Lie Down in the Darkness, Rise up from the Ash
By Dwimordene 
dwimmer_laik@yahoo.com


Summary : This is a VERY dark AU for LOTR. The premise: without Gollum, how does 
the Quest turn out? Angsty drama ensues as the storyline of the Lord of the 
Rings unfolds differently as we attempt to take "the road less traveled by.



Chapter One
The Arrow of Fate



 Galadir sighed softly, gazing up at the immense fir tree that spread its 
branches overhead. At the very top there was a bulge, and the Elf warden shook 
his head in a disgusted manner and glanced over at his companion. Erinoth 
fingered his bow and stared out into the night, seemingly lost in his own 
thoughts. "‘Tis near midnight, my friend," Galadir said, casting another dark 
look at the bulge. "And I tire of this game! Does he think to stay there the 
whole night?"

"I know not. What matter if he does? Ere dawn he will descend again, for he 
cannot bear the sunlight. Have patience!" Erinoth replied.

"Nay, he has tried my patience once too often, and will he or nill he, he shall 
return now with us," Galadir said, pulling on his gloves in preparation for 
scaling the rough-barked tree.

"Have a care! He threw Anardil from his perch last time, and Anardil still wears 
a sling!" Erinoth warned. Galadir merely grunted in response, already picking 
his way through the lower branches. The prisoner was a twisted, pitiful thing 
indeed, and though Galadir agreed that he ought not to be left in his cell to 
mutter in the darkness, it was too much that this Sméagol-creature should impose 
thus upon them all. As he climbed, he looked out over the forest, which showed 
dark and indistinct on a moonless night. In the distance, vaguely, he could see 
the malevolent peak of Dol Guldur, and he shuddered, staring at it. For some 
reason it caught his eye tonight, and perhaps it was merely his imagination or a 
trick of the eye, but it seemed to waver like smoke, or as if a thousand dark 
tentacles gripped and writhed all about it. Galadir found he could not take his 
eyes off of it, strangely absorbed by that eerie display, and so it was that he 
did not at first notice the other dark trail that wended its way beneath 
Mirkwood’s eaves. It was only Erinoth’s cry that roused him and he tore his eyes 
from the tower, looking down to see, to his horror, the misshapen Orcs come 
spilling from the trees. Their harsh voices echoed in a battle cry, and Erinoth 
was overborne, buried beneath their clawed forms. A hiss sounded suddenly near 
at hand, and Galadir jerked his head up to see two pale, luminous eyes a bare 
foot away.

"Nassty cruel Elfff!" Sméagol hissed. Then more loudly, he called, "It 
esscapesss! Help usss, preciousss! It escapesessss!" Below, the Orcs cried out, 
pointing upwards, and Sméagol, with a horrible, gurgling cackle, leapt past 
Galadir to drop onto another branch, clearly bent on escaping himself. Galadir 
glanced down again, and saw that the Orcs were beginning to climb, were already 
in the lower branches. Then he looked out again at the small, fleeing back, and 
made his decision.

Using his legs to brace himself against the trunk and a sturdy branch, he 
reached back and pulled bow and arrow into his hands. With the care of an 
artisan, he took aim and pressed, ignoring the laughter of his enemies, and his 
keen eyes narrowed. There! With a sharp twang! an arrow whistled through the 
night, and there came a shriek, and then a small, dark form plummeted to the 
earth and lay utterly still. Galadir let fall his bow, that task complete, and 
he pulled a dagger from his belt. The Orcs were still climbing, and would reach 
him soon. But I shall not go quietly into the night! he vowed, and smiled as he 
faced his murderers.

And on a plane far above the physical, something bent, giving almost to the 
breaking point, and then suddenly it twisted itself, creating a ripple in the 
pattern of fate, and something new began to grow…

"Will you not tell me, old friend, what it is that weighs so heavily upon your 
mind?" Gandalf looked up to find Aragorn standing at his side, arms folded 
across his chest as he, too, gazed out at the valley of Rivendell. The Ranger 
had clearly planned his approach carefully, which did not surprise the wizard, 
but Gandalf did wonder how much Aragorn guessed already.

"Naught that I can explain in precise terms, dear boy." Aragorn smiled slightly 
at that, for it was a standing joke between them.

"I ask not for precision, for I know well that I am no wizard," the Ranger 
replied.

"Hmmph!" Gandalf snorted, but then sighed and shook his head. "If you would know 
truly, I like not the news that Legolas brought."

"Grievous news, but I see not why the deaths of two Elvish guards should be 
cause for such concern."

"I meant Gollum’s death, Aragorn," Gandalf said, a trifle impatiently, and 
Aragorn gave him a skeptical look.

"To me, that seemed the only encouraging part of his message. Sméagol was 
incurable, and a danger to all had he in fact escaped."

"It seems so on the surface, and my logic tells me no differently," the wizard 
replied. "But when I heard that, my heart misgave me, and I felt my very marrow 
freeze! There is great evil in that death, my friend," he sighed, laying a hand 
upon Aragorn’s shoulder, "and the consequences are literally unthinkable. I fear 
we may rue it greatly in the end."

"I see not how," said Aragorn, but he paused and pursed his lips, considering 
his words. "Well," he said at last, "if you say your heart misgives you, then I 
must defer to your judgment. How, after all, shall a Man argue with a wizard?"

"Rigorously and often, if you are any example!" Gandalf replied instantly, with 
a trace of his usual quick humor. But then it faded, and Aragorn, frowning, 
asked:

"Think you that we ought to reconsider our plans?"

"That would serve no purpose. To remain here, or flee west is to bring certain 
doom upon us. There is still hope, however little, that the route to the fire 
shall remain open long enough for the Ringbearer to unmake It. Nay, we must 
continue. What news from Elladan and Elrohir?"

"They rode far, down to Lórien and back, and they brought to me news of 
Saruman’s treachery, so that your tale was not wholly new to me today," Aragorn 
replied, and then gave a slight smile. "They also bring word that Arwen fares 
well in that land." Gandalf laughed at that, and gave Aragorn a shake.

"I am glad to hear it. More so than you may suspect," the wizard said, his eyes 
narrowing as his bushy brows drew together. "Yes… I think that even this news is 
not without merit, my friend, though I know not why I say so." He paused, then 
shook his head again and looked up at the tall Man at his side, and said in a 
low voice, "Say nothing to the others of my fears, Aragorn, I beg you! There are 
some things that I would keep from them, lest they lose heart utterly. I fear 
our road will be hard—harder, even than they can possibly imagine."

"As you wish," Aragorn replied simply. "I leave tomorrow to see what may be 
found of the Riders. Mayhap when I return, we shall speak on this again?"

"Perhaps. Walk in safety, my friend!" Gandalf said, and watched as Aragorn 
strode away. The old lips tightened, and the wizard stroked his beard in an 
agitated manner. "Yes," he murmured, " the way will be hard, and perhaps even 
you, Aragorn, are not prepared to know the truth. A bitter end, I foresee, and 
hope unlooked for, though I know not how it shall be born, should we fail." In 
the distance, he heard light voices lifted in laughter, and recognized the 
hobbits, Merry and Pippin, as they came strolling out of the forest. "And if you 
cannot, then how shall their gentle hearts bear such doom as I prophesy?" The 
wizard sighed once more, then carefully locked his fears and worries away in the 
vault of his mind, where they could do no injury to the innocent. Time will 
tell, he thought, striving to seem determined. But if the hobbits greeted him 
without suspicion, Gandalf’s dissembling was strictly for others. He could not 
lie to himself, and when he turned his eyes to the western horizon, he saw 
darkness falling upon all the land.

 

*Note: This story will be either very long, or forever incomplete. I do not know 
at this stage what its ultimate fate will be. It is projected to get very 
violent, and even darker than most of my writing. If I don't complete it, it 
means even I couldn't stand how depressing it got. Please give me all the 
feedback you can find it in your heart to give as this one starts to develop. 
Thanks--Dwimordene.



~~~




Chapter Two
Bridge Into Darkness




 The Song of the World is a melody so complex, so perfectly entwined within its 
own harmony, that even a single new note may change it; and yet at the same 
time, because it is so integrally itself, it remains stable, even the face of 
severe dissonance. Not all things change, though all the rest of a stave may 
shift about them. So it was that the Company’s journey south, ordained by the 
Song, was made still, but under the new shadow it led them through new verses… 
while still leading ultimately to the same destination. Caradhras loomed still 
large in the Music born of the disharmony; the snows still beat them from the 
mountains slopes, and the Watcher remained still to drive them into the depths 
of Moria. And their hearts were heavy, for though none but Gandalf could hear 
the changing of the Notes, all sensed it, though they knew not that there was 
any "change" to speak of. The Music simply was, and they existed in its midst, 
ignorant of its manifold possibilities… and of the fact that they stood now on 
a path bound into the Soundlessness of the Void….

 

Frodo trudged wearily along, following Gandalf in the darkness, and he felt his 
burden heavy. Moria passed all about him, seemingly endless, concealed in a 
cloak of tragedy and fear that pressed close on all sides. Nothing seemed to go 
right on this journey, though he hoped still that he might find a way to the 
fulfillment of the quest. The disastrous attempt to pass the Redhorn Gate had 
only seemed to strengthen the fearful mood that had hovered over their departure 
from Rivendell. Then the birds, the wolves, and the Watcher had further sapped 
the spirits of the Company, and now they wandered the long-deserted halls of the 
Black Pit of Khazad-dûm. Gandalf paused suddenly ahead of him, and Frodo would 
have collided with him had his stride been any longer; as it was, his momentum 
carried him right up to the hem of the wizard’s cloak, as Gandalf stood 
examining the empty space before them. Behind them, there came the sound of feet 
shuffling awkwardly to a halt, as everyone stumbled a bit at the unexpected 
pause. Glancing back, Frodo saw the dim outlines of his companions: Merry and 
Pippin, standing close for comfort, and Sam, looking ill at ease but determined. 
Beyond them was Gimli, and some distance further away stood Legolas the Elf, 
whom Frodo recognized instantly in the darkness by the faint glitter that seemed 
to emanate from him—a hint, perhaps, of the inner fire that dwelt in the Elvish 
race. And between them , as always, lurked the tall, broad shadow of Boromir. 
Poor Boromir, Frodo thought, feeling a ghost of a smile rise in him. I think he 
is not best pleased to be ever pinned between those two! For the Man of Gondor 
served more often than not as a physical barrier between Elf and Dwarf, neither 
of whom were willing to come any closer to each other than necessity required. 
The hobbit guessed that if Boromir had not come with them on this journey, they 
would have made Aragorn their wall. Indeed, it seemed to him that the only 
reason Strider was spared that difficult position was a prior friendship with 
Legolas, which the Elf was unwilling to hazard in this almost childish 
animosity.

"Gimli," Gandalf spoke, striding forward, and the Dwarf grunted and followed. 
The two went and stood together before the looming maw of a great door, and to 
either side by the light of Gandalf’s staff showed dimly the lintels of another 
door, leading off into still more darkness. Behind him, a sigh gusted softly, 
and Frodo guessed that was Boromir, either enjoying the respite or else annoyed 
at the delay, or both together. After some moments, Gandalf spoke again, "Well, 
I do not remember this place at all!" He paused, holding aloft his staff for 
some moments, and then he said, with a shake of his head, "And Gimli can give me 
no insight, either. Better that we take what rest we can for the remainder of 
the night, I think, for I expect all now are as weary as I am, or more." The 
tension eased a bit, as everyone brightened at the thought of rest. Merry and 
Pippin, eagerly seeking a place to lie in seeming safety, were quick to discover 
a little space beyond a half-closed door. But as they made quickly to open it 
and enter, the wizard forestalled them.

"Steady!" Gandalf said sharply, restraining the young hobbits with the snap of 
his voice. "Let me go first, and see what may lie before us, for you know not 
what may be within!" The Company crowded close in behind Gandalf nonetheless, 
but the wizard had gone only a few paces when the light from his staff revealed 
a hole in the ground: the remains of a well, it seemed. From behind and above 
Frodo came Aragorn’s mildly reproving voice, which nonetheless held a note of 
amusement for the hobbits’ familiar antics: "One of you might have fallen in and 
still be wondering when he would strike the bottom. Let the guide go first while 
you have one!" Though softly spoken, Aragorn's words reverberated chillingly off 
the walls of the hall, filling the air with mocking, whispering echos: …while 
you have one… have one… while you have one… one…ne….



After that, even the silence was welcome.



***

Some hours later, Frodo lay exhausted in the little nook that he had claimed to 
sleep in, but sleep toyed gently with him without ever descending. He closed his 
eyes and willed himself to sleep, but to no avail. Memory of those hammer 
strokes from deep in the well haunted him, riding on the current of his unease. 
What had Pippin wakened? And when would it show itself? Of a sudden, in the 
darkness at his back, he heard the rustle of clothes and then soft footsteps as 
someone rose and moved. His ears pricked up, curious but also fearful, wondering 
if one of the others had heard something to alarm him. But then Gandalf’s voice 
sounded, greeting one unseen in a soft voice:

"Well, it is later indeed, my friend." And to Frodo’s surprise, the wizard spoke 
not Westron, nor even Sindarin, but Quenya, which Frodo could understand only 
generally. In spite of the dread that welled up within him–for he guessed that 
Gandalf did not wish this conversation to be understood by any save the one to 
whom he spoke (and Frodo knew now whom the other must be)–he eavesdropped, 
translating frantically. And what he heard filled his heart with foreboding….

 

***

"Well, it is later indeed, my friend," Gandalf said as Aragorn wandered over. 
The Ranger braced his back against the stony doorframe and then slid easily to 
the floor, sitting with his legs crossed and his hands in his lap. But if his 
body was relaxed, his grey eyes, lit in their depths with an eerie red by 
Gandalf's dim flame, were troubled. The wizard quirked a brow, and demanded, 
"For do I not guess correctly that you would speak to me upon those matter which 
we discussed in Imladris?"

"I would. Later still might be more… apt… but I fear there may be no other time, 
Gandalf. For the dread has not abated, and I see now in your every step a last 
one," Aragorn replied, gazing with concern through the curling tendrils of smoke 
at the fire-lit, seamed face of the wizard. The cares of a millenium rested 
there, in that aged visage, and Aragorn frowned. In all the years that he had 
known Gandalf, he had never thought of him as old. Ancient, in the timeless 
manner of Elves, yes, but old? Physically bowed by the unbearable pressure of 
too many centuries of struggle, even as a mortal creature? Never that! But 
tonight, as the Ranger stared at the wizard, it seemed to him that for the first 
time, Gandalf looked his age and he feared what that might mean. So much rides 
upon him, he thought, and yet beyond Moria, I can see him no more among us. My 
heart tells me that death comes soon to you, Gandalf my friend, and what I would 
not give to be proven wrong! It gave him chills to think further down that path, 
to a world without Gandalf, but he steeled himself out of habit and prepared to 
follow that grim trail still further if he could. For one must forget how to 
flinch if one would meddle in a wizard's affairs!

"That is as may be. It is not given me to know my end; ‘tis a blind spot for us 
all, perhaps," the wizard replied, and wondered at himself for that oblique 
warning. Aragorn seemed not to notice it, though, which was perhaps good. Or 
else, he might have taken the remark to mean no more than it said. "What shall I 
say?" he finally asked. "The darkness grows, as we knew it would, and it veils 
the land. And in the end, it matters not, for we are committed. Even were the 
domination of Sauron now upon us, insurmountable save by means the Valar alone 
know, we would still be bound to do that which is right, accepting the 
consequences as they came."

"True," said the Dúnadan, "and I do not seek to know that safety lies ahead, for 
any of us. I would, though, know what hope you have, for I think you were not 
wholly frank with me in Imladris. This matter of Gollum troubles you still, and 
more deeply than you would admit to any."

"I fear I can say little more on that matter than what I have already 
disclosed," Gandalf replied, inhaling deeply the sweet-scented smoke. "Those who 
have borne the Ring are marked by it, and about them does our fate revolve. Even 
one so small and filled with malice as Sméagol has great significance, and his 
death, too, will mark this age. Is that enough for you?"

"Even were it not, I think you would say no more," Aragorn replied heavily, and 
glanced about at the sleeping bodies. "Have you decided which gate to take?"

"My mind is made up. But we are all in need of rest," said Gandalf, stressing 
the last word slightly as he scowled in Aragorn’s direction. For his part, the 
Ranger only smiled and held up his hands in acquiescence.

"I go, I go! Trust me to have some sense!" And Aragorn rose and went silently 
back to his corner, where he wrapped himself in his cloak and lay down. The 
veteran of many a lonely and wary journey, he had no trouble falling instantly 
asleep in spite of fear…

… but Frodo son of Drogo remained awake, and felt his heart pounding in his 
breast at what he had overheard. He trusted Strider’s judgment implicitly, as he 
had ever since they had left Bree in spite of Sam’s misgivings; if he were 
worried, that was cause enough for alarm. But if Gandalf himself found cause for 
concern in Gollum’s death—and oh, how Frodo’s own words in the Shire came back 
to haunt him now!—then the situation must be grave indeed. They are trying to 
protect me, Gandalf and Aragorn, and all of the others, from everything that 
they can foresee, but no one can save me from myself. Have I a hope? I know not! 
Elbereth Gilthoniel, why should this age of the world suffer so? To that, Frodo 
knew there could be no answer, and he hardened his heart against his own fears. 
Gandalf speaks rightly: it matters not what may happen; what matters is that I 
do what is right. I must take the Ring to the Fire. I must try, and let nothing 
I hear or feel stop me!

 

And yet in spite of all resolutions, at the edge of the Silence there loomed 
still the Bridge of Khazad-dûm— its span the last tendril that would bear the 
Company now into the rift of the Disharmony. Grief shouts the more loudly for 
never having been voiced, and foreboding makes loss more bitter than poison. 
Beneath Gandalf’s staff broke the bridge of Khazad-dûm, and all recourse out of 
the Void failed irrevocably when fell Olorin of Valinor.

 

 

*Thanks to a German Benedictine nun named Hildegaard von Bingen for the idea 
that the Devil cannot sing.

 


 ~~~



 Chapter Three
 Falling




And then into the Song came the great Silence, and even the least were not 
untouched by it… .

"Ai! ai! A Balrog! A Balrog is come!" Pippin jerked his eyes from the towering 
horror that stood before them and glanced up at the Elf. Legolas's eyes were 
wide, and his teeth were bared in a grimace of hatred and anguish so strong that 
the hobbit felt nausea roil through his already cramped stomach. Then Gimli 
moved to stand beside the elven prince, heedless for once of the animosity he 
bore for his companion. The Dwarf’s horror was no less great than Legolas's, and 
he slipped heavily to his knees as a harsh whisper emerged from his lips: 
"Durin’s Bane!" Then, as if overborne by the sight, he cast his hood over his 
face. Pippin looked from Dwarf to Elf and then back again, unable yet to 
comprehend their words but equally unable to bear to turn back to the bridge. 
Nearby, Frodo stood gaping, sheet-white with some terrible emotion, and his left 
hand clutched his chest just at the level where the Ring should lie concealed on 
its chain about his neck. What is happening? What do I do? Pippin felt utterly 
at a loss, seeking reassurance that someone among them knew how to deal with 
this fell thing.

"A Balrog," breathed Gandalf, shaking his head in wonder. "Now I understand. 
What an evil fortune, for I am already weary!" The wizard stared a moment 
longer, then his old face hardened and his eyes gleamed. Of a sudden, he was 
striding back onto the bridge, moving with a vigor that belied his words, and 
Pippin gasped, unable to imagine what the wizard intended. He had wanted surety 
in action, but it was a fool’s errand to go back onto that narrow span of stone, 
surely…!

"Gandalf!" Aragorn’s voice sounded harsh and strained (And afraid, Pippin 
thought miserably), but then the Ranger was sprinting after Gandalf, sword 
drawn. Boromir, too, gave a cry, though it sounded like a curse. Pippin had been 
too stunned to move when Aragorn did, but now he perceived the other Man’s 
intentions and something stirred in his heart. With a shout of his own, and 
without thinking clearly what he did, he lunged forward and caught the edge of 
Boromir’s cloak. If he had thought to try and restrain him, though, that hope 
was quickly dashed, for the Man of Gondor seemed not to notice the hobbit’s 
weight at all: he dragged Pippin forward almost to the brink before the hobbit 
thought to let go and drop back from the precipice.

"W-what…? Wait! Come back!" Pippin cried, or rather croaked, and then swallowed 
any further words in terror. His eyes were drawn irresistibly upward, to the 
looming figure in the midst of all that blackness; something like awe blossomed 
in his breast, and it pulsed sickly there. It came into Pippin’s head, briefly 
and confusedly, that this was a power of the world, and that before its black 
master they would bow in the end! And then all within him was stilled as 
Gandalf’s challenge rang clear and desperate in the hot air.

"You cannot pass," he said. The Orcs stood still, and a dead silence fell. "I am 
a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot pass. The 
dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot 
pass!"* Pippin quailed and flinched, unable to watch the blow descend. But then 
came the clash and ring of steel on steel, clear even through the blood pounding 
in his ears, and the young hobbit managed to open one eye to peer fearfully at 
the frozen tableau. Gandalf and the Balrog still faced each other, but the 
Balrog’s sword was no where in evidence, while Glamdring glowed white. Some ten 
paces behind the wizard stood Aragorn, and a pace or two behind him Boromir, and 
the tall silhouettes of the two Men were poised to spring forward should their 
help be needed. Yet Pippin guessed that they, too, were held in place by the 
power of the demon, unable to break free until something changed—

The Balrog let out a roar, and it leapt high, its whip streaking outward in a 
dark blur. At that same moment, Gandalf cried aloud and rammed his staff down 
upon the white stone. The staff shattered and fell away, and Pippin was 
momentarily blinded by an intense light. It was slow to fade from the hobbits’ 
eyes, but when it did, he saw that the bridge was cracked beneath the Balrog. 
Yet the battle was not over, and Pippin stared, struck dumb by amazed grief as 
time moved forward once more….

***

The instant that Gandalf smote the bridge, Aragorn felt the spell broken, and he 
gasped, flinging up an arm to protect his eyes from the stabbing light. "Valar 
save us!" Boromir’s prayer was nearly lost in the explosive sound of stone that 
split itself asunder. Nevertheless, Aragorn heard it, and a part of his mind 
spared a moment to add his own petition, but he feared it was too late—that it 
had been too late for Gandalf from the moment the Balrog had appeared, just as 
they had crossed the bridge. It was too late the moment we entered this pit! his 
inner voice snapped bitterly, cursing his own impotence. Never had he loathed 
foresight more than in this moment, for he knew that he was powerless to prevent 
what was about to occur. But that did not stop him from trying to stave off fate 
nonetheless, and, sheathing his sword, Aragorn lunged desperately forward….

***

The Balrog’s whip burned through the air and the thongs curled about the 
wizard’s legs. Gandalf cried out, falling to his knees as he was pulled bodily 
towards the abyss. Instinctively, his hands shot out, seeking purchase on the 
too-smooth stone, knowing it was a futile effort. The Ring! At least this 
monster will not have the Ring! Gandalf thought, and braced himself for the 
headlong plummet into darkne—

A jolt ran through his body as something caught him, and the wizard looked up in 
shock to see Aragorn staring back at him. The Ranger had his arm, and he slowed 
Gandalf’s sliding descent enough for Gandalf to latch onto the stony protrusion 
of what was left of the bridge. The strength granted a Maia in utmost need is 
greater than any Man’s, and it was Gandalf rather than Aragorn who held them 
briefly on that precipice, as the Balrog fell still below him on its long whip. 
But he could not hold on forever, and Gandalf knew it. So did Aragorn, but he 
did not release him, and there was a challenge in his eyes that the wizard knew 
well: Let Sauron himself come forth, the Ranger would not be forced to leave a 
friend in need. "Fly, you fool! Live!" It was all Gandalf could manage in the 
seconds remaining him, and then he shoved Aragorn back, breaking free… and was 
borne into the chasm.

***

Pippin felt a keen rise up in him as Gandalf disappeared, but it never left his 
throat for it died aborning, crushed by the bedlam darkness that seemed to crash 
down upon them all. Upon the bridge, Aragorn seemed unable to move, but Boromir 
yanked him to his feet and after a moment’s hesitation, they both turned and 
fled as the bridge crumbled in their wake. Still stunned himself, Pippin did not 
at first realize that he was in their way until Boromir tripped over him and 
fell hard. Aragorn, forewarned, managed to throw himself to one side, and he 
rolled and came smoothly to his feet again. A bruised and much chagrined Pippin 
crawled towards them, and as he looked up at Aragorn, the Ranger looked down and 
met his eyes. The light of Strider's eyes seemed extinguished by grief, but then 
Aragorn bestirred himself, reaching out to shepherd Pippin firmly back towards 
the remainder of the Company, while Boromir picked himself up from the ground.

"Come! I will lead you now!" Aragorn said, and his voice was taut as a drawn 
bow, but nevertheless it was the voice of authority, a voice which knew it had 
to be obeyed in this moment. "We must obey his last command," he continued, 
giving Pippin a shove and forcing Sam and Frodo forward with his body while 
Merry staggered alongside. The hobbits, dazed, moved in one huddled mass, 
trusting Strider blindly as they had in the beginning. Legolas and Gimli, 
suddenly aware of each other again, paused uncertainly, and Aragorn called out 
over his shoulder with a trace of impatience, "Follow me!" At last, they did, 
and Boromir, grim and silent, brought up the rear. Once they had begun to move, 
it seemed their legs took on a life of their own, and soon all were running 
through the last hewn hallway, plunging ahead carelessly, seeking only to leave 
Moria behind at last. The gates loomed bright before them, seeming to mock their 
grief for having been so very near at hand. Pippin wept as he ran, and he swiped 
at his eyes, unwilling to fall now and delay them. Something hot splattered on 
his face, and he blinked them open again quickly, staring in horror as his hands 
came away bloody from his cheeks. Then he saw the headless Orc captain, and saw 
Andúril flash red in the sunlight as they spilled out of the eastern gates, and 
he understood. It was a measure of his discomposure that he did not think to 
wipe the blood away.

 

Upon the land of Lórien there lay no stain of evil, unless one brought it 
thither oneself. But the Music was changed, and they lay now in the heart of the 
Silent Void. Galadriel, who sat upon the throne of Lothlórien, was troubled in 
her heart, and so the land itself knew doubt, for she could not defend it 
against that which the Void woke in her…

Tears burned hot against his lashes, but they did not fall. Yet that was not due 
to any strength of will on Pippin’s part, but to the blindfold that drank them 
in. With a start, he woke fully, disoriented for a moment before memory 
returned. We are in Lórien, passing blindfolded through the land, he thought, 
and wondered if he ought to be relieved. But though he walked now in safety, led 
by the elvish guards, he felt nothing, unless it were a dull ache for the fact 
of his continued existence. Gandalf is dead! He died for us… died to save us… to 
save me! Why? It made no sense to one Peregrin Took, and he pressed at the 
bandage, grateful that no one but their guides could see him. And perhaps the 
others, too, relished this time of private grief. Pippin sighed and lay still, 
thinking.

Though he knew better, the journey to Lórien had seemed to stretch on into 
eternity. Aragorn had led them on from the gates at such a pace that even 
Boromir had been winded when they had come to a halt. The hobbits had collapsed 
in their tracks, exhausted and grieving, and the Company had surrendered at last 
to helpless tears. Pippin had wept in the circle of Merry’s arms, while Frodo 
and Sam had sat together. He had been too absorbed by his own sense of loss to 
note the manner in which the others mourned. Finally, Aragorn had roused them 
all, reminding them of the danger of vengeful Orcs, but the look that he had 
cast back at the mountains had been as close to murderous as Pippin had ever 
seen. He had not actually thought Strider could carry such rage within him, and 
he shuddered at the memory, wondering what it meant.

When at last they had reached Nimrodel, Pippin had been staggering and half 
asleep on his feet. Though Legolas and Aragorn had seemed relieved to have come 
at last under the eaves of the golden woods, even there they had not been wholly 
without fear. For Legolas had cocked his head and listened to the stream, which 
carried a music in its rushing falls, and he had frowned. For the song of 
Nimrodel was disturbed: it lured the ear, and yet it did not quite achieve 
melody, wavering between song and sickness. "I like it not," Legolas had said, 
"There is something amiss even here!" Boromir had darted a dark look at 
Aragorn’s back upon hearing that, as if he counted this pronouncement as 
evidence of the malice of Lothlórien. And what would make him do such a thing? 
Pippin wondered briefly. He had not taken Boromir for a grudge-holder, and he 
was glad that Aragorn had missed that resentful gaze. Having glimpsed briefly 
Strider’s own anger, he decided that he would not want to be present if the two 
Men ever found reason to quarrel.

Of course, Boromir was back to being stuck between the openly resentful Gimli 
and Legolas, which had to be a trying place to be, though the Man made no effort 
to escape the tedious duty. Pippin sighed again. He knew too little of the 
history of the Elves and Dwarves to understand what drove such relentless 
hostility, however muted, but he knew better than to ask. Even Gandalf had not 
wanted to broach that subject! In the mean time, he knew not where he went, 
trusting the guides to lead them well, and he wondered at the changes that he 
felt within himself. Once, he would have been content to lean upon the guidance 
of Frodo and Gandalf and the others without question, but now… now he flung 
himself after Men twice his size in efforts to save them! Now he found himself 
watching his companions closely for the first time, and though his gaze remained 
light, he had begun to notice things. Frodo seemed so tired and grave at times, 
and Gandalf was gone. Strider’s thoughts were veiled as always, but it was clear 
that he was worried, and Boromir had suddenly (or so it seemed to him) grown 
moody. For a hobbit new to the wide world, it was all overwhelming, and for the 
moment he wanted nothing more than for this journey to end.

***

Galadriel stood silently upon the edge of the talan, and gazed out over her 
realm as it lay under the twilight. Lothlórien the Beautiful, fairest land of 
the Elves in exile. How I grieve for all that shall pass away! Even here, the 
stars do not shine so brightly as once they did. Alas, that the Shadow of the 
East lies no longer only in Mordor! she thought, remembering the hard words in 
the council. She had sensed the pain that the Company bore from the moment that 
they entered her realm, and she had also missed Gandalf’s presence among them. 
But she had not seen—or perhaps would not see—how the one inspired the other 
until Aragorn had told their tale of woe. There was no comfort to be had in 
words, and she had had to release them without it, saying only that they should 
have refuge here until they were prepared to go on. For if the stain of her own 
troubled heart lay upon the land, still it was a restful place, and she imbued 
it with the desire to forget, to set aside the darkness that crowded upon its 
borders. At least Gimli now knows some peace, she thought, smiling at the memory 
of the Dwarf’s sincere gratitude for her words to him. At least I have still the 
power to ease some hearts… though not all, she thought.

Galadriel sighed. She had looked into the hearts of the nine companions, and 
knew well the temptations that pushed ever more sharply against the demands of 
conscience and duty. Boromir, she sensed, suffered more than any other, and she 
felt an immense pity for him. Yet she could not help him, for he did not trust 
her. What would become of him, she knew not, but she wished him well. As for 
Aragorn, who had now to assume the mantle that Gandalf had let fall, it was not 
her words that he needed to hear, and she knew that her grand-daughter was not 
in her chambers. She did not doubt where she might find Arwen at this moment, 
and she smiled slightly. Last but not least in her thoughts was the Ring-bearer, 
Frodo son of Drogo, for Galadriel felt the tug of warring desires within her. On 
the one hand, she wanted nothing more than the success of his mission for the 
salvation of all, knowing well the burden that he bore. And on the other hand, 
there was, of course, temptation. The longer he remains with us, the more will 
the malice of Sauron’s tool make itself felt in my heart. I know what I must do, 
but ah! How carefully does Mandos take our measure in the end! And yet she could 
not resist the desire to touch once more upon Frodo's mind, and she felt his 
agonized fear, and his doubt. Some debate, she guessed, took place among the 
Company, for she felt the touch of other thoughts, tense, confused, uncertain… 
then all faded from her mind as she let go Frodo's thought.

At last, she sighed, and turned her head and smiled sadly at Celeborn, who had 
come noiselessly up behind her. Her husband spoke no word of greeting, only 
wrapped his arms about her and pressed his cheek against hers. She laid her 
hands atop his, and Nenya glittered upon her finger, winking bewitchingly at 
her, like a lost star. Let us not fall into the darkness! She sent her thought 
out to whatever power might hear it, and knew not yet that it was too late 
indeed to escape it.

***

Aragorn sat with his back to a great tree, legs crossed, hands resting lightly 
upon his knees, and he savored the knowledge that there was no one about him for 
miles. He should have remained with the others, he knew, but he simply could not 
bear to face them and their pain as well as his own. The fear that had haunted 
him ever since that long ago conversation with Gandalf in Rivendell had at last 
been borne out upon the bridge of Khazad-dûm, and his own self-control was near 
to breaking. For unlike the rest of the Company, Aragorn had enjoyed a long and 
intimate friendship with Gandalf, and the wizard was more than a guide to him, 
however dear. His thoughts returned incessantly to Moria, to the bridge and to 
the terrible sense of helplessness as Gandalf had writhed violently out of his 
grasp. That he could not have saved the wizard in any case—that Gandalf, indeed, 
had not wanted him to try—was no comfort at all to one who had loved him as a 
second father.

But there was more even: for in that moment before Gandalf had escaped him, as 
he had ordered him to run, the wizard had looked straight into his eyes, and 
Aragorn son of Arathorn had felt a spark leap between them. And suddenly, he 
knew. He knew, with dreadful certainty and clarity, what it was that Gandalf had 
concealed from them, and in that very moment he misdoubted his own strength. How 
can I carry this? How can anyone bear such a burden? His mind shied away even 
now from the contemplation of that presentiment. Before the others, Aragorn 
could not pretend that all was well; he could not even summon the strength to 
keep his pain safely inside, where it could harm no one. In the swift journey 
south from Dimrill Dale, he had tried to push the pace not simply because of the 
danger of pursuit, but because he knew of only one way to stop his mind from 
thinking: physical exhaustion. But he was bound to others who could not match 
his speed, and so he had been forced to wait for them, feeling guilty for having 
tested the limits of their endurance for no reason but a selfish one.

And so, after washing, he had gone not back to the clearing beneath Caras 
Galadon.

Instead, he had slipped away and wandered in the glades of Lórien, having for 
once no particular destination in mind. And yet, once he had reached this 
isolated hillock, with its screen of gold-leafed mellyrn trees and grass laden 
with sleeping elenyr**, he felt as though he had always intended to come there. 
It was now late indeed, and he had been sitting there for long hours, but he 
felt no desire to return yet. Though he supposed his companions were long since 
asleep, he had no heart for company of any kind.

"If that be so, my love, then I fear you will be disappointed," came a soft 
voice, near at hand, and Aragorn glanced sharply left. There he beheld the 
slender, grey-clad form of Arwen as she paused and stood a moment against the 
trees. A small silver lamp she held, and its soft light cast wavering shadows 
upon her, giving the illusion that she shimmered as her namesake did. Then came 
she unbidden to his side and sat gracefully, draping her skirts about her as she 
set the lantern down. She reached out and gently touched his face with her 
fingertips, and her eyes gleamed in the night. "Have you no word for one who has 
long missed you?"

"Arwen…." Words failed him momentarily, and he closed his eyes, feeling the heat 
of her body as she kissed him lightly on the mouth. Will I ever touch her again, 
once I leave this place? How many times have I drunk her kisses like wine and 
hoped for a day beyond the Shadows? Now though…. "How did you find me?"

With a soft laugh, and a light touch as she smoothed a lock of hair from his 
eyes, she replied, "As I always do." Aragorn caught her hand in his, and she 
gazed solemnly at him in the close darkness. "I know you mourn, Estel," said 
she, and her tone was gentle and sad, "and I can taste your grief as my own, and 
your fear also. But why suffer alone?"

Aragorn sighed and shook his head, lowering his eyes as he sought an excuse. "I 
am not fit company tonight, beloved… for anyone." He started to look away, but 
Arwen laid her hand to the side of his face and restrained him, forcing him to 
look at her as she leaned close, and he saw that she was troubled.

"Aragorn, wilt thou then hide even from me, who would be thy wife? Shall the 
darkness drive thee ever from me, even when we are together? Beloved, look to 
thine own heart and have a care, for break it in thy solitude and I cannot help 
thee!" Arwen replied earnestly, and her eyes pierced him to the core, laying 
bare the wounds he bore, and Aragorn felt his breath catch hard. It was almost a 
sob, for he could raise no subterfuge, no defense against that penetrating 
stare. And though a part of him resisted, habitually seeking to protect Arwen 
from the maelstrom of anguish, a greater part recognized that to do so would 
only cause her more pain, which he could never have inflicted intentionally. 
More, he wanted to yield, to let her see what he hid from the world, but there 
he hesitated, feeling himself poised on the brink, and he feared to lean too far 
lest he fall. Estel I was called, but I can bear that name no longer, he 
thought. Perhaps if he had not had that epiphany, even Gandalf's death could 
have been borne. But though he sought the means to turn Arwen's question aside 
unanswered, Aragorn felt himself utterly adrift in despair.

"How if thou shouldst fall with me, Arwen?" he managed at last, knowing that he 
made no sense, but unable to stop himself. "If what I have seen is true… and I 
think it must be… how if there is no sunrise tomorrow?" Arwen was gravely 
silent, listening as he continued on, "Gandalf said once that we might greatly 
rue the death of Sméagol in the end, and I see now what he saw then. There is no 
end to this Darkness, beloved, only a beginning that stretches out infinitely…."

