle. He stormed out the door without glancing at the boy.

Closing his eyes briefly, Stolad ran after Araedhelm as the lieutenant walked steadily towards Meduseld, and finally up the long flight of stairs. He kept his mouth shut. Obviously, nothing he could say was going to stop him. The dangerous glint in Araedhelm’s eyes openly betrayed his intentions. It appeared he himself was safe, but he could see that Lord Eothald might not be so fortunate in the near future.

As they reached the top of the stairs, the tall figure of Captain Anborn separated itself from the shadows.

“Araedhelm.”

Araedhelm hardly slowed.

“Araedhelm,” Anborn said again, positioning himself in the lieutenant’s path. “Wait.”

Finally, Araedhelm acknowledged his presence, looking up at him, and offering a surly, “Why?”

“Because I want you to listen to me—and I want you to listen well.”

“I don’t have time.” Araedhelm tried to move past, but Anborn laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. At that, his expression, if possible, grew a shade more sullen. “What do you want, Captain? If you want to talk to me, then you’ll have to speak quickly. Perhaps you haven’t heard, but Thorongil is in trouble, and I, for one, am not going to sit around spending my time in idle talk.”

“Yes. I have heard. And sitting around in ‘idle talk’ is hardly the way I plan on spending my time either. What I have to say concerns Captain Thorongil—now will you listen?”

My concern for my captain does not include standing here listening. It includes—”

“It includes a great deal of violence. Yes, Araedhelm, I can well imagine. But before you go in there and begin smashing skulls, I strongly suggest you listen to my advice.”

Araedhelm narrowed his eyes. “Oh? And what is this ‘advice’ of yours? I suppose you want me not to go in there and start smashing skulls?”

“Well, that might be a good place to start.” Anborn tightened his grip on Araedhelm’s shoulder, as the other man made a sound of disgust before attempting to pull away again. “Threatening Lord Eothald will only get you in trouble as well.”

“I’ll take that risk.”

“It’s not a risk, it’s a promise. You go in there looking for trouble, and you’re going to find some, I can guarantee you.”

“It’s my head to lose, I can lose it in any way I please,” Araedhelm replied with a glare.

“Araedhelm, calm down.”

“Let. Go. Of. Me.”

Holding back a few steps away, Stolad decided it was time to take refuge in one of the pillar’s shadows. This didn’t sound good at all. If he was any judge, this conversation looked like it was going to end in blood.

“Araedhelm,” Anborn said warningly.

“I said let go.”

“Araedhelm,” Anborn repeated sternly.

“Anborn, let go of my arm—”

Lieutenant.”

He didn’t have to raise his voice much to get a reaction from Araedhelm, not using that tone of voice. Araedhelm stopped mid-struggle, instantly paying attention to the sound of his title being spoken not as a request, but as a command.

“That’s much better, Lieutenant,” Anborn said with satisfaction, while silence continued to reign.

“I never thought you’d pull rank on me like this, Captain…” Araedhelm muttered.

Anborn’s couldn’t help but soften his tone, now that he had the other man’s attention. He knew the fierce loyalty that drove Araedhelm, and admired it.

“I would have preferred it you’d given me your attention willingly, but since that seems impossible, I will pull rank on you if that’s what it takes.”

Silence. Araedhelm glared at him uncooperatively.

Undaunted—or at least appearing undaunted—Anborn continued calmly, “Thorongil is in prison under serious charges.”

“Serious charges? Now there are more than one? Are these imaginary charges growing as we speak?”

“Lower your voice, Lieutenant, there’s no need to shout. No, Thorongil’s main charge still remains treason. One of the ways Lord Eothald believes he had been…scheming, was by…” Anborn had to struggle over the last words. They were painful, but they had to be said, and it would be better coming from him. At least he hoped it would be better. Quietly, he finished, “by… attempting to seduce the Queen.”

He watched Araedhelm blink a couple of times, his eyes full of disbelief, then, sure enough, his face began to turn red with anger. Moments ago, Anborn had actually thought he’d felt Araedhelm relax under his grip. Now, however, that was certainly not the case. Araedhelm’s shoulder was positively rigid beneath his fingers, his whole body straining with the desire to throttle Eothald.

