Araedhelm watched the rain somberly, as it poured in sheets past the open door, sending a misty draft through the small hallway. It seemed his captain’s fears were correct. The rain was here, and now it was falling in earnest, pounding the dirt roads until they were nothing but sinking, slippery mud.

Softly closing the door between them and the room where Wynn lay, now sleeping peacefully, Cwén came to stand next to him. “Are you sure you want to go out in that?”

He chuckled ruefully. “Well, I just sent my Captain out in that, my dear. I can’t abandon him now, can I?”

Cwén shook her head, blue eyes twinkling. “Alright. Go, be the loyal lieutenant. But come back, with the Captain, before you both catch your deaths out there in this infernal rain.” A gust of wind carried some of the rain through the doorway. She tucked back a strand of hair behind her ear. “Now, get out there and close that door before you drown us all.”

“Well, if you’re so anxious to get rid of me, I’ll be off.” He planted a quick kiss on her lips.

“Not so fast.” Cwén grabbed his cape from one of the hooks that lined the wall, draping it over his shoulders and pinning it securely in front. “Be careful, and don’t go too fast on the roads.”

He squeezed her arm reassuringly and, pulling up his hood, ducked out into the rain. He turned the corner just as his son emerged from the small stable, leading his horse. Rynan handed over the reins to his father, eyeing the well-built warhorse wistfully as his father mounted. 

“I’ll be back soon.” Araedhelm smiled at the way Rynan lingered, hands resting on the horse’s neck, ignoring the rain that was running down his face. “Get inside to your mother before she starts worrying about you.”

Rynan nodded silently, flashing his father a brief smile, before finally turning back to the house.

Araedhelm took the shortest route he could think of, winding as sharply as he dared through the slippery roads. When he reached the gates, he paused to question the watchmen. Who knew, perhaps there was hope after all: Thorongil could have returned by now, if he hadn’t gotten too far before the rain started.

“Something wrong, Sir?” one of the watchmen called to him above the rain.

“I’m looking for Captain Thorongil—has he come back yet?”

The soldier shook his head. “No, he came through a little while back, but we haven’t seen him since.” There was an edge of amusement in the man’s voice when he continued. “I think he took off at a good pace right away. Could’ve ridden a ways before the storm broke.”

Araedhelm sighed. It seemed there would be no such luck for him today. He should have known better. Nothing could be that simple. All he said aloud was, “Yes, I know the direction he was headed.” Oh yes, he knew the direction Captain Thorongil was heading—at his request. Under his breath, he added a muttered, “He’s going to kill me for this…”

The two guards, valiantly smothering smiles, opened the gates and saluted with exaggerated solemnity and formality, as if showing their final respects to a brave soldier departing on a suicide mission. He heard one of them say quietly: “To death and glory, my Lord.”

“Thank you.” The sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable. He urged his stallion through the gates. “Do break it gently to my wife, if I should fail to return...”

The men chuckled, closing the gates behind him.

Pulling his cape about him more securely, he started down the road at as fast a pace as the roads permitted, and perhaps a bit faster. Loyally, his horse put all his effort into the task, and soon they were careening at an increasingly dangerous pace, mud spraying from the horse’s flying hooves. Far be it from him to discourage the beast. The faster he found Thorongil, the better.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of wading through the dense rain, Araedhelm was able to pick out the boulders that marked the turn. Sighing a breath of relief, he swerved down the path. His eyes roved across the rocky terrain ahead for any signs of his Captain. Surely he couldn’t have come much further than this in the amount of time he’d had? When the rain started, he must have turned back. He was actually surprised he hadn’t found him much more quickly than this.

The path he was on now was much more obscure and less well-traveled than the main path, and the rain was doing nothing to help. In some places, it had been partly obliterated, the edges of the road undefined and hard to see through the downpour, and, reluctantly, he was forced to slow his pace.

There was something menacing in the air. Araedhelm was a seasoned soldier, and accustomed to many of the uglier things in life. He been through more battles than he could remember, and lost count of how many injuries he’d sustained in that time. All the same, he found himself suddenly acting as frightened as a green soldier out on his first campaign, jumping at everything—as well as nothing. What? Did he think there was some hoodlum hiding out somewhere along the road? Perhaps comfortably situated in a puddle, using mud for camouflage?

Disregarding the embarrassment that came with such thoughts, he paid attention to the sudden uneasiness that was possessing him. Where Thorongil was concerned, he couldn’t afford to ignore such obvious warnings. His senses were well trained, and if they were telling him something was wrong, then the only conclusion he could come to was that something was wrong here. He had to assume the worst for now, and he would continue to so until his Captain was safe within Edoras, not a moment before. His first duty lay in protecting his Captain, not his pride.