"Even in Lórien, the stain has begun to seep through for I think grand-mother is 
filled with misgiving," Arwen said slowly as he trailed off. "I have not known a 
day without fear since the day the sun shone dim on this land, and now I hear 
thee name what my heart has long known but refused to acknowledge. For if the 
Day is no more beyond the Night…." She cast down her proud eyes, and Aragorn 
swore bitterly if silently, feeling the rebirth of that fury he had known after 
their escape from Moria: the despairing fury of one to whom the bitter truth is 
both unacceptable and yet undeniable. To bear the knowledge of the coming 
Darkness alone was impossibly hard, but to see Arwen crushed under that same 
weight of terror was a desecration, and he caught her in his arms, seeking some 
faint glimmer of hope to comfort her, but he could find none. Instead, he began 
to kiss her, desperately at first, then with increasing passion as she responded 
in kind. Arwen clung to him, unresisting as he laid her down amidst the flowers, 
and she gave only a little moan when he undid the buttons at the back of her 
dress. The corner of his mind where dwelt all the codes of honor and decency 
that he had been raised to respect screamed at him to stop, but he could not. He 
half-hoped Arwen would stop him, but she seemed to have decided to fall with 
him. It was a moment of weakness, and yet somehow so much more than that. There 
was a blindness to their loving that nevertheless bespoke an absolute trust, 
both of them surrendering to impulse, snatching this one chance to taste, 
however imperfectly and illicitly, what they had always thought to share one 
day. Always before, there had been a reason to wait, to hope still for a better 
day, for such blissful eternity as mortality permitted. Now, though, as they 
faced Darkness unremitting, the old reasons and constraints were no longer 
sufficient to hold in check the fire that kindled between them, and which grew 
stronger with each touch. Aragorn felt his very blood burn at Arwen’s caresses, 
and at last surrendered even guilt, abandoning himself to the logic of the 
abyss, which knew but one law: take, hold, have.

Such was the intensity of the moment that there was no drawing it out, and 
Aragorn groaned softly, the noise forced from him by a mixture of pleasure and 
shame. They lay there entwined, sprawled one atop the other in the grass, and 
simply to breathe was an effort. All about, the forest was silent, save only for 
the rustle of wind in the trees, and the pounding of their hearts. Below him, 
Arwen’s face, lit by the lamp, was flushed and her dark hair, studded now with 
pale yellow blossoms, spread like an aureole, burnished in places to radiance by 
the silvery light. Ghostly she seemed, ethereal, and her beauty was now laden 
with the sadness that comes to all things finite. "Arwen," he murmured, fighting 
for breath and for a coherent thought. How could I do this to thee, my love? It 
was in his head to apologize profusely for having brought her to this pass, but 
Arwen reached up and pulled him close, forestalling him with a kiss.

"Be still, my love, and do not draw away from me now!" she whispered. "I made my 
choice long ago, and when we promised, then was I thy wife in spirit even if not 
in name. And that makes thee mine… and I would have thee, come what may." She 
paused, running a fingertip lightly down his chest as she gazed deeply into his 
eyes. "So speak no words of regret to me, and when thou leavest again, as thou 
must, then set the memory of tonight against the pain, and let me help carry 
thee through this darkness."

"And if there is no end to it, as thou and I foresee?" he asked.

Arwen smiled sadly as she gazed up at him with a knowing look, yet her voice was 
serene. And such was his love for her that Aragorn felt the spark of that love 
burn bright against the veils of hopelessness, compelling his belief in spite of 
himself. "If there is no end to the night, then so be it!" said she, stroking 
his cheek. "For Aragorn, even in the blackest night, we cannot sorrow forever, 
even if we should try to do so. There must be—there will be—moments of joy, else 
we do not live!" After that, they lay silently together in the darkness. Shyly 
at first, and then with a great tenderness born of their need, they loved each 
other and were comforted, til at last the tears that came were a release; a 
measure of healing rather than of hurt.

 

***

The sun had just begun to show itself on the eastern horizon when Aragorn at 
last stood in the tent, and gazed down at the sleeping forms of the Company. 
Well, he thought with a forlorn sort of dignity, I am back.

 

 

And in the midst of the Silence, there rose a faint Note, clear and sweet, and 
then the Music began to change again. But the Void remained, for the time was 
not ripe, and the Note faded once more…

 

* FOTR, 322 For a direct lifting with no intervening made-up lines, I do cite 
sources.

** According to the site Ardalambion, elenyr should be the Sindarin plural of 
elanor.

 


 ~~~~~




Chapter Four
Alone Together




 Frodo woke the next morning slowly, and felt for a moment confused by the soft 
golden light that filtered through the trees and tent. From somewhere nearby, 
an elvish voice raised itself in song, and the sad melody brought the memory of 
loss sharply to his mind, making it impossible to sleep again so he rubbed his 
eyes and then sat up. All about him his companions lay slumbering, and for once 
none so much as twitched in his sleep. We wore ourselves out, doubtless, he 
thought, thinking of the odd and almost painful discussion they had had last 
night. Chief among the topics of debate had been the unusual audience with 
Galadriel and Celeborn, for none of them had withstood the gaze of that high 
lady, and none save perhaps Legolas knew what to make of it. But if he did, the 
Elf kept the knowledge to himself, for he had said nothing from his place in 
the corner the night before, content to listen to his more vocal comrades.

"I liked it not," Boromir had said immediately. "What sorcery she sought to 
cast, I know not, but I trust it not either."

"I don't know about that." Surprisingly, it had been Sam who spoke up in 
response, and a very thoughtful look indeed he had worn.. "I don't know… it 
weren't magic, I think, unless all Elves are magic, beggin' your pardon Master 
Legolas. But it was less about her and more about us, if you understand me, 
sir."

"I think I do." Pippin had interjected, which had been even more surprising. "It 
was… well, I saw you blush, Sam, and I thought to myself 'guilty.' And that was 
exactly how I felt! Guilty! It was as if she knew everything about me, and 
showed me the one thing that I wanted most and said I could have it, if only I 
would turn aside. I mean, I do want the quest to succeed, so it can't be what I 
wanted most…but, well… you know…." he had amended, stumbling over the oblique 
assurance as he blushed in his turn. Finally, he had fallen silent.

"You speak truly," Gimli had said then, taking up the conversation as he had 
stroked his beard, considering anew, perhaps, his own experience. "And though it 
seemed we stood naked before her, yet my choices in this matter would remain 
secret. Or so I perceived."

"It was but pretense–what choice could any of us have made that would not be 
known instantly to the others?" Boromir had challenged. "And what purpose lay in 
this… this testing? Have we not yet proved ourselves true?"

"In the matter of the Ring," Frodo had said, speaking at last, "there is no 
proof that is final, until It be unmade. How could there be? Else we would not 
suffer so under the weight of Sauron's malice. Gandalf said it once himself: he 
could trust no one, not even himself, in matters concerning the Ring. As for the 
Lady Galadriel's purpose, none can read it, but neither can any doubt it. You do 
wrong to speak ill of her, for what evil lies upon this land comes but with us, 
and does not lie with her." Frodo had met Boromir's proud eyes, and for a moment 
they had seemed to strive against each other. But in the end the Heir of 
Denethor had looked away, and though there had remained tension in his posture, 
he had said no more. So relieved had Frodo been by this seeming withdrawal that 
he had needed a few moments to realize that he had won the contest of wills in a 
battle he had never thought to fight. He had felt a thrill of misgiving over the 
victory, doubting whether a quarrel might not break the fellowship, and 
wondering whether this was an omen of things to come.

Perhaps it was, for though they had passed eventually to other topics, an aura 
of palpable tension had hovered in the air between them, and would not 
dissipate. Eventually, their conversation had fallen silent, and the companions 
had bidden each other an uncertain good night. Despite that, Frodo had fallen 
asleep almost instantly, and if he had dreamed he could not remember any of it. 
Perhaps that is just as well, he thought, for waking life grows harder with each 
day, and I dread the nightmares! Since that fateful night in Moria, when he had 
eavesdropped on the secretive talk between Gandalf and Aragorn, his dreams had 
grown dark indeed, and fear was ever in his heart. He could not yet clearly 
perceive the danger that Gandalf had foreseen, but the dread had grown 
nevertheless. Almost his courage had failed him when the Balrog had appeared, 
and who knew whether it would now prove sufficient to carry him to the Mountain 
of Fire? He wished he could talk to someone about such fears, but he could not 
bring himself to broach the subject with Sam. And he could not speak with 
Aragorn on this matter either: he had sensed a change in the other that had come 
hard upon Gandalf's fall, and he feared to learn what dark care preoccupied the 
Ranger.

And where was he last night? Frodo wondered, frowning as he glanced over and saw 
Aragorn asleep upon his couch. Strider had disappeared early and the hobbit 
could not imagine what had kept him so very late. I could ask him…. But once 
more, doubts welled up, and in the end, he decided to let it lie. What, after 
all, did it matter if the Ranger preferred his solitude to the company of others 
in this time of grief? All I see is the Shadow, Frodo thought tiredly, closing 
his eyes again as his left hand rose almost habitually to the Ring upon its 
chain. All I see is darkness spreading further and further until it swallows the 
sun. I know I must come at last to Orodruin, if I can, but how? I thought to 
leave all others behind, but now I am bereft ere ever I could fly myself for 
that dark realm! Frodo bowed his head. Foolish was I to suppose I would be the 
first to break with this Fellowship! But… I needed to hope. Now, as Strider 
said, I must do without it for a time. His eyes strayed round once more to his 
companions, who were beginning to stir. Yes, I shall carry on, I suppose, to 
whatever end awaits. I only wish it would come quickly!

***

Gimli frowned as he gazed up at the heights of Caras Galadon, squinting at the 
noon-day sun, wondering if he dared leave this clearing without Aragorn in tow 
as a witness to his good intentions. He doubted not that the Lady would laugh at 
his fears, and though he trusted her implicitly now, he found that trust in 
general still came hard to a Dwarf adrift in the land of the Elves. With a snort 
for his own ridiculous anxiety, he turned and took a few hesitant steps beneath 
the bows of the mellyrn, then paused again, turning back towards the clearing. 
What is it that holds me back? Shall a Dwarf feel constrained by the faintest 
hint of Elvish displeasure? Gimli grimaced, feeling riven by uncertainty as he 
never had before. As he stood there, he saw Aragorn emerge at last from the 
tents and, after a moment's hesitation, make off quickly northwards. So much for 
a witness!

"Some of us seem born to wander whither they will," said a wry voice softly from 
behind him. Startled, Gimli turned and saw, to his surprise, Boromir. The Man 
stood with his arms folded across his chest and he leaned against a tree, gazing 
out after Aragorn, apparently. Boromir looked down at him, and his grey eyes 
held an odd gleam as he continued, "While the rest of us remain tethered in 
place, hmm? Do you not feel thus, Master Dwarf?"

"Tethered… yes, I suppose that that is an apt word," Gimli replied, and cocked a 
heavy brow at the other. "And you, Master Boromir? What has a Man to fear from 
Elves that he feels… tethered?"

"There are some things that Men were never meant to see," Boromir replied, 
seeming to repeat a maxim of sorts. "'Tis perilous to meet with the Firstborn, 
for such encounters change one. Some say that one loses a part of one's humanity 
in such a meeting."

"I had not heard such rumors," Gimli confessed, and shrugged. "For myself, I 
know not what to think of your humanity, Boromir; I know only that I am and 
shall always be a Dwarf, let the Elves do as they will! Perhaps Aragorn could 
better reassure you as to the truth or falsity of such a notion." It was meant 
as a friendly suggestion, but Boromir's eyes narrowed and the gleam grew 
stronger, so that Gimli began to feel a certain uneasiness.

"Ahh… that one! I think not, for he is too much an Elf himself, though his blood 
run as red and mortal as any of ours… saving only Legolas's, of course. I wonder 
sometimes whether he has not been too long sundered from his own kind."

"You speak as if you have some grievance against Aragorn, my friend," the Dwarf 
replied carefully, scowling this time for he liked not the course of this 
conversation and wondered what lay behind it. He scrutinized the other's face 
carefully, but unless it were the flash of some peculiar emotion in those 
intense eyes, he could discern nothing of the other's thoughts. And perhaps I am 
not a fit judge in these matters. But even as he thought it, his heart misgave 
him, though he knew not why, precisely.

"'Tis hardly his fault, I suppose," Boromir said in response, speaking slowly, 
almost as if to himself now. "Fate is an unfaithful mistress, and cruel are her 
ways. Nay, 'tis not his fault… nevertheless…." Boromir shook his head and 
brushed irritably at a long lock of jet black hair that fell into his face. "It 
matters not. Only I am not at ease in this wood, and shall be glad to see the 
land of my home again!"

"Aye," Gimli agreed wholeheartedly, though he spoke with reluctance, as if 
unwilling to accept the change of subject but equally unwilling to argue it with 
his companion. "Aye, you speak for me there. But, since we are here, I shall 
make the most of it… insofar as it is granted a Dwarf to do so in the midst of 
Elvish ways. Good day, Boromir." The Dwarf bowed, after the manner of his 
people, and Boromir smiled absently and returned the salute, hands crossed upon 
his breast according to Gondor's customs. Then the Man strode quickly away, 
vanishing swiftly into the woods at the opposite end of the clearing.

Gimli meanwhile stood still as stone and pondered what meaning that odd 
conversation might have had. He did not even realize he was not alone until a 
sigh ruffled his hair, and he turned sharply, hand going swiftly to his ax in a 
reflexive motion. But then his eyes widened in astonishment as he gasped 
incredulously, "Legolas!?" The Elf''s mouth was a tight line of worry, and he 
seemed not to realize how very close to death (or at least to injury) he had 
come. "What do you here? And why came you behind me?"

"I came to see who might remain in the glade. And I came behind you because I 
heard your voices on the breeze."

"And so an Elf of the Woods is drawn to speak to a Dwarf? Are you ill?" Gimli 
demanded, abandoning tact. Legolas's eyes flashed a bit at that, but then that 
fire faded, and was replaced by an emotion strange to the Dwarf.

"Nay, not ill, unless it be that grief is illness. And perhaps for Elves it is. 
Too many of us have died of that wasting disease!" Legolas sighed, and Gimli 
felt abashed for his outburst, which drew Gandalf so sharply and easily to mind. 
But before he could formulate an apology, the Elf continued, "Something eats at 
him."

"At Boromir?"

"Yes," Legolas looked down at him again, and his gaze was unusually frank and 
solemn, "You see it, too. How could we not, we who have so often stood at his 
sides?" Gimli raised a brow, surprised by the acknowledgment of their private 
war of wills. "Shall we not be honest with each other for once, Gimli, and set 
aside our quarrel for a time?"

"For the sake of the Company?"

"If you will," Legolas replied with an impatient shrug. "I care not what reason 
you give, but I like not the mood that has fallen upon us all."

And Gimli, gazing hard at his rival, asked suspiciously, "Is that the only 
reason?"

"Oh, very well!" Legolas gave an exasperated sigh, and his voice bespoke 
irritated embarrassment, a state altogether foreign to the Elf. But then, so are 
these clumsy attempts to disguise his feelings, Gimli thought, realizing that 
the other truly was concerned about something. "In truth, I came hither because 
I heard your voice, and I…I wished to ask you what you thought of this matter of 
Boromir."

"Why not ask Aragorn? Surely a Man would better suit your need in this case."

"Aragorn was not present to hear our companion last night," the Elf countered, 
"and he, too, has troubles that he does not wish others to see, though I cannot 
guess what they might be. But I think that they are not of the same sort as 
Boromir's. Alas! An Elf has little understanding of Men at times, and I fear to 
misread him. I thought to ask you because…."

"Because Dwarves, too, are mortal?" Gimli asked when Legolas faltered. "That may 
well be, but I am no more a Man than I am a hobbit! Think you that I understand 
Frodo any better?" Legolas pursed his lips, and his brows drew together as he 
considered this, and Gimli nearly laughed aloud. The Elf seemed so utterly 
puzzled, as if it had not occurred to him that a Dwarf might labor under the 
same burden of incomprehension as he! Not all mortals are alike! That Lindir 
fellow back in Rivendell was more right than he knew, perhaps, when he said that 
mortals were not the study of Elves, Gimli thought. Finally, he took pity upon 
the other's confusion, and said, "You and I look into another world, Legolas, 
and it is foreign to us both. Nevertheless, we must do what we can to aid the 
Quest. Perhaps we may between us discern what lies at the heart of Boromir's 
temper." Elf and Dwarf stared at each other across the gulf of their 
differences, and for a while they seemed poised thus, unable to move toward each 
other. And yet, that very estrangement which separated them from each other also 
lay between them and most of the others of the Company; thus ironically, what 
kept them apart was also that which gave them solid ground to stand upon 
together.

"Perhaps," Legolas allowed finally, and he cocked his head slightly, and his 
posture relaxed ever so slightly. "Perhaps we may. And perhaps we may speak 
further upon this?"

"If we do, we must wait for the others to disperse, for I would not risk being 
overheard again," Gimli warned.

"Why not go our own way, then?"

"Ah…hmm," Gimli's eyes flicked towards the treetops involuntarily, as if seeking 
Elves hidden among them, or else monsters. Legolas noticed, and something 
suspiciously like a smile passed quickly over his face.

"The wardens would not dare to arrest you in my presence, if that is what 
worries you," the prince said, and there was a hint of true mirth in his voice. 
And even, Gimli thought suddenly, surprised by the insight, even a touch of 
endearment… as if the Elf were charmed by that uneasiness. For a long moment, 
the Dwarf gazed at his strange would-be companion, and it was as if he had at 
long last begun to see him.

"Very well, Master Legolas," he said at length, and there was now in his voice a 
certain bemused challenge. "We shall see how high the Elves of Lórien esteem 
their kinsman from afar. Lead on!" And for the first time since the Watcher had 
driven them into Khazad-dûm, the Dwarf felt the shadow upon him lift. 





~~~~~





Chapter Five
Leaving Lothlórien





 Pippin gazed up at the waxing moon, which rode pale and high in the afternoon. 
Soon we will leave this place, he thought regretfully. The world outside 
remained a shadowy horror, but over the course of long, aimless days, he had 
felt his grief ease gently aside, drawing back from him enough that it no 
longer crippled him. And though the darkness remained deep beyond the golden 
woods, he, irrepressible as ever, faced it now with a sense of determined 
anticipation. But for the moment, he was more than content to remain absolutely 
still and let the world flow past him.

"I wonder if Mr. Bilbo is looking at that same moon!" said a wistful voice at 
his side. Pippin glanced right and saw Sam standing there, gazing up intently.

"I shouldn't wonder if he were!" Pippin replied. "Funny, isn't it? I haven't 
noticed the moon of late, yet it seems to me that I've seen it like this before. 
I wonder how long we've been here."

"Strider says time is different here, but what he means by that I couldn't say, 
unless it means just this: all the days run together, and somehow Moria seems 
very far away." But as remote as the vast mines and terrible, darksome splendor 
of Khazad-dûm were, the hobbits fell awkwardly silent. Gandalf's face flashed 
before Pippin's eyes, and he felt his heart speed in response. When we set out, 
Gandalf shan't be with us, and there will be no waiting for him to arrive and 
save us. Now it is up to us! The time was now past when he would have shuddered 
at the very thought, or wept; but he felt a thrill of dread nonetheless. Beside 
him, Sam was blushing fiercely, whether from embarrassment for the slip or in an 
effort not to cry himself, Pippin knew not.

"Time does flow by here, like a river over rocks: heedlessly, I mean. And though 
I do want to stay, I have this feeling that it is time to move on at last."

"So do I, sir," Sam replied, nodding, his plain face set in a stalwart 
expression that caused Pippin to frown and blink, for he had not seen the other 
in such a mood before. "So do I, and Mr. Frodo does, too."

"Say Sam, how is old Frodo? He keeps much to himself these days," Pippin 
inquired.

Samwise glanced at him from the corners of his eyes, and when he spoke it was 
with great reluctance. "Yes, well… I suppose he has, sir. And… you being his 
friend… I don't like to speak where I'm not wanted, Mr. Pippin, but I don't like 
how he's so quiet all the time. Of all of us, he seems the only one who hasn't 
got past that blasted bridge, if you understand me."

"I do indeed. Not that we shall ever truly 'get past' I suppose," Pippin replied 
thoughtfully. "But you mean he hasn't moved away from it at all."

"Aye, that's it. He clings to it, sir, and won't let nothing, not even 
Lothlórien, pull him away. That's no way to start a long journey–I know that 
now! And it isn't right, I think. There's something more in this than… than 
Gandalf's fall." Sam managed with only a slight stumble to force the words out. 
"I think he must have–"

Of a sudden, he stopped, scowling, and spots of red appeared once more on his 
cheeks. "Go on!" Pippin urged, unwilling to let the matter drop here. "Frodo 
must have what?"

"I don't know as I'm supposed to say anything," Sam tried lamely to avoid an 
answer, but Pippin only shook his head and laid his hands on the other's 
shoulders firmly.

"Sam lad, you must tell me! If something is amiss with Frodo, then we must try 
to help him. But how can I do that if I don't know what is wrong?"

"It's just… it concerns the lady," Sam coughed, and his eyes cut upward to the 
treetops, where lay the hall of Galadriel. Pippin pursed his lips in a low 
whistle.

"Sam…." the young Took pressed, more in earnest than he had perhaps ever been in 
his life.

"Alright! Alright! We, Mr. Frodo and me, we went with the lady Galadriel to her 
mirror. Just a basin filled with water, but you could see… visions… in it," Sam 
admitted. "I don't know if any are true, or if they're all only in my head, if 
you know what I mean. The lady said some don't come to pass, because the future 
is not something to be grasped from the present. But I think… I am nearly 
certain that Mr. Frodo saw something he didn't like. Something on top of 
everything else, for enough's happened to unsettle even Strider. But this 
touched something deeper, I think."

"And you don't know what he saw? He would not say?"

"No, sir, he wouldn't. Very queer it was: he and the lady started talking, and 
they both seemed to know what the other meant, but I couldn't make heads nor 
tails of it." Sam paused, shaking his head ruefully. "Something about rings and 
the Dark Lord, and the First Song of the Aye-noor," he said at last, pronouncing 
that last quite awkwardly.

"The Song of the what? What are these… these… creatures?"

"As I said, sir, I don't rightly know. I think, though, that Elbereth is one, or 
perhaps close to one. Might be a question for Legolas or Strider, if I thought I 
could explain why I was asking! But Mr. Frodo seemed dreadfully pale of a 
sudden, and Lady Galadriel, too. As if they had both thought of the same thing, 
and didn't like it at all."

"And you haven't any idea what it might be," Pippin sighed, discouraged.

"No sir," Sam replied softly, bowing his head. "Not for the likes of me is such 
talk. Me, now, I've enough to worry over with just my Gaffer and wanting to go 
home to my own hole in Bagshot row… I miss him, sir! Him and… and Rose, too, 
especially!" That last came out in a punctuated rush, as if torn from Sam by his 
own conscience, and he seemed close to tears. Pippin swallowed hard, and put his 
arms about the other's shoulders and gave him a gentle shake.

"There now! Brave lad!" Pippin mumbled by way of clumsy consolation. Bagshot 
row, and the Cotton's farm! Rosie Cotton…. It was hard to comfort someone when 
one suffered from the same affliction, but Peregrin Took gave as easily as he 
laughed. Besides, he felt guilty, knowing that his own feelings for Rose Cotton 
were hardly disinterested, and that Sam had not the least suspicion. Years ago 
he had fallen under the spell of Farmer Cotton's lovely daughter, but shyness 
had gotten the better of him. Not that it would have mattered if I'd said a 
word, for she'd eyes only for Sam. And I wouldn't think of trying to convince 
her to look my way, when Sam loves her so, he thought. Still, it was hard to 
wish Sam well of her, in this time and place, when he knew that to do so meant 
he would never achieve his heart's desire.

"And that's not all, sir!" Sam whispered, hoarse with the effort to control his 
tears. "Bad enough, missing home and Rose and the Gaffer, but there's worse 
things. I couldn't tell this to Mr. Frodo, it would've been cruel. But I can't 
keep it to myself either. I… it was almost at the end of the visions when 
suddenly everything got very dark. I was about to pull back, when the water… it 
wavered and it seemed as though there were shapes in it. Nazgûl, I thought to 
myself. And they were, sir! Black Riders pressed so close in a ring about us 
that I couldn't see even the sky… but then I couldn't even look that far up, I 
think!" Sam paused, and his voice grew softer, yet more shrill as it tightened 
further. "Me and Mr. Frodo were trapped somewhere. And I couldn't let those 
filthy creatures have him… him with a Ring on and… and I knew it wasn't going to 
be him much longer. So I… I…"

"What did you do, Sam?" Pippin coaxed, easing the other down to sit upon the 
turf. "I promise you, I'll not say a word to anyone!"

"They were going to take him to the tower," the other said, tone dull and flat 
now, lacking all inflection. It was as if Sam spoke in a foreign tongue, 
repeating the words verbatim as he received them, without understanding enough 
to give them life. "They would have taken him, and to die with the Ring on his 
hand… no. No that was too much. I had to save him, sir, you understand. I had 
to, and there was only one way out. Through Sting…."

"Sting? I don't underst–" Pippin stopped abruptly, and the last syllable hissed 
through his teeth as enlightenment struck painfully. "Sam, no!" he murmured 
softly, shaking his head in denial. "No, no! It was only a vision. You said 
yourself that the Lady Galadriel said they don't all come true. Maybe even none 
of them, if we are all careful."

"I don't know, Mr. Pippin," Sam buried his face in his hands and scrubbed at his 
eyes, leaving white runnels as he let his hands slide clenched over his cheeks. 
"I just don't know. But if that's even a possibility… I couldn't do that, any 
more than I could fly!"

"Well then, doubtless it will never happen unless you sprout wings!" Pippin 
said, falsely bright in an attempt to push the darkness away. "Come now, my dear 
fellow, let's not think on such things any further. Alright? Think instead how 
glad Rose will be to have you home again."

"You're right, sir," Sam sighed, heaving to his feet. "But I do wish I had never 
even dreamt that!"

So do I, Sam, Pippin thought, as he wordlessly fell in at his friend's side. So 
do I!

***

High above the floor of the valley, Legolas perched easily upon a slender branch 
and looked out at the golden roof of the forest. A butterfly, with wings no less 
brilliant than the day itself, fluttered past, following its erratic path, and 
the Elf watched it go. Thus do we journey: the destination is clear before us, 
but our path is crooked and twisting out of necessity! But for the moment, even 
thought of the long road, which they must soon face again without the shield of 
Lórien's gilded girdle, could not dampen his spirits. The day was fair, and his 
own winding explorations of the forest left little room for discontent….

"Elves are daft indeed if they think any wingless creature was meant to see the 
earth from such heights!" The growled complaint issued from behind and below 
him, but though Legolas sighed dramatically, his lips quirked in a smile as he 
glanced over his shoulder at Gimli, Glóin's son. The Dwarf was wedged firmly 
between two stout branches, unwilling to risk the freer (and more dangerous) 
'paths.' His face was set in a formidable glower, but Legolas knew well that it 
was assumed. In truth, he suspected the other of enjoying the outing, though 
Gimli might never admit to such heresy. Strange how transparent he is, now that 
I turn my eye to him! How did I overlook that before? The elven prince turned 
fully and began to make his graceful way back down to where his friend clung 
like an abandoned kitten.

"Trees have not wings, yet they do see the world from above," he pointed out, 
raising a pale brow.

"Trees, he says!" Gimli replied, sounding exasperated, but there was a glint of 
real humor in his voice. "May we now descend so that I need not fear for either 
of our necks should our conversation distract us?"

"This way then, if you be not craven!" Legolas replied, and began to scramble 
down swiftly. Gimli uttered something in his own tongue, which sounded rather 
like a curse, but he followed his friend and tormentor, if more slowly. When at 
last, Legolas set foot on the ground, the Dwarf was still upon the rope ladder 
that dangled from the lowest branch.

"You will be the death of me yet!" Gimli declared when at last he stood before 
him, scowling up at Legolas, and the Elf laughed.

"I doubt it not! But, we are now upon the ground, and you were quite right: we 
have much still to discuss."

"Indeed! I thought you wished to keep an eye upon Boromir today," Gimli replied, 
abandoning in an instant their banter for more serious matters.

"And I did," Legolas responded. "Even now, he is not far: perhaps a mile from 
here."

"And are your ears, perchance, as sharp as your eyes?" Gimli asked, raising dark 
brows.

"Even were they, it would have mattered little. He spoke to no one, and has 
wandered alone the entire day," Legolas sighed, and his face was troubled on 
Boromir's behalf.

"And when he is with us, he says little." Gimli frowned, stroking his beard. "I 
like it not. I think that Boromir is not accustomed to loneliness, and I fear 
what that might mean."

"You o'erpass me in this," Legolas admitted. "Speak more plainly!"

"I mean that Boromir is not one to keep much to himself, nor to suffer dispute 
easily or in silence. He is a warrior," the Dwarf shrugged. "It is in him to 
fight, yet he has said no contrary word, nor spoken without prompting, since the 
argument that first night. And yet is it not clear that he feels alone? That he 
feels 'tethered' as he said?" The Elf was silent for a time, considering the 
other's conclusions.

"You may be right. But this brings us no closer to the heart of the matter."

"True, but it gives us a place to begin: with the argument," Gimli replied, and 
then frowned again. "I wish Aragorn had heard it, for perhaps he might have seen 
or heard something that we did not. Should we speak to him on this matter, do 
you think, Legolas?"

"Nay, not yet! I think, in the days to come, he will recognize himself the 
change in Boromir, if he has not already. The time is not yet come, I think, and 
while we have this brief time of safety, I would rather Aragorn see to his own 
needs than burden him with another responsibility."

"What needs are those?"

"I know not precisely," Legolas replied. "But one hears things."

"What things?"

"Naught that I should speak of here," the Elf demurred, ignoring his companion's 
exasperated snort. "But he will soon have to take up our troubles as well as his 
own, and I would spare him that awhile longer. Come my friend, we came to speak 
of Boromir, not of Aragorn. And to say farewell to good Lórien, fairest of all 
forests!" So saying, Legolas led the way through the woods, and Gimli shook his 
head in a resigned, if amused, fashion, surrendering to Elvish deadly-serious 
whim, and followed along, thinking: Yes, it is not good for a Man to be alone as 
Boromir is. Nor for a Dwarf, nor even for an Elf. At least I am no longer lonely 
on this long path!

***

"What think you, love?" Aragorn asked in the darkness. Before him stood Arwen, 
silhouetted against the open window, and the starlight glittered pale on her 
dark hair. Long had they sat in this little chamber among the high boughs of 
Caras Galadon, talking quietly together while the sun sank into the west. 
Eventually, they had fallen silent, and Arwen, restless, had risen to go and 
stand so as to catch the evening breezes, leaving Aragorn to attend to his own 
concerns while she wrestled with whatever demons tormented her.

"That if you must leave soon, then I shall miss you, and even Lórien shall hold 
little joy for me," she sighed in response. Aragorn rose and silently stalked 
over to stand behind her. He drew her into his arms, holding her gently, and 
together they gazed out at the velvet night. The candle on the stand had long 
since extinguished itself, but neither had moved to rekindle it. Darkness was 
more comfortable of late, more concealing, protective… forgiving… than was 
pitiless daylight. And though they had not in all their time together in the 
past days and weeks surrendered again to their passions, that first night 
together hovered ever in the background of their thoughts. Aragorn found it 
difficult to reconcile himself to his own thoughtless actions, but on the other 
hand, he could not make himself regret them either. It was problematic, for now 
every least touch of Arwen's hand or body against his felt like a caress, and 
maintaining decorum was an exercise in brutal self-discipline. And yet we tempt 
ourselves, he thought, arms tightening slightly about Arwen's waist. It would be 
easy, so easy to succumb to his desire! There was no one about, and the couch 
upon which he had sat was comfortable, wide enough for two, if only just…. For a 
long moment, Aragorn savored the memory of their lovemaking, swallowing both the 
bitter and the sweet; then he sighed and let it wash away from him. Just to hold 
her was comfort enough for him, and if there was now more behind that easy 
conformity of body to body, and heart to heart, then so be it!

"Since that day in Rivendell, you have been always in my thoughts, Arwen," he 
murmured. "Were it not for that, I might have died long ago in the wilderness."

"Nay, love, for you have more strength in you than that!" she replied 
affectionately. "Would that we had this night, and we could talk 'til the sun 
rose, as we did often when you came to Imladris!" She paused. "Think you that 
you shall go forth tomorrow?"

"Perhaps. By the week's end at latest," he answered softly, and she nodded 
slightly.

"And will you come again?"

"You know I cannot answer that!" Aragorn responded, and not without a touch of 
anguish. Arwen turned gently in his arms and looped her arms about his neck. As 
they stood there, holding each other, he felt her disengage one hand and run it 
down his chest, over his stomach, and pause at his hip. Subtle pressure of her 
fingers invited him to yield, inciting a deeply-centered heat as her fingertips 
began to wander further down his body, but he knew that once he stepped fully 
into that embrace, he would not leave it ere dawn. "Arwen!" he managed, staying 
her hand.

"I know, love," she murmured sadly. "Forgive me that! And remember me, when the 
road is hard."

"I shall." A pause, and then, "I should leave."

"Yes… yes, you should. Good-night, Aragorn!"

"Farewell, Arwen!" Still, they held each other, and Aragorn willed his mind to 
stop its racing thoughts, wished time would stop indeed and leave him at least 
this bliss. But at last, by unspoken accord, they drew apart. He bowed over her 
hand, brushing his lips across the backs of her knuckles, and then went slowly 
to the door, passing into starlit Lórien in silence.

It had never been so hard to turn away!

