Disclaimer and Author’s Note: I have used Tolkien’s histories and maps, as well as his languages to create more names, without permission. Since this story has taken on epic proportions, it is sometimes hard to tell what is his, and what is mine. I believe that is the way it should be.

Defeating the Witch King
by Meltintalle

Ringarë 1974 — Lótessë 1975

Círdan the Shipwright was taking a little nap, when he was awakened by the cries of his people. Instantly alert, he strode to the window, and looking through the casement, saw the gaunt horses and haggard men riding them. Elves took the reigns of the mounts, while others offered supporting arms to those who dismounted and nearly fell, so great was their weariness.

One young man valiantly stood on his own, a boy child clasped in his arms. “I must speak to the lord of this place,” he said, shifting the youngster to his hip. “Please. It has been said that the elves are friendly to the house of Elendil.”

Círdan opened the windowpanes, and gathered himself on the sill. The young man was clearly in great distress, and to use the stairs was a waste of time. A leap, and the shipwright was in the courtyard. A chill wind wove itself about his bare arms. The lord of Mithlond strode through those assembled until he stood before the speaker. “I am he whom you seek. To what duress have the men of Númenor come?”

“Ah, milord. Fornost has fallen to the forces of Angmar—” there was a gasp from those assembled, and murmurs rose which were swiftly quelled by Círdan’s upraised hand. The lad continued, “My father and the remnants of his guard attacked the army surrounding the city, while we fled.” His voice broke. “The last we saw of them, they were being pursued northwards.”

The child awoke, and began to cry.

“You are tired,” said Círdan. “You have travelled far. Within the walls of Mithlond, you are safe. Rest now. Salves shall be found for your hurts, and a warm meal will heal many ills.”

Her dark hair ruffled by the breeze, an elf-woman stepped forward, a cloak hastily clasped about her throat. “The child is cold, lad. Let me take him.” She stretched out her arms, but the young man hesitated.

“He is my brother, the last child of my mother, and I swore to my father that I would protect him.”

“Then come, and warm yourself by my fire as well.”

“I must see to my men,” protested the prince.

“Give your brother to the lady Finduilas,” advised Círdan. “She will care for him as if he were her own, and you may join him when you are satisfied as to the quartering of your men.”

The prince slowly handed the lad over, noting the motherly way the woman clasped the boy to her bosom. Finduilas wrapped her cloak around his shivering frame, and hurried inside, already singing softly in Sindarin.

Accompanied by Círdan, and his seneschal Aldaron, the young man—who introduced himself as Aranarth, eldest son of Arvedui of Arthedain—satisfied himself that the faithful dúnedain who attended the princes in their flight from Fornost were comfortable. Only then did he allow himself to be led inside to the warm suite of rooms occupied by Finduilas and Aldaron her husband.

The lady bustled about, ordering her maids to stir up the fire, to find clean clothes for the children, and to bring a nourishing stew. Aldaron planted a kiss upon his wife’s forehead, and laughingly asked her if she had any orders for him.

“Not yet,” said Finduilas earnestly.

Little Tarcil and Arvedui’s second son Beleg were already seated at the table, the pale wood gleaming golden in the winter sun and firelight. Although the room was warm, both boys still shivered. Wrapped in furs, they waited in silence for the steaming bowls of stew presently provided for them.

Their elder brother slid wearily onto the bench, his brave façade crumbling in the face of the elves kindness. The will which had kept the band of refugees going, which made him act far older than his thirty years, crumbled, and Aranarth allowed himself to weep.

Finduilas put her arms about the young man, and rocked him as though he was still as young as Tarcil. “There now,” she soothed. “Forget your troubles for a little while, and when you must take them up again, we will aid you with your burden.”

Círdan leaned forward. “What are you getting us into now, lady?”