Anborn watched the red-faced lieutenant and sighed. Time for strategy number two. With a small push, he released Araedhelm.

“Very well. Commit suicide if you wish. It is all the same to me, and as you pointed out, it’s your head that’s at stake, not mine. I won’t interfere if you wish to go get yourself killed.”

Araedhelm shot him a suspicious glance, but straightened his tunic and stormed past him. Anborn might have something up his sleeve, but he wasn’t about to wait around and see what that might be.

“Of course if you do go charging in their blindly with the sole intent of infuriating Lord Eothald, you may end up getting Captain Thorongil killed as well as yourself…” Anborn commented, his voice casual.

Araedhelm whirled on him. “What do you mean by that?”

“What I mean by that, my dear Lieutenant, is that Eothald is not in his right mind.” Anborn’s voice took on its former intensity, though he spoke quietly to avoid being overheard. “What I mean by that, is that he is acting quite…irrational—and what I mean by that, is that he is lashing out at Thorongil. Those who claim to be Thorongil’s friends might do well to bite their tongues and walk softly, if only to spare him pain.”

The redness drained from Araedhelm’s face, although his expression was still battling between anger and concern. He looked desperately at Anborn. “Are you saying… Has…he been hurt?”

Anborn stepped forward and put a hand on Araedhelm’s shoulder once more, this time only a gesture of support. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. I don’t know, since I wasn’t there.” He scanned Araedhelm’s weathered face, lined deeply with worry. “All I’m saying is that we can’t take the risk. We don’t know what Eothald might do, at this point. We have to be cautious.”

Araedhelm nodded numbly, feeling the bitter pang of defeat. As his anger began to cool, he realized the rashness of his actions. Anborn had only been trying to help him. Anborn was always doing the logical, reasonable, calm thing. The man hardly seemed to be ruffled by anything… As far as Araedhelm was concerned, having Thorongil arrested for treason was one of the biggest shocks he could think of, and yet here Anborn stood, as if it was an everyday occurrence.

Anborn seemed forever to be an enigma to him. Obviously the man had feelings on many subjects, as strong as any man’s, but he always controlled them so completely, it was bewildering.

Biting his lip, Araedhelm slowly met Anborn’s composed gaze. “I lost myself for a moment there, didn’t I?”

“Several, actually.”

Araedhelm bit his lip harder. He was wonderful at rushing head-long into situations like this. Apologizing for his actions afterwards wasn’t always quite so easy.

“No need to apologize. Thorongil is blessed to have a lieutenant like you. Even if you do need a little…cooling down every now and then.”

Araedhelm crossed his arms. “Well don’t think you’ve cooled me down yet, Captain. You have precious little time to come up with an idea of how we’re going to help Thorongil, before I’ll go right back to were we were—bashing in a couple of heads. Starting with Lord Eothald.”

Anborn ran a hand over his face. “I’m thinking, Lieutenant, I’m thinking…”

***

The traitor was locked away. The queen was safely in her rooms, watched by two of his well-trusted guards. Heolstor had personally assured himself of their trustworthiness. Everything was under control. Then why was he so terrified? The more Eothald tried to assure himself, the more he paced, and the more questions bombarded him. They were relentless, and accusing. What had he been so angry about? What had possessed him to imprison Thorongil? As his momentary rage began to melt, uneasiness took its place.

“My Lord?”

The sudden appearance of Heolstor at his side nearly made him jump in surprise.

“Captain Heolstor,” he answered, in a thin voice.

Heolstor’s brow furrowed in concern. “Is something the matter, my Lord? You look troubled.”

The crisp reply was forming on his lips before he had a chance to think of a reply, “No.”

Heolstor’s brow furrowed further. “Perhaps you are merely…concerned over this matter with Captain Thorongil?”

Eothald swallowed hard. “Well, naturally I’m…concerned.” Did Heolstor suspect something? Was he accusing him? Was that suspicion he saw gleaming in the other man’s eyes? “Why do you speak of the matter? Surely I have a right, if I suspect a man, to put him in the dungeons. It’s not as if I had him summarily executed or something—there will be a trial. I am a fair man, and the arrest of Captain Thorongil was not made on some whim of mine.”

