Chains are made to hold fast and secure but even the strongest break with neglect and time. Salt and air eat through the hardest iron just as age devours man of strength and sense. It was the nature of things and something keen in the mind of the man who stood on the dock, ignoring the bustle of soldiers and sailors around him. Frost had not touched Nathion's dark hair yet but there were lines round his eyes and mouth when he smiled, earned from the southern sun. His ship was at port, his men now being instructed by a man in a crisp black uniform of their duty to the Steward against the great evil.
His men, his ship were his no longer. Confiscated by the Navy and he now stood in chains, charged with smuggling and extortion. No need for a trial, the officer had told him. Just one look told him enough. A hold full of expensive wine from the elves, dwarven gems and silks and spices from the hated Harad. That was what sealed his fate, a ban on trade with the enemy. No matter that he had relieved Corsairs of the goods, it was enough to convict on the spot. The Esgalwethil was now flying the White Tree, the symbol of the Steward. It was a humble looking vessel but what she lacked in looks, she made up for in performance. Like many a dockside wench Nathion knew. He suppressed an ironic grin, his teeth flashing against his sun dark skin.
The officer was approaching and he glared at the smuggler. "Enjoying the sight? Finally getting decent use out of that ship," the man returned his smirk. "Not that you'll see her end when you swing from a rope." "They'll probably behead me," Nathion countered, "I know too many in Minas Tirith to rob them of that joy, though there will be ladies mourning. Losing both the source of fine baubles and a bed warmer. So many a lonely officer's wife ha-"
His words were cut off as the officer swung a fist at his smiling mouth, splitting his wind cracked lips. Pain shot through him but he took it as the price for the outrage in the gentleman's face. No doubt he suspected his wife of such. Perhaps wondering where she got a sweet vintage or silk undergown.
"Beheading is too good for dock trash like you," the officer replied as he shoved him into the wagon. "But orders are orders. If you try anything, I'll make sure we don't have to bother the headsman."
Nathion made a noncommittal grunt and turned to look at the harbor. The gulls cried and wheeled overhead and he watched with some satisfaction as one of them shit on the gleaming helm of a soldier. His smile faded as he turned to face east as the wagon jolted up the path. War was there, a war he had so far avoided and managed to land himself on the headsman's block for his efforts.