Her lavender-grey eyes were steely as she stared down the elf-lord reputed to be the furthest seeing in Middle-Earth. “Angmar must not be allowed to stand at our gates. And have you forgotten so soon that the men of Númenor are descended from Lúthien the fair and Beren Erchamion? Have you forgotten Tuor and Idril Celebrindal, who begat Eärendil the Mariner who brought the Valar back to our shores? Can we not do our part to aid their descendants?”

“Ah, lady. I did but jest,” protested Círdan.

“Do not jest about such things,” said she, rising to her feet, and taking the suits of clothing from her maid. “Now go, both of you. Surely, you can find something useful to do outside. Go over the maps, and plan a course of action, perhaps. Cut a couple cords of firewood for me—I like not the look of the sky.” She made a shooing motion with her hand, and both elves rose, and left.

“Of all the pretty maidens, you had to marry her, didn’t you,” grumbled Círdan.

“I can think of two objections to my not marrying her,” said Aldaron.

“Oh?”

“First of all, she would still be Finduilas of the Havens, and secondly, I wouldn’t be happy and contented.”

“You like being ordered around?”

“We’ve long ago come to an agreement, mellon nin. Your problem is that you go about with your head in the clouds, and she brings it down with a jerk.” Aldaron handed the tall shipwright an axe. “Now, about that cord of firewood…”

***

The winter passed, and as soon as there was water in the Gulf of Lune, Círdan ordered a ship outfitted to sail north in search of Arvedui. It was a cold day. The sun shone in a dome of the palest blue, but she brought no warmth to the Havens. Dressed in fur-lined garments, the elves who volunteered to sail the caravel boarded the craft. The gangplank was drawn up, and the guy lines cast off.

Icy wind filled the white sails, causing them to billow out like the wings of some great sea bird. The elvish mariners manning the trim ship waved to the little group standing on the dock. Her captain cupped his hands to his mouth, and shouted one last reassuring promise to find Arvedui if he was alive.

The sea rose and fell: waves and wind carrying the caravel northward. The swell washed over the stones of the quay, wetting the boots of those watching her away. “Do you think it possible?” asked Aranarth, beset with doubts now that his part in the endeavour was finished. “Or do they risk their lives in the winter sea on the slimmest of chances?”

Círdan smiled. “If your father lives, they will find him. But,” he rubbed his chin reflectively; “You suffer from inactivity. Come. Let me show you the maps again, that you may plan your course eastward. It will not hurt to have friends on all sides when we attack this Witch-King.”

With Finduilas watching the preparations, Aranarth and those of his men who either would not leave him, or had sufficiently recovered their strength, made ready their horses to ride to Imladris to enlist the aid of Lord Elrond Half-Elven.

Over a month later, when the first hint of spring showed in the grey trees, and tiny buds of green poked their way through the brown ground, the prince of Arthedain rode away at the head of thirty men. His brothers hung over the gates of Mithlond, waving farewell. Beleg promised to watch over Tarcil, and to uphold the family honour. Finduilas acted as mother to the little family, and made Aranarth promise to be careful and not take to many risks. Her words held a deeper meaning, however, for the young man was heir to his father’s crown, and neither of his brothers were old enough to have earned the respect of the dúnedain yet.

Only a few days after Aranarth’s departure, a lone ship appeared, her sails bare of any device, and with only a golden pennant flying from the masthead. She glided to the docks in the moonlit hours, and was met by Círdan and Galdor. Manned by invisible powers, only one figure disembarked, and then the ship sailed away as silently as she had come.

Glorfindel of Gondolin, Balrog-Slayer and beloved lord of his people, had returned to Middle-Earth.

Mounted on a beautiful (and vain) bay mare, Glorfindel took his leave of the elves of Mithlond. Old and new friends presented him with small gifts as they saw him off. Aldaron rode with him for a little ways in the glorious spring morning before he too took his leave.

Glorfindel rode for Imladris by the straightest way, and his path crossed that of the prince in Bree.