Eothald had the insecure feeling that he was arguing just as much with himself over all these points, as he was with Heolstor. He’d taken rather rash physical moves, and now his mind seemed to be requiring convincing.

Despite his own need to argue over all these points for his own sake, Heolstor appeared not to need all the convincing that he’d automatically assumed would be required.

“Please, my Lord… I understand.”

Eothald caught himself just in time, as he was about to launch out into a whole new set of explanations for his actions. “You…understand?” he asked hesitantly. Valar above—he wished that he understood all this.

Heolstor nodded. “You did what you had to do.”

Eothald felt his suspicions re-aroused. “And what is this thing that you think I ‘had to do’?”

“Why, my Lord, what every man in a position of your importance and responsibility must do,” Heolstor replied, guileless truth in his voice.

Eothald’s suspicions dropped somewhat, but he asked cautiously, “And what would that be?”

“To deal justice, my Lord. If you suspect someone, even a Captain or Lord, of treason, then it is your duty to deal with them, no matter how painful it might be. You have done that bravely, despite the unpopularity of that duty.”

Eothald relaxed. He’d said those exact words many times over in his head, but he still couldn’t quite bring himself to believe them. Now, here was someone else telling him the same thing. He’d done the only thing he could…

“You did the only thing you could,” Heolstor echoed his thoughts.

Eothald looked up. “I did?” He hadn’t meant it to be a question, but it slipped out as such.

“You did,” Heolstor assured him.

Eothald found himself becoming increasingly confused. He hadn’t felt…real, for lack of a better word. The past couple of hours, in particular, seemed dream-like. It was as if he’d been there, watching, not actually participating. And yet he knew that he himself had been the one to accuse Thorongil, and have him imprisoned. Gods… he thought, with a swell of panic. I’m holding the queen in her rooms, under guard… That thought signaled the end to rationality. What had done? He was insane. He turned desperately to Heolstor.

“Thorongil isn’t a traitor.”

Heolstor looked worriedly at him. “I beg your pardon, my Lord, what was that?”

“I said, Thorongil isn’t a traitor. I am out of my mind…” Eothald clenched his hands into fists, as a sweat broke out on his brow. “I don’t know what I was doing—I can’t be in my right mind. I can’t be trusted…”

“My Lord, I—”

“No, Heolstor, you must listen to me—I can’t be trusted! Something’s wrong with me. I know Thorongil is innocent…and yet, I just had him arrested. I-I just can’t seem to think clearly anymore. Sometimes it’s as if it’s not really me ordering all these things. You must help me. Lock me in my rooms, and don’t let me out, no matter what I say. Please…”

Heolstor took Eothald’s arm. “Lord Eothald, come sit down. You look exhausted.” He led him over to one of the chairs that lined the long table, and pressed him down onto one of the chairs.

“No, something’s wrong with…me…” Eothald protested weakly.

“You must not say such things, my Lord. You have not lost your sanity. The strain of all these sudden responsibilities is merely catching up with you. You are not accustomed to making such choices. Do not try so hard to figure all this out… You have followed your instincts, and your suspicions, and done what had to be done. You are merely tired. Responsibilities such as these wear on a man.”

Eothald turned hopeful eyes on Heolstor. Something about the captain was overpoweringly calming. Perhaps he had merely overworked himself. “Yes… I am very…very tired.”

“And who wouldn’t be?” Heolstor picked up the goblet of wine that rested on the table beside him. “Here, my Lord, drink this.”

Eothald didn’t hesitate. He was tired beyond belief, and a glass of wine sounded suddenly very inviting. He took the goblet, and took a long, slow draft of it. A shiver ran down his spine, and then, gradually, a tingling warmth began to spread over him.

“Feeling better, my Lord?”

Eothald nodded dumbly, as the warmth increased, almost suffocating in its strength. He felt stronger, as if new life had been infused into his veins, and his heart felt lighter, as well. His worries of a moment ago vanished, and a subtle confidence crept back into the corners of his mind. He looked up at Heolstor with the eyes of a different man.

“That wine is…”

Heolstor smiled. “The best, as always.”

Eothald nodded, a wondering smile on his face. “I can tell that much, even though I’m not a connoisseur, such as yourself.”