And so he continued, plowing his way through the muck that now defined the road, unashamedly tensing every time he passed a boulder that looked tall enough to hide a man. The first of his senses to be rewarded for his vigilance was his hearing. At first, the sound was so distant he was sure it was nothing but his overactive imagination. However, as he moved forward a few more paces, he distinctly heard the sound of metal striking metal.

Paying no attention to the dangerous condition of the road, he spurred his horse onward. His eyes grew wide as he turned a bend in the road and the source of the sound came into full view. Four men, in a semi-circle, were advancing upon one lone figure, backed against a boulder. Even through the grey sheets of rain, he recognized the tall, lone figure as his captain.

Faster than his own thoughts could form—and obviously faster than the men could comprehend his presence—he charged, sword in hand. He struck the first man down just as the semi-circle was beginning to turn in response to the sound of hoof-beats. As the man crumpled, Thorongil took advantage of the sudden disruption to run his sword through a second, and knock the sword from yet another. The two remaining men—one now weaponless—took a couple of slow steps backwards.

“Surrender now, and your lives will be spared!” Thorongil shouted above the wind to the two retreating men.

The two men took another wary step backwards, eyeing their conquerors with looks of defeat, but no panic or fear. They said nothing, remaining stoically silent. Aragorn and Araedhelm both frowned. There was a bit too much resignation in those eyes, and instead of fear, there was even a certain amount of undefeated pride. Their faces were not the faces of men preparing themselves to surrender… Too late did they recognize the expressions on the men’s faces. Their faces did not display resignation to capture, but resignation to death.

Aragorn lunged for one of them, but not soon enough. In one accord, the two men drew vials from deep within their tunics, pulled out the corks, and lifted them to their lips. Aragorn reached one of them and just caught his wrist, but the vial was already at his mouth, and he jerked away, tilting his head back and draining the vial before Aragorn could interfere further. The second man quickly followed suit, draining the last drop before turning to face them with an eerie, but triumphant smile. He clenched the vial tightly in his fist, until it shattered. Blood ran between his fingers, mingling with the rain.

“We will die with honor,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice hardly discernable through the sound of rain.

Then, with almost comical timing, both men’s eyes rolled back in their heads at the same time, and they went limp.

Araedhelm dismounted and rushed to Aragorn, who was already kneeling next to one of the men, turning him over on his back. They gazed at the pale face, a mask of stoicism in the face of death. Healer’s instincts automatically had Aragorn reaching for the man’s neck, feeling for even the faintest pulse. There was none. Sighing, he looked up at his lieutenant, managing a strained smile.

“What took you so long? You left me waiting so long, these…gentlemen took it upon themselves to entertain me.”

Slightly shaken at how close he might have been to losing his Captain, Araedhelm had more difficulty making light of the situation. “I’m sorry Captain, I—”

Aragorn interrupted him. “No, my friend, this mess isn’t your fault, so don’t even think about blaming yourself for it.”

At that, a smile did creep into Araedhelm’s expression. “Too late for that, I’m afraid.” Just as quickly as his smile came, it vanished when he saw Thorongil waver as he tried to gain his feet. “Captain?”

Aragorn held up a hand. “I’m alright…”

For the first time, Araedhelm noticed the blood that was running down the side of his friend’s face. His eyes traveled downwards, coming to rest on his side, where the fabric was torn…and bloody. Refusing to accept his Captain’s remonstrances, he rushed to his side.

“Araedhelm, really, I’m fine,” Aragorn said more forcefully, taking a step towards Seron. For just a moment, he almost believed himself. Then the ache in his side turned into a full-blown stab of pain.

Araedhelm was already rushing to his side, supporting him as his legs began to give way. He looped Aragorn’s arm around his neck. “Fine” appeared to be a relative word.

“It’s…not that bad,” Aragorn ground out, just as stubbornly determined to prove he was “fine”, as Araedhelm was to prove the opposite.

“It looks bad enough. We must get back to Edoras.”

Aragorn agreed reluctantly. However much he hated to admit it, it would be foolish to ignore his wound. “Perhaps…” He took a step forward, leaning heavily on Araedhelm for support. Each moment, a little more of the adrenaline that had enabled him to fight wore off, now he felt its last powerful effects ebbing away. It left him weak and heavy. Gravity’s pull seemed to increase, until his legs felt like lead.

“Lean on me.”

Araedhelm’s deep voice, like a beacon, broke through the mists that were beginning to envelop his mind. Unfortunately, its effect wasn’t long-lasting, and soon darkness began to creep along the edges of his vision.

