[Eorl of Rohan]

Ferethor could not help but betray a slight grin at Crystal's blunt threat, as she faced the chattering women furiously. ‘Decree the laws of the Empire of Gondor? Highly ludicrous. Not even the king’s heir himself has legitimate authority to speak in the name of the king. The rule of the Land of Stone is by tradition and heritage Lord Aragorn alone, or Faramir of Ithilien.’ He perceived, nevertheless, that Crystal did not redden or falter. ‘She lies remarkably well – yet this deed was done for friendship and pity’s sake. I cannot blame her.’ The women fell back as if stricken with fear and awe, as Crystal turned away with distaste and made haste to talk with Maen.


Clouds gathered overhead, and the day was darkened under their shadows. Even as light rain sprinkled from the heaven, he drew folds of his cloak close about him, partly to ward off the rain and partly in the hope of passing unrecognized. Aware of a presence, Ferethor cast back his forest-green hood to allow for a better view and turned. 'Atharen?' He thought, casting a distrustful and wary glance before he quickened his steps.


Atharen spoke softly yet earnestly, “Good day, Captain.” Ferethor froze for an instant in a rush of impulsive panic, but took control of himself instantaneously. He simply nodded in acknowledgement, waiting for Atharen’s move in this mental fencing match. "Aelimur - is he a friend of yours?" He asked, evidently wishing to continue the discussion. At that, Ferethor openly turned and scowled at Atharen, his true self overriding his pretense for a moment. “Why do you query into matters that are left unknown, Ranger of the North?”


At that, Atharen chuckled, shrugging lightly. "I just wondered. You both work for the King Elessar - he is not unlike myself, and I fought with him, years ago. It was simply interest." Ferethor answered in a seemingly carefree way, to avoid suspicion from the fellow travelers, again slipping into pretense with ease born out of long practice. “Curiosity, Atharen, is a double-bladed knife, as willing to wound the bearer as well as his adversary. No doubt you are aware of this, Dunadan.” Ferethor, in a single fluid movement, drew his slender blade from its sheath. His voice was hard as if cut out of stone, fell and menacing. “Ranger, loth am I to draw blade against a son of westernesse and ally of Gondor, but my errand is of paramount import. I have this question yet to ask of you, ranger. How came you to the conclusion that I come from Lord Elessar?” He noticed, with grim and savage satisfaction, that Aelimur had also drawn blade and fallen into step beside him. The rain showed no hint of ceasing, and they were fallen far behind the company. There would be no disturbance – if it had to come to settlement of blood.