***

Silently, like grey shadows, rode the little band of dúnedain. They were resting their horses, the strongest of the proud animals rode by those of Arthedain, when they were discovered by a roving troop of Angmarian soldiers. Swords were drawn, and the two parties met in combat. Aranarth bore no mark of rank, and fought as one of his men, and so it was that none of those serving the Witch-King knew how close they were to achieving their goal of finding the missing princes.

By the strength of their arms, the dúnedain defeated the soldiers of Angmar. But in the process, Aranarth lost his horse. The greathearted animal stumbled, and fell, the delicate bones in his near foreleg shattered. The mounts of the attackers scattered, and none of them could have kept up with the horses of Arthedain.

Even though the dúnryh were gaunt, had been run further than any would have thought possible, survived on less feed and rest than sense dictated but necessity demanded, they would give their all for their riders. Beside their tall frames, the scarlet caparisoned horses were small, weak, and cowardly.

When the prince had delivered the mercy blow, Brand, soldier of the king’s guard, and loyal to the
last, drew near to his lord. “Shall I run one of them down?” He nodded towards the animals scattered on the downs.

Aranarth shook his head. “Me, ride one of those?”

Brand touched the smooth neck of his own brown gelding. “Nay, milord. You must ride my horse.”

“No. I couldn’t. Even if one of us did ride of them,” he indicated the riderless animals, “We would only slow the others down. I’ll walk for a little ways. Not all the horses of Angmar are of that breed,” he finished grimly.

“There is the town of Bree,” said another retainer, pointing to the buildings silhouetted on the horizon. “We might be able to find a decent mount there.”

“It’s worth a try,” said a grizzled soldier. “I’ll go scout it out, milord.”

“No,” said Aranarth firmly. “I will go myself.”

There were cries of protest. “You can’t!”

“But I will—I must. This horse is going to have to carry me to Imladris, and I know how to find a good horse, even in the dark. Finnian the Horse-Herder taught me well. Which one among you can say that?”

“Let one of us go with you at least,” said Brand, conceding the point.

“One draws less attention than two. Meet you me on the other side of town. Go!”

Still murmuring in protest, the thirty dúnedain turned their horses’ heads and began their wary circling. Aranarth watched them go, and then drew his hood up over his face. Coins from all three of the kingdoms of Arnor circulated freely, and his features bore close resemblance to many of the faces stamped on the metal discs. Making his way to the hedge bordering the road, the young man began to plan his story should any question his errand. “I’m a courier with an urgent message—they’re common enough, and nobody asks them very many questions—unless they’re soldiers of Angmar. Bandits shot my mount, and I was lucky to escape with my life. No, they didn’t bear red on their person. That might make them refugees from Fornost or the surrounding countryside, and if they shot at me…”

The road was empty, but Aranarth walked behind the hedge, keeping a wary eye out for travellers. Bree loomed closer, and he tried to remember what he knew of the place. There was only one inn, and that was where any spare horses would be quartered, as well as those of the few wanderers. The sun hung low in the sky when the sound of hooves made the prince glance down the road.

The bay was lathered and slathered with mud, and the white of her eye showed. The cord looped about her muzzle was for looks only, and offered her rider no control. But she was superbly conditioned, and her ground eating pace would match the dúnryh. Aranarth admired her, and the horsemanship of the mare’s rider, who didn’t seem unduly bothered by the bay’s temper.

While the man stopped at the gate to chat with the gatekeeper, Aranarth silently hoisted himself up on the wall. As the mare trotted away, he dropped to the ground, and followed at a distance. He watched from a darkened corner of the entryway as the owner of the bay settled himself at a table, and then as Wolfsbane leaped to the defence of the innkeeper’s daughter.

When things were quiet once more, Aranarth entered the common room, feeling for the pouch of coins at his belt. Keeping to the perimeter of the room, he eventually came to where Wolfsbane sat, observing the activity with a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Like the young man, he wore his hood to obscure his features, but no one seemed to mind.

