((Please note that the entire story is currently being edited as Archive Formatting has broken. If you have access to The Western Alliance Forum there is an easier to read version there. If you spot any missing paragraphs please let me know))
The moonlight glimmered across the river though the ripple of the water seemed the only movement in the cold night. It was calmer than usual, as though the world sat in pause, pending, waiting in anxiety for the curtain to raise and the play to begin. Even the air, usually so full of the night song of owls and wolves, remained silent under the light of the moon. A glint of pallid light shone, briefly, almost ghostly, from the shadowed ruins as the faintest noise threatened the night. But as soon as it had appeared, it faded, back to the shadows, back to the darkness that was growing daily over the torn landscape of Osgiliath.
“Quiet” a whisper floated through the air, almost unheard, but just managing to reach the ears behind the silver helms of the company. Though unseen, the presence of Men was clear; the shallow breath in the air that condensed to mist, the sniffles and grumbles of the tired and wearied soldiers, even the faint smell of sweat and toil. They had fought for days, perhaps weeks, and there seemed no respite forthcoming on this night. For while their scent was opaque, the stench of the Orc horde across the river was unmistakable and unbearable, and so long as that corrupt, sickly, odour permeated the ruined city, there could be no time for misgiving among men.
“Wait” the whisper returned, this time followed by the swift echo of a hundred swords unsheathing. As though in reply, a score of bowstrings tightened, the stretched wood of Ithlien's finest ash striking a curious chorus in the night. A mailed hand raised, the moonlight catching the steel rings and exploring their depths, and remained steady. “Hold” the voice louder this time, and the origin taking form. The grey eyes of the Captain shone brightly even though Tilion's light fell away from them, his vigour, his eagerness, his passion giving him a greater inner brightness than that of the Moon. His face was worn and tired, the dark creases and scars of both age and experience creating a complicated labyrinth of lines across his mud soaked skin. He had lost his high pointed helm in the depths of the river earlier in the day, and now all that marked him out from the others was his greyed beard, cut to noble fashion, that somehow had remained free from mud throughout the toils of the day.
With a slight smile to the man at his right, he dropped his hand, issuing the command, his shout reverberating from the walls and shattering the silence “Fire!” There followed a unity of sound, each arrow moving almost parallel through the air and striking its target; the heavy bodies of twenty orcs falling, crumpled, to the mud below. A roar, louder than thunder, came from the encampment as torches flickered to life, breaking the darkness. A swarm of iniquitous and foul orc-kind blistered into the light, jagged swords and rusted axe heads clattering against their bloodied armour. They swamped the once great courtyard, bustling with confusion and ire as they glanced forlornly for their attackers yet too late...their eyes pierced by another accurate and timely volley of arrows.
“Charge!” The shout came as the bodies of the orcs crashed to the ground and in an instant a hundred men emerged from the shadows, their armour, though sodden with dirt, shining brightly in the night light. The Herald of the White Tree stood firm in their midst, the banner, a white tree emblazoned on a black background, flying high above the chaos below, and at the fore the noble Captain gave his rallying commands...his sword flying as swift as eagles-flight through the soiled flesh of Orc.
