"We'll stop here!" Caran reined up his horse, calling to the men behind him.

Before Caran and his band of mercenaries lay the mouth of a large cave, draped in the remains of the summer's moss and ivy. Dormant bushes and shrubbery covered the small hillside on which the cave was situated, providing plenty of cover, even in the winter. An assortment of deciduous and evergreen trees spread their boughs overhead, coupled with the night mist rising from the damp ground, gave the place a ghostly quality. The moon had risen high, and it occasionally pierced through the tree branches, making silvery patches in the mist.

Seventeen-year-old Khelek, Caran's slave, and heir, dismounted from his black stallion, patting the creature's shoulder after dropping to the ground.

"Good boy, Beleger." The large creature bobbed his head and snorted, swishing his flaxen tail.

"Khelek!" Caran called from the other side of Beleger, his voice sharp.

"Yes, master?" Khelek hurried around his mount's head, to stand before the older man.

Caran held out the reins of his own horse, a large grullo stallion. Khelek took them, and turned to lead the horse away, when Caran's large hand clamped down on his shoulder.

Khelek stopped, his body instinctively tensing. He said nothing, waiting for the larger man to speak.

Caran slapped the younger man on the back, a slight grin appearing on his face.

"You're a good boy."

"Thank you, master."

Khelek nodded slightly to Caran, waiting for the moment when he could get away. Inwardly he despised the man, but years worth of punishments had taught him to keep that opinion to himself. And it had served him well, for now Caran was far less cruel than he had been in past years. Though, the man could never seem to make up his mind whether he loved Khelek like his own son, or whether Khelek was the worst waste of space that ever existed.

Caran squinted slightly, nodding his head, he repeated the phrase. "You're a good boy. Don't forget it."

Don't worry, Caran. I won't forget. Khelek lightly touched his right cheek, where Caran had branded him eleven years before, after having claimed him from a raid on a small camp of Dunedain rangers.

Caran cuffed Khelek's cheek playfully, chuckling slightly. He slid into different moods far quicker than was comfortable for the younger man.

"Go water the horses, boy. You're wasting time."

I won't be a 'boy' much longer...Khelek suppressed a slight smile. I really don't mind you not noticing that, though. The longer Caran treated him like a 'good boy,' the easier it would be for him to blend in. And to blend in is what he needed to continue to do, if he was going to survive as a slave of a mercenary.

Carefully, Khelek lead the horses through the woods, searching for a water source.

This place must be beautiful in the spring...His mind wandered, as he wondered what the ivies and mosses and bushes would look like when life returned to them after winter's chill dissipated with the advent of spring.

Ehtele'mele. The time of rebirth and life. Always, the Vernal Equinox was when Khelek's hopes and dreams were at their highest. When I buy my freedom, it will be in the spring. I'll have a whole year ahead of me to begin my life anew...

He breathed in, imagining the smells and sounds and sights of the Woods of Ithilien, garbed in the blossom laden robe of spring.

And then, the image came to his eyes and ears, invading all his senses, pushing aside the darkness and gloom he walked in.

Birds soared through the tree tops, which were heavy with buds and blossoms and leaves. Sunlight streamed through the leaves, filtering onto the forest floor, where grass and flowers and mosses throve. The cave which Khelek stood before was draped dark green ivy, that shone as though it were waxed. Ferns waved in the shade, blown by a soft breeze.

Nearby a brook chattered, sparkling in the morning light, with flora flourishing about the edges.

Khelek caught his breath at the beauty of it all, and he longed to run through the woods, splashing through the stream and leaving behind him the cares of his life.

"Khelek!"

The image disappeared as instantaneously as it came, fading into the frozen darkness that encompassed Khelek and his companions.

"I expect the horses to be watered tonight!" Caran stood in the entrance of the cave, his eyebrows knit slightly. He gestured toward the stream, coated in ice and shimmering in the moonlight. Caran then turned and entered the cave with the others, leaving Khelek alone.

Khelek strode to the stream, taking a deep breath, and glancing about to be sure he was indeed alone. Satisfied that the others had gone, bent over the stream, bringing to mind the vision of the chattering stream. His hand touched the ice, and began to glow slightly, and melted away beneath his touch. A brief gust of cold wind came up from the surface of the water, and then the stream began to flow, as if it had never been frozen at all. Khelek sat back, feeling slightly drained. For as long as he could remember he had been able to preform such small acts of what others had called 'magic,' and long ago he had learned to never do so in the presence of others.

Unfortunately, it seemed that rumors of his had spread through Caran's band shortly after Khelek had come to live there, and though Caran had always dismissed them, many in the band still viewed Khelek as a bringer of bad luck, or worse.

As the horses satisfied their thirst from their long journey, Khelek continued to sit beside the brook, watching the reflection of the moon on the water. He caught sight of his own image, shimmering and dancing on the ripples, and turned to study it.

A young, gaunt face looked back at him, pale skinned, and dark haired. Cerulean eyes, laced with silver threads weaving around the iris.

He looked away from his own eyes, his gaze falling on the right cheek of his reflection.