 

And as Aragorn left Arwen, the dissonance at the edge of the Void reached the 
peak of its creative frenzy, fracturing the Song, and falling into deadly 
Silence. The Rift opened wider as the Fellowship prepared to depart upon its 
appointed path….





~~~~~~



Chapter Six
Adrift




 Anduin the Great glittered bright all about, and Pippin stared out at the land 
passing swiftly away. After the long days and weeks spent climbing, crawling, 
scrambling, and walking from Imladris to Lórien, Pippin had well nigh forgotten 
that any other means of travel existed, and he had never imagined that boats 
could speed the journey so. As if in response to his thoughts, the water at the 
prow leapt higher as the skiff surged forward, and Pippin, caught unawares, 
nearly had the paddle wrenched from his hands. Boromir again! he thought. 
Glancing back over his shoulder, Pippin caught Merry's eyes, and the two 
hobbits shared a brief, puzzled look. Then Merry shrugged minutely, adjusting 
his own strokes so as not to hinder Boromir's, and Pippin followed suit, 
wondering at the Man's behavior. Since their departure from Lothlórien four 
days ago, Boromir had been agitated: it showed in his silence, in the way he 
watched Aragorn and especially Frodo, and in his fidgeting, which Pippin had 
never remarked in him before. Whatever it was that gnawed at him, he gave it no 
voice but it was palpable, akin to the dread that shrouded Frodo. I think it 
must have begun after Gandalf fell, Pippin thought, recalling Boromir's subdued 
hostility towards Aragorn as they had made their weary way towards Lothlórien. 
But though he sifted his memories through a fine-meshed sieve, he could recall 
no incident that might have provoked such a reaction in the other. Nor could he 
imagine why that brooding discontent should linger so long, growing stronger as 
the days passed.

I should think he would be glad, Pippin reflected. Gondor is not so very far, or 
so I gather, and one has only to listen to him to know that Boromir misses his 
home. As we journeyed south, whenever we spoke in the mornings, just ere we 
retired, he always had some tale of Minas Tirith to add to Aragorn's stories of 
far countries. Just as Legolas always had a song for us! Yet the closer we come 
to Gondor, the more anxious he becomes. Why should that be?

This latest habit—whereby Boromir would suddenly send their boat surging 
forward, 'til the prow seemed likely to grate against the boat ahead of them—was 
as unnerving as it was inexplicable to the hobbit's mind. And there was 
something in the way that Boromir stared at Frodo that bred fear in Pippin's 
heart, though he knew not why. "Tell us of Gondor, Boromir!" he said suddenly, 
feeling the silence too thick to be borne.

"What would you know?" the Man asked, shaking his head slightly, as if coming 
out of a daydream. But his eyes were oddly distant as he glanced sharply at 
Pippin.

"Whatever you care to tell us. If we come there, then it shall be useful, but if 
not, at least I shall know somewhat of it!" Pippin replied, attempting 
diplomacy.

"This is not the time or the place for travelers' tales," Boromir answered. 
"Have you some specific question?"

"Er, well," Pippin stammered, seeking a topic and finding very few for his 
knowledge was quite limited. "What would we do, Merry and I, if we came there? 
As hobbits, you understand."

Boromir gave a curt bark of laughter and replied sardonically, "What indeed? 
Minas Tirith is an armed camp, Peregrin Took, and if you came there, you would 
fight when the enemy at last unleashed war." He paused, and then softly, as if 
speaking to himself, he added, "As will we all!" Pippin, sitting before him, 
tried not to cringe noticeably at the other's disheartening response. It is that 
strange worry that preoccupies him, he thought, unwilling to think ill of the 
other. But the young hobbit sat quietly, and made no further overtures while the 
day lasted.

***

As rain weathers rocks to pebbles, so time whittled away certainty and the miles 
wore hard upon each other as another day drew on into night. Boromir liked not 
this period of waiting, knowing the decision that loomed before them all. I may 
not abandon Minas Tirith to go with this Company if it chooses the dark path, he 
thought. But by all that I hold dear, shall I meekly depart, knowing whither the 
Bearer is bound? 'Tis madness! Mayhap were Aragorn the Ringbearer, I would have 
more faith in his ability to reach Orodruin alive and free, but Frodo? Let it be 
Legolas, or even Gimli ere we send a hobbit into that wasteland! Thus his 
thoughts ran, but beneath that current of conscious reflection, continually 
thrust down where he could avoid acknowledging it, there flowed doubt more deep 
than the abyss. Doubt, and resentment stirred by he knew not what. Or rather, he 
refused to look further for the source of that unreasonable anger which surged 
ever against the draconian constraints he imposed upon it. Why must it be thus? 
he demanded of the unfeeling stars. If this journey be ordained, as so many say, 
then spare me these doubts! And unbidden there rose again the memory of that 
first night beneath Caras Galadhon, and words born of his own anguished, 
half-acknowledged suspicions: Have we not yet proved ourselves true?

For Boromir, warrior born and heir to the last bastion of the Dúnedain upon 
Middle-earth, such uncertainty was utterly foreign and he felt himself drowning. 
All of his life had been devoted to the protection of Gondor and to the men who 
served her, and that anyone should question his loyalty was an affront to his 
pride. Yet Galadriel's bright eyes had pierced him, and Frodo's answer to him 
that night had touched him close, between them tearing the veil aside and 
forcing him to see a part of himself that he had shunned. Now, that furtive 
darkness nestled at his core whimpered and whispered incessantly, on the one 
hand inflaming his wrath and resentment, and on the other miring him in a 
profound mistrust that was the more vehement for having been exposed. Thus 
whenever he thought of the likely direction of the Quest, of a hobbit alone in 
the ash slags of Mordor, that insistent voice demanded, Why not Boromir? Why 
should I not have a share of this burden? Let others say as they please, must I 
not trust my own judgment? For if I cannot trust myself, then shall I blindly 
trust others? Aye, there is the hook upon which all my doubts catch, Boromir 
thought with a grim smile that was hidden by the darkness. For I do not trust 
others, therefore I must trust myself, for what else have I? I am no wizard, nor 
a wizard's pupil, after all.

At that moment, a voice drifted back to him, "Turn to the shores!" And he 
gritted his teeth at the sound of it, for it was Frodo's. Do I hate him? Surely 
not! But how can I trust the fate of Minas Tirith to him? Galadriel's face 
flashed before his eyes, seeming to stab him with her regard once more. Who is 
she to hang Gondor's survival from so weak a thread? Or is there indeed anything 
at all that holds us up? And who is she to judge my loyalty? Hard upon such 
angry recriminations, though, came a brooding fear that was more fundamental 
than any anger. For in spite of his surly temper, he had seen in Galadriel's 
eyes the terrible grief that racked her. However he might resent her judgments, 
he recognized that one such as she was not given to tears for less cause than 
the peril of the world. And if she mourns it already, then are we doomed to 
fail? There is a malicious pall upon the world of late, and if this is but the 
beginning… why not try, then? Why not take the risk and wound the Dark Lord as 
heavily as we might? It needs only the Ring, and one willing….

The keel grated on the riparian sands just then, halting his feverish thoughts, 
and the hobbits fairly leapt from the boat, grateful to stretch their legs. Or 
else relieved to escape from me! Boromir thought with no small chagrin for his 
curt and unfriendly words to Pippin that afternoon. He had never been a very 
patient man, but neither was he cruel, and in truth he knew not what compelled 
him speak so to a comrade. Unless it were weariness of a strange and unnatural 
sort—weariness born of the conflict within himself that he strove to suppress. I 
feel stretched thin as a wire! And what happens when it snaps? With a soft sigh, 
he waded through the shallows, dragging the prow of the boat higher up onto the 
shore. My thoughts fly every direction today, Boromir reprimanded himself, 
striving for a wry resignation at the end of the day. For though he feared the 
trend of his own speculations, he feared even more that others should discover 
them. Even now, he shot a look sideways at Aragorn, who was performing the same 
task as he, while Frodo and Sam saw to their baggage. The Ranger glanced up, 
seeming to feel Boromir's eyes upon him, and the Man of Gondor looked away 
swiftly.

I should speak to him, he thought, gritting his teeth. And yet I cannot! Of all 
those now bound southwards, Boromir knew on some deep level that Aragorn would 
understand him better than any of the others. But for that very reason, he 
balked at revealing himself, for Aragorn's very perception made of him both 
friend and foe. He who could best comprehend all that Boromir suffered was 
equally most likely to discover those doubts uninvited. That made him a 
dangerous friend, and Boromir knew not which he dreaded more: Aragorn's pity or 
his contempt. Defensive and distrustful, he thus made every effort to turn the 
other's regard aside, for if his feelings toward him had always been somewhat 
ambivalent, of late they had tilted more towards a jealous fear… and shame. 
Fear, lest Aragorn discover the rot that lay beneath a fair surface. Shame, 
because the more he shrouded his feelings, the more that same envy fed his 
unreasonable anger and dislike, 'til he could scarce bear to speak Aragorn's 
name. Jealousy, because he knew well that Aragorn was a Man, weak and mortal as 
any other, and must surely be prey to the same temptations that he suffered. Yet 
the other was esteemed the more, and Boromir was guiltily aware in the depths of 
his heart that there was reason for that. Why must it be thus? Unused to the 
tearing pressures of doubts and secrets hidden even from himself, Boromir was 
stricken with sudden loathing: of the quest, of Aragorn, of war, of peace, of 
indecision… and of himself. I hate this silence most of all! And yet it endured.

***

The first watch of the night drew slowly towards it end. Frodo sat quietly on a 
comfortable tussock of grass and felt the slow, night-time pulse of the earth 
surge through him, urging slumber and dreaming forgetfulness. But Frodo ignored 
the temptation, gazing out across the river to the mist-shrouded eastern bank. 
There lies my way, the hobbit thought. Soon… soon I must leave this Company. Or 
let them leave me! It had been in his mind of late that he could ask the others 
to simply go, to depart and leave him to his fate, to the task that called him. 
I might even be able to force them to do it, he thought. For since that argument 
with Boromir, he had become more aware of the Ring as it hung upon its chain, 
secure in its dreadful power. It had silenced one opponent already, but if he 
dared to draw upon it, Frodo knew that his friends would have no choice but to 
obey his request. And is that not a terrible thought? Valar help me, this is 
what Gandalf—may he rest in peace!— warned me against from the beginning!

Sighing, he bowed his head, slouching beneath the weight of the burden and the 
terrible suspicions he now harbored. Galadriel's evident distress in Lórien as 
she spoke of the Song had been as telling a sign as the conversation he had 
overheard in Moria. More so, even, for with Gandalf's death, Frodo found himself 
willing to believe the worst… if only someone else would confirm it for him! 
Galadriel would not, and he understood why, for they were Ringbearers both, 
their thoughts having a terrible power to heal or destroy. For himself, he 
marked that the others had by and large gained some measure of peace while in 
Lórien, and he did not begrudge them that. So he had kept held his tongue–or 
bitten it, rather–out of pity and friendship. But oh, how he wished just one of 
them would speak of his own fears, and give shape to the dread that Frodo 
suffered! Then perhaps he might be able to ask what he longed to ask!

The sky darkened as a cloud drifted slowly before the moon, and Frodo stared up 
at the dimmed stars. Anduin murmured softly before him, but otherwise the night 
was silent… unnaturally so. Not a cricket sang, nor did bats or owls call out 
their hunting cries. His mouth gone suddenly dry, Frodo swallowed hard and 
stood, drawing his sword. In that instant, he heard movement behind him and 
turned to see Aragorn stirring restlessly. Does he dream? the hobbit wondered, 
watching as the Ranger turned away, seeming to recoil from something, and then 
suddenly pushed himself up on one elbow, breathing quickly. Their eyes met in 
the gloom, and after a moment, Aragorn rose, drawing his cloak about him against 
the damp chill, and came to kneel by Frodo's side. "What is it?" he asked in a 
low voice.

"I know not," replied Frodo. "It seemed to me suddenly too quiet, as if 
something were creeping nearer." Both of them glanced down at Sting, whose edges 
glinted. But it was only the faint light of the stars that made it glitter, not 
the presence of their enemies. Yet Aragorn, closing his eyes to shut out all 
distraction as he took in the sounds of the night, agreed with Frodo: even to 
his sharp ears, the land seemed to lie under a deep and disturbing silence that 
strangled the voices of those creatures whose domain was the night. Not all evil 
comes of Orcs, either, he thought, opening his eyes and glancing doubtfully 
about. "We began this journey under the shadow," Frodo said quietly, "and now 
the darkness has extended to other senses as well. And it will go on… and on 
unchecked." The hobbit paused, then asked grimly, "You knew, did you not? You 
and Gandalf both?"

And Aragorn, hearing that, was silent a long moment. He might have tried to turn 
the other aside with some well-crafted and misleading response, but that he 
perceived that it was fruitless to hide such secrets from the hobbit. I know not 
how he comes by this knowledge, or how he guesses that I share in it, but does 
that matter? Still, he hesitated, unwilling to say anything that might prove 
fatal discouragement to the Ringbearer. But if he were unwilling to say aught, 
Frodo refused to leave him his silence. "Speak, Aragorn!" Frodo urged. "I think 
that nothing you say will be new to me." He laid a small hand on Aragorn's 
shoulder a moment, and the Ranger sighed softly.

"Gandalf, I think, knew from the start that the Darkness would overtake us," he 
murmured. "I suspected his silence, but only upon the bridge of Khazad-dûm did I 
learn the full truth."

"I thought as much," Frodo replied sadly.

"Knowing this, what do you intend to do?" Aragorn asked.

"I shall continue, of course. What choice have I? What choice have any of us 
when the field is set against us? Did not Gandalf say it himself? That in the 
end, it matters not what fate decrees, but only what we choose, and the manner 
of our choosing?"

"So you heard us that night!" Aragorn's eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. 
"And you never said aught!" He paused, and for a brief moment debated with 
himself ere he said slowly, "You say you shall continue. But whither? To Mordor, 
beyond the Ephel Duath? Or to Minas Tirith?"

"Which path do you advise?" Frodo asked, curious.

"Do not ask me that, I beg!" There was a note of sharp entreaty in the other's 
voice that the hobbit had not heard before. "If I cannot decide for myself, then 
how shall I decide for another?"

"Then do not advise, only say what it is in your heart, my friend!"

Still, the Ranger did not speak for awhile, and when he did respond at last, it 
was with manifest reluctance. "As your friend, then, I would have you turn west 
to Minas Tirith, for I would not have you endure the ruin that is Mordor. If 
there is no hope, then there is no purpose in daring that deadly land. But a 
part of me warns that there are worse things than pain, however unmerited or 
unprofitable; and I know that were it my own honor, and my own task, I could not 
refuse the way, nor treat with one who would so advise me. Is that enough for 
you?"

"Enough, and more than that!" Frodo replied. "Your words, alas! are but the echo 
of my own reasonings, and yet…." Frodo sighed, unable to continue. And yet, he 
thought, I cannot say that I shall indeed turn east. Not yet, for to say it is 
to set foot upon that lonely path, and I am not yet ready! His glance strayed 
over the sleeping forms of his companions as Boromir stirred in his sleep. A 
moment he seemed on the verge of waking, but then, abruptly, he quieted again, 
sinking deeper into his dreams. "What of them, Aragorn?" Frodo asked quietly, 
changing the subject. "Boromir at least will see his home again, whatever I 
decide. But what of the others?"

"I know not," Aragorn replied, frowning in the darkness. Mention of Boromir drew 
to his mind once more concerns he had lately conceived. Not that he and Boromir 
had grown particularly close over their long journey, but there had been, ere 
Lothlórien, an understanding between them, and a certain satisfying camaraderie. 
But of late, there was a wall between the two of them, and Aragorn did not like 
the feel of that barrier. Something is wrong, and I fear to give it a name, he 
thought. I would speak with him, if I thought it could be done away from the 
others. But even luck seemed to be against that conversation's occurrence, for 
they drew ever lots for the opposite watch, and as they traveled, there was 
neither time nor privacy for such a difficult discussion. "It may be that we 
shall go severally to our ends, whatever they may be. But insofar as it is 
granted me, I would hold all together, for friendship may be our last defense." 
Another pause, then: "If you wish, I will take the rest of this watch, Frodo," 
he offered. "Sleep is now far from me, but you have not yet had a rest." After a 
moment, Frodo nodded his acceptance.

"Thank you." It was all he could say, but Aragorn laid a hand on his shoulder 
and Frodo sensed that the other understood. And Aragorn, watching as Frodo lay 
down amid the others, sighed inwardly, grieved on Frodo's behalf… on all of 
their parts, truly. So the trial of our wills begins in earnest! Bitter the 
thought of Frodo's labors, when we know they are in vain! Will that turn him 
aside to Minas Tirith? He did not know whether to hope for that or not, knowing 
that both choices would lead to the same end. And whither shall I go? Shaking 
his head, he glanced once more at the Fellowship, at friends who were 
nonetheless withdrawn from each other. Something must be done, whatever road we 
choose, or we shall have nothing to rely upon when most we need companionship. 
Glancing up again at the shrouded sky, Aragorn grimaced. How hard must this test 
be?

To that, the stars made no answer. 




~~~~~




Chapter Seven
Riven





 The Song of the World grows even in the midst of Silence, for the Void cannot 
sustain itself in its purity, but exists through a destructive symmetry. Out of 
it can come a note, solitary until its opposite arises and the two destroy each 
other, falling back into silence. The Company of the Ring journeyed still down 
Anduin, towards the Falls of Rauros, and the Orcs, wandering upon the east 
bank, were aware of them. The Nazgûl still rode the skies above them, to be 
felled by the bow of Legolas. And their decision still loomed before them as an 
oppressive shadow, an echo of the horror of the Void which engulfed all the 
world….

"Parth Galen," Sam muttered, raising a brow as he surveyed the green sward, with 
its two hills rising up above them. "Well, it's a nice spot, Mr. Frodo, if we 
have to stop. Never thought I'd say it, but if those Orcs are on our side of the 
river, I'd rather be floating in the middle of it than sitting alongside it!"

"I know, Sam, but I am afraid we must halt here awhile," Frodo murmured, gazing 
about and then up at Aragorn who joined them at that moment, and the rest of the 
Fellowship gathered round. "Do I not guess rightly, Aragorn, that we must decide 
our path ere we journey farther?"

"Yes, for we are come now to Tol Brandir and the falls of Rauros. The path to 
the Morannon lies straight east, just north of the mires of Nindalf. Few are the 
soldiers of Gondor who come so far north, so the risk of detection and detention 
is slight. If we wait longer, our journey will become more difficult as we shall 
be forced to backtrack through Ithilien and the southern reaches of the fen." 
There were some dark and anxious looks exchanged among the Fellowship at that, 
but none spoke, and eventually, all eyes were turned once more to Frodo. "I fear 
it falls at last to you, Frodo," Aragorn continued gravely, pinning the hobbit 
under his sympathetic gaze. "Whither shall you turn? For by your choice, others 
shall choose for themselves: the eastward path, or the route to Minas Tirith, or 
elsewhere if that is their desire."

Frodo was silent then, and the stares of the others pressed heavily upon him, 
yet he could not speak. Not yet! Looking up once more at the midmorning sky, he 
sighed. There is no choice before me, truly, but the choice to accept. I know 
it, and Aragorn knows it. And yet my tongue refuses the words! "Give me some 
small while to think," he said at last. "At noon, I shall declare myself." With 
that, he turned and walked a short distance away, followed by Sam. The others 
gazed after the two of them a moment, and then by unspoken accord, separated, 
withdrawing naturally into pairs. Merry and Pippin hovered together just far 
enough from Sam and Frodo to give the latter two privacy; Legolas and Gimli 
retreated to the banks of the river some small distance upstream; and though 
Boromir stared at the hobbits in frowning concentration, seemingly oblivious to 
all others, Aragorn came and stood at his shoulder.

"Boromir," the Ranger spoke softly, and Denethor's son turned quickly, as if 
startled. One who knew him well might have recognized the flash of nervous 
loathing in his eyes, but if Aragorn noticed it, he gave no sign, saying only, 
"Walk with me a ways, please."

"If you wish," Boromir replied after a breath's hesitation, turning to follow 
the other towards the woods that lay all about the feet of the hills. Legolas, 
standing with Gimli, stiffened as he noticed the two Men departing, and his eyes 
narrowed.

"At last!" the Elf breathed, laying a hand on his companion's shoulder by way of 
warning, and Gimli turned to look as well. Just ere the two passed out of sight 
into the trees, Aragorn paused and glanced back at the others, as if to fix 
their positions in his mind, and his eyes met Legolas's bright gaze. An almost 
imperceptible nod answered Legolas's expectant regard, and the Elf raised his 
chin slightly in acknowledgment.

"Mayhap we shall soon learn what ails Boromir!" Gimli muttered, stroking his 
beard contemplatively.

"Yes… mayhap." Minutes passed, and neither Elf nor Dwarf spoke. But after a 
time, they began to move unerringly towards the forest eaves.

 

Aragorn glided through the woods ahead of Boromir with an almost elvish grace, 
and perversely, Boromir found that unconscious ease irritating. He felt clumsy 
by comparison, and though he knew it was a ridiculous sentiment, he suspected 
every bush and clinging weed of slapping or clawing at him. But all such 
annoyance merely cloaked the deep uneasiness that stirred in his heart, for he 
guessed the other's purpose in bringing him here, and he wanted nothing more in 
the world than to run. But the Heir of Denethor of Minas Tirith had not the 
habit of retreating from his enemies. And besides, Aragorn, Elf though he seems, 
is no enemy! So reason claimed, and he knew the truth of it, yet that knowledge 
did not soothe the fear that settled within his breast.

They did not go very far, for the fear of pursuit lay heavily upon all of them 
after that night upon the water beneath the Winged Shadow—just far enough to 
insure that no others could overhear them by accident. Then Aragorn halted and 
turned to face him, just the two of them alone in a small clearing. For a 
moment, neither spoke, but Boromir felt tension rise in him as they locked eyes 
and he felt the other's searching regard like a brand pressed hot against his 
soul. Let him read it! The thought entered suddenly into his mind. Let him read 
all, if he will, and rid me of this festering guilt! Almost, Boromir yielded to 
the temptation to speak, to confess and let the wounded part of his soul bleed 
clean through his words. But he had lived with it now too long, and though a 
part of him keened in despair, pride and distrust reasserted themselves, 
grinding that impulse back down. His eyes hardened and his jaw clenched as he 
waited, determined that the other should speak first.

For his part, Aragorn noted the flicker in the other's grey eyes, the sudden 
tension that rippled through the other's frame, and he sighed inwardly. Now do I 
regret the more that I let wait this matter for so long. I should have made the 
time earlier! But recriminations could change nothing, and so, girding himself 
unobtrusively, he said, "So we come at last to the day long feared! Each of us 
must choose his path and decide whether to hold together for Minas Tirith, or to 
follow Frodo into Mordor, or to go severally along different paths. If we two 
are soon to part, though, I would do so in friendship, and with nothing left 
unsaid between us."

"You say 'if,'" Boromir countered, deliberately ignoring the invitation to speak 
as a friend, to speak freely of his troubles without fear of scorn. Instead, he 
focused upon the conditional, trying still to hold Aragorn at arm's length. 
"Surely you shall go with Frodo?"

"If he will have me," Aragorn replied, feeling his mouth tighten in worry, 
liking not Frodo's silence but liking even less what he sensed of Boromir's 
purpose in directing the conversation thus. "Of late, I suspect he leans to the 
lonely path. And above my judgment, I trust that Sam's anxious looks are not for 
naught." I trust Sam's anxious looks…. Boromir grimaced slightly as those words 
pricked deeply at his conscience, arousing envy of that easy trust, and sharp 
disgust and fear at the reminder of the peril in which all now stood.

"A hard choice for us all, should he choose to go eastward," the other finished.

"Hard choice!" Boromir echoed, his voice pitched low but sharply. "A hobbit 
alone in Mordor…that is not hard, that is madness!" He could not restrain that 
bitter condemnation, though he rebuked himself the moment it escaped his lips.

"Madness it may be," said Aragorn, slowly, watching Boromir closely now with 
darkened eyes. "Perhaps it is even truly hopeless, but if so, then no choice of 
mine can mar or mend the powers that shape these times. Nor can any of yours, 
Boromir, nor even Frodo's."

"Then are we puppets, and not Men!" snapped the other, fighting against a snarl 
of disgust that covered over a deeper terror. Hopeless…. Such was the division 
within him that while he instinctively trusted that Aragorn spoke truly, he 
hated him the more for it and sought ever the more desperately to hide the 
twisted side of himself from the other. But such efforts seemed only to feed the 
malice that lived now within him, making it more unruly, harder to conceal… 
harder to resist.

"Is that what has troubled you of late?" asked Aragorn, but there was little 
conviction in his eyes as he searched the other's face intently. Boromir was not 
a man to concern himself with philosophical questions, after all. Wordless 
suspicion that rang unpleasantly of certainty planted itself firmly in the 
Ranger's heart, and yet he said nothing of it, only let the other feel the 
weight of his silence. Why must I torture him thus? But much though Aragorn 
disliked the role he had assumed, he knew that he could not abandon it, for 
there were no others to play the part of inquisitor. Boromir clearly could not 
overcome this evil alone, nor even admit to its existence. And I am not naïve! I 
knew well what awaited us both, or why else did I delay so long? If I like not 
the task that falls to me now, I do but reap the rewards of my own reluctance. 
Alas, Boromir is not alone in his weakness!

"What matters it to you what worries I conceive?" Boromir muttered, turning away 
under the pressure of the other's gaze.

"This voyage is dark enough already!" A pause. "I know there lie between us 
certain matters which neither of us can change, but shall they drive us so far 
from each other that we shall not be concerned for the other?"

That, too, hit far too close to the mark for pride's comfort, and Boromir 
gritted his teeth as he grated, "I know not whereof you speak!"

Behind him, he heard the audible intake of Aragorn's breath, and could not 
forebear to wince. "I have never known you to lie, Boromir," came the other's 
voice, deadly soft; and if there was fear in Aragorn's tone, it was the worse 
for the disappointed shock that rang clearly in it. And it was too much!

"Do not presume to judge me!" Boromir snarled, turning sharply back to face the 
other, and his voice rose with the crescendo of angry, envious fear. "What do 
you know of my fears? You are Isildur's Heir, Aragorn, yet you would gamble that 
inheritance and the last of our people on this foolish errand? On the teary 
hopes of fading Elves? If you were any part a Man you would not sit idly by and 
wait, or trail after Halflings to your death and theirs!"

"What, then, would you do in my stead?" Aragorn asked quietly.

With an hysterical bark of laughter, Boromir shook his head—in denial, in 
horror, in disgust… he could not say which coursed more strongly in him. 
Emotions twined themselves so tightly together he could not separate them out. 
The voice of sanity wailed thin and piercing protest, and yet was impotent 
before the maelstrom that boiled over. Into his mind blossomed suddenly and with 
frightening clarity, the image of a thin, golden circle clutched in Frodo's 
trembling hand. The Ring! It glittered with an inner fire, seeming to waver 
almost coyly, aware of its splendor as Boromir bared his teeth in a soundless 
snarl. So small a thing, and yet the foundation of Sauron's might: the thread 
upon which they dangled now, and the menace of the world. A mad light, infected 
with lust and despair, gleamed sickly in his grey eyes, and he drew his sword as 
he answered with sudden and disturbing calm: "Take what is mine!"

Aragorn dodged the first blow, but could not clear his own weapon before Boromir 
sprang at him, slamming him against a tree and pinning him there. Still, he 
managed to catch the other's wrists in an iron grip and he pushed back, locking 
the two of them into a grappling stance in which neither could move. The sword's 
edge lay against Aragorn's throat, but it moved no further: for though Boromir 
was the broader in build, Aragorn had not less strength for his leanness. Evenly 
matched, they gazed at each other over the length of steel, and then Boromir 
leaned closer to whisper in his ear in an obscene parody of intimacy: "Against 
Mordor there is but one tower, and one weapon alone can wound the Dark Lord." 
Aragorn closed his eyes, fairly sick with sorrow and frustration as Boromir went 
on with smooth urgency. "The Ring! It shall never reach the Fire in Frodo's 
hands—even you know this! And yet Frodo is our only hope, they say. Let it not 
come to that then, my friend! Take the Ring. Take it, or I shall!"

 

***

"Think you that the Shadow on high shall come again?" Gimli asked, squatting on 
his haunches under the eaves of the woods and gazing moodily out at the east 
bank of the river. Legolas had already vaulted to the lowest branch of the tree 
at his back, seeming to need the comfort of a familiar environment, and the 
Dwarf fought a smile. Often he forgot that the elven prince was yet accounted 
young among his people, and he supposed that this eager flight to the treetops 
was a sign of the other's youth. Rather like a child who runs immediately to 
find a spot near the fire whenever storms threaten, he thought. It was an odd 
insight into the other, but a dear one as well. For ere Lórien, Legolas had 
remained always earthbound, though he had oft raised his eyes to the treetops 
with longing. That he gave in to the impulse now, and in Gimli's presence, 
struck the Dwarf as a compliment of sorts—as if the Elf had permitted him this 
glimpse into a little-seen part of his soul.

"I know not," Legolas's voice drifted down in response. "But my heart warns that 
we shall see more of these fell creatures ere the war ends." A pause. "Whither 
will you go once Frodo has made his choice?"

The Dwarf blew a large, considerate sigh through his mustaches, and scowled 
thoughtfully. "When we left Rivendell, I swore that I was willing to go 
whithersoever I was needed, yet I had never looked further than the mountains. 
Now we are come far south of Erebor, and Mirkwood, too, is many leagues behind. 
'Tis a hard choice. What of you, Legolas? Will you return to your home?"

"Once I thought to turn aside after the gate of Caradhras," the Elf confessed. 
"Yet I remain here with this company, and I do not regret the choice. Indeed, 
the world is wider than I thought, and there is much to see, even in dark times. 
Much to see, and more to do, and more still that needs doing."

"I think that if Frodo decides for Mordor, I would go with him, if he asked," 
Gimli said at last.

"Ah," Legolas replied, and a half-smile curved his mouth, "There you find the 
heart of the matter. If he asks us to go, who would refuse? Save Boromir, but he 
has other duties that he may not lightly abandon."

At that, both fell silent once more. Merry and Pippin wandered nearer, and Gimli 
sighed softly, wondering whither their deliberations led. Of a sudden, there was 
a blur of motion in the corner of his eye as Legolas landed on the ground beside 
him. "What is it?" he asked, startled by the other's abrupt descent and even 
more so by the arrested expression on the Elf's face.

"Listen!" Legolas replied tautly, and the Dwarf followed his gaze into the 
woods, whence emerged, in a muffled fashion, Boromir's voice, sounding harsh and 
angry. Gimli bit his lip hard as the words became intelligible: "— you know of 
my fears? You are Isildur's Heir, Aragorn, yet you would gamble that inheritance 
and the last of our people on this foolish errand? On the teary hopes of fading 
Elves? If you were any part a Man you would not sit idly by and wait, or trail 
after Halflings to your death and theirs!"

Aragorn's reply was too low and shrouded to make out, but Boromir's response was 
clear enough: "Take what is mine!" And then came the slither of steel, which all 
the members of the Fellowship knew too well. Gimli and Legolas shared a 
horrified look with each other, and then darted into the woods.

 

"Pippin!" Merry clutched his arm tightly, pointing after the Elf and Dwarf who 
fled into the trees.

"I don't like that!" Pippin replied, glancing anxiously at his friend.

"Nor I!" Sam and Frodo had come running up, having seen the other two depart in 
haste, and now the hobbits hesitated, wondering what might have occurred. And 
where were Boromir and Aragorn? A moment longer they wavered, uncertain, and 
then all plunged after their companions into the woods.

 

 

"Take it, Aragorn!" Boromir hissed in his face, eyes alight with an unholy 
desire, and Aragorn swallowed a groan as he opened his eyes once more.

"No!" he replied, and gritted his teeth, feeling the blade press harder against 
his throat as Boromir leaned into him. "Are you blind, Boromir, that you do not 
see whence this comes? I am not your enemy, but the Ring is!"

"Is it?" Boromir snapped. "I see clearly enough the choice before me, and I say 
that the Ring is less an enemy than are indecision, mad schemes, and blind 
trust! But I can act, and if you seek to stop me, then…."

"Then?" Aragorn demanded when Boromir hesitated. "Will you kill me for this 
accursed trinket? Is that truly your wish?"

"I warn you again, do not presume too much!" Boromir snapped. "Think you that 
there is anything that I would not do for Minas Tirith? What is your life, or 
even Frodo's, weighed against a kingdom?"

"What worth has a kingdom, if it is founded upon murder?" countered Aragorn. But 
ere Boromir could respond, there came the sound of running footsteps, and for a 
moment, the other was distracted. Boromir glanced swiftly over his shoulder just 
as Legolas and Gimli appeared, coming swiftly through the trees towards them. In 
that instant, Aragorn attacked. Leaning back against the tree as a brace, he 
drove his knee into the other's groin, then pushed hard as Boromir gasped. 
Retaining his hold on the other's wrists, he shoved away from the tree trunk, 
then used momentum to swing round and reverse their positions, so that he now 
held Boromir pinned between himself and the tree. Boromir, though, did not 
surrender easily, and as Elf and Dwarf arrived, they quickly lent Aragorn their 
aid, restraining the swearing, writhing Boromir with their weight.

"Boromir, let it go!" Aragorn spoke urgently. "Let it go!" Whether the others 
understood his meaning, he knew not, but Boromir dropped the sword at least as 
he gazed past Aragorn, stricken with sudden and rigid immobility. With Gimli and 
Legolas helping to hold the other back, the Ranger risked a brief glance over 
his shoulder to see the hobbits, all four of them, standing and watching in 
uncomprehending horror. Except for Frodo, Aragorn noted grimly as he turned back 
to Boromir again. He knows. How could he not? Denethor's son must also have felt 
his treason under the hobbit's agonized regard, for he hung his head, and there 
were tears in his voice as he gave a low, wordless cry. Then, without warning, 
he slumped to the ground, and Aragorn staggered under the sudden weight as he 
awkwardly broke the other's fall.

"Do not touch me!" Boromir muttered, drawing his knees up to his chest and 
hiding his face in his hands, withdrawing as much as he could from the others. 
Dead silence fell as all hovered about, immobile with shock. Legolas and Gimli 
looked away, ashamed before the other's shame, but Aragorn could not turn from 
him. More, he would not—not after he had failed the other so singularly, 
refusing to see clearly the danger that lay before his eyes.

"Wh-what has happened?" Sam's voice, gruff with worry, sounded then, but none 
could speak. What, indeed, could anyone of them have said when each knew the 
answer to that question? Among the Fellowship a guilty complicity settled, as 
each saw now in Boromir's fall his own failures, recognizing the divisions that 
had perhaps blinded them to a companion's need.

"I will go to Mordor," Frodo spoke suddenly, and his voice was grave and 
grieved, and all turned to look at him. He stood there, clutching the Ring 
tightly in one hand as it hung upon its chain, and there was no sign of doubt or 
disquiet, only determination. "I see clearly now that I can delay no longer, for 
all of our sakes."

"Then I am coming, too!" Sam spoke up fiercely, and wagged a finger at his 
master when Frodo began to shake his head. "No, you listen to me a minute, Mr. 
Frodo! You're right about the danger, but alone in that ugly place, you'll need 
help! This… thing… it feeds on us most when we're as low as we can get, and you 
can't get no lower than Mordor, that's for certain. It needs another to help you 
along."

"I think Sam speaks wisely in this, if I may say so," Aragorn added, lending his 
support unexpectedly. "Any of us would go with you, Frodo, if you desired it."

"Yes," Legolas said, "You need only ask, or failing that, choose!" There was a 
heavy silence, as the Fellowship awaited a response. Frodo glanced about, 
searching each face in turn, even Boromir's, ere he sighed and glanced down at 
the earth.

Finally, after a long moment, he laid a hand upon Sam's shoulder, confirming the 
other in his station. No words, not even a final look at the others. Only that 
spare gesture which yet conveyed so much, and then he turned away. Sam, 
following obediently and with obvious relief, yet hesitated, turning back to 
those friends whom he would leave now behind. He raised a hand hesitantly, 
offering a wavering half-smile in wordless, nervous farewell, and then he, too, 
was gone.

 