“The bay mare in the last stall—is she yours?”

“Yes.”

“Will you sell her?”

Wolfsbane made a gagging sound, almost as though he couldn’t quite believe what he had just heard. “What?” Patiently and earnestly, Aranarth repeated his request. “I…I’ve never considered it.”

“Please do. I’ll give you twenty silver pennies for her.”

There was a long silence as Wolfsbane digested the offer. Finally, he shook his head. “No.”

“I’ll give you twenty-two silver pennies for her!” The calm refusal hurt, and the price was outrageous, but there were some who would sell anything for the right price. Aranarth was scarcely aware that he was clenching and unclenching his fists. “There are those who would kill you for her—please! I’m offering you good money for the mare!”

“And what’s going to stop them from killing you too?” sweetly inquired Wolfsbane, his tone reminding the young man that he had dared to back down a troop of Angmarian soldiers. “I can take of myself—but can you?”

Aranarth felt himself flush. “I can take care of myself,” he snapped, wondering what the smug man in front of him would say if confronted with the knowledge that Aranarth was already considered an able captain and dangerous warrior by his people. “Look! I’ll give you twenty-five silver pennies, but it’s my last offer.”

“Good. Then I won’t have to refuse you again. My answer is still no, lad.”

Aranarth nodded curtly, and turned away. He wanted that mare—a quick glance in the stables had shown only one horse comparable to the little bay, but the black stallion wore the red trappings of Angmar, and the captain of the men with scarlet armbands was known as the Red Captain. He felt a prickling between his shoulderblades, and knew that someone was watching him. He forced himself to walk unconcernedly to a table.

Slowly, the common room emptied, and Aranarth slipped outside with a group of locals. Lights went out all over town, and soon all that could be heard was the chirping of early crickets. Under the cool starlight, he entered the barn. Near dawn, he would have the mare, but he would leave the money. Wolfsbane’s swift defence of the girl had made an impression, and the man could buy another horse for much, much less. He slept in the soft hay, awakening before the first grey light of dawn.

Murmuring soothing words in the elvish tongue, Aranarth bridled the skittish mare. She rolled her eyes, and bared her teeth, but a soft command dissuaded her from biting. Leaving her standing in the courtyard, he entered the inn. The old man was already up, and the rattle of pans from the kitchen suggested that he was not the only one.

Swiftly, the prince explained that he was a courier who lost his horse; that he had arranged to buy Wolfsbane’s mare for twenty-six silver pennies and payment for the man’s expenses. “Can we settle that now? I’m in a terrible hurry, you see. The message must go through.”

“Oh, of course,” said the innkeeper, rapidly figuring the total in his head.

Aranarth paid over the coins, and at the questioning glance the man gave him when he realised they were of Arthedain mint, said—with what he hoped was a cold smile—“I use what’s available.”

“I see—ah, what did you say your name was?”

“Aran,” was the answer that drifted back through the closing door. The bay mare leaped away into the sunrise, quickly settling into her usual ground-covering gait.

“I see, master Aran,” said the innkeeper.

“Cor,” said the holbytla hostler, watching them go. “What a mare. She’ll get him where he’s going in fine time, or die trying. I can’t understand why Wolfsbane sold her, even if she did have a nasty temper.”

Aranarth met his men outside of town. They fell in behind, and only Brand dared comment on the beautiful mare. Every so often, she would turn her head in an inquiring fashion, and the prince would whisper a few soft words. “I know, I know. But this is important, little lady.” He felt uncomfortable with what he had done, and set a rapid pace, hoping to outdistance his protesting conscience. He mentioned briefly that he had seen the Red Captain, and this explanation of their pace was accepted.

Spring melted into summer, and two weeks passed before the dúnedain reached the Last Bridge. The first hazy hints of mountains could be seen on the eastern horizon, and Aranarth dared hope that they were near their goal. He had visited Imladris once before, and remembered his father saying that the road to the Last Homely House was never the same.