[Airerûthiel]

There was a strange sense of destiny weighing heavy on Maikadurion's heart as he rode in pursuit of the horse-thieves, some way behind his companions. He could not help feeling that this was like cheating on his destiny; fate had chosen this course for him in life and would see it through to the end without fail. He knew that every step he took in the land of the Stewards was one closer and closer to his death and destruction at the hands of either the black forces of Mordor or the Gondorians.

Ælfritha and Malienna had seemingly vanished, and the young half-Elf was left alone in a land he had only the vaguest recollections of. "I was but a child when my family walked in this place," he muttered, "and the knowledge of this country has left me after so long a time." He made his way forward in the gathering gloom that seemed to grow and change all around him, like the unknown monsters of his childhood that he could not distinguish between when the hours of darkness came.

Urging the horse he had borrowed forward, he scanned the countryside for patrolling parties of Gondorian guards. Slowly he made his way along the trail of hoofprints left by the others, but his mind was on the last time he had seen the country of his birth. He could not even remember Ithilien's sorrowful beauty, nor any other aspect of his homeland - all he knew of Gondor was the house of Airerûthiel and Pennrod, his aunt and uncle.

"Halt! Who goes there? What do they call you, stranger of the western lands?" A harsh shout shook Maikadurion violently from his deep and pondering thoughts. He could see shadowy figures garbed in the traditional dress of Gondorian military advancing towards him, becoming gradually clearer. All had their hands on their sword hilts, ready to attack in case he was what they saw him to be - an enemy and a traitor to Gondor.

"I asked a question of you, yet you gave me no answer. My patience lessens as your silence grows. Speak!" The guard who had spoken was clearly a young boy; Maikadurion smirked silently as he watched his contemporary try and deepen his voice and sound important. "We are Guards of Gondor, and we allow none to pass into this land lest they are not friend to us. Give me your name, and make haste with it!" The half-Elf detected a hint of nervousness in the youngest guard's voice, which gave him a new-found superior confidence to speak the truth.

"I am Maikadurion of Ithilien, son to Théomer of Gondor and Rohan, and I come to find my horse and sole companion," he replied. "Neglect the rumoured deeds of the shadowed past that hang over my house and allow me passage. My friends have gone ahead of me - it is of great importance I catch them up."

"You must not have heard us correctly the first time we spoke to you," said the leader of the guards, a muscular and deep-voiced man with a steely gaze and a cold temperament. "You and your brother were forbidden to return to Gondor on pain of certain death by order of the Lord Denethor. The Steward of Gondor does not make pledges of that nature lightly. We have no choice but to kill you." His eyes scanned the other guards, as if deciding whom to select for the gruesome task.

"If it be my fate to die by a blade of Gondor, let me die with the honour I wished to restore to my name," said Maikadurion. "Let me fight your chosen one, and then should I fall it will be fairly won on your part." The guard just grunted in response, clearly ignoring the youngster. Suddenly, his gaze fell upon the runt of the party, and a strange gleam appeared there.

"You boy!" he said. "Draw your blade and fight this vagabond! Spare his life not, lest you wish to face our Lord's wrath on discovery you did not slay the Traitor's heir." The young boy looked terrified, but walked forward nonetheless. Maikadurion bowed low as he had been taught by his uncle, never taking his eyes from his opponent, whose gaze was firmly focused on the floor.

There was a sense of tranquility about Maikadurion as the two adolescents locked blades repeatedly with one another, never able to break the stalemate. He seemed to just be mindlessly exercising the moves drummed into him during his childhood training sessions for one last time. Maybe it was because he seemed to know that these would be his final moments; he was not about to cheat in the card game of life, lest he change the course of what would come to pass for the worse. He knew he would never go back to the White Horse, never see Formenelen again, never know if his companions had survived and completed their quest.

He saw the sword blade coming towards his heart, and knew that his time had come.

~*~*~*~*~

The silence was deafening, drowning out everything around the fallen. It seemed to go on for ever, shouting out the news of Maikadurion's death for all the natural world to hear. "Well," said the leader of the guards eventually, clapping his hands together and rubbing them almost gleefully. "I suspect the Lord Denethor will be greatly pleased with our work in this place. We have vanquished one of his greatest enemies. Once we find the other child, there is no hope for the descendants of one who betrayed his people."

He and the others turned to leave - all save one. The youngest of the soldiers was kneeling down beside the corpse. He had removed his helmet as a mark of respect, his shoulder-length red-gold hair blowing back slightly in the wind. "Why do you stay?" asked the chief guard, growing impatient. "You should be basking in the glory bestowed upon you for slaying one of Gondor's enemies. Let us leave this place and have done with it. The birds and beasts of the fields will give his body the funeral it deserves."

"I..." The boy cast around for an excuse, desperate to absorb his actions' consequences a little longer. "I must clean my blade. We may not return to Minas Tirith before I can wash away the stains of this unfortunate's blood."

The other guards merely shrugged and walked away into the distance until they were naught save black specks on the horizon, leaving him alone with his thoughts. "My brother," the young half-Elf whispered, tears running down his face like two miniature waterfalls. "I did not know 'twas you; I would not have taken your life from this world so early had I known the truth. But I shall bear the burdern of my actions and their consequences for as long as the name of my father's house lives."

After committing his brother's body to the ground and marking it with a carved stone, the young Gondorian threw off his guise as a soldier and dressed once more in the simple garb he loved best - that of a Ranger. Without looking back, he turned his tear-filled cobalt eyes westward, and began the long journey back to the lands of relative safety.

[ January 31, 2003: Message edited by: Airerûthiel ]