The remainder of the Company remained silent, unmoving as stones beneath the 
trees. Thus was the tale of the Fellowship of the Ring ended, though already, 
things moved that would drag them back into the struggle once more.



~~~~~~






Chapter Eight
Shrive Me Graceless on My Path




How long the others remained frozen in place, hardly able to accept that indeed, 
Frodo was gone, that their days together were at an end–and so horribly 
ended!–none could say with certainty. It seemed an eternity ere Legolas at last 
shook his fair head and glanced once more with concern at Boromir, who yet 
refused to meet anyone's gaze. "Well, now must we make our own choices," said 
he. Still, no one moved, and the silence stretched on.

Aragorn, deep in his own thoughts, was aware of the leaden shock that still 
draped them, and sought a means to lift it, or at least to escape it for a time. 
But as his mind raced, his attention caught suddenly on a noise, as of many 
creatures moving through the forest. Jerking his head up, he glanced about 
sharply, and the others, startled by his sudden motion, looked up in surprise. 
Legolas was first to recognize the threat, and even as he rose, realization 
struck the others as well. Boromir grabbed his sword off the ground and stood, 
while Gimli laid his hands on the haft of his ax. The hobbits drew nearer their 
taller companions, and the remainder of the Company pressed close, facing 
outward in a defensive knot. Harsh voices cried out as the first dark shapes 
appeared amidst the trees, and then that fell company turned toward the 
remainder of the Fellowship.

"Cursed Orcs!" Gimli grated, and left unspoken the concern that all shared: 
Frodo and Sam could not have gone so very far, and might still be at risk, 
especially without the protection that numbers offered. Aragorn and the Dwarf 
exchanged a grim look, knowing that whatever passed next, they could not allow 
the Orcs to break past them without a fight. Not that that seemed to be at 
issue, for their foes were streaming about them, cutting off all avenues of 
escape, muttering in their harsh tongue as they came.

"Moria again!" Merry groaned, gripping his Barrow-blade tightly.

The Orcs yelled out a harsh war cry, and the Company braced itself as its 
enemies swarmed forward, surrounding the six of them. Boromir's horn blast 
startled them, and for a moment they hesitated, which let Legolas shoot four in 
swift succession. But such diversions could not save them: as the echoes died, 
the battle was joined in earnest as the Orcs closed in from all sides. If the 
Orcs, however, had anticipated a quick and easy victory, they swiftly learned 
their error. Boromir and Aragorn, by unspoken agreement, stood directly behind 
each other so as to best exploit their greater reach, while Legolas and Gimli, a 
pair as ever, stood together, with Gimli somewhat before the Elf to give him 
room enough to swing. Merry and Pippin huddled to either side of Boromir, 
determined to help their friends as best they could. Thus when the Orcs closed, 
they faced no confused assortment of warriors but found themselves repelled with 
brutal efficiency. Within the first few exchanges, Aragorn had acquired a shield 
from a fallen Orc, whereas Legolas had added a long dagger to his elven-blade 
and wielded both with graceful lethality. Boromir, veteran of many campaigns, 
laid low any who dared approach him, and the haft of Gimli's ax soon was 
bloodstained. Even Merry and Pippin proved formidable as they fought to buy 
their friend and cousin time enough to escape….

 

For perhaps a half a mile away, just on the banks of the Anduin, Frodo and Sam 
went rigid as Boromir's horn call reached their ears, clear and defiant in the 
otherwise still air. "But we only just left them!" Sam protested, looking back 
anxiously at the woods.

"Aragorn feared there were Orcs on this bank, and I think he must be right!" 
Frodo replied slowly, and then turned quickly to the boats. Throwing his pack 
into one, he grabbed Sam's and, with a grunt, managed to heft it over the edge. 
"See to the other boats, Sam!"

"Sir?" The other hobbit frowned, uncomprehending for a moment. Then he sucked in 
a breath. "But won't the others…?"

"Sam, whatever befalls them, they shan't need the boats again, but our enemies 
may realize what we have done and come for us if we leave them intact. It need 
not be anything fancy, just keep them from floating!" Frodo replied, and began 
to drag their chosen boat off of the shoals and into the water. Samwise watched 
him a moment, then drew his Barrow-blade with a sigh and went to work. It seemed 
wrong somehow to damage something that came of elvish hands, yet his master was 
correct. So as the sounds of combat drifted downwind to his ears, he resolutely 
began to cut through the bottoms of the little boats, a task which proved far 
easier than he would have guessed it to be. Perhaps, he thought, they knew 
somehow of his intentions and let themselves be mauled.... Nonsense, Sam, that's 
a bit of absurdity there! Boats don't think nothing! And yet, when he had 
finished, he felt constrained to bow politely ere he turned to join Frodo in the 
shallows.

"Well, it's done. But I can't feel right about it, nor about leaving the others 
like this!" Sam said worriedly, glancing back at the lawn and the ominous trees. 
"Poor Merry and Pippin! Do you think they'll be alright, sir?"

"I hope so. They have Strider and Legolas to look after them, and Gimli and 
Boromir would never leave them. That I know, whatever else may be said," Frodo 
muttered, and then his mouth tightened as he clutched the Ring. "But we cannot 
concern ourselves with that now. If they live, then they must away to the end 
that awaits them."

"And if they do not?" Sam asked softly as they began to paddle out into the 
deeps.

"If they do not, then we must not let their deaths mean nothing at all!" Frodo 
grated harshly, hating to say so when he knew very well that the Darkness 
covered all and that hope, unless wholly unforeseen, lay smothering beneath that 
dreadful veil. We must not look now for a final victory, he thought. I must take 
what small ones I can find, and if the others die to let us get only as far as 
the Black Gates or even the other shore of Anduin, then that must be counted as 
a triumph, however temporary! The hobbits watched the eastern banks grow before 
them, and though Sam cast a final, regretful look back, the west seemed dim 
indeed.

Blood sprayed hot, arcing in an obscenely graceful fountain as an Orc fell back 
before Andúril, and immediately, another grim-garbed soldier leapt in to take 
his place. Though only a small number of their enemies could engage them at any 
one time, it seemed that the Orcs waited for one of their number to fall, 
crowding each other in the hopes of having a chance at the Fellowship. And 
though it was difficult at the moment to be thankful for such bloodthirsty 
determination, at least the group had not split into two to search the area in 
spite of the fight. Aragorn held that thought firmly in mind as he fought. Yet 
however much they delayed the Orcs, the Ranger knew that there could be but one 
outcome, for six against a hundred is not a battle to be won by skill and 
courage alone. He hoped indeed that Frodo and Sam were at least crossing the 
Anduin now, if not already upon the eastern shore…. Of a sudden, something 
whistled past his face, and as he jerked to one side, an Orc's blade found its 
way past his defense, though he felt nothing. "Archers!" Legolas cried, and 
Boromir cursed at the same moment. The company drew closer together, trying to 
find some shelter behind the shields that the two Men bore, but they could only 
retreat so far without hindering each other. Aragorn bounced a few arrows off 
the iron-rimmed roundel, and let the Orcs close in a bit further. It was a risky 
maneuver, yet if he could hold them at a closer range, the archers might not 
shoot for fear of hitting their own.

Or they might shoot through them! he thought grimly, for he had seen that 
before, too, and some of these Orcs were both unusually large and of a company 
he had never encountered hitherto. They were certainly more disciplined than 
those of the Red Eye, and Aragorn was surprised to catch a straight broadsword 
against his shield. But there were few options, and so he took his chances. 
However, he soon began to notice an odd pattern to this swirling mayhem. For 
although he was hard pressed, it seemed that the Orcs held back. He had fought 
too many battles to believe that the continued survival of the remaining 
Fellowship was due to their own efforts in such a desperate case. Indeed, the 
Orcs seemed… disinterested, almost, as if killing were not their main objective. 
All such speculations flitted swiftly through his mind on a level just above 
instinctive, yet he grasped their implications and risked a glance to either 
side of him. He and Legolas and Gimli were struggling, yes, but their enemies' 
attention was more upon Boromir… and then he felt his blood run chill. Not upon 
Boromir, he realized, but upon those closest to him!

The Ranger spared a brief glance over his shoulder to where Merry and Pippin 
stood in desperate combat just as another rain of arrows poured down. Most 
struck Boromir's shield and fell harmlessly to the earth; others, indeed, hit 
Orcs who stood too close; but a few found their way through and Legolas snarled 
as one grazed his back. And in that interlude, as the Company was forced to 
cover as best they could, the Orcs charged in, bearing down on the hobbits. 
Aragorn found himself borne back by the press of his foes, until he collided 
with a beleaguered Gimli, and then Boromir, too, was shoved hard against him. 
"Merry! Pippin!" the other Man cried out, watching helplessly as the better part 
of their enemies broke away with the struggling hobbits in hand. More arrows 
rained down to cover the retreat, and Boromir ducked under his shield. Beside 
him, he heard the Ranger swear softly, which caught his attention as Aragorn had 
never done so in his hearing before. But we have never been so desperate before! 
he thought grimly, and cursed his own part in all of this. At least the two Men 
could now jointly face the missiles and better protect themselves and their 
companions, but Denethor's son shook his head in bitter acknowledgment of the 
truth.

"We cannot win against even this many if the archers remain!" Boromir growled, 
and Aragorn shot him a hard look. The Man of Gondor met his gaze briefly, and a 
fierce, yet strangely sad smile lit his face an instant. "Take care of them!" He 
meant Legolas and Gimli as well as the two captured hobbits, but though 
Aragorn's eyes narrowed suspiciously, he had no chance to inquire further. With 
a bellowed cry, Boromir cut past the thinned ring of Orcs, leaving Aragorn 
behind to fill the hole in their knotted defense. And then he turned straight 
into the hail of arrows and charged the line of archers.

"Boromir!" Aragorn cried out after him, but it was of no use, and in the end, 
the Ranger knew that the other had the right of it. One of them had to deal with 
the archers if any of them were to survive, yet he who did so was unlikely to 
live. He caught a brief glimpse of the archers as they retreated before 
Boromir's onslaught, and then he turned his attention back to the task at hand. 
Without the deadly distraction of Orcish arrows, the three remaining companions 
fought simply to hold their place, and as the Orcs' numbers dwindled, their 
surviving foes drew back, unwilling to continue the fight. At last, Gimli, 
Legolas and Aragorn stood together in a wedge formation, and they gazed across 
the bloody field at the seven or eight Orcs that hovered out of reach. For a 
brief interval, the two sides simply stared, and no one seemed willing to make 
the first move, whatever it might be. Suddenly, one of the Orcs hissed, and 
Aragorn knocked the thrown dagger aside with his blade. But there came no fresh 
assault: the last few Orcs simply fled, scattering into the woods. Wary still, 
Legolas and Gimli stood silent a long moment, but Aragorn, after casting a 
glance round out of habit, darted forward, following in Boromir's path. He soon 
came upon the first of the bodies– a decapitated Orc bearing the sign of the Red 
Eye– and he followed the trail of destruction some distance further 'til he came 
to a small clearing not unlike the one in which they had been assailed. Several 
Orcs lay there, but he guessed that equally many had escaped to trail after 
their fleeing fellows. Arrows littered the area, buried in the boles of trees or 
dug into the ground; some were trampled and others splintered by the force of 
their impact.

Upon one tree, at somewhat less than a man's height, there was blood aplenty 
smeared in a gory trail down the length of the trunk … and nestled at its base 
was Boromir. Aragorn knelt wordlessly at the other's side, letting fall the 
shield as his eyes flicked over the other's body, noting the cluster of arrows 
embedded just below his heart, in his stomach, shoulder, leg. The wood of the 
tree was scored, and Aragorn felt wrath and disgust flare hotly, realizing what 
he saw. The Orcs shot him at close range; they fairly nailed him to this tree! 
And yet, Boromir still clung to life, his breathing shallow and pained as the 
Ranger reached out and laid a gentle hand upon the other's shoulder. The dying 
man's eyes opened and focused with difficulty upon Aragorn's face. "Tell… the 
others…'twas madness…." Boromir paused, and blood trickled from the corner of 
his mouth.

"They know," Aragorn assured him softly.

"…'m sorry, Aragorn," the other whispered. "My… brother…father… they wait for… 
me. You must… tell them. Go! Save our people!" At that Boromir reached weakly 
and clutched the Ranger's arm, and Aragorn covered that pale hand with his own 
as he nodded.

"I will."

"Strange," Boromir gave a ghastly smile as he gazed up at the other, grey eyes 
beginning to dim. "'Tis so dark here! The Valar forsake us… but I would… would 
be forgiven nonetheless!"

"Then be comforted, for of me you need ask no pardon. Rest you gentle, my 
friend," Aragorn murmured, and drew the other into an embrace, wishing he could 
be certain that indeed there was nothing to forgive. But we are forsaken, as he 
says. What grace we find here must be of our own crafting first. Mayhap it will 
still be enough to move Nienna to tears! Boromir's head rested against his 
chest, and Aragorn fought his own pain to shelter the other this last–and 
first–time. Ere long, he felt the hand on his arm tighten, and Boromir gave a 
soft gasp as if in surprise…. And then there was silence, and Aragorn was left 
holding Boromir's still form, weeping quietly. After a short while, he felt 
another's hands upon his shoulders as Legolas came and knelt beside him in 
wordless consolation, and he glanced up to see Gimli squatting on his haunches 
across from him. The Dwarf's dark eyes glittered and he murmured something under 
his breath in his own tongue ere he said, "A bitter end for us all!"

"Bitter indeed!" Aragorn replied, seeking some measure of composure as he 
carefully laid Boromir down and glanced over his shoulder at Legolas's drawn 
face. "And we know not yet whether his sacrifice is in vain!"

"Think you that the Orcs may have taken more than Merry and Pippin?" the Elf 
asked worriedly.

"I doubt it, given their behavior," Aragorn sighed. "Yet it would be foolish to 
be certain until we have seen what remains of our camp."

"And what of Merry and Pippin?" Gimli asked. "If the worst has happened, must we 
abandon them utterly?"

"Let us not look too far ahead," Legolas interjected ere Aragorn could respond. 
"We must see to Boromir first, for whatever our course after this, we may not 
simply leave him thus."

"Nor may we go far without having tended to you, Master Elf!" Aragorn replied, 
and Legolas turned a startled look on him. "Even a glancing blow may slow you if 
there be poison on the edge of arrow or blade, or if the road proves long!" The 
elven prince reached behind himself, as if suddenly reminded of the injury.

"I think it is not too deep, and the pain is not too severe," he replied. "Later 
will be soon enough for me, for we have other tasks to attend to."

"Well, let us be about them then!" Gimli sighed as he rose and took his ax to 
hand once more. Eyeing the bloodied tree, he muttered, "At least we shall have a 
fitting bier!"

While Gimli busied himself with crafting a travois of sorts, Aragorn and Legolas 
gathered what they could from the bodies of the Orcs. Arrows, at least, were not 
difficult to come by, and the Elf emptied an entire quiver into his own, 
frowning as he held one of the dark-feathered shafts up to his arm, measuring 
the length. The Ranger, in the mean time, stooped and picked up a helm, 
grimacing in disgust as blood dripped out of it and stained his hands. A 
red-flecked "S" rune, forged in white, stood out clearly against the dark metal, 
and Aragorn cast his glance about, tallying up the number of Orcs that bore the 
same symbol. "Red Eye and White Hand," he said aloud, frowning. "I do not like 
this!"

"What think you of this?" Legolas called from the other side of the clearing, 
holding up a sword fashioned after a Mannish, rather than Orcish, style: though 
the edge had been worked in a ripple-pattern, it was not a scimitar by any 
means.

"Some of the Orcs in the other clearing bore similar weapons," Aragorn replied. 
"But that they are somewhat too short for most Men, I would say that they were 
stolen."

"Aye. These arrows, too, are nearly a match in length for my own," the Elf said. 
"And the bows are long bows, not the cross bows or short, hunting ones common to 
the Orcs that plague Mirkwood."

"What make you of this mystery, then?" Gimli asked, joining them. "What are 
these Orcs of the White Hand?"

"Here!" Aragorn lobbed the helmet at him, and the Dwarf caught it, gazing 
thoughtfully at the rune. "Saruman, it seems plain to me, is behind this. For 
Sauron's token is the Red Eye, and he has no need of any other. White, too, is 
not a color he would use, but we know well that Saruman is called 'the White.'"

"But there lie here and yonder also servants of Sauron," Legolas protested. "Why 
then do you guess that this is only Saruman's plan? And what was their intention 
in all of this?"

"That we shall have to discover, though I have my guesses already. This only 
will I say and stand by: the Orcs of Isengard commanded this attack, though I 
cannot say whether Mordor's soldiery agreed to such leadership in advance or 
simply lost it to the great Orcs. And we were not ourselves the object," replied 
the Ranger. "But now we must hasten! Let us return with Boromir now to the camp 
and see what may be seen." Determinedly, but with dread anticipation, they made 
their slow and grim way back to Parth Galen.

 

*****

A/N: Vocabulary lesson of the day: Shrive: verb. (noun = "shrift", as in "short 
shrift") The act of formally forgiving someone, usually connected to the Roman 
Catholic sacrament of repentance. In the bad old days, it was considered a Bad 
Thing to die unshriven and go to face one's maker with one's sins unconfessed 
and unforgiven by a priest. There's nothing equivalent in LOTR to an organized 
religion, but I think Boromir has an understated spirituality that comes out at 
the end. It's just too bad for him that at the moment, the Powers That Be in 
Arda seem not to be listening. Hence the "graceless" part of the title. 




~~~~~




Chapter Nine
The Road Goes Ever On





 From the eaves of the woods came toiling three figures in the late light of the 
day: Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas walked slowly, burdened as they were by the 
body of their friend. Elf and Dwarf each had a grip on one side of the rough 
bier, while Aragorn supported the front end alone. Gimli had argued somewhat 
over Legolas's participation, for despite his earlier words, it was clear that 
the Elf was in pain. But Legolas would not be gainsaid, and Aragorn, sensing 
that further talk over this matter would only lead to ill-feeling, had 
suggested the compromise. "For though we would not slight Boromir's memory, we 
have much need of haste! Come, take the left side, Legolas, and Gimli stand to 
the right! There!" So they had settled the issue, and now emerged from the 
shadowed woods onto the open bank and none could forbear to hold his breath, 
anticipating the worst, afraid to hope for good news lest they be dreadfully 
disappointed.

When they had come to their camp site, the companions gently set the bier down 
and gazed about. Aragorn stood silent an instant, following the hobbit prints 
with his eyes, remarking the scrapes that indicated the sliding passage of a 
hull into the water. Of a sudden, he strode swiftly to the remaining boats, 
glancing first at the baggage and then peering into the little craft. After a 
brief moment, to the surprise of his friends, he began to laugh softly, and 
there was in the quality of that laughter relief that bordered on pain, so deep 
did it cut. "What is it?" Legolas called, for neither he nor Gimli were willing 
to risk marring any useful marks before Aragorn had had a chance to read them: 
they stood still by Boromir, leaving clear the slight depression where lay their 
gear. For answer, Aragorn grabbed the prow of one of the boats and tipped it to 
starboard, exposing the keel. Elf and Dwarf stared for a moment, then exchanged 
a look of profound, almost wearying, satisfaction as they saw the rents in the 
bottom.

"One would say that they wished to be certain we could not follow them!" Legolas 
laughed.

"Neither we, nor any other, less well-intentioned hunters! Frodo kept his wits 
about him, which gives me hope." The Ranger sighed softly, raising eyes 
noticeably brighter to gaze at his companions. "Well, they have crossed the 
river after all! For that at least, we may say that Boromir did not die in 
vain."

"What shall we do now, though? We have not the time to build a cairn," Gimli 
asked. "What is the custom of Gondor in such circumstances as these?"

"Were he in Minas Tirith, he would go to lie with his ancestors in the Houses of 
the Dead," Aragorn replied, and shook his head. "Else, the Gondorim bury their 
fallen comrades together upon the field."

"But we have no shovels," Legolas frowned.

For a time, all three stood silent, considering the problem, but finally, 
Aragorn gave a soft grunt and sighed. "I can think of but one thing to do," he 
said reluctantly, seeming as one who likes not what need brings. "We have not 
the time to fell a tree for wood, but the boats will provide both setting and 
fuel. I would not have it thus, but that we have no other choice and I think 
Boromir would not wish us to tarry o'erlong on his behalf. At least there is a 
precedent: in the earliest days of the Third Age, after the Dagorlad, the dead 
lay hip deep in places. Rather than let time and the carrion beasts wreak their 
havoc, the survivors burned the bodies and scattered the ashes over the 
battlefield." Legolas grimaced in distaste and Gimli, too, seemed unhappy with 
this solution, but neither spoke, for it was clear that there was nothing else 
that they could do. Aragorn glanced from one to the other, seeming to want to be 
certain that they were in agreement, ere he continued, "Before we send Boromir 
to his final rest, though, let us put all in readiness to depart. And I would 
see to you, Legolas, as well."

So, while Gimli hauled their baggage away from the boats and began to sort 
through their belongings, Aragorn took Legolas aside to tend to the other's 
injury. The mark showed dark and ugly against the Elf's pale skin, but he did 
not flinch as the Ranger examined him carefully. The arrow had opened a long 
gash down Legolas's back that ran over his shoulder blade and skittered at the 
end as the head had deflected off the quiver. Although no bone showed through 
the wound, Aragorn frowned, for such an injury, though not serious, would be 
slow to heal. At least I see no sign of poison, Aragorn thought. And there has 
been time enough for all but the most sophisticated of them to show, so I shall 
not now worry over that at least! Aloud, he said, "Fortune walks with you, son 
of Thranduil, for the wound is clean and, given time and rest, should heal well 
enough."

"But? Come, Aragorn, tell me all! For your voice holds some reservation, and an 
Elf's ears are not easily deceived," Legolas prompted, turning his head to watch 
the other out of the corners of his eyes.

"But," Aragorn paused, acknowledging the other's perception, "a wound like this 
may not close quickly because of where it lies. Walking or running, the muscle 
beneath it will contract and break any stitches I might set; even breathing, if 
labored, may be enough to open the injury. And then there is the matter of 
straps and quivers. You would do well to move the latter to your hip, and Gimli 
and I will take as much of your baggage as we are able. In the mean time, I will 
do what I can, but I fear that until we reach a place of safety, where you may 
rest, this will give you trouble. Unless you remain behind…."

"Nay, I shall not!" Legolas replied firmly, laying to rest any hopes Aragorn 
might have entertained.

"Then be sure to tell us when your pain grows too great," the Ranger responded, 
rising. He took a few swift strides to where Gimli knelt, sifting the contents 
of their gear, and after a moment's surveillance, reached unerringly for a dark, 
well-worn sack that nestled among his belongings. Returning to the Elf's side, 
he took from it a small jar, a set of clean bandages, and a small vial. There 
came the sound of water splashing on the sandy ground, as Aragorn quickly washed 
the grime from his hands. Then Legolas hissed as the Ranger began to clean the 
wound, and Aragorn said, "Time is short, and I fear I used the last of the 
athelas that I had tending to Sam after Moria. But salt water cleans as well, 
though less gently! Deep in Harad, where fresh water is scarce and precious, 
there are small seas that are so laden with salt it stings simply to touch the 
waters. The Haradrim value it for its medicinal use, however, and it is easily 
made here in the north."

"I thought that Harad was barren desert," the Elf said, surprised, welcoming the 
distraction of conversation.

"Much of it is. But such small seas are not uncommon, though I suppose 'lake' or 
even 'pond' might be a better word for them. They are as wells that lie too 
close to the surface of the earth, and so seep from the ground to form shallow 
pools, collecting and dissolving minerals trapped in the soil. Different waters 
are said to cure different ills, much as we use different herbs for different 
maladies." The Ranger paused and set aside the vial, picking up the jar of salve 
instead. Gently, but swiftly nonetheless, he began to smear the clear, viscous 
stuff over the cut. "A fascinating place, Harad, but one I was glad to leave 
behind. I fear that this will be a nightly chore, Legolas," he added, winding 
clean bandages around the Elf's torso and then up cross-wise over his shoulder.

"So long as I am able to run the next day, I shall endure it," the elven prince 
replied easily enough, shrugging carefully to test the bandaging as he stood and 
snatched his tunic from the ground to examine the blood-stained tear in the 
fabric. With a slight grimace, the Elf folded it neatly and went to put it away, 
hunting through the piles that Gimli had made for a good minute ere he found 
what he needed. Whatever the salve that Aragorn had used, it seemed to have more 
properties than the Ranger had told, for Legolas felt the pain fade to an odd 
numbness as he pulled a fresh tunic on over his head. Alas, without its 
distraction, other pains prick the sharper! the Elf thought, throwing his cloak 
about his shoulders and fastening the broach as he turned to stare at the bier, 
where Aragorn now knelt. He felt another presence at his side, and glanced down 
to where Gimli stood, gazing with no small concern at their human friends. But 
after a moment, the Dwarf laid a hand on his arm, suggesting with that touch 
that they leave the Ranger what privacy they could. Legolas followed the other's 
lead, turning away. And while he waited, he took advantage of the moment to try 
to reconcile himself with what must come next. He knew well whereof Aragorn 
spoke, for there were among his father's people many who remembered the 
Dagorlad, but he could find no comfort in the idea of committing a dear friend 
to the fire. That Aragorn seemed troubled as well only unsettled him further, 
but there truly was no other choice, and the Elf grieved silently.

For we failed him, Gimli and I! We failed both of them: Aragorn no less than 
Boromir. I should have trusted Gimli's judgment better, and spoken with Aragorn 
ere we left Lothlórien! Alas, we shall never know now what might have been, had 
I done so! Behind him, he heard a soft sigh, and then Aragorn's voice, low and 
taut, reached him: "It is time. Gimli, if you would…." With a nod, Gimli 
assented to the half-spoken request, and went to the Ranger's side. Stooping, 
the pair lifted the bier once more, and Man and Dwarf bore it to the boats. 
Carefully, they laid their fallen companion within one, and Legolas glided over 
to join them. He and Gimli stood silently, uncertain of themselves for neither 
were familiar with southern custom, or with that of Aragorn's people. And so 
they said nothing, watching as Aragorn knelt once more to remove the great horn 
that Boromir kept ever at his side. Slinging it over one shoulder, he said, "If 
it be my fate and luck, I would return this to his family, for ere the Stewards 
ruled Gondor, this horn was a mark of their line. And I will do all I can to 
honor my promise, Boromir! Fare you well!" With that he stood, and beckoning 
once more to Gimli, went to the other boat, which they hefted and set as a cover 
over the first, forming almost a coffin. A moment they stood still, while Gimli 
fumbled in his pouch for his tinderbox. No torch had they, but the boats caught 
quickly, and the flames began to lick along the edges, spreading with a 
marvelous swiftness to consume all. Dwarf and Man bowed their heads, though 
after but a brief space, Aragorn raised his eyes again, seeming unable to bear 
to look away.

For his part, Legolas found himself struck by an almost physical awe and horror, 
the like of which he had never before felt, and he staggered back, grasping 
blindly for his companions in a most unusual fit of discomposure. He felt Gimli 
catch his arm on one side, and Aragorn braced his shoulders from the other as 
the three of them retreated from the heat of the blaze. Distance did little to 
calm his chaotic emotions, but at least the movement and the feel of the others 
at his side bolstered him. Still, when he spoke, his words came in Sindarin, for 
it seemed Westron had abandoned him. At his side, he heard Aragorn translating, 
as if by rote habit, and their words fell loud into the still air, blending with 
the roar of the flames: "So even with Fëanor was it, that to ash all returns 
when the spirit is fled!"

 

***

Pippin woke painfully, and such was the noisome assault upon his senses that he 
retched violently. Perhaps fortunately, he had nothing in his stomach to vomit, 
for he doubted the Orc that carried him would have appreciated that overt sign 
of his discomfort. His head throbbed in time to the jarring strides, and he felt 
as though his arms were being wrenched from their sockets. All around him, harsh 
breathing and swift, heavy footfalls sounded, the rushed tempo broken only by 
the occasional Orcish curse. Where am I? And where am I being taken? he wondered 
miserably. Flashes of the battle in the woods returned to him, and he gritted 
his teeth, wishing he knew whether the others were even still alive. How could 
they be? There were so many Orcs! And the arrows…! Thought of his friends lying 
among the foul Orcs, unmourned and unburied, pulled a sob from his lips that 
turned swiftly to a gasp as his particular Orc abruptly shouldered a companion 
hard. The impact rocked Pippin's head on his shoulders and the flurry of 
guttural, hateful Orcish grated on his nerves like claws. What are they on 
about? he wondered in spite of himself, his curiosity overcoming even the horror 
of his situation. Can they not just run? Why all this shoving and fighting? Or 
are they only happy when they're making each other miserable?

Such questions had no answers, he knew. So instead of trying to solve the 
riddles, Pippin craned his neck to search for Merry, but he could see nothing to 
fore over the Orc's head, and he hadn't the freedom to twist about for a glimpse 
behind. To either side, he saw naught but the iron helms and hideous, snarling 
faces of more Orcs. A pang of loss settled in his stomach, but he firmly tried 
to crush it. After all, I should be glad, shouldn't I, that maybe Merry isn't 
here? That he's missing this journey? Maybe he slipped off into the woods, and 
is making his way home… wherever that lies now! So he told himself, but it was 
hard to feel good about anything in such circumstances. Still, he did try, and 
ere he let himself slip away into dark dreams once again, he spared a thought 
for Sam and Frodo, hopefully safely across the river. Safe! To think that I 
should call anything safe, and especially a walk into Mordor! But there you have 
it, they are safe… I hope! With that, he slipped deeper into the recesses of his 
own mind, locked away in desperate memories of better days, forced down deeper 
and deeper by the pain that penetrated to the bone until oblivion claimed him.

 

The first inkling that Pippin had that anything had changed was the jarring 
impact with the ground. Groaning, he opened tired eyes to a forest of dirty, 
hard-muscled and iron-clad Orc legs standing all about him. Why have we stopped? 
The hobbit rolled onto his back and squinted at the sky, which was yet dark and 
gave no sign as to the time. His whole body ached, and his hands were numb from 
poor circulation, for the bonds were cruelly tight. Beside him, a soft moan 
sounded, and Pippin stiffened, glancing to his left to see Merry Brandybuck 
huddled on the ground beside him, looking as though he desperately wanted to be 
sick. "M-Merry? Are you alright?" he whispered hoarsely, afraid that his captors 
might hear.

"As right as I can be… I guess!" Merry managed after a moment, offering a 
pathetic smile. A dirty bandage was wrapped about his head, and he truly looked 
a bit dazed still. "And you?"

"Oh, I'm not so bad, myself!" Pippin lied, making his voice as cheery as he 
could for the other's sake, though his heart sank. So he didn't get away after 
all!

"What about the others?"

"I don't know. The last I saw of them, they were fighting hard… I don't know… 
they may not have…." Just at that moment, an iron-shod foot kicked Pippin in the 
back, and the hobbit gasped, trying to roll away from the assault.

"All right, vermin, shut your wide traps and listen!" An Orc loomed over them, 
his scarred face set in a hideous scowl as he grated, "No talking, no whining, 
and no trying to escape! You'll do what you're told and hop to it if you know 
what's good for you! Otherwise…."

"Ah, shut it, will you, you worthless goat!" came another harsh voice from near 
at hand. "You haven't got the guts for that sort of thing, even with orders! 
Bloody mountain folk got so much air between their ears it blows out their 
mouths every time they open 'em, but they couldn't take a tark on a moonless 
night!"

"Is that so, snaga?" the first Orc hissed, and there came the ring of metal as a 
sword was drawn. "At least I didn't run all this way from Lugbúrz just ta take 
orders from an Isengarder that don't want nothing but these worthless half-grown 
slugs! They haven't got a bloody thing on them worth takin', 'less you count 
those pretty stickpins of theirs!"

"I thought the orders were no spoiling!" the second voice grew softer and smooth 
as silk in anticipation of a fight.

"I'm not one of your wretched kind, to balk at taking what's mine just because 
some higher up that can't even keep his own command tells me not to! Want me to 
show you one of those daggers?"

"That's enough!" a new voice interjected, and the hobbits squirmed round to 
stare, for of a sudden the two antagonists fell utterly silent, and there was a 
general sense of unease as a large Orc stalked forward, glaring. "Put your play 
things away! And you," the Orc made a quick swipe and grabbed something out of 
the first Orc's fist. Merry gasped, for he recognized the dagger as his own, and 
such was the discomfiture of the Orcs that no one thought to kick him for the 
sound. "Are you brainless as well as spineless? Do you know what these are?!" 
With a hiss, he tossed the blade aside as if it burned, and he continued, "Those 
knives have killed your folk for generations, and you think you can carry one 
along in this troop? Not while I command!"

"And how long will that be, pray tell?" someone else demanded with surly temper.

"As long as the rest of you swine buckle down and keep your senses, because make 
no mistake: the horse boys will come riding for us, and you had best hope we 
don't leave you to them! Until we reach Isengard, we are all in danger here, but 
I won't come home empty-handed because a couple of worthless mountaineers don't 
know enough to leave well enough alone! Keep your hands to yourselves, and if I 
find out that either of those two is missing anything when we get to Isengard, 
you'll pay me in blood, understand?"

"And who is to say we shall go to Isengard, Ugluk?" yet another Orcish voice 
rose, and Pippin shivered, for although it was softer, it was more malignant.

"That's what my orders say, and that's where I'm going, Grishnakh!" Ugluk 
snarled. "And any who know what's good for 'em'll follow straight off!"

"Is that so? And what are those orders worth? The work of some ragtag wizard, 
they are! I serve the Great Eye, I and all who hold with me. We know where the 
true power is, and I say we cross the river and return to Mordor with these 
two."

"Do as you like!" Ugluk sneered. "Stinking cowards, the lot of you! The Uruk-hai 
will see to this business, and as we took the prisoners, we'll bloody well keep 
right on taking 'em where we please. Off with you, if you're afraid, but tell 
the whiteskins hello! You'll not escape them, and you won't be able to take them 
alone."

There were some more curses and jostling, but none offered any further 
resistance for the moment. The gathering broke up a bit, and the hobbits, who 
had lain very still, listening, began to breathe again, sensing that the 
immediate danger was past. Merry closed his eyes wearily, and Pippin felt his 
spirits sink. Isengard! He remembered it vaguely from the debates back in 
Rivendell, but in truth he knew not where it lay. Somewhere in the Gap of Rohan, 
wherever that is. And does that mean, then, that we are in Rohan now, since they 
speak of riders and horsemen? Likely it did, and for some reason, that bothered 
Pippin greatly, inciting in him a feeling of utter displacement. We are lost, 
Merry and I! Baggage misplaced and misclaimed! I only wish Strider and the 
others would come for us. But I don't even know if they're alive! I suppose my 
best hope is that this Grishnakh fellow won't take kindly to Ugluk's arrogance, 
and start a fight. Maybe they'd kill each other off, these Orcs! But given the 
threat of pursuit, that seemed unlikely, and the hobbit sighed softly in the 
darkness.

Ere long, the Orcs began to muster again, and Pippin was torn from his 
reflections by a slap across the face and the growled command: "Get up!" 
Cracking his eyes open, he saw Ugluk glaring down at him, and the Orc drew a 
blade. For a moment, Pippin thought he meant to stab him, but the leader of the 
Uruk-hai only bent and cut the thongs binding his legs. "We've carried you far 
enough to get to the bottom of that blasted hill. Time you repaid us and learned 
to run yourself! Up, both of you!" He turned his attention to Merry, dragging 
him to his feet and giving him a hard shove forward, shaking his head when the 
hobbit stumbled and collapsed. "Best you learn to use your legs, swine, because 
orders or no, I'll lick you with this whip if you don't keep up! All right, 
move! All of you! Run, or so help me I'll give you to the horse boys with my 
thanks!" Pippin staggered forward as the line began to move, and Merry struggled 
along at his side, both of them trying desperately to keep pace with their 
captors. White Hand and Red Eye, whatever their allegiance, the Orcs ran swiftly 
and made no effort to keep a clean line. Indeed, Pippin had to swerve several 
times to avoid being crushed by Orcs who were pushed out of place by their 
fellows, and Merry nearly collided with one once.

But gradually, in spite of his general misery, Pippin began to notice that the 
emblem of Mordor, the Red Eye, seemed to have disappeared from the ranks. He 
dared not try to look back, but it was certain that before him and to either 
side, there were no soldiers out of the Dark Land, and he wondered at that. Did 
they really leave? I would have thought that they would fight harder! But for 
now, the mystery would have to wait, for he could spare no attention from the 
grueling march, and he grit his teeth and tried to shut his mind away from the 
agony. His breath came hard and ragged, all his muscles burned with exhaustion 
and pain, his vision swam and his head ached, and still, the road went on and 
on.

The miles fell away behind them, and as the night wore away, the Orcs swept 
onward towards Fangorn Forest.

***

The hills were featureless under the darkened sky, for the moon above was but a 
sliver, shedding no light to guide them. Aragorn had known dark journeys before, 
and he did not worry over his ability to climb even this treacherous slope by 
feel alone, but he feared to lose the path of the Orcs entirely. Already, it was 
difficult to read, and though he would have wagered his life that they were 
bound for Isengard, still, proof of that would have been welcome. And there is 
also Gimli to think of, for he has not Legolas's eyes, nor my training, Aragorn 
reminded himself, glancing back over his shoulder for all the good that that 
did. It was too dark to see the Dwarf's silhouette, and only the sound of his 
breathing and the echoes of dislodged pebbles as they descended in his wake 
testified to his continued presence in their line. Behind and below him, Legolas 
brought up the rear in utter silence, and that too gave the Ranger cause for 
concern. Ordinarily, he would not have feared for Legolas at all, given the 
Elf's inborn, sure-footed grace, but he knew well that the Prince of Mirkwood 
was hampered by his injury. He seemed to have compensated well enough while the 
daylight lasted, but if he slipped now, no one would be able to help him, for 
they would not know anything was wrong until the Elf cried out in alarm. Turning 
his attention back to the path, Aragorn noted that the crest of the hill was not 
far above them, and hoped that no mishap would overtake them ere they reached 
it.

And I hope also that Merry and Pippin live still unscathed! After this day, I 
know not if I could bear to discover any more bodies! the Ranger thought grimly 
as he pulled himself at last onto the top of the ridge. Turning, he nodded to 
Gimli, who had managed to scramble to his feet beside him. Then both Man and 
Dwarf stood gazing down, hesitant, unwilling to offend Legolas with an offer of 
help, but worried nonetheless that their friend would not be able to manage the 
last part of the ascent. In the end, however, their fears proved groundless, for 
wounded or no, the Elf made his own way up the slope easily enough in spite of 
the hazards of the terrain. When at last he stood beside them, Aragorn turned to 
gaze out over the flatlands that spread below them. "Behold Rohan! Would that 
the moon gave more light, for we might then see much upon the fields."

"Whither shall we go?" Legolas asked. "Shall we begin our descent now and in 
this place, or seek an easier path?"

"In one thing only may we trust an Orc, and that is that he will find the 
swiftest way down from these heights," Aragorn said wryly. "Come! The trail 
leads yonder, and then plunges into the ravine."

"Is it wise to dare such a descent on so blind a night?" Gimli asked, and cast a 
significant glance at the Elf's back.

"You need not fear for my safety, Master Dwarf," Legolas replied, discerning his 
friend's silent concern nonetheless. "But I shall be annoyed if you turn an 
ankle and force me to carry you!" At which Gimli snorted, and Aragorn grinned in 
the darkness, shaking his head.

"Alas, I fear you must have taken a blow to the head in addition to an arrow to 
the back if you think I shall make any such careless error, Master Elf!" Gimli 
retorted, much relieved as well.

"Come then, since we are agreed," Aragorn said, intervening ere the banter could 
continue, though in truth he found much comfort in the swift repartees. So long 
as Legolas can turn an insult, he is well enough, I suppose. "The night is still 
young enough, and we have far to run ere sunrise."

"And with the sun, may there come also strength!" Gimli muttered. "It shall be a 
long chase."