“Don’t discount yourself, you may have a natural ability to taste quality, and tell it apart from common drink. Here, have another glass.”

Heolstor’s smile increased as he turned his back on Eothald to reach for the pitcher. So easy. So incredibly, ridiculously, shamefully easy. The way Eothald fell prey to his traps, without any effort on his own part, almost made him feel guilty. Almost. He knew better than to let down his guard, or become over-confident, but he had to laugh just a little at how easy it was.

Did this man have no backbone whatsoever? He had to give him some amount credit for the small fight he had put up, just a moment ago. He might actually be beginning to figure things out, or at least he definitely suspected something was wrong. In the future, he would have to keep him more heavily sedated. Even a fool such as Eothald could ruin his plans.

Reducing his smile until it was merely pleasant, Heolstor turned with the pitcher, and refilled Eothald’s goblet with wine. It was, indeed, “the very best” wine—mixed with the very best of his drug collection. So far, the potion was serving his purpose quite well.

Metalen was not an herb for amateurs. It required knowledge, as well as a great deal of skill. Even he, who considered himself an expert, had had to practice creating the mixture for over month before he’d been ready to put it into use. Of course, the only test subjects he’d had to practice on had been two outcast Dunlendings—quite a feat, considering who they’d been called stupid by. All the mind-controlling properties of Metalen seemed to have been effective on them, but, in all honesty, it had occasionally been challenging to tell the difference before and after. Once he’d finally made them moredull-witted than before, it was time to try it out for real.

He’d started using it on Eothald gradually and, admittedly, with trepidation. Really, Dunlendings simply couldn’t be a fair comparison to a normal human when it came to testing mind-drugs. However, he needen’t have worried. Eothald was far more susceptible than he would have dared to dream. Eothald couldn’t often make up his mind for himself, so he usually allowed others that privilege. Not a wise option, as his friends warned him, but their words of advice obviously hadn’t been acted upon. Heolstor couldn’t have hand-picked a better weakness for him to have.

The man didn’t lack brains so much as he lacked backbone. Heolstor could hardly believe how easy it had been to talk him into joining him at a game of chess at least once a week. After the invitation was accepted, it wasn’t hard at all to convince him to drink a glass or two of fine wine. Eothald hadn’t looked like he really wanted to play chess, or drink the wine—at first—but it hadn’t been hard to sway him.

And so the ritual had begun. Every time they met in his rooms, Heolstor painstakingly increased his intake of the drug. It hadn’t taken long for noticeable results.

“S’very…good…wine…”

The slurred voice brought him out of his reverie. He turned a pleasant smile on Eothald, although he realized that, by now, he could do just about anything he liked, and Eothald would neither notice, or comprehend. For appearance’s sake, however, he would keep up his act. There was no telling who might see him—the real him. It was unlikely, but not impossible, and unless a thing was impossible, he wasn’t going to risk it at this stage.

After his brief, hardly intelligible statement, Eothald lapsed back into a lethargic state, his mind drifting back into a foggy state of contentment. He listed dangerously to one side of his chair, with one arm resting on the table, fingers curled non-committaly around the goblet.

Heolstor intercepted the now-mostly-empty drinking vessel, taking it and the pitcher over to one of the windows and quickly tossing their contents outside, before setting them back on the table. A shame, really to waste such fine wine… But there could be no evidence whatsoever, and he wasn’t about to drink it. The idea of leaving it for some poor, unsuspecting lord was highly amusing, if not practical.

He’d rid himself of the evidence just in time, for not a minute later, he heard hurried footsteps outside the door. With only seconds to compose himself, Heolstor stepped back from the table, and readjusted his expression. He’d planned on drugging Eothald, and then getting him back to his room as quickly as possible. Fate appeared to have other ideas. There was no point in arguing with Fate, however, and Heolstor didn’t falter in the face of the unexpected.

***

Forcing his cramped fingers to finish the last line, Ecthelion squinted, forcing his blurry vision to focus on the parchment as he painstakingly wrote the last line. He scrawled his signature in record time, blotted the ink, folded the parchment, dripped wax to hold it, and, finally, sealed it. Releasing a long breath, he slumped back into his chair, rotating his aching shoulders.