The carrion calls screeched over the city as the sun began its pursuit of the moon across the sky, its golden light falling across the blood red courtyard where so many had fallen. Men and Orcs lay together in death, finding harmony at the fall of the curtain, yet each had given their lives for the thing they held dearest. The river below continued its flow through the ruins, though tinged with the presence of vermillion. “How many?” He asked softly, as he glanced to his man at arms with solemn weariness. “Thirty two by the count of the sunrise Sir,” The man answered quickly, though he too had sadness in his heart “There may be more, several are unaccounted for” The captain lay his sword on the ground before raising his gaze to the field of death before him. He had fought for the Steward, for Minas Tirith, for over a decade yet this was the first time he doubted his sword's purpose. “So many fallen” He thought silently to himself “So many sacrificed with no hope of victory” He frowned suddenly, turning from the field, his voice sparked with concern, with fear “Where is Alathar? Where is the Standard?” “Unaccounted for Sir” The Man at Arms wavered slightly, his gauntlet flexing in tension. “Find him” The captain ordered quickly “Find him or we will all be cast out of Pelennor by nightfall” The man at arms ran hurriedly from the captain, his armour clattering noisily as he stumbled down the stairs towards the courtyard. Slowly the captain turned away, his eyes meeting the sun and closing to its warmth. He could feel the dread filling him, he could sense the darkness around him...He already knew that the Herald would not be found, he knew they had lost the Standard, he knew...because he had seen them take it. He had tried, he had cut a swathe of Orcs to reach the standard but he had been too slow. Their gruesome goblin folk had cut the fingers of his Herald, of his friend, Alathar and stolen the standard of the Second Watch. And he had been too slow. How could he have.... “Sir” The Man at Arms returned swiftly “We found...The standard is lost Sir” “Regroup the men” The captain sighed slowly, not turning from the sun “We ride for the city before the midday”
Exile. At least that is what it amounted to. He had not been surprised, he had not been shocked by the reaction of his Commander, he had accepted it with a heavy heart yet also with an acknowledgement of the consequence. Slowly he lifted the heavy oak lid of the chest before him, his sore eyes glancing at the relics that lay set out neatly within; The valorous silver armour, the black tabard emblazoned with the symbol of the White Tree, the sword...no longer tainted with blood, that radiated light as though it had a life of its own. His fingers glanced across the black scabbard of his sword with a slow and cautious reluctance, a tear, solitary and alone, falling down his cheek. With a sudden motion he turned towards the hollow window of his abode, his eyes catching the flight of birds that still lingered over the ruins of the ancient capital. Their black mass growing and swelling in the sunlit sky “Darkness grows while good men fail” He muttered to himself as he arose, turning his gaze from the premonitory cloud of carrion. A flick of his arm sent the black cloth of his cloak flying over his shoulder, revealing the modest leather jacket that covered his chest, lacklustre in comparison to his great armour. He had been stripped of rank, stripped of the right to bear the white tree, but not yet of his nobility. That much alone he had retained, and would always retain. He sighed lightly as he picked up his pack from the uncrumpled cover of his bed and set off towards the door.
“You will recover it, Arathrandir, and until you do you will not set foot in the lands of Gondor”
“Yes, my liege”
“I'm sorry, friend....but I cannot offer you lenience under the laws of the Steward”
“I understand Siromir, I ask not for your pity. The fault was my own”
“Then you will search for the Standard?”
“Perhaps, but I have not the skills of the rangers of Ithilien, I fear my quarry's tracks will go unfound”
“...There are men that would still follow you Arathrandir, I am sure you will not go alone”
“They would follow me to death itself, but I will not ask that of them. No, friend, I must go alone..Perhaps the luck of the Valar will go with me”
“I hope so Arathrandir, I truly do, for this is a sorry time to be losing fine men, a sorry time indeed” “Goodbye Siromir, Goodbye, Commander”
“May you find the path less tread, Arathrandir. To me you shall always be a friend, and a Captain, of Gondor”
He thought of all that had preceded his flight, of how his fortune had changed so much in between the fall of the last night's moon and the sunset that now shone upon the white mountains to his right. The path behind had been so full of valour yet ahead the path looked bleak. Its winding course towards the Enedwaith was one little tread by the soldiers of Gondor, one only taken by those who left in disgrace. He had no other road to take but the one before him; To the north, lay Rohan, a land he dare not trespass, to the south the perilous lands that shuddered under the grip of the corsairs of Umbar. Only the lands of the north, beyond the desolation of the Enedwaith, the lands that his family had descended from in the forgotten realm of Arthedain seemed open to him, only could he find his salvation, his redemption in the kingdom of his forefathers. With a final turn of his head he marvelled at the White City, his paled grey eyes rendering it firmly to his memory, before spurring his steed to a gallop.