"Aye, it shall," Aragorn replied. "But we shall not let it deter us, and after a 
long chase, vengeance is the sweeter, however short-lived!" To that, neither Elf 
nor Dwarf responded, but they followed him without hesitation. As the night 
waned, and the dawnlight grew nearer, the three hunters wound their way towards 
the basin floor, knowing that there the race would begin in earnest. And we dare 
not lose, the Ranger thought grimly, feeling his wrath stir hotly at the thought 
of the hobbits' predicament. We have already lost too much to surrender anything 
more without a fight! Thus resolved, he pressed onward, and Man, Elf, and Dwarf 
passed swiftly through the night. 







~~~~~~






Chapter Ten
Hunters in Rohan






 "What think you, Legolas?" Gimli murmured in an undertone, trying to keep his 
voice down so as not to disturb Aragorn's thoughts. For the Ranger was scouring 
the area for sign of the trail, but the ground was hard, and tumbled boulders, 
set in place by some ancient deluge or river, made it difficult to trace the 
movements of even the most heavy-footed wanderer. Gimli stood leaning against 
one of these boulders to ease the weight of his pack, which now contained half 
of Legolas's belongings as well, and gazed east at the dawnless sky. "Whither 
have the Orcs fled?"

"I know not," came the soft response from above, where Legolas stood upon a 
large rock and bent his keen eyes upon the enigmatic terrain. "There is nothing 
to see, or else but little, and that obscured by the rocks. But fear not! At 
least not yet, for Aragorn, Man though he be, is long in the hunt, and even an 
Elf of the woods may learn much from him. If there is a trail, he will find it." 
At Gimli's skeptical grunt, the Prince of Mirkwood gazed down at the stout 
silhouette and said, "You think otherwise?"

"I think only that our enemies have seemed too well aware of us from the start. 
It is as if they chose this route for the very purpose of throwing us from their 
tracks, though they cannot know that we still live."

"You forget, my friend, that we did not slay all who opposed us. Some escaped, 
and doubtless they have told their comrades that we yet breathe." Legolas sighed 
and carefully folded his arms across his chest, though in reality he cradled his 
right arm in his left to ease the ache. Aragorn had warned him that the injury 
would be troublesome, and after the long hours of scaling and then descending 
the hills nigh to Tol Brandir, his shoulder and back throbbed steadily. But the 
Elf had the endurance of the Eldar race, and beyond that, he had his pride. He 
would not complain unduly, and as they waited, he took advantage of the delay to 
calm his spirit, to isolate the pain and set it, carefully enshrouded in layers 
of Elvish self-control, into a dark corner of his mind where he could ignore it 
for a time. For a time! Even an Elf cannot last forever, he thought. Being young 
among Elves and hitherto unblooded, there was a psychological aspect to his 
having been injured that bothered him. 'Tis naught but a scratch! he reminded 
himself, irritated by his own preoccupation with his misfortune. To take his 
mind from it, he added, "Truly, I wonder that you should ask my opinion in this 
matter. I should think a Dwarf, being closer to the ground, would see better 
than an Elf tracks left among rocks. Or has weariness blurred your sight?"

"I am no more weary than you!" Gimli objected, unobtrusively gliding away from 
the rock as he gazed up at the Elf, sensing something more in that bit of 
by-play than Legolas would admit. Nevertheless, he was not one to pass upon the 
opportunity to correct the Elf's errors, particularly not when such 'correction' 
might take his friend's mind from whatever troubled him. "Elves! Perhaps I am 
weary to ask of one a serious answer, for if a thing be not green, they cannot 
fathom it. Paint a forest red, and they would be at a loss indeed!"

Legolas was about to reply to that outrageous jibe when Aragorn called from some 
distance away: "Legolas! Gimli!" Exchanging a hopeful look in the darkness, the 
two of them hastened to where their companion stood, Gimli wending his way among 
the boulders while Legolas sprang lightly from rock to rock until both stood 
before (and in Legolas's case, above) the Ranger. "A poor trail it is, but it 
seems that the Orcs paused here for a time. And see, they have left a token!" He 
held up a dagger whose sheathe gleamed softly in the starlight. Gimli, being a 
Dwarf, quickly placed the craftsmanship even in the dim light and sucked in a 
sharp breath, while Legolas reached down to take the knife from Aragorn's hands. 
Running long fingers over the damasked sheathe, he turned troubled eyes on the 
Ranger ere he handed it back.

"And what do you think has happened to the bearer of this blade?"

"That I cannot say, though I have seen no blood, Orcish or otherwise," Aragorn 
replied. "What has happened to the mate of this dagger I also know not, but I 
would guess that this was not a welcome trophy, for those who crafted them 
worked their hatred of all Mordor's creatures into the steel. To keep such a 
blade would be dangerous, and already they face a journey through enemy lands."

"And where go they now?" Gimli asked, eager to continue now that he had had a 
bit of a rest.

"Northwest, though it is too early to say whether they intend to reach the 
forest first or to try to cut directly across Rohan," Aragorn replied, turning 
his face towards the northern horizon. "In any case, they did not tarry long, 
and neither shall we. Come, let us go!" So saying, he thrust the sheathed dagger 
into his belt just behind Andúril and then picked up the trail again, Legolas 
and Gimli following in his wake.

Down through the rock-strewn ravine they ran, weaving through the boulders, 
following a small rivulet until of a sudden, they emerged onto the green plains 
of Rohan just as the sun began to rise. There, the Orc trail grew once more 
prominent, trampling wantonly upon the short grass. "Now we may gain some 
ground!" Gimli said, with a note of fierce, eager determination in his deep 
voice. Aragorn said nothing, only gave a sharp nod and broke into a run, leaving 
the others to keep up with him as best they could. But for all his long stride, 
Dwarf and Elf remained ever on his heels, though Gimli had to toil the harder 
for his shorter stature. Hours they kept to the trail in swift pursuit, and 
grateful were they for the waybread of Lórien. For while the sun remained high, 
they did not pause, though Gimli and Aragorn glanced often back at Legolas, who 
either did not notice or else ignored their concern. In either case, the Elf 
asked for nothing, and if he suffered, he did so in silence. The day wore on, 
and the trio continued their dogged chase, with Aragorn ever at the point. The 
Ranger's keen eyes scanned the trail, and he interpreted the signs more or less 
unconsciously, while grief and worry and anger churned within his heart, 
spurring him onward. And as he ran, he began to notice that the path widened 
considerably, though in the confused mass of footprints, it was impossible to 
discern any reason for the change of formation.

It was late in the afternoon, and their shadows were lengthening behind them, 
when at last Aragorn called a halt. Gimli and Legolas, hoods drawn up and heads 
bowed to protect their eyes from the slanting shafts of sunlight, hastily 
stopped and looked up to see what the trouble was. It needed no second glance to 
discover the reason for the Ranger's grim command: before them, the trail 
branched into two separate paths, one holding course north northwest, the other 
breaking off sharply to the east. Legolas glanced from the new trail to Gimli 
and thence to Aragorn, noting the taut, carefully expressionless mask that the 
latter wore to conceal his frustrated dread. Gimli was scowling fiercely as only 
a Dwarf could who had lost a friend to Mordor's malice and then run without rest 
through the night and most of the next day. For his part, the elven prince felt 
his heart sink, and the pain that he had carefully ignored while they ran burst 
to the forefront of his mind once more, freed from its prison by the escape of 
mournful despair. "Which way shall we take?" Legolas asked at length, realizing 
that neither of his companions was willing to speak. "Yonder eastward track, or 
the straight path north?"

For awhile, Aragorn did not answer. Describing a brief circuit around the area 
just prior to the break in the path, he sought something—some clue, no matter 
how small or confused—to guide him, but at no point in his compass did he see 
anything but a mass of crossing and recrossing Orc prints. Turning, he gazed 
after the northward path a ways, then sighted along the eastward one, but again, 
there were no clues within his long sight that might indicate which group had 
taken the hobbits with it. Or perhaps they split them up, and each company took 
a prisoner with it. If that is so, then we are doomed indeed, unless Gondor's 
soldiery can save us to the east. For I have naught but instinct and conjecture 
to rely upon now, and neither is certain enough for me to decide wisely in this 
instance! "I fear that there is nothing to see," said he reluctantly, answering 
Legolas's earlier question. "Orcs go heavily, and they have little discipline in 
a line. I cannot make out even a single print that might belong to something 
other than an Orc."

"But we cannot stop here! Surely there must be something… !" Gimli pressed, 
racking his mind and memory for anything that would serve them. But his own 
experience with Orcs, though hardly lacking, failed him in this instant, and he 
was forced to wait while Aragorn considered anew the possibilities.

The Ranger frowned, bowing his head, and he stared down at the tracks as he 
thought furiously, mind racing as he considered the awful choice. If I choose 
wrongly, then there shall be no opportunity to amend the error. And though 
sometimes I doubt me whether the hobbits have learned aught of the true nature 
and danger of this quest, still, they know too much, do Merry and Pippin. And 
they are my friends! Which fact only increased his anguish over the looming 
decision that had fallen unexpectedly into his lap. Ere this very hour, I would 
have said they were Isengard-bound, but now…? "There is no sign of a quarrel," 
said he, seeming to his companions to think aloud. "It is as if one group of 
Orcs, and doubtless those of the Red Eye, simply left the company and pursued 
its own course homeward. If the Isengarders did not contest the parting, as 
seems evident, then I guess that they permitted it."

"But what does such speculation mean?" Gimli demanded, chewing on his mustaches 
in nervous, frustrated impatience.

"To me it says that the Isengard commander retained control, and perhaps felt he 
did not need or want the Orcs of Mordor to remain with his company. And that 
makes it likely that he kept control of the prisoners as well. For though they 
might have separated the hobbits, I tend to doubt that any group of Orcs would 
surrender a prize even—or perhaps especially!—to another company of Orcs. Not 
short of explicit orders from a higher authority that both companies were bound 
to respect."

"But we know not that they were not given such orders!" Legolas replied, and 
then paused a moment, reconsidering of a sudden.

"No, we do not. But recall Gandalf's tale," Aragorn responded, and managed to 
get the name out without a hesitation. "The Dark Lord knows not everything, but 
I cannot believe that the treachery of Isengard remains wholly unknown to him. 
He would not wish to allow Saruman anything that touched too closely upon the 
matter of Frodo's quest, hobbit captives included! So if his servants have 
retired without a struggle, then I should guess that either they know not 
themselves the treachery of Isengard or else that they had not numbers enough to 
make a fight of it. Their trail is the smaller of the two, and since I still 
believe that the Isengarders commanded the raid, then I should say that the 
Isengarders have still our friends. It is but a guess, but it is the best one 
that I can make with what little information we have."

"Then shall we continue northwards?" Gimli asked, reluctant to accept such 
reasoning but unable to better it. And as it was not the Dwarvish custom to 
dwell overlong upon dead-ends, he looked now only for a decision to follow.

"Yes," Aragorn said slowly. "Yes, we shall. We cannot in any case remain here." 
And so the matter was settled, and the three hunters sprang away again, 
continuing upon their northward course and none looked back.

 

By nightfall, they had covered another two leagues, and still they ran onward, 
driven by fear that would not abate. But even the hardiest of Rangers will tire 
eventually, and a wounded Elf and toiling Dwarf, too, must rest. As the moon set 
early, by unspoken accord, the three companions slowed and then came to a halt. 
Gimli sank to his haunches to relieve his aching back, and Legolas gritted his 
teeth against pain, for despite the salve that Aragorn had used, even soft 
bandages chafed and sweat stang in the open cut. "I think we can run no further 
tonight," Aragorn said, voicing the thought that they all shared. Still, he 
stood gazing after the trail for a time ere he shook his head in seeming 
self-disgust and joined his companions upon the ground. As far as they had come, 
he knew that he had not reached his limits, not yet, and so his present 
weariness puzzled him somewhat. I am not truly tired, he thought, feeling 
nervous energy skitter along his nerves and flow like muted lightening in his 
veins. Not as I have been before, when it was bone-deep and inescapable. 
Fatigued, perhaps, is a better word, but even so… there is something unnatural 
in this! So he thought, but said nothing, unwilling to place too much confidence 
in such a conclusion at so early a stage. Instead, he turned to Legolas and 
said, "Let us see how my patch-work has fared!"

"I am well enough," the Elf began to object, as if out of habit, but then he 
silenced himself and beckoned Aragorn to come.

"Humor me, then," the Ranger replied, willing to give the other an excuse if he 
so desired one, and Legolas gave a soft bark of laughter ere he acceded 
gratefully to the other's ministrations.

While Aragorn examined the Elf, Gimli rose and stalked a few paces away, 
watching the darkness intently as he stretched. He doubted there was anything to 
be seen, for the plains were broad and level, and they had seen no sign of any 
living creature all that day. But habit was a powerful impetus in uncertain 
times, and the Dwarf felt himself in need of space to think. To calm myself, to 
be perfectly honest, he admitted. For it bothered him more than he would have 
guessed that his friend had been injured. Ridiculous to think that it would not, 
but surely I ought to be more concerned for Merry and Pippin. Or Frodo and 
Samwise! Or Boromir, Mahal rest him! Yet though he was hardly squeamish, he 
shied away from sight of the other's wound. There was something… wrong with the 
notion and reminder that Legolas could be as vulnerable as any of them. 
Indecent, almost, the Dwarf decided. Yes, 'tis indecent! There is about Legolas 
a quality… an impression of innocence, almost, that I would not see marred by 
something so mundane, so very… mortal… as injuries incurred in a fight. That he 
had once looked to pierce that imperturbable veil and flay the other to the 
quick only shamed him, and strengthened his present conviction that there ought 
to be something inviolate about an Elf's ethereal remove. And so he looked away, 
avoiding the light cast by the candle Aragorn had lit, and waited for the Ranger 
to finish his task.

Finally, Aragorn sighed and said, "Dawn is still some hours off, and though I 
doubt we shall meet with any trouble this night, let us set the watch 
nonetheless." Gimli nodded, hearing the rustle of cloth as the Elf quickly put 
his shirt back on, and he rejoined his comrades to settle the watch schedule. 
This they did according to ancient tradition: Legolas snagged three blades of 
grass and held them in his fist while Aragorn and Gimli drew. And as luck would 
have it, the Dwarf lost.

"Well, use my misfortune to your profit then!" he grumbled, and then sighed.

"Wake me in two hours, Gimli," Aragorn replied simply, wrapping himself in his 
cloak and pillowing his head on an arm. Almost immediately, he was unconscious, 
for a Ranger learned early to take what sleep he could find, where and when he 
could find the time for it.

"Good night," said Legolas, settling carefully on his side out of respect for 
his sore back.

"Good night to you both," Gimli responded softly and set himself down a little 
ways distant, not truly displeased to take the first watch. There was, after 
all, nothing like a lonely stint of guard duty to spur reflection, and he felt a 
need of it as he seldom had in his life. Not that Gloín's son was unreflective, 
but usually he had so many other tasks to accomplish, and his mind was ever 
occupied with matters of craft. Worry was an unaccustomed bedfellow, and when it 
came calling, he was careful heed it. Not that he had ever thought, prior to 
this journey, to worry over an injured Elf or kidnapped hobbits. Or over the 
humanity of a Man, Gimli added with silent and troubled remorse, recalling 
Boromir's words to him in Lothlórien. He shuddered, haunted by the memory of the 
absolute self-revulsion that had crossed Boromir's face when the spell of the 
Ring had finally been broken by Frodo's horrified stare. No one should ever be 
made to face himself thus! How, if it had been one of us others? What if it had 
been Legolas, and not Boromir? Gimli could scarcely imagine that the Elf would 
be so ensnared, and found even the hypothesis appalling. What would I have done, 
had it been me? That was a more realistic concern, for having lived with them 
longer and more intimately, he was better acquainted with the dark places in his 
own soul than he was with those of Legolas's.

And what darkness was within Boromir, that he fell so far and then paid so 
dearly for redemption? Gimli was more accustomed to dealings with Men than was a 
Wood-Elf, and he had his suspicions on both of those accounts, but ultimately 
there were limits to his understanding of a man like Boromir. And now he is 
dead, and I shall have no chance to learn further of him. And though Boromir had 
been alive only hours ago, yesterday in fact, Gimli felt a sense of terrible 
remove from their departed friend. It was tragic, it was the fate of all things 
mortal, and the Dwarf cursed softly in the night. Time was wearing hard upon 
them all, and he feared what it might bring. Behind him, he heard Aragorn mutter 
something in his sleep and shift restlessly, but the Ranger did not wake. I 
wonder what dreams visit him tonight? Boromir's death struck him hard, and that 
after Gandalf's death! How does he manage all of that? Such were the mysteries 
that preoccupied the Dwarf's mind as the cold night hours crept slowly by, and 
he sighed softly. A dark night indeed, and a silent one. Not even the sound of 
trees rustling about us, or a river's low rush! Gimli felt a shiver work its way 
down his spine at that. Silent as the tomb! Wishing vainly for dawn, the Dwarf 
stared out at the horizon, unable to pick the land from the sky, and he sent his 
hope out into the night: Be well, Merry and Pippin! We come for you!

***

Running… always running, and yet never could he draw away from that which 
pursued him. From what surrounded him, in truth! Nor could he seem to stop, 
though another called his name from behind, desperate, frightened, falling 
away…. "Aragorn!" Shadows swam dark between them. "Aragorn!!"

"Arwen!"—

—Aragorn woke quite suddenly with Arwen's name on his lips, and he could feel 
his heart hammering against his ribcage in a panicky succession. Something 
retreated from his side, and the Ranger grasped the hilts of his sword as he sat 
bolt upright, tense and momentarily confused. "Aragorn?" Gimli's voice drifted 
worriedly out of the darkness, and after a second, the Ranger relaxed somewhat.

"Gimli," he breathed, releasing Andúril's pommel. "What is it?"

"Naught, but you are due for your watch, and I must get some sleep if I am to 
run tomorrow," the Dwarf responded in a low voice.

"Of course. Go ahead then, and rest well," the Ranger said, pulling his cloak 
close about him as he rose. Gimli said nothing in response and after a few 
moments, he lay slumbering near Legolas, curled up on his side. Aragorn watched 
the pair of them for a time, then exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the 
troubled, dream-incited emotions. After Lothlórien, he had dreamt often of 
Arwen, in one setting or another. But the past three or four nights the Ranger 
had had difficulty recalling his dreams, though he knew that he had had them for 
each dawn he rose feeling vaguely troubled. And now this! He shook his head 
sharply to clear his mind and heaved a soft sigh as he began to pace, hoping to 
wear away some of that tension. Yet unease still lay heavily upon him; unease, 
and just that touch of arousal that came of dream-blurred recollection of his 
lover. Remembrance of Arwen's love and her caresses threatened to loose longings 
carefully restrained, and Aragorn bit his lip. It was hardly the time for such 
thoughts or feelings, but then, on a journey such as this, it never was. It 
never is a good time: a Ranger had but to speak those words, apropos of nothing, 
and immediately, all of his brethren knew precisely what he had dreamt! Odd, he 
thought, I have always known the purpose of such confessions, but never have I 
felt the need to confess myself. It helps to be able to speak of such things 
without dwelling too long or deeply upon them. Just a quick mention to ease the 
weight of one's own longing! Unfortunately, neither Gimli nor Legolas were 
familiar with the short-hand speech of the Rangers, and the involved explanation 
required to enlighten them would defeat the purpose of such an oblique 
reference. Now indeed do I miss Halbarad most! he thought, feeling his isolation 
acutely. Even Boromir might have caught on, for camp talk in Gondor had its own 
ways of saying the same thing, in the same truncated manner.

Boromir! Where are you now, I wonder? Aragorn tilted his head back, gazing up at 
the distant stars. What do you see from your new vantage point? And where are 
Merry and Pippin? That drew his gaze back to the level plains, shrouded in 
darkness. I doubt not that they will have run through this night. Alas, we 
cannot keep pace, and shall fall further behind unless the Orcs rest during the 
day. His jaw tightened as he bit down hard on the sense of helplessness that 
rose up within him, grinding it back down firmly. We can do naught but follow, 
whithersoever the trail leads, and trust that of our efforts, something shall be 
born, though we know not what. A Ranger's faith was a many-faceted thing, but 
its essence remained ever the same, and one who knew him well would have 
recognized in it the same defiance that Gandalf, as he dangled upon the Bridge 
of Khazad-dûm, had seen in Aragorn's eyes: let the darkness come, I shall not be 
swayed, for something good must come of this. It must, and though my heart 
aches, and I fear the trial to come, I cannot but believe! In the mean time, he 
had an injured Elf to care for, and a deeply worried Dwarf, and four hobbits 
bound in different directions to keep ever in his thoughts. And I have a watch 
to stand, and a course to consider, and I suppose that in spite of it all, I am 
not unhappy that it is thus. Lonely, yes, and Boromir's loss burns like acid 
poured on the wound of Gandalf's death, but I cannot sorrow forever! A slight 
smile touched his lips at that, and once more his thoughts returned to Lórien 
and bittersweet memory. Arwen, as ever, is right. Mortal or immortal, we are not 
made for such grief. And even loneliness can be assuaged, if we are willing to 
risk a friendship.

Legolas and Gimli slept on, oblivious to their guide and companion's fondly 
considerate gaze, but in the end, they needed not that look to know his 
feelings. There were more important ways of loving, and when, some hours later, 
Aragorn woke Legolas, the Elf greeted him with a slight smile and laid a hand 
upon his shoulder. A moment they stood thus, and then the Ranger retired, his 
spirits much improved. And through the cold night, he dreamt no more.




~~~~~



Chapter Eleven
Encounters


Gimli was roused from his sleep by someone shaking him, and such was the tension 
of the preceding days that he instantly lashed out with the back of his fist. He 
hit air, which was perhaps fortunate, for as he rolled to his feet in a crouch, 
dark eyes fierce, he saw Aragorn kneeling nearby. The Ranger had one hand on the 
ground behind him to support his sudden recoil, and his expression was a mixture 
of surprise, alarm, and amusement for such a vicious wakening. Beyond him, 
Legolas made no effort to conceal his mirth, which eased Gimli's chagrin 
appreciably. Anything to begin this day with less pain than the last! "Your 
pardon," the Dwarf muttered nevertheless as he straightened. Aragorn rose 
smoothly, shaking his head, and a smile played at the corners of his mouth.

"I think I shall let Legolas wake you tomorrow," he replied. "His reflexes are 
better than mine!"

"You were not struck," the Elf pointed out. "I fear that if he knew I was to 
wake him, he might take aim rather than flailing blindly!"

"And if you cannot trouble yourself to duck a punch, then you shall deserve your 
bruises!" Gimli retorted, pulling his pack onto his back just as the sun cleared 
the horizon. "Shall we tarry here longer?"

"Nay, for the road calls us ever onward," the Ranger said, instantly sobering. 
And with that, the three hunters took up the trail again. The vast, rolling 
plains of Rohan spread before them, and as the sun rose, its beams touched upon 
the beads of dew clinging to the grass and set them afire with a radiant, 
rainbow splendor. It was as if the fields of the Riddermark were covered in 
diamond dust, even as legendary Tirion, and the sky above was pale and cloudless 
as only a late winter's morn can be. Over the glittering green sward they ran, 
small figures between the vast emptiness of earth and sky. So intent were they 
upon finding some trace of the hobbits amid the confusion of the Orcs' 
trampling, that the companions were almost heedless of the beauty, though even 
Aragorn could see nothing to help them. Yet sight is not all, and that sense of 
void, of utter isolation crowned with fragile and incomprehensible glory, 
touched on their thoughts, troubling their hearts as they held to their course 
with single-minded determination. Sometimes it waxed greater, and at other times 
that sense of absence was too ethereal to make itself known as such among the 
myriad stimuli of a morning's hard run; but it remained ever constant, present 
in their most unconscious thoughts, and its effects were not insensible.

Running in Aragorn's wake, the Dwarf bared his teeth, feeling his joints stiff 
from the nighttime chill. The prospect of another day on the hunt was not 
encouraging, but he thought of Merry and Pippin, driven to exhaustion and beyond 
by the cruel whips of the Orcs and let his wrath fuel his legs. A Dwarf's fine 
sense of vengeance is unflagging in pursuit of its object, and for Glóin's son 
honor—to say nothing of friendship!—would be satisfied only when that thirst for 
retribution was quenched in blood. Dark were his thoughts beneath the bright 
sun, and as the miles stretched into leagues, and the leagues themselves seemed 
to grow ever longer, he threw the full weight of his will against exhaustion and 
struggled along, wishing just once for some of the height that his companions 
had. For if in the morning he had managed two strides for every one of 
Aragorn's, by the time the afternoon arrived, the proportion had risen to four 
to one, and Gimli was wondering whether Rangers ever in fact grew weary.

But that was not the reason that he dropped to the rear of their short line. For 
though he tired of the grueling pace, still, he could maintain it at need and 
had not yet reached the point of desperation. Not so Legolas, he suspected, for 
the Elf had fallen steadily back as the day progressed. And if Gimli had thought 
Elves other-worldly—even to the point of fault—he had never thought to see one 
who was wholly absent from his surroundings. Yet as they ran, the Dwarf had 
watched Legolas retreat from his initial weary good humor into a state not 
unlike that of a somnambulant, which was the more eerie for the fact that Elves 
routinely slept with their eyes wide open. To Gimli's mind, Legolas had spent 
too much time wandering in that elvish dreamland, and he was certain that such 
blank-faced preoccupation boded ill. Even in their brief pauses, the Elf had 
barely put two words together, opting to sit with his knees drawn up and his 
head bowed over them. Aragorn had spoken to the Elf in his native Sindarin 
during those rest periods, and had received uncharacteristically terse answers 
each time. But short of force, the Elf would not be restrained, and he would not 
be "coddled" (as he put it): thus when Aragorn returned to the chase, he was 
ever but a step behind. But concern is not the same as coddling, Gimli thought, 
and I should hope that he realizes that. Alas, I fear that such nuances escape 
him at the moment! That was why the Dwarf had let himself fall to the end of the 
line, to be certain that he could keep an eye on Thranduil's stubborn son, and 
prevent disaster should it strike from that quarter.

For though Legolas held his place in line, there seemed to the Dwarf's 
discerning eye a certain disharmony, a subtle disequilibrium to the Elf's 
movements that was unsettling. Never before have I seen Legolas take a misstep, 
and it is not that he stumbles or staggers as we go, but…! Gimli scowled in 
concentration, then shook his head sharply. I cannot put it into words, yet 
there is something wrong in the way that he moves now. Folly, perhaps, to think 
that anyone could move cleanly with such an injury, and yet I cannot accept that 
this is normal, even for so strange a being as an Elf! As the sun began to set, 
they came at last to the remains of an Orcish campsite, and as Aragorn, weary 
but determined, began an exhaustive search of the ground, Gimli took the 
opportunity to sit down. Another few hours, perhaps, and we shall be forced to 
halt once more! Forced! The Dwarf heaved a large sigh at that. I cannot wait, 
for even a Dwarf of the Lonely Mountain can scarce endure this march! And what 
of Legolas? In the half-light, the Elf sat some small distance away, legs 
crossed and hands laid palms up upon his knees. His face was drawn and his 
attention, as it had been since early that morning, was focused inward. Or 
perhaps trapped, Gimli thought uneasily. He did not know how to stir his friend 
from this grievous state, nor whether it would be wise to try. I fear I still 
know little enough of Elves! Perhaps it is always thus when an Elf is hurt; 
perhaps Legolas needs his isolation to heal. But instinct continued to yammer at 
him, until, with a quick grimace, the Dwarf promised himself that he would seek 
Aragorn's counsel later that evening. Only mildly appeased, the voice of doubt 
ceased to babble, but it trailed wordless anxiety through Gimli's mind 
incessantly.

After a quarter of an hour, the Ranger loped over to join his companions, 
casting a sharp glance at Legolas ere he, too, lowered himself to the ground 
with a slight grimace. "There is nothing to be seen, is there?" Gimli demanded 
in a low voice, and wondered why he tortured himself by asking. If there were 
anything of note, we would know it by now. Yet he felt compelled to ask, perhaps 
in the hopes of drawing the Elf out of his dark dreams.

"I fear not," Aragorn replied, and the very neutrality of his voice was suspect, 
hinting at his own unreasonable disappointment. "Cavalry passed through this 
place earlier, and I would guess that the Orcs must by now be well aware of 
pursuit. How it shall end, I cannot say, but in another two days, we shall reach 
Fangorn, and tracking shall become more difficult. An Elf's eyes will aid us 
greatly there, however this ends," he added. Legolas blinked at that, apparently 
having realized that he was called upon to speak, or at least acknowledge his 
companions. And despite the growing darkness, Gimli did not miss the confused 
weariness that passed over the Elf's fair face: just a flash of emotion, but 
enough to threaten his composure, for the prince hung his head quickly and 
seemed to gather himself ere he looked up again.

"Much may happen in two days," the Elf murmured.

"It may," Aragorn responded, pausing an instant, ere he suddenly switched to 
Sindarin once again, seeming to ask a question. "Ranach khim, Legolas?"*

"I am well enough. There is no point in asking before we halt for the night," 
Legolas replied, refusing the other's efforts to engage him in his own tongue. 
At least I now know what Aragorn said, Gimli thought, wondering at the Elf's 
refusal to let himself be treated. Why suffer unnecessarily? But Aragorn simply 
nodded and rose once more.

"Then let us use these hours well ere we rest!" Gimli's soft groan was lost in 
the wind as the three companions wearily pressed forward once more.

***

Stars sprawled overhead, studding the inky darkness, and the last glow of the 
pale crescent moon disappeared over the horizon. A breeze stirred, rushing 
across the plains to flow over the three companions. Aragorn shivered in spite 
of himself, and paced quietly to help warm himself. In truth, he would have 
liked nothing more than to collapse and sleep until dawn, but he had drawn the 
first watch that night, and his thoughts were too unsettled at the moment for 
him to rest comfortably. And the others are more weary than I, he thought, 
stretching to ease tired muscles as he looked over at his companions. Elf and 
Dwarf were both asleep, and Gimli was huddled beneath his cloak with his hood 
drawn up for warmth. Aragorn could readily sympathize, for his clothes, after 
three days of running, were damp and clammy with his own sweat and the dew of 
the night did nothing to ease the pervasive chill. Still, there was much to be 
grateful for on that account. Thus far, the weather had been unusually mild for 
February, but the Ranger remembered all too well the misery of winter in Rohan. 
With or without snow, the windstorms upon the plains can brew quite suddenly, 
and then let the unwary traveler despair! Such storms, unimpeded upon the flats, 
gathered strength and speed the likes of which no one accustomed to Eriador's 
milder climate could possibly imagine. The sharp, cold night breezes were hard 
enough to endure, but Aragorn did not relish the prospect of shepherding his 
friends through a windstorm.

Nevertheless, weather was the least of his concerns at the moment. Although 
there was no sign of either poison or infection, Legolas's wound still bled, for 
constant exertion would not allow it to begin to close. The bandages and salve 
helped to stop that flow, but as the hours wore on, such measures were 
increasingly less effective. And though it was not perilously deep, still, the 
cut was hardly shallow either, and the Elf was in constant pain as torn, abused 
muscles strained to bear weight and command movement that further damaged the 
tissues. The healer in Aragorn hated the thought of asking more of the Elf, but 
he knew also that Legolas was better able to bear up to such injury than either 
a Man or a Dwarf; to be perfectly honest, the Elf stood not yet in any real 
danger, physically. It would be a few more days ere he reached that point, by 
which time a Man would have collapsed from shock and loss of blood, and a Dwarf 
would likely be staggering. So we may in some sense count Legolas's misfortune 
as good luck! the Ranger thought humorlessly. The question that preoccupied him 
now had to do with his own responsibilities as a healer and a friend: At what 
point do I tell him that he cannot continue? That to do so is to hazard his own 
life in what may very well prove a fruitless endeavor? Or have I already passed 
it?

Stifling a yawn, Aragorn arched his back, feeling the strain of the chase in the 
knots of tension that rippled up his spine, and he folded his arms across his 
chest against the cold night air. And as he stood in silent contemplation of the 
darkened land, he heard the distinctive sound of a Dwarf waking. For wounded or 
no, Legolas's movements were nearly noiseless, and the Ranger wondered what had 
roused Gimli from his rest a full four hours ere his watch began. But he said 
nothing, waiting for the Dwarf to approach, and sure enough, Gloín's son came to 
stand at his side. "You should rest, my friend," Aragorn advised softly.

"I intend to," the Dwarf replied, "But I may not do so yet, for there is 
something I would ask you."

"About Legolas, I guess," the other replied.

"I wished to be certain he was asleep ere we spoke," said Gimli, in tacit 
acknowledgement of the Ranger's intuition. "All this day I have watched him, and 
yesterday as well, and I like not what I see, Aragorn. Discomfort and weariness 
have we all a share in; a short temper I might expect and understand; but this… 
this sleep-walking—that I cannot fathom!" The Dwarf shook his head in the 
darkness and sighed. "Tell me truly, what ails him? Is his wound more serious 
than you have said previously?"

"It is painful, and to set bone or stitches in that area of the body is 
difficult under the best of circumstances," Aragorn said.

"Which, of course, these are not," Gimli hurried past the obvious, unwilling to 
let the Ranger side-track his inquiry. For though he doubted Aragorn would lie 
to him, the Man had a talent for misdirection that he had honed over the long 
decades of furtive service; if the news was ill, he might well try to keep it to 
himself for a time if not pressed hard for it. "But you know I mean otherwise 
than that. He walks like a ghost, Aragorn. I would not see him become one in 
truth!"

For awhile, there came no reply, which did little to ease Gimli's heart; clearly 
the Ranger was seeking the best way to say what must be said, and that worried 
him. Finally, though, Aragorn said, "The Eldar race is able to endure much 
hardship without wavering, and Legolas will endure for longer than either a Man 
or a Dwarf would. But I cannot close the wound, or prevent him from bleeding, 
Gimli, and though of itself the injury is not dangerous, our chase and 
exhaustion make it so. But there are other peculiarities of Elves that must be 
watched, and I fear our friend has never before suffered a comparable injury at 
the hands of an enemy."

"This is in some way significant?" Gimli demanded, puzzled.

"Is it so surprising? " Aragorn asked in return, glancing over his shoulder at 
the sleeping Elf, as if to reassure himself that Legolas slept still. "Think of 
the first time you were wounded in battle, Gimli, and then recall that Legolas 
has spent five hundred years on the hunt without receiving worse than a scratch. 
Young he may be, but he is more set in his habits than you or I, and he will 
need time to accustom himself to the idea that he can be hurt. And that he can 
hurt himself."

"'That he can hurt himself?'" Gimli echoed, and Aragorn sighed softly into the 
night.

"The Eldar affect the land in which they live, as you will have noticed in 
Lórien and Rivendell, and if ever you visit Legolas in Mirkwood, you shall feel 
something of the power of the Elves at work in that realm as well. Everything 
that comes under their influence is subject to their shaping, in one way or 
another. We ourselves are changed by their presence, as I warned in Lothlórien. 
But that bond between an Elf and his surroundings works both ways: for the Elves 
are bound to Arda, and to all that is in it, much more strongly than is a Dwarf, 
and certainly more so than a Man or a hobbit. While Middle-earth endures, so 
shall they, and they draw strength from it. In the beginning, when Arda was 
unstained, the Eldar were at the height of their powers."

"But what has this to do with Legolas's state?"

"Much. Middle-earth wanes, and so the Elves are lessened. And an Elf who is 
injured is dealt a wound on two levels, to body and soul. Legolas, having never 
been hurt before, must now accustom himself to these injuries, and to the 
diminishing of govyat."**

"The… what is that?" Gimli asked, scowling at the Sindarin interjection.

"It is an elvish word for which I have no ready translation, I fear, for Men 
have no need of it," Aragorn replied, and fell silent a moment. After some 
thoughtful consideration, he continued slowly, "I would say it is the unity of 
Legolas that is threatened, and an Elf unaccustomed to such disruption is in 
peril. Even as Men fear the loss of their lives, and taste in injuries received 
their own mortality, an Elf fears the loss of his integrity. If there were 
others of his kind with us, then Legolas might find great comfort in their 
presence and advice, but alas! He must face this alone."

Gimli pursed his lips in the darkness, considering this startling information, 
and after a long moment, he shook his head. "I fear I do not understand all of 
this. Can you not help him, since you are familiar with his condition?"

"I have tried to speak with him a few times, but he will not hear me. And but 
that he is alone among mortals, I would not presume to speak of such matters, 
for I am but a Man and my knowledge comes of observation and 'book-learning,' as 
they say in the Shire," Aragorn said heavily.

"Then is there naught that we can do for him?"

"If our presence and such encouragement as we are able to provide are not 
enough, then we can do little more than to stand by him."

"And watch him deteriorate?"

"Say not so, for he may find his own way through his doubts," the Ranger 
responded. "And in the mean time, do not lose hope! Even as Men and Dwarves have 
learned to overcome their fears, Legolas will learn to overcome this."

Gimli grunted, then startled himself by yawning hugely. "Well," he sighed 
tiredly, "I still cannot say that I understand this, but I shall do as you 
advise and hope nonetheless. Elves!" With that last exasperated, worried 
complaint, the Dwarf returned to his patch of grass and lay down again, huddling 
beneath his cloak. Sleep descended almost instantly, burying his consciousness 
in layers of warm, soothing oblivion, and he knew no more. Aragorn stood 
silently watching him, and his heart was troubled. Well indeed that Gimli learns 
more of Elves if he wishes to pursue this friendship, but I cannot tell him all! 
For though what I said was true enough, I fear that there is more to it than 
that, and that the Darkness under which we now lie may have much more to do with 
Legolas's suffering than aught else. Whether the Elf had yet perceived the 
deadly veil of malice that Aragorn had wakened to in Moria, the Ranger knew not. 
But he is an Elf, and so I doubt not that this evil affects him, though perhaps 
he does not recognize yet either its source or its extent. And Gimli yet has no 
inkling, I think. He sighed softly. It is hard to keep such secrets, but the 
time is not ripe to reveal them… if indeed it is my part to do so! With another 
sigh, he turned his eyes heavenward, to where the Evening Star blazed brightly 
above the horizon. Once more I turn my thoughts to thee, my love! Dawn comes all 
too soon, and I shall need the strength that comes of thy memory!

***

Red rose the sun and dawn's light bled onto the plain as the three companions 
arose once more to toil. Silently they resumed their chase, and this time Gimli 
made certain to remain at Legolas's back while the day lasted. Though he knew 
not why, anticipation of a strange and dreadful sort murmured and sang in his 
blood, seeming to have kindled with the rising of the sun. The long hours 
passed, and with them so did the plains: in the distance and growing ever 
larger, gentle, green-clad hills rose up, casting stark shadows upon the flat 
lands. The Orcs' trail seemed to curve about in order to pass right before their 
feet, then cut sharply back to the north for the forest eaves which showed now 
as a dark line upon the horizon. And at intervals along the path, there were 
bodies: Orcs fallen in their tracks with goose-feathered arrows protruding from 
their backs.

"I knew not that the horse lords had bowmen," Gimli muttered, panting.

"Archery is an art among them, but on the field, the Rohirrim prefer their 
lances," Aragorn replied, squatting beside the body of a slain Orc as he gazed 
intently at the marks upon the ground. "Alas, I fear that if the riders did not 
bring this pack to heel, then there is no chance that we shall! We are more than 
a day behind them!" He rose silently, glancing north after the trail ere he 
turned to the down at whose base they stood. "Come, let us go up and see what 
may be seen."

Single file as ever, Man, Elf and Dwarf climbed wearily to the crown of the 
hill. To Gimli's eyes, Legolas seemed unchanged from the day before: distant and 
pained, and he showed none of his usual enthusiasm for the prospect of climbing 
up to the heights. Indeed, he fairly trudged, if such a word could be used of an 
Elf. When at last they stood wearily at the top of the hill, they gazed out over 
the wide lands of Rohan, following the Orc trail as it ran north to the forest. 
And as they gazed, Gimli became aware that there were small figures moving upon 
it. "Aragorn!" He pointed downward, and received a thoughtful nod in response.

"Riders," the Ranger said laconically. "A large company, and one that shall 
perhaps give us news of our quarry."

"Is that all that they shall give us?" the Dwarf asked, feeling at the curved 
edge of his double-bladed axe. Not that Gimli knew much of the Men of Rohan, but 
in principle he distrusted a people who worked so closely with such willful and 
dangerous beasts as horses.

"If we are careful, we shall have little to fear," the Ranger responded. "Well, 
we should not wait here in any case. Come, then!" And with that, they left the 
hill, though Gimli had to touch Legolas's arm and tug gently to rouse the Elf 
from his seeming-stupor. With a shake of his fair head and a slight frown, the 
Elf trailed along after Gimli, silent and grim. When they reached the foot of 
the hill, the three companions paused and on unspoken agreement, they settled 
themselves upon the grass, more than willing to rest from their day's labors.

"You are certain that these horse lords can be trusted?" Gimli asked after an 
uncomfortable few minutes of dead silence. "Did not Gandalf report that they pay 
the Dark Lord with horses?"