Not now…

But wishing the blackness away had never worked before, and, although he still tried, wishing was getting him nowhere with his present problem, either. Although he could still sense the conscious world somewhere, faintly continuing around him, his vision, and his control over his body, deserted him. Distantly he could feel large, strong, familiar arms supporting him, and he automatically felt a rush of trust and security. Knowing he was in safe hands, he quit fighting against the haziness that was overtaking him.

Araedhelm, miserably in tune with the reality of their bleak surroundings, swiftly moved to support all Aragorn’s weight as he collapsed against him. Alarmed, he quickly searched for a pulse. It was still there, beating reassuringly against his fingertips. He was about to opt for the easiest mode of transporting his captain, and promptly heft him over a shoulder, when he remembered the place the wound was situated. It might be the simplest way for him to carry another, full-grown man, but such an awkward angle would do nothing but further damage Aragorn’s wounded side.

There was nothing for it. Still supporting Aragorn’s upper half with one arm, he stooped to lift him up bodily, looping his arms under his knees. A grunt of effort escaped him, as he tried to straighten back up with his burden in his arms.

“This is getting more difficult every time, my friend…I’m getting too old for this,” he panted, sloshing through the mud towards the horses.

The last time he’d done this had been three or four years ago, when Aragorn had been somewhat younger—and so had he. Perhaps the second was the more important factor of the two, he thought wryly, shaking some of the rain out of his eyes. Already, his arms were aching, beginning to go numb from the strain.

He approached his own horse, then hesitated as he spotted Seron, obediently waiting for his master a little ways off. Seron was a beautiful, well-proportioned creature, large even in comparison to his own tall war-horse, and no doubt better qualified to bear the weight of two men. For there was little question now, in Araedhelm’s mind, that whichever horse he chose was going to have to carry both of them. Aragorn wasn’t about to come back to consciousness any time soon.

Seron was watching him with big, intelligent eyes, and he made up his mind. Somehow, that horse had always daunted him. Besides, he decided, now was not the time for him to be trying to control a strange mount. Thankfully, his own stallion was cooperative enough, holding still while he maneuvered Aragorn up onto his back. He swung up behind Aragorn, pulling him against his chest more securely, and reaching around him for the reins. Before he could even give a thought to how he was going to bring the other horse, he heard Seron move, dutifully coming to stand behind him. He wasn’t about to leave his master.

Araedhelm spared one glance over his shoulder for the men who lay dead in the middle of the road. He didn’t feel pity for them, not after what they’d attempted to do, but it felt wrong, nonetheless, to leave them like this. The dead deserved to be buried.

Aragorn moved in his hold, moaning softly. It brought Araedhelm back to his purpose. The King would hear in detail of this attack, but he couldn’t concern himself with these men now. He clucked to his horse, and they headed back down the road towards Edoras.

Huddled atop the wall, the watchmen heard the galloping of horses and, recognizing Araedhelm, opened the gates. Anxiously, the two men also recognized the tall figure, slumped in the saddle in front of Araedhelm, but restrained their curiosity. Obviously, whatever had happened, Thorongil needed immediate attention. 

 Fortunately, the rain had discouraged any but the most daring from venturing out of doors, and despite the fact that it was now approaching mid-morning the streets were still mostly vacant. Araedhelm didn’t slow his pace, winding his way through the deserted paths, taking the most direct route to Meduseld. As he thundered into the courtyard, Aragorn moaned and shifted slightly in front of him. He cursed under his breath.

From the look of him, he could have sworn the Captain would have remained unconscious for a long while. Of course, you could never tell exactly how long it would be before a man regained consciousness, but he should have assumed Thorongil would come around at least an hour before anyone guessed. Not only was he a tough warrior physically, rebounding from injuries and sicknesses at a surprising rate, but he often seemed to be bent on doing just the opposite of what everyone expected of him. Usually, his talent for doing things unconventionally—purposefully, or unintentionally—earned him respect and admiration, since he nearly always came out on top.

Unfortunately, if he were to regain consciousness right now, he would only awaken to find himself in the embarrassing situation of needing to be carried up the stairs into Meduseld. Thorongil wasn’t, by nature, a proud man, but every soldier had his limits. No Rohirrim alive would cherish the thought of being carried in such a helpless state into The Golden Hall. If such a procedure were to take place, unconsciousness was highly preferable.

Sliding from the saddle, he began to call for a healer at the top of his lungs, uncaring of the spectacle he might be making of himself. Then, careful not to jar Aragorn’s wounds further, he gently lifted his captain down into his arms. He looked at the pale face that rested on his arm, searching for any signs of awareness. Thorongil’s eyelids twitched slightly as a raindrop touched his face, but he didn’t appear to be rousing any further. For that, Araedhelm was grateful.

