[Orual]

"Almarien, this message just came for you. It's from the Steward."

Almarien looked up from where he sat, rocking his infant daughter, and saw his auburn-haired wife walking briskly to his chair. Her green eyes were worried, but also curious. A letter from the Steward was a rare occasion.

"Let me see," Almarien said softly, reaching for the letter. Talanna gave it to him, and he turned it over in his hands.

The royal seal. He exhaled slowly. He had only half-believed that it was truly from the Steward, but no one would dare to forge the seal. It was punishable by death. He fingered it, felt the wax, felt the markings. What could the Steward want with him?

He looked up at Talanna, whose eyes were begging him to open it. He did so.

"Sir-

You are ordered to report to the great gate of Minas Tirith an hour before sunlight tomorrow. An officer of the Citadel Guard named Sir Mindalel will be in the inside of the gate. Speak to him for more orders. Prepare for a week of riding in the snow and combat. Horses will be provided.

Denathor, Steward of Gondor"

He sat back, stunned, for a long, silent moment. Talanna frowned at him. "Almarien, what does it say?"

Wordlessly he handed it to her, and stood up to go into his room. Reading it, she followed him.

"Tomorrow morning! Such short notice, Almarien! And combat? Has it come to that already? Oh, but it's the dead of winter. How--"

Gently laying the baby on the bed, Almarien put a finger on his wife's lips. "What must be, will be," he said softly. It was a phrase that Talanna used frequently. A single, hot tear ran down her cheek, and Almarien felt a matching one on his own face. "I need to pack."

So many things to prepare. He had to make sure that his sword was sharpened, that his bow was in good condition, that his boots were well-oiled and in proper shape. He ran a hand through his red hair. Such short notice.

He would have to tell his children good-bye. Six-year-old Talormé, who he had been teaching to shoot a bow. Four-year-old Alanai, who would watch, utterly absorbed, as Almarien sharpened his sword. And the twins, Talômi and Talmérië, who were just barely rolling over.

He touched the engraved sheath of his sword. His father's sword, and his father's father's. Just like the ring, it was an heirloom of his line. One day it would pass to Talormé. Would he live to see that day? Would he live to see the twins walk and talk?

He fiercely shook his head to clear it of such thoughts. It was not for him to question the Steward's decisions; it was for him to do his duties. And his duty was to be at the great gate of Minas Tirith, the very next day, before dawn.

And he would be there.