I might have had a fair enough face, were it not for that. Not to mention a fair enough life.

Disgusted, he threw a stone into the water, the image dissipating into hundreds of tiny ripples.

I'll change it soon. It won't be long now.

* * * * * *

Silver trumpets blasted through the White City, calling the people of Minas Tirith home from their work for the day.

Sixteen-year-old Faramir and his elder brother, Boromir, rode along the Pellenor Fields together, hurrying toward their home. Faramir had just returned from his first season serving as a Ranger in the woods of Ithilien, and Boromir, eager to see his younger brother, had met him at the very edge of the Pellenor fields. There would of course be a formal greeting when he arrived in Denethor's halls, but Boromir was far too impatient to wait for that.

The fellow may not be the best hand-to-hand warrior, yet when it comes to strategy—which is what we need for our Rangers—I have met few who are so skilled so young.

The Rangers were also pleased with their new member, and most respected him greatly. Some had begun to call him "The Youngest Captain," despite the fact that Faramir had not been, and was far from being, promoted to that position.

The whole matter pleased Boromir immensely.

Men and beasts both he seems to tame—and of his unreasonable luck, the tales have no end. Boromir chuckled. No doubt, though, they do grow in the telling. All good stories must!

* * * * * *

Upon entering the city, the young men left their steeds at the stable, and headed through the streets of the first level.

Suddenly, Boromir took off running, laughing and calling back for Faramir to hurry.

"I'm coming, Boromir!" Faramir bounded along behind, trying to keep up with Boromir. His lips pulled back into a smile, as he leaped along like a young deer.

"Take care, little brother! Father won't be pleased if we are late!" Boromir called back again, turning to look at his lanky brother.

"I shan't be late, and he would not be angry if you were," Faramir replied, jumping lightly along. He turned to follow a different path than his brother took. It was a longer way, but easier on the traveler, so it would take him a shorter time to reach the tower than the route Boromir had taken.

As he ran along joyously, his black, shoulder-length hair flying out behind him, his mind wandered. He had played in these streets since early childhood, and many good memories were held in the alleyways of the city. It was here he had first met the old Wizard, Mithrandir—or Gandalf, as he was known in the north. He smiled at the thought of the kind fellow. Always having some kind of surprise for the young Steward's sons.

I wonder when I shall see him again. He loved the old wizard dearly, for when he came to Minas Tirith, he was like a father to young Faramir. Faramir missed the kindly wizard, and often hoped to see him someplace—you never could tell where, for Mithrandir came and went as he pleased.

He has taught me so much of Elves, Men, Dwarves, Orcs, and even the Valar of the Undying Lands. So much wisdom he has, and so little do I. Gladly would I sit at his feet and learn for all my years. He smiled once more, glancing about him, as though he expected to see the old wizard, walking up the road, staff in hand.

He bounded up to the gates of the next level, reaching them well before his brother. He stepped through, and headed down a small side-street and stopped, mentally plotting out the rest of his trip through the city. Even for a boy born and raised in Minas Tirith, he had to take care, for he could still get lost at times. Not that he really minded being lost, for he loved to look on the different parts of the city, gazing at the beauty, thinking of the memories and wisdom that Minas Tirith held.

Though sometimes I do wonder if it is only a memory of wisdom. What is the good of knowledge if one does not act upon it?

Long ago he had learned to not speak aloud in this way, for it displeased his father greatly—particularly if he spoke like that before a visiting dignitary, which he had done before, much to the shock and disapprove of Denethor. Yet the boy still wondered. Especially when he spoke with Mithrandir. The old wizard could tell him of times when the city was full and teaming with life, love, and wisdom. Times when the Kings ruled the land, dealing with justice and kindness.

One day, the White tree will again flower, and hope shall be rekindled. Isildur's heir will return, the line of Kings be renewed, and Mordor our enemy shall be vanquished. His heart swelled at the thought. If only I could live to see that day...What I would give to see the return of the King....

A sharp cry broke him from his thoughts, jolting him back into the present, rather than the past or the future.

"Help! He—" The cry was stifled, and sounds of struggling reached the young man's ears.

Faramir rushed around the corner, coming into a small alley. At the other end of the street, two men were grasping a third, pinning him against he wall.

"Release him!" Faramir spoke in a conversational tone, but with an edge of steel to his young voice. The men hardly took notice of him, so he spoke louder, but with complete calm—something he did not feel. "I command you to release him, in the name of the Steward of Gondor." He stepped closer, drawing his sword. "I won't give you another—"

He was suddenly aware of a sound behind him. Then he felt an arm wrap around his neck, cutting off his air supply. Then a second hand grasped the wrist of his right arm, twisting it behind his back until he dropped his sword. The other three men stopped their feigned struggle, and moved forward toward Faramir and his assailant.

Faramir fought against the man who held him, but to no avail. His vision blurred and his head swam. He could feel his consciousness leaving him.

"In the name of the steward?" the man holding Faramir chuckled. "Boy, we don't serve your pathetic excuse of a steward."

Faramir's world faded to black.