***

Thengel paced the halls restlessly, hands clasped behind his back. He paused long enough to pull his robe more tightly around him, and then continued. Meduseld was dark and cold this morning, and the King felt heavier than he had for a long time. 

Peace prevailed in Rohan. For the moment, even the Dunlendings seemed content, or at least non-aggressive. Well, there was one, small rumor concerning the Wildmen. However, the source of that complaint was unreliable and imaginative, to say the least. He would get around to that problem sooner or later, but for now, things were well in Edoras. Council meetings, although tedious as ever, generally were held only because of trivial problems.

Then why this sudden worry? He tried to pinpoint the cause of his uneasiness, but found it impossible. As each second passed, he became more convinced that the problem, whatever it was, wasn’t simply one problem to be dealt with and then cast aside. Some evil was coming to Rohan, and the most terrifying thing was, it was infecting the land from inside. Whispers of spies and conspiracies were all part of court intrigue, but lately those whispers seemed to hold the ring of truth. He couldn’t ignore that anymore. It wasn’t so much a matter of what the problem was, as who the problem was.

Someone close…someone very close…     

His advisor’s warning came back to him involuntarily. He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to think about any of the people he considered “close” as being suspect of treason. It was impossible, he’d gone over the lists again and again, but it still made no sense. Even if, by some stretch of the imagination, he was able to overlook the fact that none of them seemed capable of that level of crafty scheming and acting, he always came down the same impasse in the end: they were his friends. 

Again, the words of his advisor came back to admonish him, even in the absence of the Silfren himself. He sighed. This train of thought made him want to rip his hair out in frustration. He may as well suspect Morwen as most of the men that fell under the category of suspects. Their histories went back so far together… Why would one of them suddenly decide upon treachery? Or had it been their intent for all these years? The thought of such long-term plans, and the callous man that would have had to have made them, was almost too frightening to consider. 

He wished he could afford to wait. Perhaps, in time, this traitor would slip, and make a mistake that would uncover him. Perhaps he would never have to accuse any of his friends. Perhaps…it would be too late by then. Perhaps the traitor was far cleverer than he could imagine. And, perhaps, if he did nothing at all, Rohan would fall into the hands of the enemy. Whoever that was.

He would hate to suspect any of his true friends, but he couldn’t afford not to suspect all of them. It was horrible task, sorting through all the familiar faces, treating them like so many criminals. If it hadn’t been for Silfren, he’d probably have given up long ago, for he longed to let the whole matter drop. But he couldn’t. His duty as King, to protect Rohan, lay before him, and he would do it without flinching.

But, after all is said and done, perhaps not without regrets… his own thoughts whispered to him.  

The lists of names and faces continued to run through his mind, and the King continued to pace. The physical exertion, however, did nothing to alleviate his tormented thoughts. After several more minutes, he had to admit that, for the present, the task was rapidly becoming fruitless. His emotions were too close to the subject, and his thoughts only became more confused the more he thought about it.

“Healers! Quickly!”

A booming, authoritative voice broke trough the monotonous sound of the pouring rain. Thengel started out of his reverie, quickening his steps, and turning towards the front of Meduseld.

“Quickly—it’s Captain Thorongil!”

At mention of Thorongil, alarm increased his speed. He reached the door just behind two of the palace guards, who were rushing to help Araedhelm with the wounded captain, as he struggled under the other man’s weight.

Araedhelm shook his head at the guards, breathing heavily as he reached the top of the stairs, but unfaltering in his movements. “No, I can carry him... Clear the way…Get healers.”

The guards obeyed, one of them running off for the healers, while the other strode on ahead. After that, Araedhelm didn’t pause, not even at sight of the King, moving forwards at a surprisingly fast rate. Thengel fell into step behind him, momentarily too stunned and worried to ask questions.

They arrived at Thorongil’s room just as Neylor, the head healer, arrived. The white-haired man took charge right away. Having Araedhelm hold him upright for a moment, he unclasped the dripping cape from around Aragorn’s shoulders, and threw it over the back of a chair. He leaned over Aragorn as soon as Araedhelm had deposited him on the bed, taking one assessing look at his patient’s ripped, blood-soaked clothes, before thrusting his hand out.

“Knife,” he commanded brusquely.

Araedhelm frowned at the abrupt, and rather ominous-sounding request. He regarded the healer with suspicion.

Neylor sighed impatiently. “No, Lieutenant, I don’t propose to start out by slicing him open, I merely intend to get a better look at the wound,” he said the words quickly, in one breath, but in the tone of an adult trying to explain something to a very young child.