"Gandalf repeated only the rumor that Gwaihir had heard," Aragorn corrected. 
"And I doubt not that it is just that: a rumor, and an ill one. Boromir thought 
it nonsense, and I believe him, for I have spent some years among them. There 
are few things that the Rohirrim would less willingly part with than their 
steeds, even their lives. A fierce people, and a stubborn one, but honorable—I 
should think, Gimli, that a Dwarf would grow swiftly to love them."

"Hmmph!" the Dwarf grunted, but he nodded thoughtfully after a moment. "But will 
they learn to love a Dwarf? And what of Elves?"

"If they are wise, they shall leave us be," Legolas spoke suddenly, startling 
both his companions. "One does not touch the darkness!"

"What mean you by that?" Gimli asked, frowning. But the Elf blinked and shook 
his head once more, seeming to emerge somewhat from his shell, and a look of 
muddled confusion crossed his face once again, as though he knew not what he had 
said. "Legolas?"

Turning his head to gaze at the Dwarf, the Prince of Mirkwood sighed softly. 
"Yes?"

"You… naught," Gimli replied heavily, dropping the subject. "It was but an 
ill-timed question, pay it no mind." Then, seeking desperately to prevent a 
retreat into that staring silence, he asked instead and quickly, "What think you 
of the Rohirrim, or have Thranduil's folk had any dealings with them?"

"Once, some time ago," Legolas replied. "There was battle upon Calenardhon, and 
things went ill for Gondor. But when the Éorlingas came, the Elves of Mirkwood 
helped to drive the invaders from the plains."

"That was long ago indeed, my friend," Aragorn said, and seeing Gimli's 
skeptical look, added, "Cirion was the twelfth steward when the Éorlingas first 
came to our aid, and afterward, by their oaths, was Rohan created out of Gondor. 
Boromir's father Denethor is the twenty-sixth in the direct line of descent."

"Long ago indeed!" Gimli muttered, and Legolas gave a slight, glassy-eyed smile.

"Not so very long, for I remember it," said the other.

"And so also would Daín's grandfather, yet we say not that that was a short 
while ago, for all that it is within four generations!" Gimli retorted.

"Hush! Listen!" Aragorn interjected, and the two fell silent. For a time, the 
Dwarf strained his ears, but soon enough, the muted thunder of approaching 
cavalry came even to him. Legolas for once seemed quite intent, and the Dwarf 
wondered at that. Does he, too, distrust them in spite of Aragorn's 
reassurances? If so, at least he has still a care for his life! That might be a 
good sign, but Gimli had little attention to spare for the Elf, focused as he 
was upon the figures that swept over the plain, following the Orc trail south. 
Despite his absolute faith in their guide, he felt his muscles tense as that 
company bore down upon them, and he darted a surreptitious glance at Aragorn. Of 
the three of them, he alone seemed unconcerned for their safety, though there 
was in his keen eyes a sharp glitter that bespoke a fine-honed focus.

And well he might need it! In a blur of motion and sound, the Riders of Rohan 
flew by, silver and grey, gold and green as the sun glinted off of hide and 
hauberk, hair and heraldry. The thought of all of those trampling hooves did 
nothing to ease the Dwarf's tension, but he held his peace and his place, 'til 
of a sudden Aragorn stood and called out in a strange tongue to the last of the 
riders. Cries floated back, rippling up that line to the head and with a 
startling suddenness, the entire formation bent, swinging back about to surround 
the three companions in a moving circle of lances and iron-shod hooves. At last, 
the war-horses, obedient to their masters' command, halted, and Elf and Dwarf 
sat ill at ease before the lance points of the Rohirrim, watching as one of the 
riders detached himself from the press.

Tall he was, and from the crest of his helm flowed a white horse tail. Blue eyes 
the color of an autumn sky glinted as he considered the strangers, and his hair 
hung in two long braids down his back. After a moment, he spoke, using the same 
tongue that Aragorn had at first, but then quickly switching to Westron. "Who 
are you, who walk in Rohan without the king's leave?"

"Strider I am called," said Aragorn. "Beside me are Gimli the Dwarf, Gloín's 
son, from the far kingdom of Erebor; and here is Legolas, prince of the elven 
realm of Mirkwood. And we walk without the king's leave, for we knew not that it 
was needed. But who asks?"

"Then you are late come to Rohan," the rider replied, fixing his hard stare upon 
the Ranger. "This past six-month have we required all to present themselves at 
Edoras for judgment. As for my name, I am Éomer, son of Éomund and the Third 
Marshal of the Mark. But whence came you, and how is it that you appear thus, 
seemingly from the earth? For we did not mark you as we rode, and I would have 
sworn an oath that naught could escape a Rider's attention that goes upon our 
fields!"

"From the North are we come, and you marked us not for we go with the favor of 
the Lady of the Golden Woods." At that, murmurs sprang up, and Legolas stiffened 
beside Gimli, eyes darting about as he picked up the fear and ill-feeling 
contained in those whispered words. But Éomer, after a moment's consideration, 
tossed his spear to a comrade and leapt down from his perch. Drawing his sword, 
he advanced 'til Aragorn stood within easy reach. The Ranger did not flinch, nor 
move a muscle, only gazed back with equanimity, and even Gimli sensed the 
contest of their wills. But it was brief, and seemed born of wary curiosity 
rather than of animosity, and so the Dwarf remained still, waiting. At last, 
Éomer removed his helm, tucking it beneath one arm, and Gimli frowned 
thoughtfully, for the Third Marshal was younger than he had thought, now that he 
could see his face clearly.

"The Lady of the Golden Woods? So she exists in truth and not only in fables! 
Strange are the tales of that place… and strange, too, are your words and 
bearing, Strider, for such a name is not meant for such a man, not if I be any 
judge of character. How come you to associate yourself with the net-weavers and 
sorcerers of Dwimordene?" At that, Gimli felt a growl rise within him, hearing 
the suspicious note in the other's voice as he spoke of the Lady Galadriel and 
her folk.

But Aragorn answered calmly, "That is a long tale, but for your peace of mind, 
we mean no harm to any of Rohan's folk or beasts. We come rather in pursuit of a 
common foe: the Orcs whose trail you return upon took captive two of my friends, 
and we do but seek redress… and the return of those whom we love."

"That company was eighty strong," Éomer said with a shake of his head. "They 
would not have feared so few, and you would have died ere ever you set eyes upon 
your friends—and that if you were fortunate! But we have slain the Orcs, and 
among them there are no others to be seen." That last was uttered in a harder 
tone of voice, and the Marshal's eyes narrowed. "Unless they are wizards 
themselves, then I must doubt your tale! Or perhaps there is more witchery at 
work? Come, tell me truly who you are, and whom you serve!"

"Isildur's Heir speaks no lies, Third Marshal," said Aragorn softly, and an 
excited, incredulous buzz of whispers sprang up instantly at his words. But he 
continued as if oblivious to them, speaking without ever taking his eyes from 
Éomer's face. And as he spoke, it seemed almost as if his voice cast a spell 
over the men, for they fell utterly silent as his voice gained in intensity and 
power. Elf and Dwarf stared up at their friend in wonder, for to them it seemed 
almost as if they had never known Aragorn before, so great was the change in 
him. "Aragorn, son of Arathorn of the House of Elendil am I! I serve no man, but 
the servants of Sauron I pursue into whatever land they may go." With a flash, 
Andúril appeared in his hand, and bright gleamed that blade, as the Ranger 
continued, "Narsil was this blade called of old, and with the ending of this 
age, it has been reforged, as was foretold in ancient times. Now you are 
answered, Éomer, Marshal of the Riddermark, so declare yourself swiftly: where 
do you stand? At my side, or against me?" There was a profound silence as all 
struggled to come to grips with this startling declaration, but a slight smile 
played about the mouth of Legolas the Elf as he gazed at Aragorn. Almost elvish 
seemed Arathorn's son in that moment, and no part the rough and worried Ranger; 
indeed, to the Elf, caught within the snare of a shadow he could not escape, it 
seemed that a clear light seemed to radiate from the other, if only briefly ere 
that fire was hidden once more.

Éomer, for his part, stood very still, as one who feels himself poised on a 
precipice and knows not yet which way to incline. But under the pressure of 
Aragorn's bright gaze, the Third Marshal bowed his head, stepping back almost 
involuntarily. As if that movement had broken the spell, another bout of murmurs 
erupted, all in a flurry of disbelieving, awe-struck Rohirric that neither Gimli 
nor Legolas could fathom. Their companion said naught, and if he understood the 
confused mass of voices, he did not let it show, remaining focused upon Éomer. 
At length, the Marshal held up a hand for silence, and spoke a few sharp words 
to his men, who ceased to speak quite suddenly. "Strange words, my lord, but no 
stranger than others that I have heard of late." The Man of Rohan bent his clear 
eyes upon Aragorn once more, then darted a swift glance at Gimli and Legolas ere 
he spoke once more, rapidly and sharply, in his own tongue, addressing the rider 
to whom he had given his spear. The man nodded, though he cast dark looks at 
Legolas and Gimli, and a doubtful one at Aragorn ere he and the others retired 
some four horse-lengths to sit upon the path.

Turning back to the companions, the Marshal jammed his sword, point first, into 
the earth and set the helm over the pommel. "Some things I would not speak of 
before my men," said he. "And though I would trust you, Aragorn, there are still 
many dark questions to be asked. Chief among them would be whence comes the horn 
that you bear?"

"You know Boromir of Minas Tirith, I see," Aragorn replied.

"I know of him, and I have seen him before," Éomer responded grimly. "And I know 
the history of that horn, so I ask again: how came you by it?" And Gimli, 
hearing the doubt in the other's voice, bristled on his friend's behalf.

"Not through murder, as you suspect," the Ranger replied with a tight smile. 
"But you guess correctly that Boromir is no more. The Orcs whom you have lately 
battled slew him beneath Tol Brandir!"

Éomer sucked in a hissing breath at that and shook his fair head. "Ill news 
indeed! And I fear that those of Minas Tirith will grieve to receive it! Yet if 
the heir of Denethor traveled with you, then how came you to escape the Orcs?"

"As I said, the Orcs took captive two of our friends, and that seemed to be 
their objective for they broke away once they had them in hand. Boromir it was 
who bought our lives by destroying the archers, leaving us free to follow once 
the remaining Orcs were dealt with."

"Why should the Orcs wish to take two members of your party and leave the rest 
alive?"

"Now you touch upon matters that I may not speak of here, for there is no time 
to explain them," Aragorn replied.

At which, Éomer shook his head and grimaced, sighing heavily. "I would believe 
you, for there is in your voice and face that which bespeaks honesty. But I may 
not break the law on such faith as is built upon ten minutes' acquaintance. If 
you will not come with me now, then it is the sword and that I would not see!"

"Nor would I," Aragorn responded. "But I may not abandon my quest while the 
slightest hope remains for our friends."

"But your hope has failed, for as I said, there were none but Orcs among the 
slain!"

"None that your eyes could see, for our friends wear the raiment of Lórien, even 
as we do. If you missed us upon the plains, beneath a bright sun, it is unlikely 
that you would have seen either of my friends under the dark eaves of Fangorn, 
were they in fact present. And that at least remains to be discovered."

"Sorcery again," the Marshal muttered. "It casts all into doubt once more! I am 
sorry, Aragorn, for truly, I would believe you! But I am not my own master, for 
I serve Théoden King, and the law of the land requires me to take all strangers 
with me to Edoras."

"Then we are at an impasse, for I may not abandon my quest until it is proved 
quite fruitless."

"And I may not permit you to go free!"

"Stubborn indeed!" Gimli muttered, attracting a puzzled, somewhat suspicious 
look from Éomer. Quirking a heavy brow, the Dwarf demanded, "Is there indeed 
aught that would convince you to trust us?"

"I can think of nothing, short of your presence in Edoras."

"Then you shall have it!" As one, Aragorn, Gimli, and Éomer turned to stare at 
Legolas, who had risen and spoke at last. The Elf's glance darted swiftly from 
Gimli's face to Aragorn's, and went thence to settle upon Éomer. "If you were to 
have a hostage as a pledge of our conduct, would that be enough?"

"Legolas, are you daft!?" Gimli hissed, astonished and alarmed by this 
unexpected turn. Aragorn said naught, but gazed hard at the Elf.

"We tread the path of necessity," the elven prince replied simply, without 
looking away from the Marshal. "Come, Éomer of Rohan, what say you? Would my 
presence be sufficient to convince your king of our good faith?"

"It may… in any case, it would convince me. And if the king shares not my 
opinion, still, Aragorn and Gimli may have time enough to satisfy themselves 
that indeed their quest is finished." The Marshal glanced at Aragorn, seeming to 
ask what his thoughts were in this matter.

But before Aragorn could speak his mind, Gimli rounded fiercely on the Ranger 
and demanded, "Say not that you agree with this… this madness!"

"The Rohirrim have not the habit of mistreating those who stay beneath their 
roofs," Éomer interjected with some asperity. "He will be in no danger, and so 
long as you hold to your word, he shall soon see the free fields again."

"And what mean you by that?" Gimli snapped, as Éomer laid his hand upon the 
hilts of his sword, seeming to suggest that the Dwarf would do well to say no 
further. At the same time, Legolas laid a hand upon his friend's shoulder, 
gripping hard in warning.

"Peace, Gimli!" the Elf said softly. "What choice have we? And though you have 
been careful to say nothing in the days since Boromir's death, I know well that 
I am of little use to you as I am. You shall not miss me, and at least thus I 
shall serve some purpose other than to slow you and give you cause to worry at 
night. Even when you believe me to be asleep!" the Elf said, which caused Gimli 
to dart a furtive, somewhat embarrassed glance at Aragorn, who spread his hands 
slightly as if to acknowledge that he, too, had been fooled. Elf and Dwarf stood 
gazing at each other, and Gimli's dark eyes were black with concern. But Legolas 
only smiled slightly and shook his head, seeming to achieve a measure of much 
needed peace with that gesture and decision. With a final squeeze, the Elf let 
fall his hand from Gimli's shoulder and stepped to one side, joining Éomer. 
"Good hunting!" Then, turning to Aragorn, he added, "Have an eye on the Dwarf! I 
fear that he may hurt himself!"

"You—!" Gimli managed that much ere words failed him, and it helped not at all 
that both Éomer and Aragorn were all too clearly amused by his reaction.

"Come to Edoras as soon as you may," Éomer said, addressing first the Ranger and 
then his irate dwarven companion with his eyes. "And at least I may speed the 
journey, for we have spare horses. Alas! Our victory was not without cost!"

"I am no rider!" Gimli growled, and graciously forbore to add that even were he, 
he would rather have shaved his beard than accept a horse from Rohan when it 
held Legolas captive. Even if the mad Elf is agreeable to this scheme!

"Then you shall ride behind me," Aragorn replied firmly, ending the matter. "If 
nothing else, Gimli, a speedier journey will see Legolas released sooner." Which 
logic was difficult, if not impossible, to refute, but the Dwarf did not have to 
like it. Nevertheless, when Éomer had a horse brought to them, Gimli let himself 
be boosted into the saddle, and he glowered as Aragorn swung easily up before 
him.

"Fare well for a time, then," Éomer said. "May you find what you seek!"

"You have my thanks, Éomer," Aragorn replied. "Until Edoras!" At a word from the 
Ranger, the horse—Hasufel—turned from the riders and sped away, carrying Ranger 
and Dwarf with him. Turning back, Gimli was astonished to see how swiftly the 
beast ran, for soon he could not even make out Legolas standing at Éomer's side. 
If only it will run so fast on the return journey, I may yet grow to like 
horses! Or at least a horse! the Dwarf thought, gritting his teeth as he clung 
to Aragorn's waist. The miles fell away, and as the sun began to set, the forest 
eaves loomed tall and darkly forbidding before them. Aragorn spurred Hasufel on 
over a low rise, and the horse snorted, tossing its head as the scent of burnt 
wood and flesh filled the air. As they broke through the brush and into a 
clearing, the Ranger brought his mount to a halt, guiding the horse by subtle 
pressure of his knees to turn round so he could get a clear look at the 
surrounding space. Smoke rose still from the ashes that lay cooling upon the 
earth, and grim weapons were piled carefully upon the ground. The last rays of 
the sun shone dully through gaps in the leafy canopy, and Gimli, who was at home 
in the deep and closed places of the earth, felt almost claustrophobically aware 
of the trees that grew close-pressed all about them. Indeed, they seemed to bend 
inward, as if to trap the brash mortals, and the Dwarf shuddered. Aragorn 
murmured something in Sindarin that sounded for all the world like a prayer, and 
shook his dark head as he dismounted, warily surveying the woods. An owl cried 
out mournfully as the sun set, and then took to wing, a shadow streaking through 
the dimly defined branches. All about them, the harsh caws of the crows were 
heard, and the air was laden with the smell of battle and death.

Thus did Fangorn Forest welcome its guests, and it was with uneasy hearts that 
Aragorn and Gimli settled themselves for a night beneath the trees.



*******

* Ranach khim, Legolas?: Do you still wander, Legolas?

**govyat: me forcing one word and a prefix together that probably don't fit 
well, namely "together" and "joining."

I get my Sindarin from Ardalambion (put that into yahoo's search engine): good 
stuff, even if I doubt I'm doing this properly, even with such short sentences 
and words. 



~~~~~



Chapter Twelve
 ...The Forest for the Trees...


"It will be a cold night!" Aragorn glanced up at that muttered complaint, and he 
gave a soft bark of laughter at the obvious suggestion contained therein.

"No colder than others we have passed, and the answer is still 'no'!" the Ranger 
countered, and wisely did not smile at the glower the Dwarf turned on him. From 
the moment they had arrived in Fangorn, the age-old dwarven prejudice against 
woodlands had reared its head, and the other's agitation would have been amusing 
but that Aragorn, too, was aware of a knot of dread in the pit of his stomach. 
He knew not precisely whence it came, but having survived the wilds of Eriador, 
Gondor, and Harad, he was not about to dismiss that instinct out of hand. And I 
have heard too many strange tales of this forest for my peace of mind. Were it 
not for Celeborn's words at our parting, perhaps I might have given them less 
credence, but I could never doubt what I feel now: there is something 
disquieting about Fangorn, though I know not what! That was why he had forbidden 
the Dwarf to set his axe to any tree, and insisted upon the laborious and 
occasionally disgusting task of collecting fuel from the charnel fires of the 
Rohirrim. Gimli had grumbled against the restriction quite vocally–indeed, 
though they sat now before a fire, the Dwarf would, ever and anon, 'suggest' 
that they seek more abundant fuel for the night–but the Ranger paid such 
complaints little heed and refused to let them upset him, knowing full well the 
reasons for the other's black discontent. Since their parting with Legolas and 
Éomer, the Dwarf's temper had been grim indeed, which tended to make for an 
uneasy companionship. But Aragorn had known enough Dwarves to recognize the 
signs of one deeply worried on a friend's behalf, and so he was willing to 
accept at least some of the other's censure for his own part in the breaking of 
their trio.

In truth, however, Legolas's offer, once made, could hardly have been overruled; 
it certainly could not have been retracted. That still would not have kept the 
Ranger from intervening had he had less faith in Éomer and the Rohirrim, but 
there had been also in Legolas's voice a sense of relieved determination that 
bore careful consideration. He needed to feel useful–to regain his balance, in 
all senses of the word. Well do I know that feeling, Aragorn thought, heaving an 
inward sigh as he recalled his own anguished, youthful frustrations and fears, 
all come to a head one day in a cave in Harad. He had found his way out of that 
bleak psychic space, though not without help, and he hoped now that Legolas 
would be able to do the same. May he find in his captivity purpose enough to see 
him healed in body and mind! For though Morgoth and his creatures, from Sauron 
to the lowliest Orc, had slain many an Elf, still the most terrible blight that 
any of that high race could succumb to was that despair that loosed the ties of 
life. I would not see Legolas drive himself to so grim an end for naught! And 
almost immediately he felt a twinge of guilt for doubting that the Elf's 
resourcefulness. We are all at loose ends, and I am weary… so very weary. And 
frightened, if I am honest! A creak, as of wood shifting, instantly drew the 
Ranger's eyes to the surrounding trees, and Gimli, too, glanced about uneasily. 
But there came no further alarm, and Dwarf and Man relaxed slightly.

"You have been among these horse lords, Aragorn," Gimli said suddenly in a low 
voice. "Tell me, did Éomer speak true, that the Rohirrim do not harm their 
captives?"

"Legolas has the least to fear of the three of us, for his presence will be read 
as submission to the law of the land, as well as the guarantor of our honesty," 
Aragorn replied. "But in any case, the Rohirrim are not cruel captors. At worst, 
they would hold Legolas in Edoras, or expel him from the realm if we should fail 
in our promise. But he would not be harmed unless he harmed one of the king's 
subjects."

"And are you certain that such fine-honed points of honor remain unblunted after 
so long an absence on your part and so hard a year on theirs?" Gimli demanded.

"All things change in Middle-earth," Aragorn admitted, "But I cannot see Rohan 
allowing so old a custom to fade all in a day. It has been long since I rode 
with them, but I have passed through Rohan several times, and most recently just 
ere September of last year. Times were hard and fear was rampant, but other, 
less venerable tradition still lived, so I would guess that this one does as 
well. All of which aside, Éomer seems to me honest: I do not believe he would 
lie, even to save himself, and that does not surprise me, given his father."

"Hmmph!" Gimli snorted but then he sighed softly and shook his head, stroking 
his beard contemplatively as he stared into the dancing flames. "Well… we shall 
see, and I hope that you are right, Aragorn. But if you are not, then the Third 
Marshal shall answer to me! And his king, too, if need be!"

"I doubt it not," Aragorn replied, and risked a slight smile. But the Dwarf did 
not respond, keeping his dark eyes fixed upon the fire as he scowled. A 
rustling, scraping noise, as of something large and unwary moving, sounded just 
then, and Aragorn jerked his head left, hand going swiftly to the pommel of 
Andúril. For some moments, the sound continued on, and then fell suddenly 
silent. The Ranger continued to gaze intently into the deep shadows, but he 
could see nothing and even his sharp ears picked up naught but the usual night 
sounds of a forest. Still suspicious but unable to find any immediate cause for 
his own alarm, he turned back to the fire, and to Gimli, who relaxed only when 
Aragorn did.

"Cursed trees!" the Dwarf muttered. "I shall never understand what that Elf sees 
in them." A pause, followed by: "Why did he do it, Aragorn?"

"I know not what put it into his head, but Legolas spoke truly: we had no 
choice, for Éomer had none."

"And you trust Éomer because you knew his father?"

"Yes."

"Even though the son has done naught to earn that trust?"

"Perhaps I should have said, I trust that Éomund's example and teaching were not 
wasted. Beyond that, Éomer is the cousin of Théodred, the king's only son, and 
all that I know and have heard tell of the heir to Rohan's throne tells me that 
he would not befriend one unworthy of friendship."

"But all of this is hear-say," Gimli said through clenched teeth.

"As was the story of Gandalf, and that of Frodo, Bilbo, Legolas, Elrond, Boromir 
and your father at the council," Aragorn countered, raising his brows. "At some 
point, one must yield to one's own judgment in matters of trust and belief. I–" 
A crackle, a harsh caw and the sound of madly flapping wings, as of a flight of 
doves or crows startled from cover broke out, and this time Aragorn did stand, 
advancing a few paces toward the trees with Andúril in his hand. Gimli marked 
where the Ranger's left hand strayed, toward the small of his back where another 
blade was strapped, and he reached for his axe. But an eerie feeling crept over 
him as his fingers touched the wood, and of a sudden, the Dwarf felt 
irresistibly warned against the notion of taking his weapon to hand. He knew not 
why, for it was hardly a logical feeling when danger seemed to threaten, but he 
obeyed the impulse, waiting until Aragorn, once again frustrated by the opaque 
darkness, returned to the flame-lit circle and seated himself. "Think you that 
this will continue all night?"

"I know not," Aragorn replied, setting Andúril down unsheathed at his side. 
"Fangorn is a strange place whose secrets are untold. Once, forests such as this 
stretched the length of Eriador, and Elves and men likely knew quite well what 
perils and wonders they contained. But in these days of forgetfulness, who can 
say what lies at the heart of Fangorn? Even Celeborn knows not, and he wandered 
the forests of Beleriand ere that land was broken and drowned."

"Some things are not meant to be known, perhaps," Gimli mused darkly, eyes 
flicking to the looming trees on either side.

"Perhaps not." Dwarf and Man fell silent, listening to the sigh of the wind in 
the tree tops, and the occasional hoot of an owl. Hasufel snorted and swished 
his long tail, seeming alert but as yet unafraid, which Aragorn counted a good 
sign. The steeds of Rohan were bred for endurance but also for intelligence, and 
they were aware of many things that a Man might miss. So long as the great 
war-horse remained calm, likely there was little to be concerned about. But 
horses do not count the unknown as dangerous, the Ranger thought. And whether 
Gimli speaks truly or not, there are some things I would prefer never to know… !

"Did we drive him to abandon us?" Aragorn blinked, pulled out of his own 
reflections, and he stared at the Dwarf with some concern, but also a certain 
exasperation. Dwarves I have known, and I know them to be a tenacious folk, but 
if ever I thought to see one so troubled over the fate of an Elf, then let 
lightning strike!

"Doubtless he felt he served Merry and Pippin better as a hostage than as a 
hunter. And much though it pains me to admit it, he is correct," he replied, 
deciding that blunt, even brutal, honesty might jar the Dwarf out of his current 
cleft. Gimli shot an incensed glare at him, but Aragorn pressed on, 
unintimidated, "I would have preferred to have his help in a forest, but had he 
persisted in that wandering state, he would have been more of a danger than a 
help–to himself and to others."

"So now he waits to learn his fate at the hands of the Rohirrim!"

"We have already discussed this, Gimli," Aragorn pointed out, beginning to tire 
of the repetition. "If you will not trust Éomer, and you will not believe me, 
then will you at least trust Legolas himself, who chose to accept the risk, even 
knowing so little about the men of Rohan as he did? Or," he asked, switching 
tacks suddenly, "will you relieve him of a limb the next time you see him simply 
for having followed the dictates of his conscience?"

"I–How did you–?" Gimli demanded with a splutter, flustered at having been 
outmaneuvered by the Ranger.

"I guessed that you would leave him his head, if only because you would 
otherwise miss his reaction to your assault!" Aragorn replied graciously, 
leaning against the tree at his back as he crossed his arms over his chest, and 
Gimli's eyes narrowed. For a fulminating moment, the Dwarf seethed, and the 
Ranger had to wonder whether he might not have misjudged the fine line between 
an acceptable jibe and one that touched too close to fears. But then, with a 
suddenness that surprised them both, Gimli began to laugh–a deep, basso chuckle 
that grew to such proportions that the Dwarf's whole frame shook with it. 
Aragorn, watching, had to bite his lip against sympathetic reaction, for though 
well-versed in methods for bolstering flagging spirits, he had not anticipated 
that a taunt born of an instant's desperation would have such a… dramatic… 
effect. Likely it was but the sudden release of tension built over days–weeks, 
rather!–of hard and fear-filled travel, but still, it was welcome.

"Dúrin's… beard…!" Gimli managed and drew a deep breath to steady himself. He 
shook his head and snorted, which caused Hasufel to prick up his ears as if in 
appreciation. "Miss his reaction I would! Your pardon, Aragorn, for my temper is 
not for you, but for this–" a gesture that encompassed at once the forest and, 
beyond that, the death throes of the Third Age–"and our own helplessness before 
it."

"I know, else I would have spoken sooner," the other said, with a real if 
exhausted smile. "And given that my temper is only little better than yours, I 
fear my words would have been harsh!"

Gimli sobered instantly, peering closely at the Man who sat across from him, and 
after a moment, he said, "You are weary, my friend. Why do you not rest?"

"If you will take the first watch, I shall not waste the time."

"Then sleep! Laughter restores the soul, and even the body somewhat. A few hours 
of guard duty shall not seem such a chore now," Gimli said, standing and 
stretching ere he tugged his hood up against the cold.

"Thank you," the Ranger sighed softly, and indeed, wasted no time at all. Within 
a few minutes, he slept soundly. Gimli gazed down at the other for a time, 
considering this stranger who had come to assume such a large place in his life, 
and who yet remained something of an enigma. There are times when I think him 
too elvish for his own good, and others when I marvel at him for what I suppose 
must be Boromir's elusive 'humanity.' Today, I have seen him as a king uncrowned 
who yet has a power over any other that I have known, but never did I think that 
he had enough dwarven blood in him to make me laugh so! Shaking his head, Gimli 
turned to the woods once more, wondering what manner of creatures waited just 
beyond the fire's light. The strange noises that had disrupted their 
conversation thrice now were unlike any that he was accustomed to hear in a 
natural context. Short of a lightning storm, or the pines that burst upon the 
heights of Erebor in the depths of winter. But it is not so cold as that, and 
there is not a cloud in the sky. With a glower and feeling uncomfortably 
vulnerable in the darkness, Gimli kicked another wood chip into the fire and 
watched the flames lick higher. Andúril gleamed bright, seeming made of flame 
itself as it reflected the ruddy light, and that stark reminder of their danger 
pulled the Dwarf's thoughts back to his odd unwillingness to handle his axe. 
What stopped me at that moment? And why? If something were to approach, would I 
be able to protect us both? Of course he would, for it was ridiculous to think 
that he would permit any harm to come to either himself or Aragorn based on some 
vague fear of his own weapon. And it is quiet now. Perhaps it was nothing….

But 'nothing' rarely caused in a Ranger the almost skittish distrust that 
Aragorn had exhibited earlier, and Gimli drummed his fingers on his wide belt, 
pacing to take the edge off of his unease. Minutes slipped by, and if anything 
menacing roamed in the darkness, it gave no sign of its presence as the stars 
spun out their course overhead. Indeed, Gimli began to relax somewhat, to think 
that it was his own fearful concern for Legolas and weariness that made of 
present apprehensions more than they were. Which was why he almost missed it 
when it appeared. Behind him, Hasufel nickered softly, attracting his attention, 
and stamped, shaking his great head, ears twitching. Unfamiliar with the body 
language of horses, Gimli eyed the beast skeptically, wondering what that meant, 
when movement caught his eye. Turning sharply to his left, he stared at the 
shadows, which seemed somehow to have grown thicker. Thicker… and the air was 
stiflingly heavy of a sudden, laden with must and earth it seemed. Still, the 
Dwarf frowned, for he saw naught…

"Tûrg Mahalu!*" Gimli hissed, forgetting himself, but only for an instant. Then: 
"Aragorn!"

In a flurry of motion, the Ranger roused, automatically grasping the hilt of his 
sword as he sprang to his feet. But then he stilled, gazing about with wide 
wonder and no small alarm. For all about them the woods groaned and creaked, and 
though the darkness seemed to dim even their fire, still, he could see huge 
shapes moving in the shadows. Tall as trolls, and taller, even, they seemed to 
sway and glide through the night. Aragorn felt a shiver run down his back, 
struck by the feeling of unseen eyes watching him. Hasufel's frightened whinnies 
echoed in his ears, yet had no power to stir him in the face of this migration 
of who knew what creatures.

How long the two of them stood there, watching in mute fascination and fear, 
neither knew. But when at last the sounds faded into the distance and the air 
seemed to clear a bit, Aragorn pressed his left hand over his eyes, struggling 
to accept what he had seen–whatever it might have been!–and wishing vainly that 
his thoughts did not feel quite so muddled by fatigue. Hasufel's complaints 
eventually roused him, and he sheathed Andúril and went over to where the horse 
stood. Speaking soothing Rohirric in a low voice, he stroked the animal's neck 
and glanced over at Gimli, who was shaking his head numbly. "What was it, do you 
think?" the Dwarf asked.

"I cannot hazard even a guess," Aragorn confessed, and sighed softly. "One thing 
is certain, I shall not sleep tonight!"

"Nor I!" Gimli replied. "A plague upon this accursed place!" he muttered, 
tossing another bough onto the fire for good measure. Then he sat down before 
the tree, where Aragorn had been earlier, so that he could at least feel that he 
had something solid at his back as he watched the darkness. Once Hasufel had 
calmed–due in no small part to the encouragement of the few carrots that Aragorn 
had unearthed in the horse's saddlebags–the Ranger settled at his companion's 
side. The shade grew deep, but though naught else disturbed the night, they 
watched the forest and did not sleep.

***

Morning sun kissed a hobbit's cheek, and Meriadoc Brandybuck stirred, tensing. 
Opening his eyes to mere slits, he searched his surroundings, expecting to see 
naught but Orcs. But instead, he saw the walls of a cave, and heard the rush and 
bubble of a stream, and there were no other creatures about. Unless it were a 
hobbit, for beside him lay Pippin, still curled up asleep and snoring faintly. 
Wellinghall! Merry thought, and let out a sigh of relief as he sat up. Although 
it had been two days since that last march among Orcs, he still had difficulty 
accepting that he was free now, such was the power and horror of that memory. 
The hours of running had dragged on and on, 'til Merry had grown numb–numb to 
pain, numb to exhaustion, and he had moved only because if ever he stopped, he 
knew not whether he was alive or dead. When the riders had surrounded the Orcs 
in the forest, Merry had been beyond caring, almost, and but for the noise and 
clamor, he would have missed the battle entirely.

As it was, we almost smothered, Pippin and I, Merry recalled. For one of their 
captors had been cut down by an arrow, and his body had fallen upon the two of 
them, shielding them from hooves and swords and such like, but also threatening 
to crush the breath from them. And I shouldn't have liked to die coughing bits 
of filthy Orc hair. I think that, more than anything, let me wriggle out from 
under the brute, bound as I was! He and Pippin had managed to writhe their 
awkward way into some bushes, where they had, against all odds, fallen asleep 
while the battle raged, and the Rohirrim had performed their funeral rites. When 
they had awakened, the battleground had been quite silent, and the scent of 
burnt bodies had filled the air as the two hobbits had once more wormed their 
way forward, seeking now a weapon with which to cut their bonds. What a sight 
that was, that little space in the woods! I wish I could forget it! Granted, it 
had been somewhat gratifying to see Uglúk's head on a poll, but Merry decided he 
could have lived out his days peacefully without ever having seen the body of 
any living creature displayed in pieces for his appraisal.

"Just keep moving!" Pippin had encouraged him when Merry's wriggling efforts had 
ceased in horror. "Never mind the scenery, and don't think of what we're lying 
on, just keep going!" And so they had slithered and inched their way forward, 
groping for freedom. They never had found that blade, but in the end, it had not 
mattered: for just as the hobbits had reached the point of desperation, a sound 
like a deep horn had startled them, and the most extraordinary creature had 
appeared upon the field. "Hoom… what have we here? Two snakes? Two worms? What 
indeed?" A large, splay fingered hand had scooped each of the hobbits up and 
held them, amazed, before the face of a great, tree-like creature.

"And now we are here!" Merry said aloud, marveling at the fact.

"So we are, but must you announce it to the world? Some of us were sleeping," 
Pippin yawned as he woke, and then smiled to show that he meant naught by his 
complaints. "Good morning, cousin! Did you sleep well?"

"Better than I have in a long while, thank you," Merry replied. "An Ent's hall 
is better than an Orc's camp any day!" Both hobbits were silent awhile, gripped 
once more by the dread of those awful days on the march. "Do you think that we 
shall be able to find a way across Rohan to… to wherever it is that we must go?"

"Who knows? Treebeard might help us there," Pippin replied. "But honestly, I 
don't know what we shall do next."

"I just hope that the others are all right," Merry said somewhat anxiously.

"Me too," Pippin said, hesitating ere he sighed and added, "Probably, though, 
they're dead. You saw all of those Orcs! How could anyone escape them? We shall 
have to look to do our part without them, I suppose… whatever 'our part' might 
be, now that Frodo and Sam are gone too! I don't know whether it will amount to 
anything in the end, but I suppose we must try, if only to honor their memory."

And Merry, listening to his friend's gloomy words, cocked his head at him, 
scrutinizing the other's face intently. "You have changed, Pippin, you know 
that?"

"Well, so have you!" Pippin replied, looking away uncomfortably.

"We all have, but you… it's different with you," Merry insisted. "You've grown… 
sterner, I would say. More gloomy at times, and more thoughtful." He paused, 
then said, "I think it suits you in a way. Even if I could do without your 
saying that Strider and the lot of them are dead now!"

"I guess I've seen a few things since Moria, that is all," said the other with a 
tiny shrug. "That doesn't leave much room for jokes and the like. I don't know, 
Merry, whether I shall ever laugh the way I once did!" He shook his head, then 
looked up determinedly. "Well, let's not dwell on it. Let's see a bit more of 
this place!"

With that, the hobbits scrambled off of the great table on which they had slept 
and poked about the grounds of Wellinghall. There were few wrought-items–none, 
in fact, save the jars of water and a ladle and cups–but somehow, that seemed to 
fit perfectly, and the hobbits felt themselves quite at home in fact. After so 
many days without a roof over their heads, perhaps almost anything would have 
done, but there was something comfortable about Treebeard's home. As if it was 
made for him, and he for it, Merry thought. Like hobbits to a hobbit hole! He 
and Pippin were watching a caterpillar work its way up the stem of a long shoot 
at the base of a tree when a great hou-um! sounded, announcing the arrival the 
old Ent.

Treebeard strode up with a speed that struck Merry as remarkably out of place in 
a creature whose motto was "Don't be hasty!" But the Ent seemed in good enough 
humor. "Well, my fine fellows, I see you are awake at last! Did you sleep long?"

"Yes, and quite well, thank you," Merry replied. "And you, Treebeard? Have you 
been gone for long?"

"Hmmm… no, not for long. Not, that is, for an Ent. Even a century is hardly long 
to us!" Treebeard replied, going to one of the jars and dipping himself some 
water. "But perhaps to you folk, it would seem long, for I have been up and 
about since before the sun rose, for I had much to think about and to do."

"Where did you go, then?" Pippin asked, breaking out a wafer of waybread that, 
miraculously, had not been crushed.

"Back to the battlefield where I found you, for I wished to think, and to think 
about dark things, and for that I often need… hmmm… encouragement. Is that the 
word? It is best to see what one thinks of, in any case. But I left not long 
after you fell asleep, and well that I did, for it is much work to summon an 
entmoot."

"An entmoot? What is that?" Merry asked, frowning.

"A gathering of Ents, no more and no less. Such a thing has not happened in 
recent years, for we seldom have reason to come together like that. We shepherds 
have our own flocks and our own concerns to tend to, we do. And some may not 
leave their charges, for that is not safe. Huorns are not always good, and they 
are wild, often. Indeed, it was difficult to keep them in check last night, and 
I fear that were it not for my presence, and that of Bregalad, they might have 
harmed the strangers."

"Strangers? What strangers? Where?" Pippin asked. For though Fangorn forest was 
vast and marvelous, he could not quite imagine anyone wanting to come there 
purely for pleasure.

"I do not know, for they were not my concern. Some kind of Men, they seemed to 
me, and no threat. No, I paid them but little heed, for it is Isengard and 
Saruman that concern me now. I have seen his creatures of late, and I know well 
their sign: white hand and black field. All the… the…that which you smaller folk 
bear for protection against blows, which is round, often… or not… hide and wood 
and metal…."

"Shield?" Merry suggested after a moment.

"Ah, yes! Shield, that it is. Yes, the shields that were left behind have all 
that same mark."

"Really?" Pippin perked up at this. "I thought the Mordor Orcs had disappeared, 
but I couldn't really be sure. So it was only the Isengarders who faced the 
Riders!"

"But what does that mean?" Merry asked, and got a shrug for an answer.

"That the Mordor Orcs didn't fancy following old Uglúk down to ruin? I don't 
know, but it strikes me as odd, that's all. I'd have thought that Orcs, being 
such contentious folk, wouldn't pass on a fight if there was any chance of 
winning it."

"Maybe they figured they couldn't win, then," Merry replied. "Rude of them, not 
to share that thought! I would've liked to have been told, so I wouldn't have 
worried so much about our eventual emancipation!"

"Well, that is a mystery for another time," Treebeard said. "In the meantime, we 
shall have to do something about these Isengarders. They have troubled us more 
than once before, and laid waste to trees in various places. Wanton, hateful, 
axe-bearing, blood-scented… um… well, you understand. Horrible creatures that 
they are, we shall not stand for it. Something must be done! And so tomorrow, we 
shall away to the entmoot, and put to the others the fate of Orthanc!" In that 
ringing declaration burned a century's worth of slow-built wrath, and the 
hobbits glanced at each other in awe. Whatever it is that Treebeard plans, I 
should not want to be in Orthanc when he sets the wheels turning! Merry thought 
with a slight shiver. But I have a feeling that I'll be there in any case, for 
all the good that I'll be. I'm sure it will be a great… something… but I feel as 
though I could do without greatness of any sort. I'd give anything to go home 
and sit before the river and let the day just wear away! But I'll not see the 
Shire again…. Merry paused. He had been thinking that it would be long ere he 
returned home, but his thoughts seemed to have bent somehow, and he wondered at 
the horrible finality to that sentence. Surely not never… only for a long while. 
I must be catching Pippin's mood of late! Or else I'm still in an… Orcish… frame 
of mind, I suppose. Yes, that's it. That's surely it… !

But doubt had settled on his heart, and bury it deep though he might, he could 
not forget it.

 

 

****

* Tûrg Mahalu: An attempted bit of Dwarvish, "Mahal's (Aulë's) beard!" Seemed 
appropriate. ;-) I love Ardalambion!