Another long list of documents finished, and the last of his “official” worries done for the day. There was only one last problem to see to. Or was it a problem? The question had been battling for his attention all day. As his mind drifted back to the topic, his eyes also drifted back to the opened letter on his desk. He picked it up, slowly re-reading it for what must have been at least the third time that day.

It was a personal letter from Thengel, King of Rohan. That, in and of itself, was nothing unusual. He and Thengel had been keeping up a correspondence for years. In his younger days, when his father, Fengel, had ruled Rohan, Thengel had lived in Gondor for a number of years. He’d been very successful in the army, and had met and married his wife while in Lossarnach. He loved Gondor, and Ecthelion knew it had torn his heart to have to leave it. He’d become very fond of the younger prince, and it had torn at his own heart as well to see him leave.

Their friendship had remained strong, even though they were almost constantly parted because of the distance, and because of their duties. Although often slowed down, due to the same responsibilities, their correspondence continued, and the length of their letters grew.

Ecthelion smiled softly as he thought of Thengel. It had been so long since the last time he’d seen him, or at least it felt like a long time. He’d grown up quickly under the load of kingship, and he could hardly now be recognized for the young prince he’d first known him as.

And then there was Théoden. He was growing up so quickly in-between the Steward’s infrequent visits to Rohan, and every time he saw the boy again he found him looking more and more like his father. And acting like him, too. Thengel would be hard-put to reign him in until he was old enough to join the soldiers.

Ecthelion ran his eyes across the words on the parchment he held in his hand, shaking his head. It was from Thengel. The same handwriting, the same topics, and signed at the end with his familiar signature. But, somehow, something felt completely wrong about it. It wasn’t what the letter said, as much as how it was said.

Some of the sentences sounded brisk and stiff, almost to the point of rudeness. The letter didn’t strike him as having Thengel’s usual warm tone of voice, but was instead replaced by a formality that he simply couldn’t understand. Had he said something? Thinking back upon his last letter to Thengel, he couldn’t for the life of him remember having said anything that could be considered offensive. Besides, in all the years he’d known him, Thengel had not been a man to take offence easily. When he was offended, he came right out and said so. He wouldn’t have given him the cold shoulder, he was sure of it.

The only other likelihood he could think of was that something had happened to Thengel. Perhaps something he couldn’t, or didn’t wish to, discuss? He kept running through the list of possibilities. Could it be something personal? Maybe something was wrong with Morwen or Théoden. He shoved that idea away quickly. Thengel would have told him about something like that.

Maybe it was something on a larger scale, something affecting Rohan at large. That theory seemed a little more plausible, but it only answered his questions vaguely. Politically, there were many things that could have possibly gone wrong. None of those possibilities was comforting.

Setting the letter down, he took out fresh parchment, and picked up a clean quill. That was as far as he got for the next fifteen minutes. He sat there, and he sat there, and he ran the quill feather against his chin, and sat some more. The white emptiness of the page seemed to glare at him dauntingly, and all his determination to say something—anything—seemed to evaporate. Finally, out of the desperate hope that it might magically produce some inspiration, he dipped the quill into the ink stand and poised it above the paper.

Thengel,

So far, so good. He shook his head, chuckling. No, so far, all he’d done was address the letter. So far, so bad.

He had to do this, he had to ask Thengel directly, but how to phrase it? Should he just come right out and ask him what in Arda had gotten into him? There had to be subtle, gentler way of saying it. If there was, hecertainly couldn’t think of it, not even given another five minutes of thought.

He groaned in frustration, once again falling back against his chair to stare with annoyance at his desk, and the papers scattered across its surface. There was simply no easy way to ask questions of this nature, not in writing. No matter how he said it, it would either sound accusing or hostile.

Once again, he sat forward, quill in hand. Well, he had to startsomewhere. So he started at the beginning, addressing every subject except the one question that was burning in his mind. By the time he’d reached the end of the letter, having exhausted all the other topics of their conversation, cowardice had still kept him from saying a word about his worries. He ran a hand distractedly through his dark shoulder-length hair, and then, hesitantly, began to write the last line.

Who knew? Perhaps nothing was wrong at all, and his fears were unfounded.

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