Feeling suddenly foolish at his unmerited hostilities, Araedhelm quickly unsheathed his dagger and handed it over. Neylor snatched it up without apology, and began cutting away Aragorn’s tunic with deft fingers. He pursed his lips when the angry-looking and still-bleeding wound was revealed at last, but he never paused in his ministrations.

Feorh came hurrying into the room, and Naylor looked up critically at the intruder into “his” domain. When he saw who it was, he said in an approving, but clipped voice, “Ah, Feorh. Good.” Before he’d finished speaking, his eyes shot back to the bed.

Feorh seemed to know her part well, rushing around the room at an almost alarming rate, as she stoked the fire, and began to heat some water. Every now and then, even as her hands flew about the various sick-room tasks, her eyes strayed anxiously to the still form on the bed. Word would soon be spread that Captain Thorongil had been wounded, but it would not be spread with pleasure by its bearer.

Araedhelm and Thengel stood silently side by side, watching with kindred worry but feeling unusually helpless and useless in the face of such efficiency. Now that his captain was in the hands of a healer, Araedhelm felt restless without a physical outlet to express his concern through.

As a King, helplessness wasn’t a foreign feeling to Thengel. He’d witnessed many such scenes before, and had had to stand stoically by while men rode to war for Rohan, or died to protect him. However, just because he was used to it, didn’t mean he enjoyed it now any more than he had then. Although he was ruler of Rohan, with thousands of men at his command, he was next to useless in the sick-room. He might have recognized the irony of his position, had he been in less troubled circumstances. 

Neylor continued to hover over Aragorn, alternately grunting in satisfaction, and frowning in consideration. In other words: driving all onlookers completely insane with questions. Far be it from him to break the age-honored tradition of healers, and actually volunteer information. He reached for another clean bandage, without so much as sparing any of them a look or word of reassurance.

Thengel held himself back with admirable self-control. Neylor was one of the few healers he trusted enough to place in charge of both himself, and his family. He could be ornery, pig-headed, domineering, and at times downright defiant to any and all authority, including the King’s. The sick-room was had long ago been established as his territory, and no other’s. Anyone caught interfering was “glared” out of the room. But the elderly healer loved and cared for the royal family with skill born of many years of experience, and his talent was irreplaceable. Perhaps that was the reason for his brazen attitude: he knew it. 

Despite all this, Thengel finally reached his limit. He stepped closer to the bed, Araedhelm mirroring his movements on the other side, even as he watched the demanding healer cautiously. Neylor was just running one gnarled hand lightly across the white bandages that wound around Aragon’s torso.

“Well…” he trailed off unhelpfully.

“Yes, well what?” Thengel asked somewhat sharply.

Araedhelm, regaining some of his sense of purpose, demanded, “By the gods, man, will he live?”

Neylor didn’t respond to either of them directly. He began muttering, whether for their benefit or his own, neither of them could tell at first. “He has a fever, and that wound is swollen, and still bleeding lightly… Nasty cut, that, and ragged too…” He narrowed his eyes at Araedhelm. “It’s at a rather strange angle. How did he receive it?”

Araedhelm felt anger mount as his question was all but ignored. “I don’t know exactly how he received it, and I don’t care so much about how he got it, as about whether he’s going to survive it. Now will you tell me in plain words, or not?” 

“In a moment, Lieutenant, in a moment… Be patient, you can’t rush healing.” Neylor ignored his outburst, moving from his hand from Aragorn’s chest to the side of his head where he’d hit it on a rock when he fell from the saddle. Dipping a cloth into a steaming bowl of water, he wrung it out and began wiping the blood away with unexpected gentleness. After checking Aragorn’s eyes for dilation, he finally took pity on Araedhelm and Thengel and spoke at last. “Hmm…I think he will do well, my Lords. He appears to have a bad concussion and, as I said, the wound is severe and inflamed. But he is not a weak man, and likely will pull through alright.”

Thengel let out a long breath. Thorongil would live. Perhaps his relief was a bit premature, but he couldn’t bear to think of the alternative.

Even in the relatively short amount of time Thorongil had served Rohan, he’d risen in rank until he’d earned the title of First Marshall of the Mark. He now captained a full Eored—and held each man’s implicit trust. This rugged warrior from the North, with his odd, almost Elven bearing, and commanding voice, had won the admiration and friendship of the men of Rohan, as well as that of its King.

Thengel watched the pale face on the pillow before him, still lightly etched with pain. Thorongil would recover, or Rohan would lose one of her most valued and loved warriors.