~~~~~





Chapter Thirteen
Perplexities


Gimli's eyelids felt like leaden weights, and although it was a struggle to keep 
them open, fear provided ample inspiration as the long hours of the night passed 
with excruciating slowness. And when, at intervals, fear failed, the Dwarf would 
press thumb and forefinger against his eyes until the burning ceased ere he 
opened them again. But naught out of the ordinary occurred, and the birds were 
singing sweetly as Gimli blearily watched the first rays of the sun come 
streaming through the canopy. If I had a stone, I would throw it to silence 
these mocking-birds! he thought, casting an uncharitable look at the treetops. 
Beside him, Aragorn stirred, raising his dark head, and the Dwarf considered the 
Ranger's profile for a few moments. All through the night, while Gimli squirmed 
and shifted, Isildur's Heir had sat quite still with his knees drawn up to his 
chest against the cold, and his arms clasped around them as he watched the 
darkness. Towards the early hours of the morning, he had bowed his head, and 
Gimli had thought his friend had succumbed to his weariness at last. That, too, 
had been cause for the Dwarf to fight to remain awake, for he had not the heart 
to disturb the other if Aragorn had managed to snatch a few hours' sleep.

Now, though, the Dwarf had his doubts, for though the Ranger seemed alert 
enough, his was not the attention of one who has rested soundly. There was 
determination in the other's eagle-keen glance, but also a certain grim 
quiescence, as of one who, emerging from long meditation upon some imminent 
doom, now faces it with the knowledge that there is naught to be done but endure 
with dignity. After a few moments' silent contemplation of the newborn day, 
Aragorn turned to Gimli, and the weight of the Ranger's stare was palpable. The 
other's eyes seemed darkened somehow—as seas beneath a stormy sky, lacking their 
usual quicksilver glitter, and Gimli shivered, taken aback. Aragorn saw his 
reaction, and a slight smile curved his lips ere he released the Dwarf, saying, 
"Come, my friend, let us finish this business of ours!" With a grunt of 
agreement, Gimli hoisted himself to his feet, wincing slightly as blood rushed 
to numbed, tingling extremities, and he watched with something akin to envy as 
the Ranger rose smoothly, apparently none the worse for having sat still as a 
statue all night upon the cold ground.

"Where shall we begin, though?" the Dwarf asked, grateful that the other took 
the lead naturally so that Aragorn would not see him limping along as 
circulation returned to his legs. The Ranger strode to the edge of their 
clearing, which ended in a short drop to the battlefield, and stood there, 
gazing down over the ruin. "Upon the death grounds?"

"No, for there will be little to read there, unless Éomer is less thorough than 
he seems," Aragorn replied. "And I think it will be of little use to search the 
area round here, for see!" The Ranger pushed aside some brush to expose a swath 
of scored earth. "Whatever hoard of creatures passed us in the night, they have 
trampled the ground, destroying any marks the hobbits might have left. Or 
rather," and now Aragorn stooped to run his hand over the earth, scooping up a 
fistful of loose soil, broken roots, and one wriggling worm, "rubbed away…." He 
let the topsoil slip through his fingers 'til naught but the worm, the roots, 
and a few very small pebbles remained, and then he tilted his hand to let them 
slide off and fall back to their native element.

"Overturned," Gimli corrected, "I would say that an odd sort of plow or shovel 
had been used to turn the earth, but that the spacing and shallowness do not 
merit such a conclusion. But trust a Dwarf in matters of excavation: something 
has dug into the ground and torn up what lay beneath."

"It has indeed," the Ranger murmured, frowning as he considered the marks. 
Rising, he began to describe a circuit about the edge of the clearing, pausing 
here and there to examine some mark or other which, to the Dwarf's eyes, seemed 
all rather similar in nature. Eventually, though, Aragorn hefted a stone rather 
than a bit of dirt or a few pebbles. "What think you of this, Gimli?" he called 
over his shoulder. Coming to stand at the other's side, the Dwarf sucked in a 
breath and stared at this latest find in bafflement.

"I have worked for many years as an apprentice to my father, who has much skill 
with gemstones, but also with stone-carvings," Gimli said slowly, reaching out 
to take the rock from the Man, and he turned it in his hands, scrutinizing it 
carefully. "But this… never have a I see such a thing before!" For the stone had 
runnels on its surface, almost as if chiseled. But the marks were not smooth 
enough or straight enough for craft, and as Gimli ran a finger along the inside 
of one of the grooves, he felt the minute, rough-broken edges, and a fine, 
powdery dust coated his fingertip. "I should say that the rock simply… 
crumbled... disintegrated, almost, as if exposed to some grinding surface. But 
that is impossible!"

"Even had mining been my trade, I should bow to your judgment in such matters," 
Aragorn replied, shaking his head. "But as a hunter, I, too, am at a loss, for I 
have never before seen such marks. It is unusual for prey to grind away the 
stone as it goes in any case, but even so, those that have the weight to do such 
damage have not the… art, I suppose I shall call it, to achieve this." The 
Ranger stood and stood silent for a moment as he made what survey he could 
through the underbrush. "Well," he said at last, "we shall find nothing here, 
for these tracks have covered or buried any that the hobbits might have left. 
Let us make a survey of the river banks, for that is the likeliest destination 
of two escaped prisoners."

Man and Dwarf crept then through the tangle of trees and brush, and the mystery 
of the stones and earth trailed after them, occupying their anxious thoughts. 
But Fangorn merited close attention if one would go unmolested and unscathed 
through its trees, and as they wormed through the gnarled trees. Gimli was 
privately amused by the fact that Aragorn had always to duck to avoid branches 
and the like, whereas he, a Dwarf with little love for forests, was easily able 
to pick his way forward. Well, not easily, perhaps, Gimli amended, grimacing as 
he tripped among the roots of a tree and cut his hand on a thorny bush as he 
tried to steady himself. But I need not crawl to fit through some of these 
spaces! But in fact, Aragorn seemed little troubled by the terrain, facing each 
obstacle with practiced equanimity so that he, at least, acquired no new scrapes 
or bruises in spite of the clinging plant life. At last, though, the stream 
appeared before them, and the Ranger halted, glancing up and down the river bank 
to get his bearings. "This way!" he beckoned, turning to his left to follow the 
river downstream.

"Why this way, and not the other?"

"Assuming that either Merry or Pippin remember aught of our planning in 
Imladris, they would know that if they followed the flow of the stream, they 
would come within sight of Edoras. The Rohirrim have few permanent 
settlements—all of them are well-fortified and strangers rarely know of them, 
for they do not put them on maps. Helm's Deep, the stations of the Marshals of 
the Mark, and Edoras are the only towns that are well known to outsiders, and 
none of them, save Edoras, lie near enough to the Entwash to be seen from its 
banks."

"Sound reasoning if one knows so much about Rohan, but I doubt me that the 
hobbits would recall such details. I rarely saw any of them, save Frodo, spend 
any length of time in the library at Rivendell."

"True enough, but nothing stops us from searching upstream as well. This is but 
a place to begin. Carefully!" Aragorn warned, quickly reaching back to steady 
the Dwarf as the latter slipped on the damp roots of a large, twisted tree.

"Thank you," Gimli said, once he had regained his footing, and he cast a glower 
at the offending tree. "Well, lead on then! 'Twill be a long search!" The Dwarf 
sighed. A long search, and I hope not a hopeless one! To bear such ill news back 
with us would be torment indeed!

***

Darkness heaved and swelled in the field of his vision, darkening the land, 
distorting it in a dizzying, sickening flow that was a mockery of the graceful 
movement of water through a streambed—

"Steadily, Master Elf! I should not wish to answer for you to your friends!" 
Legolas blinked and fastened his eyes on the golden apparition of the Third 
Marshal of the Riddermark. Beneath a bright morning sky, Éomer frowned at him 
uncertainly, and though the Elf knew full well that it was simple concern for a 
guest's safety that prompted that regard, still, he felt it as a measure of his 
own strangeness. How must I seem to him? Even as mortals once appeared to me: 
sickly, weak… damaged. And is that not the truth? Legolas made an effort to sit 
up straight, to focus thoughts stretched out and scattered along the tides of 
darkness and too many mortal years, conscious still of his dignity before the 
eyes of a Man at least, but only just. "Should we halt for a time?" Éomer asked 
in an undertone, which only cut more deeply into the Elf's wounded sense of 
self.

"No, for you have need of haste," Legolas replied in a low voice, and did not 
add, For it would humiliate me if you stopped on my behalf! But the horse 
marshal seemed to hear his thoughts, for a quick flare of uneasy understanding 
flashed in those blue eyes, and with a cry, he raised his hand and signaled the 
small escort of ten onward. Legolas clung to Arod's reins as the horse darted 
forward, and he swayed against the saddle peak, ill at ease with such 
unnecessary equipment. No Elf needed such gear to control a horse, and Legolas 
felt the intervening layers of leather and metal as an impediment to the usual 
bond that sprang instantly between himself and any good beast. But perversely, 
he relished it. That awkwardness fit him perfectly at the moment, and so he had 
not asked his captors to remove either bridle or saddle, feeling that if there 
was to be any awkwardness, he might as well have a cause for it. One which lies 
outside of myself. I know well whereof Aragorn spoke, and I know the dangers, 
but I cannot seem to get round the… the nausea… that suffuses all my being! Only 
at intervals could he rouse himself from that confused state, and after he had 
made his offer to Aragorn and Gimli (and Éomer as well, naturally), he had 
slipped back down into the depths of elvish desperation, feeling that strength 
born of a moment's need fade away even as his companions had been swallowed up 
by distance.

Why he should feel thus, he did not know, and the frustration was incredible. 
What is wrong with me? This wound is painful, it jars me, it is a distraction 
and a hindrance, but should that be enough to plunge a prince into this despair? 
Legolas might never have been injured before, but he had seen others who had 
been, and none had succumbed so quickly or easily to the disruption of govyat. 
Even he had been surprised, for in the hours after Boromir's death, he had 
thought he had borne up well enough. But with the rising of the sun, something 
had changed in him: perhaps the journey had demanded more of him than he had had 
to offer, but as noon of their first full day on the hunt had approached, he had 
felt the first strangling tendrils of darkness curl about him. And since then, 
it had not released him for a moment, and the Elf felt his most basic faith 
shaken. What is this darkness? What is it? Why is it? And in the moments of his 
deepest desperation, he could shape but one thought, one plea: Lift this veil, I 
beg! But it remained, and Aragorn and Gimli were gone, leaving him feeling quite 
bereft, even if he had insisted upon this course of action himself.

From the downs to Éomer's fortress that rose up from the plains had been a 
journey of some hours, and as they had ridden, Legolas had walked the fine 
border between the waking world and that of dark introspection, held in 
suspension between those two states by the jarring unfamiliarity of riding a 
saddled mount. It had taken him some while to realize that Éomer rode at his 
side, keeping him under careful watch, but he could spare that detail little 
attention, intent upon keeping his seat and his sanity. When at last they passed 
the gates of Aldburg, it had been quite late and the moon had risen. The Third 
Marshal had ordered most of his men to stable and bed, but a few horsemen he had 
retained at the ready. Legolas he had steered firmly into the halls to be seen 
by his surgeon, a gruff-faced, greying man with thick fingers who had proved 
unexpectedly skilled and gentle. Not that Legolas had been in much of a mood to 
appreciate such seeming paradox, feeling himself lost in alien surroundings. For 
the surgeon spoke no Westron, only the rolling, slow speech of Rohan, and Éomer 
had not translated, whether because the Marshal had not the skill or because 
there was little of import to translate, Legolas did not know.

"I would not ask you to try your strength," Éomer had said when the man was 
nearly finished. "But I must reach Edoras by the morrow, for Théoden King shall 
have much to say to me. I fear," and here, the Third Marshal had offered a 
slight, somewhat bitter smile, "that I, too, may come under the king's judgment. 
And worse for me, for I shall have a cell, rather than a room, if things go 
ill!"

Legolas had frowned at that, shaking his head sharply as he ran the words once 
more through his mind to make sense of them. At length he had asked, "Why should 
the king judge you so? You have one hostage, is that not enough?"

"'Tis not a matter of one or three, but my decision to ride against the Orcs 
that shall be questioned. That I allowed two strangers to go freely and 
unescorted about our realm will be a secondary matter," the Man had replied, 
sinking down onto the stool that the surgeon had lately abandoned. Éomer gave 
the big man a courteous nod of thanks, and the other bowed in reply, then left 
the room silently. Legolas, meanwhile, shrugged slightly, unused to the sling 
that the other had fashioned for him. It helped to ease the burning pain across 
his shoulders, but did little to ease his mind. "Maldis tells me that your wound 
is not poisoned, which is glad news. But is there aught else that we can do for 
you? For though I mean no offense, I must say, Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, that 
you do not seem well to me." The young man bent clear blue eyes upon the Elf, 
and there was a deep concern and puzzlement there, but also a great heart, and a 
willingness to help that was at once strangely comforting but also alienating. 
Perhaps if it had been Aragorn sitting across from him in that moment, Legolas 
would have accepted the offer, for at least the Ranger was not unversed in 
elvish ways. But Éomer knew naught of what he suffered, and for all that he 
seemed an honorable man, the prince knew too little of him to trust him with the 
deepest fears of the elvish soul.

"No, there is nothing to be done on my behalf," Legolas had said quietly. The 
other had stared at him some moments, then given a slight shrug, as if to say 
'As you will it!' and then risen, laying a hand on Legolas's arm.

"Come then, for we begin tonight and take our rest in Edoras tomorrow."

So they had left Aldburg. And the ride through the night had been swift, almost 
perilously so for Legolas, given his condition, but now, as the sun reached its 
midmorning station, the courts of Edoras rose high above them, gleaming in the 
light. The Elf gazed at them a moment, watching the scintillating effect of sun 
on golden eaves, and tried to let the play of light dissolve the darkness that 
seemed to gather so thick about him. But the shadows seemed to mock his efforts, 
clinging tightly to that hall, tarnishing its brilliance, and the Elf sighed 
inaudibly, retreating once more to the familiar torment of his daydreams. Some 
time later, loud voices crying out in Rohan's strange tongue roused him once 
more, as did his mount's change of pace. The high-spirited Arod snorted as he 
slowed to a trot and then (reluctantly, it seemed) came to a halt as guards 
swirled about them. At his side, Éomer signaled him to dismount, and the Elf 
dropped heavily to the earth. Amidst the bustle of men come to take charge of 
the horses, and the cries of greeting, Legolas found himself distracted almost 
to the point of pain, yet he could not withdraw as he had earlier. Buffeted on 
all sides by the Rohirrim and their horses, retreat was impossible, and he cast 
his glance round, seeking some place of quiet from which to observe, if he 
could, the proceedings. And as he looked, his gaze riveted upon the Third 
Marshal once more, who stood some little distance away, speaking softly and (or 
so it appeared to the Elf) urgently with the commander of the guard. Legolas 
drifted his way, drawn to a familiar face at least, and as he approached, the 
commander glanced up, uneasiness rippling across his bearded face.

Éomer looked over his shoulder and, seeing the Elf, beckoned him over to join 
them. "Brand, this is Legolas the Elf, Prince of Mirkwood forest. He is my 
charge and my guest until the king judges me," the Marshal said, using the 
Common Speech out of courtesy to the Elf. "By his own will has he come hither, 
and he has suffered injury doing battle against plundering Orcs, and I would not 
have the hospitality of Rohan put to shame before him."

"I shall take the message up to the high court, my lord," replied Brand. "But if 
I may warn you, Third Marshal, things have gone ill here since you rode away in 
haste. Tidings have come from the Fords of Isen and they are not good: Théodred 
is fallen, and the king's mood is black with grief!"

For a moment, Éomer said nothing, but Legolas, watching the Marshal closely, 
clenched his teeth as that hideous, oily darkness cast its pall upon the other. 
It coiled itself about him, and the Elf felt the terrible sense of loss that 
gripped Éomer as those words registered their significance. "Théodred, dead?" he 
asked, and Brand nodded unwillingly. "And how many with him?"

"Too many, as is ever the case," the man paused, and his eyes flicked swiftly to 
Legolas, ere he said quickly, "Your pardon, prince!" And then came a flurry of 
Rohirric, while Éomer listened grimly. Finally, Brand paused, and the Third 
Marshal nodded slowly.

"Thank you for telling me. But I must see to our guest, and then go before 
Théoden King, if he will it. Come with me, please, Legolas," Éomer said, tersely 
polite, and the Elf obeyed, following along as the young man went swiftly up 
into the city. In silence they walked, though all about them came the voices of 
men and women going about their daily business. But there was a sense of 
tension, of fear even, in the air, and the Elf marked many warriors stationed at 
intervals, and many messengers who darted through the streets on their errands. 
And everywhere there are shadows! What is wrong, that all lies so deep in the 
shade? Legolas wondered, shivering. "This way!" Éomer turned suddenly into a 
gated inner court, and led the way across the yard to a tall house or inn. The 
Third Marshal seemed known to the keeper, who merely bowed and gave Legolas but 
a passing odd look. He said some word, which Éomer acknowledged briefly ere he 
turned left and led the way up the stairs. At the top of the stairwell lay a 
comfortably furnished room, and as Legolas went to stand at the window that 
looked out over the courtyard, the Third Marshal closed the door behind them and 
sighed softly.

A moment he remained facing the door, and pain and loss echoed within the 
confines of his soul. But Éomer had been born to the hard discipline of a 
warrior, and so he set his grief for Théodred carefully aside, and then he 
turned toward Legolas. The Third Marshal prided himself on his ability to judge 
a man's character, and he had never yet erred in such matters. But never before 
have I faced one of the elvish race! And so he stared at the Elf's back, 
attempting to order his own impressions. There was about the other some force or 
sense of presence that raised the hackles—like a note drawn out upon a taut 
string, one that slid uneasily into discord—but he felt drawn to Legolas in 
spite of that disharmony. Curiosity, perhaps, played its part, for whatever his 
words to the three wanderers the day before, Éomer was not one to reject the 
novel simply for its strangeness, though he balked at too easy acceptance. 
Rather, he preferred to study his unfamiliar guest until he learned the key to 
the other's moody, distracted silence. Crossing the room quietly, he came to 
stand at the other's side, and a swift-darted glance out of the corners of his 
eyes confirmed his suspicion that the Elf, for all that he gazed out the window, 
saw little or naught of what lay before him. Nevertheless, Éomer decided that 
what lay before them might be the best place to begin. "Edoras has ever been the 
heart of Rohan, even in the ancient days of its construction. This guest house 
was built to serve the needs of officers and heralds. Yonder lies the great hall 
of Meduseld, where the king's household is kept. That king is Théoden in these 
days of doubt, but before him Thengel, whom my father served ere his death. A 
pity that you came not hither in former days, for Thengel was accounted a strong 
king, as was Théoden in his youth."

Legolas was silent a moment, and Éomer wondered whether the Elf had heard aught, 
but at length, the other spoke in soft reply, "More than a thousand springs have 
I seen. Some five hundred have passed since Éorl came, and Men call this hall 
old! A blink of an eye to we who dwell in Mirkwood, and yet those years lie 
heavy upon us now. Your Théoden is dying, and his son is dead: the children of 
our children go to the grave before us, and it will grow but worse as the season 
turns!" The Elf shook his head and drew a deep breath, striving for balance. "My 
apologies, Third Marhsal. I fear that my tongue grows wayward as darkness 
waxes!"

"Do you feel it, too, then?" Éomer asked, his interest piqued by that last 
remark. "The brooding shadow that lies upon us?"

"It lies upon all things now," Legolas sighed, turning from the window as if in 
disgust, unable to bear the mockery of clear skies. "Even the stars no longer 
shine so brightly!" Again he paused, and shook his head. "But you speak as if 
something goes ill here, in this place, beyond the fall of the heir to your 
throne."

"Much goes ill here," Éomer replied grimly. "You shall see it for yourself, I 
doubt it not. In truth, that is why I brought you here, rather than present 
myself immediately to the king, for I would not see one of good faith plunged 
blindly into the mire that is politics in Rohan of late. I shall have to 
acquaint you with my sister, if I am able, though perhaps she will take to you 
of her own accord. In any case, Master Elf, know that we of Rohan have always 
followed the House of Éorl. Five hundred years may be but little time to one 
immortal, but to us, it is long indeed, and tradition is hard to break with. 
Thus when the royal house falters, so do we all, for we do not judge our kings 
lightly or swiftly. Théoden was once a man of great wisdom and heart, but it is 
now more than ten years since the shadow fell upon him. Fools we were, to be so 
long blind, for now the noose is drawn tight, and who knows but that we approach 
the last gasp?" Éomer grimaced in scathing self-recrimination. "The king is 
under the sway of one councilor—do not ask what has happened to the others!—and 
this councilor is called Gríma, or Wormtongue when his back is turned. Does that 
not tell you something?"

"Wormtongue… yes, it does," Legolas responded.

"Wormtongue has the king's will bent to his every whisper, and he would control 
all that moves in Rohan. I told you not to ask after other advisors, but should 
you do so, you will find them quite peacefully asleep in the cemetery grounds. 
And I doubt not that one day all of Rohan will lie upon the pyre, for Wormtongue 
will not wage war and fights ever to undermine those who perceive the threat to 
the east. Even against Isengard, which lies within our bounds, he was slow to 
move, and ever he feeds men's fears. What can we do against a sorcerer? Against 
a power so ancient and deep in its treachery? Or is it treachery? Surely one so 
high must have a purpose! Such words he speaks, and men listen, for there is 
that in his voice that is… compelling," Éomer admitted.

And Legolas cocked his head, and for once, his green eyes were as sharp as of 
old as he asked, "Why do you tell me this, who am a stranger and a hostage in 
your land?"

"I tell you because Wormtongue will not like your presence here. Ever he speaks 
against the folk of the Golden Wood, and though I will admit that such suspicion 
of Elves is native to my people, I like not the hatred and fear that I hear in 
Wormtongue's voice when he speaks of them. Dwimordene may be a perilous realm, 
one that a mortal should not dare to approach, but let it lie! What use in 
stirring up fear when there is little basis for it? Truly, until Aragorn's words 
yesterday, I knew not whether the Elves remained there, for we have seen naught 
of them since time out of mind," said Éomer.

"This Wormtongue may rest at ease, for I fear that in my present condition, I am 
little threat," Legolas sighed, feeling his momentary focus begin to fade once 
more before the reminder of his helplessness.

"Are you not?" the Third Marshal asked in a soft voice, narrowing his blue eyes. 
"Are you not, indeed, Legolas of Mirkwood? There is some power in you that draws 
men to you, or else repels them. I can feel it even as we speak! And though 
Aragorn spoke carefully in a difficult place, still, do I not guess correctly 
that your errand is more than mere vengeance? That some other, greater matter 
draws all of you on?" The Elf said nothing, only returned the other's gaze 
impassively, but even silence was an answer, and Éomer nodded. "Say nothing 
then, and keep what secrets you can! But I would have you know this: I am loyal 
to Rohan, and to the bond that it has with Gondor. To those who oppose Mordor's 
agents, I would offer my aid. At present, it may be little indeed, and doubtless 
it shall grow less ere the day ends," the young man said with bitter humor. "But 
such as it is, it is yours to ask. For as I said, I would trust you; I would 
trust Aragorn, and learn more of him."

Legolas blinked at that, taken somewhat aback by the intensity of those words, 
and for a moment, he felt the other's desperation akin to his own: it was a 
brief moment, but it struck something vital in the Elf. Who are you, young one, 
that you have such faith? The question sprang suddenly to mind, and the prince 
considered the strange twist of fate that had thrown him together with this 
brash, eager, sincere young man. It was… refreshing, and though the Elf was 
almost afraid to hope, his wonder remained with him, refusing to fade away after 
a few minutes' silence. Minutes! What are minutes to me? And yet, despite a fine 
elvish disdain for mortal reckoning, they were important nonetheless. "Your 
trust is a greater gift than you know," Legolas said at last, searching the 
other's face with care. "Few are they who would offer the same upon so brief an 
acquaintance, and," the Elf laughed softly of a sudden, "they walk now in 
Fangorn, by your leave!"

Éomer gave a short bark of laughter as well, and shook his head. "Then it seems 
we deserve each other! Fate is a strange mistress indeed, but not without a 
sense of justice, even if only ironic… or is it poetic? Well, we must still make 
our appearance before the king, but I am glad that we have spoken. Come! Let us 
end this waiting." With that, the Third Marshal strode quickly to the door, 
which he opened and waved Legolas through ere he followed. Down the stairs went 
they, and across the courtyard to a small gate in the fence that led onto a 
small, well-paved path bound for Meduseld. Up a flight of broad stairs they 
climbed, and came at last to an open yard where stood the entry to the great 
hall. Legolas would have gone swiftly on to those doors, but Éomer touched his 
arm, slowing to a halt. "I would not do you any discourtesy, but I should warn 
you that weapons are not allowed within the hall, save only to high officers of 
the realm. And even they are not always immune to such requirements. Háma, who 
commands the guard here, will see to all such matters, and you may put your 
trust in him, for he is an honorable man."

"We of Thranduil's realm follow custom where it leads, so long as it leads not 
into evil," Legolas replied. "Lead on!"

Sure enough, the door warden greeted the two courteously but firmly demanded 
that they surrender their weapons. Éomer said naught, only unbuckled his 
sword-belt and handed it over, though it was clear that he was unhappy with the 
arrangement. Legolas unclipped his quiver from its new position at his side, and 
gave up his dagger. The commander—Háma?—pursed his lips as he gazed at the Elf, 
and hard blue eyes wandered over Legolas's person, seeking any suspicious bulges 
or outlines that might indicate a hidden weapon. But at length, the man bowed, 
and he signaled his men to open the doors. Together, Elf and Marshal stepped 
through, and after the bright morning, the hall seemed dim indeed. Legolas 
shivered, suddenly gripped with a sense of dread and uneasiness. The darkness is 
spun thick as a spider's web here! Glancing at Éomer, he saw that the other, 
too, suffered from doubt, but there was anger beneath the fear. The Marshal's 
boot heels clicked upon the flagstones, seeming too loud in the silent hall. As 
a tomb it is, Legolas thought, and shivered again, pulling his cloak more 
closely about him as he walked.

Down a hall, to another set of doors, where they were admitted without question, 
and up to the foot of a dais where sat a Man aged beyond any that Legolas had 
ever seen before. At his feet sat a second man, and the Elf had but to look at 
him to realize that he gazed now upon Gríma Wormtongue, for there was an aura of 
cruelty and malice that clung to him like flies to carrion. This is what 
controls Rohan? Legolas thought, and felt a flare of disgust and amazement.

"Ferthu Théoden hal!" At his side, Éomer bowed, giving the traditional greeting 
to his sovereign. "I come before you as custom and law demand, and I bring to 
you one who seeks the leave of Théoden King to walk in Rohan: Legolas, Prince of 
Mirkwood." At which, the Elf bowed as well, as gracefully as he could manage 
with a sling.

"And what of the others, Éomer?" the king's voice was harsh, rusty with disuse, 
it seemed—or else feeble with old age, Legolas knew not which was closer to 
truth. But it was clearly the voice of one quite displeased. "Brand reports that 
you spoke of him as hostage as well as guest. Where now are the others?"

"They are now in Fangorn, and unless aught befalls them, they shall come hither 
when their errand is done, my king."

"It is not given to you, Third Marshal, to judge who may and may not walk in 
Rohan!" Wormtongue spoke for the first time, and his tone was sharp, though the 
Elf discerned the malicious glee that underlay the other's severity. He has 
waited for this to happen, for Éomer to make a misstep! For how many years has 
he waited? Legolas wondered, green eyes narrowing as he gazed at the councilor. 
"Further, it is not given you to abandon your post at your own whim, taking men 
who are not yours to command. What excuse can you make for your departure from 
this court, without permission and in time of peril?"

"The Eastfold was breached by Orcs, your majesty," Éomer replied, refusing to 
dignify Gríma by addressing him. He kept his eyes upon his king, and the 
councilor hissed softly. "More, there came to me word that Orcs of Mordor were 
with them, though they split away from the main host early on. As the safety of 
the Eastfold is my charge, I rode against them, seeking to prevent our enemies 
from learning aught of our movements or from turning aside to plunder our 
people."

"And you did not think to warn us of this? Nor of the law that binds you to 
protect your king, when Edoras is vulnerable? How many men did you draw off from 
the defense of these courts in excess of those allotted you?"

"The law also bids me protect those who are beholden to the king," Éomer shot 
back, darting a poisonous glance at Wormtongue. "In destroying the Orcs that 
prey upon our people and raid our herds, I have acted to protect my king and 
uphold the law! Had I ridden with fewer men, I would have been remiss, for we 
would have risked a defeat."

"And then you compounded your error by allowing two strangers to wander free in 
our realm!" the councilor continued as if the Marshal had not spoken. "Instead, 
you take hostage one of them—the only one among them to respect Rohan's 
laws!—and expect us to take no heed of your actions? I fear you demonstrate a 
woeful lack of judgment! Or is it a lack of loyalty?" Wormtongue demanded, and 
Legolas caught his breath at that.

"Do not you speak to me of loyalty!" Éomer grated. "Théoden is my king and my 
uncle, and I would never betray him!"

"That is for others to decide, not you, dear boy," Wormtongue said silkily as he 
raised a hand. "My liege, with your permission?" Théoden sighed heavily, but he 
nodded, and Wormtongue called out something in his own tongue. Guards appeared, 
rushing to obey the summons, but Legolas saw the ashen disbelief in their faces 
as they realized what they were called upon to do. And the Elf, watching through 
the eyes of one not bound to merely physical sight, nearly choked as the 
darkness seemed verily to blossom, twining itself about all present, drawing 
them into the evil that seemed to prevail over all of Arda. "Take him below to 
the dungeons, and let him learn the price of his folly. I suggest, Éomer, 
Éomund's son, that you take this time to reflect upon your actions, for you may 
soon be required to answer for them!"

"I will answer gladly, if only the king judges me!" Éomer retorted, and then, 
shaking off the restraining hands of the guards, he walked proudly away, seeming 
to drag his captors with him rather than the reverse. A door opened and then 
closed again behind them with ominous finality, and Legolas turned back to the 
dais, feeling unfriendly eyes upon him. Wormtongue was staring at him, ill at 
ease, clearly, and the Elf met that stare dispassionately. For a moment, the two 
stared, and it gave Legolas some small pleasure to realize the other's 
frustration as that malicious gaze met the blank wall of elvish inscrutability.

"It is a pity that you had to witness that, Legolas of Mirkwood," Théoden's 
voice sounded, and Legolas glanced up at the aged monarch, who regarded him now 
with great weariness. "Rohan once feared no treachery."

"The Age grows dark, o king of the golden hall, and all are beset, from Mirkwood 
to Gondor," Legolas replied. "Treachery comes in many forms, but rarely does it 
spring from an honest heart."

"An honest heart? Éomer has not one!" Wormtongue interjected. "My liege, it may 
perhaps be best to wait upon judgment of this one. Realizing that he is a 
stranger, he has none the less been complicit, however unwittingly, to the 
breaking of the laws of the realm by offering himself as hostage. Such a matter 
needs careful consideration ere any action is taken."

"We shall consider the matter, but he came in good faith, and Rohan has a long 
tradition of keeping its hostages well," Théoden replied. "Besides which, he is 
a prince and injured as well: courtesy binds us to keep him honorably."

"Assuredly, lord," Wormtongue hastened to agree, though not without a deadly 
glare in Legolas's direction. "Shall I see to his lodgings?"

"Nay, let Éowyn see to him. 'Twill do her good to keep her mind from her 
brother," Thédoen sighed softly, raising a hand slightly. "Go now! Leave me and 
I shall send for you later. Éowyn will come soon." Legolas blinked at the 
dismissal, wondering where he was to go, but a guardsman signaled to him, and 
the Elf, after bowing once again, followed the man out of the throne room. The 
doors swung shut in his wake, and they went swiftly out to the courtyard once 
again.

"Wait here!" the guard said, his Westron accented but understandable, and the 
Elf nodded. The man hurried away, presumably to find Éowyn, and Legolas felt the 
tension drain out of him. The interview was over, and he was now alone in Rohan! 





~~~~~





Chapter Fourteen
Who Might Have Met Too Late


"I could learn to hate sunset," Gimli declared, glaring at the fiery ball as he 
leaned against a tree with his arms folded across his chest. "With the westering 
sun, time feels taut, stretched out as flax upon the spindle! Long shadows it 
makes… and long faces!" the Dwarf added, casting a significant look at his 
companion who was squatting at the edge of their camp once more, gazing down at 
the earth… and past it to the battle grounds. Aragorn looked up, and his somber 
expression was lightened a moment by a brief flash of mirth for the pointed 
jibe. "We may yet learn something from the field, my friend," Gimli chided 
gently, knowing not why he bothered to continue to insist upon hope when he felt 
it not. Or only very little! But the Ranger's unsettling mood had remained dark 
since the dawn, and Gimli knew not whether he could bear to see the other lapse 
back into that state of despair that he had evinced after Moria. Especially when 
Legolas, too, suffers and needs me. Needs us! If Aragorn falls too, then I doubt 
that even a Dwarf could carry them both.

Still, he understood all too well the reason for the other's seeming depression, 
for all day he and Aragorn had wended their weary way up and down the banks of 
the Entwash without finding a single trace of anything two-footed, unless it 
were themselves. The Ranger sighed as he rose into a stretch, then walked slowly 
to the Dwarf to clap him silently upon the shoulder as he, too, gazed at the sun 
sinking low indeed in the sky. "You speak rightly, Gimli, and I thank you for 
the reminder. But let us go then and make our search ere we lose the light 
entirely," said he. Together, Man and Dwarf turned east once more and clambered 
down the short slope to the ash-strewn clearing. Gimli had rather expected the 
Ranger to begin at once, but instead, the other stalked towards the center of 
the clearing, bending his course to describe a short spiral in towards that 
point, and he spoke words that the Dwarf did not understand. What fey mood is 
upon him today? the Dwarf wondered worriedly, watching as Aragorn came to a halt 
facing west once more, head bowed. After a few moments of silence, the Dwarf 
could not bear it any longer. "Aragorn?"

The Ranger looked up with that same slight smile from that morning, and the rays 
of the sun lit his grey eyes with a golden brilliance, and in that moment, he 
seemed an unearthly creature, touched by the magic of the Eldar years. In 
Westron he now spoke, an enchanter working his craft, seeming to recite words 
long since committed to memory: "In fire ends all hope, but we are born of 
dearth; scatter wide the ashes then, turn the fields, salt the earth."

"What meaning, these words of yours?" Gimli asked, uncertain whether he liked 
the sound of them.

"Last rites for a warrior," Aragorn replied with a soft sigh as he let his gaze 
stray over the field once more. "The Rohirrim burn their enemies, and the ritual 
is very specific for laying to rest those who have fallen against them. One does 
not offend such custom lightly, even when need calls strongly."

"And may I now move?" Gimli asked, unsettled by this revelation. Aragorn nodded, 
and the Dwarf took a hesitant step upon the fields, grimacing as a puff of 
crushed cinder floated up. "Ominous words my friend. Do you expect, then, to 
find naught… or too much?"

"I have no expectations," Aragorn replied, beginning to retrace his steps slowly 
so as not to disturb any other marks upon the ground. Gimli, reminded once more 
of the need for caution, stepped carefully, trying to avoid anything that seemed 
like it might be a print. But for all that he searched and strained his eyes, 
the Dwarf could see nothing in this ruin and disorder that might help them. 
Apparently, the Ranger had come quickly to the same conclusion, for he uttered 
something in frustrated Sindarin ere he went quickly to the pile of grim weapons 
that stood as a stark counterpoint to the mound of the fallen Riders. Gimli 
joined him as the other began to very carefully pick through that pile. Helms, 
shields, cruel swords and daggers, the steel-tipped heads of arrows–Gimli and 
Aragorn burrowed deeper, their disgust growing as they uncovered the black 
ground beneath. No ashes lay there, and the earth was damp and muddy with the 
blood of the Orcs. Soon, the Dwarf's hands were stained with the foul stuff, and 
it was getting into his beard as well. Still they searched, though Gimli was not 
precisely certain what the other thought to find among the leavings of the Orcs. 
Nevertheless, he continued in the grim task, gritting his teeth. If I must bathe 
in Orcs' blood, I would at least have the pleasure of killing them! he thought. 
Mayhap I should ask what our purpose is here… but Aragorn seems to think it 
self-evident or he would have said something. Unless he truly has fallen under a 
fey spell! Something glinted, catching the Dwarf's eye just then. Recognition 
came an instant later and he gave a hoarse cry of dismay as he grabbed for it, 
nicking himself on a sword's sharp edge in his haste.

Aragorn paused in his efforts and turned to his companion. Gimli stood there, 
holding in his hands a large dagger, fair-wrought and set with red gems and gold 
damask upon the scabbard. Dulled was its glory by dirt and grime, but there 
could be no mistake, and Aragorn felt as though someone had punched a hole in 
his chest to rip out his heart. Reaching out, he touched the hilt and ran his 
fingers over the raised patterns that decorated the sheath. Mate to the blade 
that he had carried since Tol Brandir, there could be no doubt that it was 
Pippin's. There is still a chance that perhaps the Isengarders retained naught 
but the spoils, and that the Mordor Orcs took the hobbits… but only if I ignore 
all that I know of Orcs. And even were Merry and Pippin bound now for Mordor 
rather than Isengard, still, they would be lost to us. Carry me now Arwen, if 
thou wouldst! Shaking his head in denial and grief, he grabbed the Dwarf by the 
shoulders and half-shoved him from that deadly mound. Gimli staggered and went 
to his knees, overborne by grief, and the Ranger let himself down beside the 
other, closing his eyes against the sting of tears. Gandalf… Boromir… Merry and 
Pippin… we chose the right path, but to no avail! Isildur's Heir had lost many 
friends over the long years, and sorrow was no stranger to him, but this seemed 
such a pointless loss! Much though it hurt to consider Gandalf and Boromir, he 
could accept their deaths more easily, for each had been a warrior and had known 
well what it meant to live by the sword. In choosing that calling, or at least 
in taking it up willingly if not gladly, they had in some sense chosen also 
their deaths, however grievous, however painful, however prolonged. But the 
hobbits still reeked of innocence, and to one who had long been their protector, 
this brutal end wounded deeply, waking in him a sense of helpless outrage at the 
cruelty of fortune. Sobs shook him, quiet but racking nonetheless, and he was 
scarcely aware of Gimli weeping at his side.

It was some time ere Aragorn roused himself from the bleak stupor of grief, and 
by then he felt as though he had wept himself out, that come what may he would 
be unable to shed any further tears. In one way that was perhaps good, for he 
had had a chance to purge his grief for Boromir again and more thoroughly, and 
also to ease the heartache over Gandalf's loss as well. No more would he allow 
their deaths to haunt him, and so he wrapped his mourning for Merry and Pippin 
in fond memories and lovingly set it all aside in a closed corner of his mind 
and heart. There the hobbits would remain, silent company to all the other 
ghosts that marked his life. Now Aragorn sat quietly, feeling strangely calm–not 
precisely numb, but certainly not himself yet either and he stilled the anguish 
that trembled and sang within him. "Come, Gimli," he murmured, gripping the 
Dwarf's shoulders firmly in a gesture of comfort. "'Twill do no good to remain 
here." Under his guidance, the other climbed to his feet, and Aragorn steered 
him back towards the river, for Gimli seemed still dazed or blind. Several 
times, the Ranger had to support him against a fall as they clambered once more 
through the twisted, grasping trees.

Once they reached the river, both of them knelt down and began to wash the gore 
off of their hands and faces. The Ranger wrung out dripping shirtsleeves and 
rolled them up, scrubbing his forearms with some of the river silt. Then Aragorn 
ducked his head under the water and came up dripping, letting the shock of the 
cold help settle him. Beside him, Gimli cursed softly as he tried to get the 
dried blood out of his beard, and his hands trembled as he picked at the clots. 
After a good several minutes' effort, the Dwarf swore long and bitterly in his 
own tongue and pressed a hand over his eyes. His other hand he laid upon his 
knees, and the Ranger's eyes narrowed as he noticed the scarlet trail along the 
back of Gimli's left hand. Without asking permission, he reached out and caught 
the other's wrist firmly, lightly tracing the cut, and the swollen edges of the 
wound. "Gimli… whence came this?"

"Hmm?" the Dwarf glanced down and frowned. "That? I must have cut myself on 
something… a dagger or a sword, I think, when I pulled Pippin's blade from that 
pile."

"Make a fist," Aragorn ordered tautly, and the Dwarf frowned.

"Why?"

"Do it!" With a shrug, Gimli attempted to close his hand and hissed. His joints 
felt stiff, painfully so, and his hand shook within the circle of Aragorn's 
grip. Raising his eyes to the Ranger, he saw the grim look on the other's face. 
"The cut is poisoned," Aragorn announced tersely. Quickly he drew his own dagger 
from his belt and ere Gimli could say a word, he drew the edge across the back 
of the Dwarf's hand, below the first cut. "Let it bleed. Better yet, suck the 
blood and spit it out! I shall return!" And the Ranger was away once more, 
darting through the foliage with amazing speed considering the obstacle that it 
presented to one so tall. With a grimace, the Dwarf obeyed, cursing the Orcs and 
his own weariness that he had not even thought of the danger such a scratch 
might present. At least it is my left hand! But that might be small comfort, for 
some poisons spread more swiftly than others; he had thought grief had made him 
so unsteady on his feet, but now he had cause to doubt that.

Aragorn returned then, scrambling over the last knot of roots and bushes with 
blatant disregard for anything approaching his usual graceful passage, and he 
landed at the Dwarf's side with a soft grunt. The Ranger had his satchel with 
him, and he immediately withdrew a small vial filled with some sort of powdery 
substance. "What is that?" Gimli asked, for the sake of having a distraction.

"Ground moss," the other replied. "All Rangers carry it, for it works swiftly 
against most of the common poisons. Here," Aragorn dumped some of it into the 
Dwarf's water-skin. "Drink it down."

"This tastes like dirt!" Gimli complained after a gulp.

"Taste is the least of your worries, my friend! Drink!" Aragorn ordered, not 
pausing in his work. The cut was so shallow that his own stroke had done worse 
damage, so cleaning it was hardly any trouble. Using the same salve that he had 
used on Legolas, he then bound the Dwarf's hand tightly and sighed softly. "Let 
us hope that you need no more, and that Saruman has not 'gifted' his Orcs with 
anything more potent!"

"One scratch!" Gimli muttered, disgusted. Aragorn squeezed his shoulder firmly 
and beckoned him to rise.

"That is the way of evil: a drop suffices. I had thought to leave this place and 
ride some short distance, for after last night, neither of us will wish to 
remain beneath Fangorn's eaves. But the moment you seem to me to be worse, we 
shall halt."

"So long as you take me out from under these accursed trees, I doubt not that 
you shall note an improvement in my temper," Gimli growled.

"I shall hold you to that!" the Ranger responded smoothly, and the Dwarf 
harrumphed, but allowed the other to walk him back to the clearing to where 
Hasufel stood. The horse perked his ears up at their return, and Aragorn caught 
the animal's head in his hands, speaking softly to him as he stroked the velvety 
nose. Hasufel nickered softly and nuzzled the Ranger's chest, whether out of 
affection or hope of more carrots, Gimli could not say. After a few moments, the 
Man released the horse and began to strap their bedrolls and light packs to the 
animal's harness. It needed but a few minutes for him to finish, and then Gimli 
was boosted up into the saddle, and Aragorn settled himself before the Dwarf. 
"Ha! Geh, Hasufel!" Springing forward, the horse of Rohan obeyed the command, 
nimbly darting among and around the trees.

They burst from the forest's eaves just as the sun sank below the horizon, and 
the war-horse, tasting free air, let out a neigh and quickened his pace. Fangorn 
receded behind them, shrouding its mysteries with the night.

***

True to his word, Aragorn reined in only an hour after they had set out, for 
even a Ranger's strength is not bottomless, and he felt a need of sleep such as 
he seldom had before. But Gimli, also, was nodding, and he hissed when they 
dismounted, for the impact jarred his arm. Aragorn made him drink another 
medicine-laden draught of water, and insisted that the other sleep. And much 
though Gimli protested that he was quite well enough, the Dwarf soon fell 
silent, and his breathing grew deep and slow, leaving Aragorn the watch once 
again. And so Isildur's Heir paced in the darkness, wondering when his own luck 
would fail him. Four dead, two gone into blackest peril, and of the three left 
behind, two are injured! It was a grim tally, and Aragorn felt his own mortality 
close that evening, though so far as he knew, naught crept in the hollow of the 
night that could threaten them. I would Halbarad were here, he thought, gazing 
north. Not that he lacked faith in all others, but his cousin was his oldest 
friend, the first one he had made among Men all those long years ago. There was 
something reassuring in the continuity of that relationship, a solidity that 
helped to anchor him, even as Arwen did. Shall I ever see either of them again? 
he wondered. Shall Legolas see Mirkwood, and Gimli Erebor? And what of Frodo and 
Sam? Where might they be now? The Ranger diverted himself with trying to place 
the hobbits, based upon his best estimate of their traveling speed in difficult 
places. They ought by now to have found a way through the Emyn Muil, and have 
begun the journey through the marshes. From there it would be another several 
days' hard travel to the Morannon, assuming nothing untoward occurred.

And that is one assumption I can ill afford! Aragorn sighed softly, standing 
over the Dwarf as he wavered. Though it was hardly late, he had been awake now 
for the better part of thirty-six hours, and the labor had been both mental and 
physical. Whatever might lurk in the darkness, he had to rest now or sleep in 
the saddle, which would hardly do when he had an inexperienced rider to bear 
with him. With a sigh, and hoping that indeed there was naught afoot tonight to 
merit concern, he lay down at Gimli's back, making certain to set Andúril down 
where he could easily reach it. Pillowing his head on his left arm, he closed 
his eyes and was instantly and dreamlessly asleep.

When he woke again, it was to a grey sky heralding the coming of dawn, and 
Aragorn ran a hand through the tangles in his hair, grimacing as his fingers 
caught in a snarl and he had to yank to free them. Pushing himself up on an 
elbow, the Ranger leaned over his companion who still slept soundly. But sweat 
drenched the other's brow, and the Dúnadan grimaced as he laid the back of his 
hand to the other's cheek above the beard. He is feverish! Aragorn sat up, 
considering the problem. On the one hand, this was not entirely unexpected, for 
yesterday neither of them had noticed the danger quickly enough to prevent such 
symptoms as usually accompanied Orcish poisons. On the other, there was still 
the chance that this might indicate something more exotic than the usual toxins, 
something that Aragorn was not prepared to combat with the medicines that he 
had. Let us not think of that now! he thought to himself, checking the Dwarf's 
pulse. Still steady. That was a good sign at least, and if when Gimli woke, he 
was neither badly delirious nor in severe pain, it would be wise to continue on 
towards Edoras. If we rode hard, we might even reach it by late tonight, Aragorn 
mused. Privately, though, he was almost certain it would take them two days, 
simply because there was no point in pushing Gimli to the point of weakening 
him.

"Well, Legolas," he sighed softly, gazing south once more. "A good morrow to 
you, but I fear it shall be another day ere we greet you in Edoras!"

 

***

Legolas stood where his guide had left him and watched the rest of the guard 
detail watch him. They tried to be covert in their observation, but an Elf is 
not easily fooled, and the prince resigned himself to the stares and short, 
sharp glances tossed in his direction. It was rare that he felt self-conscious, 
for such feeling arises usually from a sense of self-doubt foreign to the elvish 
temperament. But he could not deny that today, he felt those piercing gazes as 
disturbing. How many are under Gríma's sway? he wondered. If the great can fall, 
so also can the lesser! And what shall they do now with Éomer, who has been 
named a traitor? He knew not the answers to his questions, but in spite of his 
pathetic state, he vowed he would discover them. And swiftly, for who knows when 
time may run out for the Third Marshal?

At that moment, a glitter of white and gold caught his eye, and he cocked his 
head as the guide returned. But Legolas barely paid him any attention, intent 
upon the one who followed in his hurried footsteps. She was tall for a woman, 
and her bright golden hair was loose, save for two braids that held it out of 
her face. White was her raiment, and a green stone glittered upon her breast. 
Young she was, but her eyes–blue as her brother's–were wary, as one who has 
known evil and greets with measuring caution the unknown. "Legolas, Prince of 
Mirkwood, here is the lady Éowyn, the king's sister-daughter. She will see to 
your needs."

"My lady," Legolas greeted her, bowing ere he looked her full in the face, and 
was surprised by how long she endured his gaze ere her eyes flicked to the side 
for relief. "I hope I shall be little imposition."

"You are none, my lord, for if the king commands it, it becomes my duty. And 
duty is never imposition," she replied simply, and glanced at the guide. "Return 
to your station, Ferthalf, and tell the king I obey."

"Yes, my lady," and Ferthalf bowed quickly and left.

"Come Master Elf, and I shall show you a place where you may rest, if you will, 
and acquaint me with your needs." Éowyn did not wait to see if he followed, she 
simply turned and began walking, and the prince hastened to match her stride, 
intrigued in spite of himself. He had met few human women, though he had seen 
them of course in his dealings in Laketown and Dale. But there was about this 
maiden of Rohan something that rang of steel and flint, and deeper, darker 
things beside that she yet held at bay. Back down to the guest house they went, 
and when they entered, this time the keeper came out from behind his counter to 
bow profoundly before them. Éowyn accepted the homage as her due, though it 
seemed clear that she needed it not and counted it as of but little importance. 
"Here is Legolas, a prince among Elves, and guest of our house. I would lodge 
him in your best chambers."

"Of course, my lady, this way!" The man led them up himself this time, and the 
Elf was amused to note the difference in the other's manners. Éomer had not 
inspired such deference, and Legolas wondered at that, uncertain whether to 
attribute it to Éowyn's sex or to a real difference in power in Edoras. Or some 
combination of the two, for it seems that Éomer, though well-loved by his men 
and respected as a warrior, is known to be out of favor with the court. Whatever 
the case, the innkeeper bowed them into a much larger and more lavishly 
furnished room, with two large windows set to either side of a door that led 
onto a small balcony. "Is there aught else that I may do, my lady…?"

"Bring whatever you have by way of medical supplies, and then see to it that we 
are not disturbed," Éowyn replied, and the man hastened to obey. As the door 
closed behind them, Rohan's daughter slowly circled round to face the Elf, her 
eyes darting over him in a careful survey ere she raised her eyes to his face 
once more. "Rumor spreads quickly in Edoras. Men say that you come out of the 
Golden Woods, and I can believe that. They say that you come as a hostage for 
strange friends, and I can believe that. They say," and here she paused, eyes 
narrowing as she gazed at him, "they say that you come with the Heir of Isildur, 
and that I would believe if I saw him. Tell me, Legolas of Mirkwood, what is 
true, and what is but wistful thinking among those who need hope in whatever 
form it presents itself?"

Legolas was silent for a time, considering anew this lady, and with no small 
admiration for her forthright manner. At length, he responded, "Rumor is for 
once not mistaken. I did come with Isidur's Heir, and with Gimli of the Lonely 
Mountain. We have all of us passed through the realm of Lothlórien, and your 
brother took me to hostage to give my companions time to complete their duty to 
our friends."

"'Tis said that the pride of the Elves suffers no bondage," Éowyn replied. "And 
yet you allowed this?"

"I offered it, my lady," Legolas said, raising a brow. "As would anyone of good 
will when friendship and loyalty demand a sacrifice." Darkness and light…high 
born, but bent double…. The prince paused as minute observations coalesced with 
sudden clarity, and then he asked softly, "Do you not know well whereof I speak, 
Éowyn of Rohan?" At which, she caught her breath, and wonder and a touch of fear 
flashed in her eyes briefly.

"How do you know this?" No denial, no retreat from his words–Nay, she would not, 
for I think she knows not how to retreat!

"An Elf is not easily deceived, my lady, even by one practiced in the art," 
Legolas said grimly. "Your brother is a good man, and a brave one, but alas! 
Where Wormtongue rules, such virtues become quite dangerous, and I think one so 
honest as your brother would not last without a protector. Without someone to 
guard his interests closer to home," the Elf finished, watching Éowyn carefully. 
She stared back, and her eyes assumed an almost elvish opacity as she began to 
nod, but just then a knock sounded and the innkeeper returned. And instantly, 
her manner changed, becoming once again distant and reserved, a woman beyond the 
power of any man to reach.

"Thank you, Wulf," she said, calmly accepting the bandages and other supplies as 
if naught had passed between her and her unusual guest. "You may go now."

"Aye, my lady. Good day to you both." And Wulf left, quietly shutting the door 
once more.

"Sit down, my lord prince, and let us see what has been done to you," Éowyn 
said, and her tone was that of one who would not suffer a refusal. Still, 
Legolas considered it, feeling suddenly unwilling to have her touch him or look 
upon his wound, but in the end, he sighed softly and obeyed. And if he was slow 
to undo the ties and draw his shirt off, Éowyn said naught, only waited 
patiently. He gritted his teeth while she probed the area, careful not to break 
the tender scabs that were beginning to form at last. "You have been well 
tended, I see, though this looks as though it has opened many a time before. A 
hard journey, I take it?"

"Very," Legolas replied laconically.

"Keep your secrets, then," Éowyn said in response to his obvious unwillingness 
to speak, and the Elf was surprised by the note of amusement in her voice. "But 
if I may say it, I know well how to guard my tongue and conceal my knowledge 
from the… impertinent."

"Or the ill-willed?"

"Or the wicked," Éowyn said starkly, mincing no words as she finished replacing 
the bandages. "I have dealt too long with them, and with one in particular. You 
know of whom I speak, do you not?"

"Your lord brother warned me of one Wormtongue," the Elf replied, dressing once 
more ere he turned to look at her.

"Gríma son of Gálmód, whom all now call Wormtongue, is a serpent, and his poison 
runs through this court. Théodred knew this, and struggled against it, but he 
was ever called west against the threat of Isengard. The other Marshals were 
more circumspect, strengthening their holdings, dealing in secret with each 
other and with our enemies. Yet most men are cowed by him, though they despise 
him and seek ever ways around him. But some few are weak,"–and the elven prince 
narrowed his eyes at the bitter disgust and contempt in her voice–"some are 
gullible or stupid, and they will do his bidding. If an Elf is so perceptive as 
the tales tell, you shall doubtless soon become aware of these slaves in our 
midst. Avoid them, my lord prince, for you are a stranger here and do not know 
our ways. I would not see you called out for a simply contrived 
misunderstanding."

"You speak wisely, but I fear that I must think of my companions first, who will 
soon arrive. They know not the danger into which they walk!"

"Short of breaking Wormtongue's hold on the king, their danger cannot be 
diminished. I fear me that they shall share a room with Éomer," she sighed, and 
turned away slightly. But not before Legolas discerned her fear and grief–and 
love!–for her brother.

"This Wormtongue… he is Saruman's creature?" Legolas asked after a moment.

"It seems clear to me that he is, and to Éomer also. He once accused him so, and 
had Wormtongue had any honor, he would have challenged my brother and died 
swiftly!" Éowyn grimaced, touching the pendant that hung on its chain about her 
neck, as if for comfort. "But he would not, and men remember now only that Éomer 
is brash, a warrior to have at one's side in a battle of swords, but one to 
avoid in matters of subtlety. It is not untrue in its way, but my brother is not 
unwise, nor unskilled with words. Wormtongue has some power, though, to distort 
the memories of men. He speaks so surely… so smoothly… his voice, it–it is… I 
know not!" Éowyn bit her lip in frustration as she darted a sidelong look at the 
Elf. "I cannot explain it to one who has not heard it, but his words flow 
through men's minds like mead! Even I…." She shook her head, catching herself on 
the edge of a distasteful confession. "Well, you shall see it soon, my lord 
prince. And then beware, for I would not have a sorcerer ensorcelled!"

"I am no sorcerer, my lady, only an Elf," Legolas replied with a faint smile, 
and Éowyn snorted at that, which surprised him

"Elf, sorcerer, are not the two synonymous?" she challenged, and her manner was 
now less forbidding, more like to the that of the young woman she was: 
mischievous and curious.

"You have much to learn of my people if such are the rumors that Men now spread! 
We have each our Art, that is all."

"Oh? And what art does the Prince of Mirkwood possess?"

"That I cannot say, for I have not a name for it yet," Legolas confessed. "But 
let us try it! I would speak to your brother ere the morrow, and perhaps it 
would bring you some comfort to see him as well. How does one enter the 
dungeons?"

"Through Meduseld, and only with the good will of the warden, who is, alas! a 
man bowed low before Wormtongue. I think that latter holds him in thrall to some 
secret shame, but I have not discovered yet what it is."

"Then let us discover it!" Legolas said, leaning forward to stare at Éowyn. And 
had Aragorn been there to see it, the Ranger would have sighed in relief at the 
bright gleam in the Elf's eyes that recalled the prince of old. For his part, 
Legolas felt that liquid diffusion in his soul harden somewhat, and he blinked, 
drawing a deep breath. Yes… perhaps it is well that I came here after all! If 
only for my own sake, that is! But he had in mind to act for the sake of others 
as well, and for that he needed to enlist the aid of Rohan's first lady, and 
Éowyn's eyes were narrowed as she considered him. Shall I trust this stranger so 
fully? For though she was quick to perceive another's worth, she was yet quite 
slow to trust another with her own loyalty, having seen how quickly such things 
could be twisted by Wormtongue's words. Better coldness undeserved than trouble 
unmerited, yet she felt herself pulled powerfully by the words of this Elf. A 
moment more she wavered, and then decided.

Sitting back, she gazed long at the other, saying nothing as she ordered her 
thoughts. Finally, she replied, "They say that Elves are dangerous creatures, 
and that we ought not to seek them out. And I think they are right, for I know 
now your art, Legolas!"

"Do you?"

"I believe so. And that is why I will show you the way to the dungeons, and see 
to it that we need not the warden's approval to enter. But you must wait until I 
come for you, and do nothing untoward in the mean time." She rose, and the Elf 
did as well. "You are free to come and go, so long as you do not pass beyond the 
pale of the inner court without escort, and never beyond the walls of Edoras. 
Rest I would recommend, for even an immortal must grow weary, but if you are 
unable, then use well the time! I shall return this evening, after supper."

"Until then, my lady," Legolas bowed low, glancing up to watch as she swept out 
of the room. And as he straightened, a smile tugged at his mouth as he shook his 
head. There goes one who should have been an Elf! Ah well, that cannot be 
helped, and at least I have now another ally… and perhaps a friend… in this 
place! He debated going out again, but in the end, he settled for opening the 
windows wide ere he lay down upon the bed. Darkness still swam and shimmered in 
his vision, but he fought it now as he settled himself. It may still overcome 
me, and doubtless I shall have to struggle against it to pull myself free at 
times, but I shall not be its plaything any more! So resolved, Legolas slipped 
quickly into sleep, and this time as he wandered the strange paths of elven 
dreams, a white-clad lady with gold hair wandered ever before him. Walk 
carefully, Éowyn, for it is not safe here! Until this evening!




Chapter Fifteen
House of Glass



"Who goes there?" The question, voiced quietly—perhaps too quietly for mortal 
ears to distinguish easily—seemed yet loud in the utter silence, and Legolas 
gazed into the darkness. Another had come, of that he was certain, and he liked 
not the way that his heart raced at the thought.

"Welcome, Master Elf, to the House of Éorl," said a smooth voice. Too smooth! 
Legolas felt it lick over him, as if coating him with some foul substance, and 
he shivered.

"Wormtongue!" Every instinct screamed at him to move, but the Elf's body felt 
terribly lax and refused to obey. He felt his breath coming now harder, as if 
with panic, and Legolas struggled for composure.

"Ah yes… Wormtongue. You learned that of Éomer, wretched boy that he is! 
Whispering in the background, spreading rumors… for shame!" Wormtongue's voice 
trailed off in a cackle, and Legolas would have spit if he had been able. But he 
seemed divorced from his body, or else imprisoned in it—either way, such 
feelings were alien to Elves, and the prince wondered fearfully if Gríma had 
somehow divined a way to take advantage of the break in his own integrity. 
Surely not! Not even Aragorn, I think, would know enough to deliberately force 
me away from myself…! There were ways, of course, and some were quite simple, 
but so far as Legolas could tell, he had not been injured in some further way. 
As for the more complex…. Why would a mortal in these waning days need to learn 
them? And if a Ranger raised among Elves knows naught of them, whence would a 
Man of Rohan come by such knowledge? "We are taught to fear the Elves: 
sorcerers, luminous beings endowed with a strength far beyond that of men. And 
yet the Elves fail! Year by year, your numbers decrease and you fall into your 
world of dreams. So very fragile you are, in truth. So very… very… 
delicate…Legolas!"

And with each hissing word, Legolas felt as though the breath were being drawn 
out of him, and though he struggled and gasped, what rushed now into his lungs 
was not air, but the darkness that he hated. Thick as sap, it clung to him, and 
as sensation returned to his body, the Elf clawed frantically at the stuff. To 
no avail: like tar or peat, the darkness flowed over him, getting into his eyes, 
clogging his ears and nose, coating his mouth and sliding down his throat to sit 
heavy in his lungs and stomach. I am not yours! he snarled in silence, 
struggling against the sensation of drowning. An Elf is no part of this Shadow—I 
will be no part of it! It shall be no part of me! But it was a part of him: it 
was in him, this palpable shadow, and as it infused itself into his blood, he 
could feel its corruptive influence. Like poison… like pain… Stop!… leave me 
alone!… Valar help me, is this the age that Men fear? Legolas wondered blindly, 
feeling his struggles growing more feeble as the darkness enveloped him in a 
warm cocoon. Nay, worse! Like an insect in a spider's web am I, awaiting the 
bite! For before him now lay the Other Path, spoken of with dread among Elves 
and in whispers if at all. The Other Path… the way of twisted kinship… the way 
of Orcs… NO!—

 

 

—And Legolas woke suddenly, just in time to grunt in anguish as he hit the floor 
hard and jarred his shoulder. The shock of that unexpected impact held him 
immobile for a good several minutes while he panted and shivered, scarcely able 
to fathom how he had ended up on the carpet. Shadow shapes danced and writhed 
behind his eyelids when he squeezed them shut and refused to dissipate entirely 
when he reopened them to take in the room from his new perspective. What 
happened? The answer to that question might seem absurdly simple to a human: 
clearly, Legolas had had a nightmare, no more and no less. Vivid, yes, but after 
all that he had seen and suffered, it was surely nothing to be ashamed of or 
wondered at.

Aragorn, having been raised in Imladris, might have been suspicious of such an 
easy explanation. Indeed, ere the Third Age, no high lord of Gondor or Arnor 
would have taken lightly the announcement that an Elf had been plagued by 
horrific dreams. For the way of the Elves is different from that of Men, and 
memory, dream, and waking life are not so clearly distinguished or 
distinguishable among them. It was a rare thing that an Elf should lose control 
of his dream-life to the point of suffering a nightmare, and bespoke some 
serious trouble. Worse, it bespeaks some other—alien—influence, Legolas thought 
grimly as he picked himself up off of the ground at last. For if elvish dreams 
lay largely within the control of the dreamer, the rare instances when they did 
not were either indicative of deep divisions within the elvish soul or else of 
meddling by some other entity. Gríma Wormtongue… it seemed so very real, as if 
he spoke in his own voice! I wonder…. Legolas brooded silently, cradling his 
right arm carefully against the ache. I would not have thought that… that worm… 
to have such power in him. But certain it is that where he rules, there lies a 
thicker darkness, a more concealing shade. Is it possible that he is more 
dangerous than I had thought? What has happened in this place, that such a 
creature could be admitted to the highest courts of the land?

To such questions, he had no answers as of yet, but he intended to have them ere 
the night ended. Legolas had no need of a clock, nor of the long shadows that 
the setting sun made as its rays filtered through the windows to know that dusk 
came swiftly. And with dusk would come Éowyn and a visit to the dungeons of 
Edoras, which meant that he ought not to tarry here. With an effort, Legolas 
focused his mind on the present, refusing to let his attention wander off along 
the thousand spread out tendrils of sickly coiled darkness. I feel dirty! Which, 
after the long and exhausting journey he had undertaken, might seem 
self-evident, but that memory of nightmarish grime left him feeling as if the 
filth of an Age riddled through with Sauron's waxing malice lay still upon his 
skin. A swift exploration of the room revealed the necessary supplies for a 
bath, and though his shoulder throbbed dully as he moved, he managed to get the 
water into the tub without re-opening the cut.

Leaving his clothes and the bandages on the floor, he quickly submerged himself, 
relishing the feel of something clean against his body. Once, when he had first 
met Aragorn and begun to learn of the strange ways of mortals, the Ranger had 
told him that Men often thought of Elves as being somewhat effete. "Elvish 
polish and universal concern with aestheticism seem in their minds the product 
of self-absorption," the Dúnadan had said, with a shrug that Legolas had 
interpreted as being between sadness and amusement for the misperception. To 
Legolas's mind, while the Bardings were not an ignoble folk, their rougher ways 
were certainly no improvement on "effete" elvish custom, particularly as 
regarded bathing. And if water could not cleanse him of the darkness that lay 
about him, it could lighten his mood enough to make the former bearable. Once he 
felt he had managed to remove as much of the dirt as he could without scrubbing 
his hide off, Legolas clambered out, emptied the dirty water, refilled the tub, 
and threw his clothes in to soak for a bit. Drying himself off with the towel 
provided, he then went and rummaged through his pack, dressing quickly, for he 
knew not how much time he had ere Éowyn arrived.

Bandages proved difficult to set in place alone, but somehow he managed the 
feat, and then slipped a cream-colored shirt on, followed by a dark green, 
sleeveless tunic that he belted into place. Returning to the washroom, the Elf 
finished the necessary laundry and spread the garments out to dry on the rack 
provided. He dragged a comb through his hair, grimacing as the teeth caught on 
tangles, and wondered how his companions fared. Have they found Merry and 
Pippin, I wonder? Legolas hoped so—fervently, desperately hoped so. And he hoped 
also that Aragorn and Gimli had met with nothing ill-intentioned in the fabled 
Entwood. I should have liked to see Fangorn, he thought, and smiled a bit, 
hearing in his mind a dozen, rough-voiced dwarven responses to that. Dear Gimli, 
I never thought I should miss a Dwarf's company more than that of my brothers. 
At least you have Aragorn for company, and need not go to a dungeon to see him!

By the time he had finished getting the snarls out of his hair, the sun was no 
more than a smudge of red on the western horizon, but the Elf drifted out onto 
the balcony anyway. Standing there, he gazed out at Meduseld's golden roof, and 
he wondered that so fair an edifice could contain within it so dark a heart. Yet 
in spite of the sickness that lay upon this city, the wind that ruffled his damp 
hair carried to him the sounds of life—voices raised in laughter at some 
intimate joke, or the cheery greeting of friends as they called to each other. A 
song picked up in the yard below—the innkeep?—and though Legolas could 
understand naught of the words, he closed his eyes and listened; and after 
hearing the chorus once, he added his voice—a low, wordless exhalation of 
harmony, sweet and distinct from the voices of Men. Even here, not all is 
darkness, he thought. I must remember that, when my hope runs low!

At that moment, there came a knock upon his door, and he turned away from the 
view. "Come!" he invited, and was not surprised when Éowyn appeared, bearing 
with her a tray set for two.

"A fair welcome," Éowyn said as she set the tray on a low table and indicated 
that he should join her. "I fear this is poor recompense for the song, but I 
think none of us told you of the hours that the innkeeper holds here, and we 
shall likely be gone long past them. Eat, unless Elves need but a tune to live 
off of!"

"Music is as the air, but air alone does not suffice," Legolas replied glibly 
and came to join her. "Thank you for the company."

"I would rather yours than another meal alone," Éowyn replied rather darkly. 
"And we must speak in any case ere we dare the gaoler's questions." She paused 
to break bread and dipped a morsel in her soup. "Éomer's case cannot be held for 
very long without judgment, so we shall have few opportunities to speak with him 
ere his fate is decided. Such haste is the law of this land, which decrees that 
a man may not be held for more than five days before he makes his plea before 
the king. For an honorable man is needed always and quickly, and it would be 
cruel if by too lengthy a wait his honor were to be questioned unduly."

"And what of those who are not honorable?"

"Then best that we learn of the fault quickly and move to be rid of it," Éowyn 
replied simply. "Since Éorl rode to the succor of Gondor, this has been our way. 
Those of Minas Tirith call us swift, but they have their own traditions. In any 
case, I have not much time to decide what must be done, and in such matters, 
Éomer will have much to say."

"What is your place here, my lady?" Legolas asked, cocking a pale brow at her.

"I am the king's servant, the lady of his hall for he has no wife any more, and 
Théodred never wed. In former times, such was a position of honor, but of late 
it, like much else, has fallen into disrepute," the other said bitterly.

"But you serve your brother also."

"Only insofar as it is granted me to speak now and then with the king 
unremarked, or with the marshals and others who go about this court. I may not 
speak on his behalf in court, though. Not as I am!"

"And what are you?"

"Are Elves blind, or have they no children?" Éowyn asked, seeming both puzzled 
and amused by the question.

"Ah." Legolas was not often at a loss for words, but in the face of his 
tablemate's reply, he knew not what might be the appropriate thing to say.

"In any case, should any ask you why you go to see the Third Marshal, say only 
that you wished to thank him for his pains. And I, who have been commanded to 
see to your needs, do but facilitate the meeting. None shall believe us, but it 
shall be difficult to challenge the excuse. For you do wish to thank him, do you 
not?"

"Of course."

"And I wish to do my duty," Éowyn gave a thin smile that made the Elf blink, 
recognizing in those sharp blue eyes a predatory amusement and defiance that he 
was accustomed to see only in warriors. "The guard shall finish its meal and 
return to its place in perhaps a half an hour. We shall therefore wait an hour 
ere we make our attempt."

"If I may ask, you said you would see to it that we need not seek permission 
from the warden…."

"And we shall not need to do so," Éowyn replied firmly.

"How did you manage that?" Legolas asked.

"Gríma controls the councilors and all posts of any power or influence, either 
directly or through the pressure that he can bring to bear upon those who hold 
them. But he is a man, and pays little heed to lesser posts," Éowyn said 
enigmatically. And that is all the answer I am likely to receive, the Elf 
thought. He bowed his head slightly, conceding the round, and set to work 
clearing his plate. The two of them ate in silence for a time, occasionally 
glancing up to stare at each other. Always, Éowyn would look away first, but 
Legolas found it fascinating that she continued to dare his gaze, for many 
refused to do so after but a single rebuff. "Is there aught that you would know 
of Rohan, my lord prince?" Éowyn asked after a time.

"There is much I would know, but tell me this, if you can: how did Gríma 
Wormtongue come to have such influence? From all that I have seen of the 
Rohirrim, which is admittedly little," Legolas said, "they seem a proud folk, 
and not one easily led astray. How is it possible, then, that Rohan tolerates a 
Wormtongue?"

"You ask a question that many ask, and even the great and those accounted wise 
among us hesitate to answer it. In the beginning, he came to his position 
through his inheritance, as is usual, for he was born to a high family. He 
served well enough as a Rider and later as a captain, though with no particular 
distinction. Some say," and Éowyn gave a soft bark of laughter at this, "some 
say that that was ever his way: to serve with no particular distinction. He is 
as one of the fabled southern lizards that can take the color of any setting and 
so pass unseen. Know you of these creatures?"

"I fear we have none in Mirkwood, and from the deep south there comes little 
news and we seek not after it. Aragorn would know," Legolas replied.

"Ask him then, for I, too, would know the truth of old tales. But I stray!" 
Éowyn berated herself gently with a toss of her proud head. "Gríma was ever 
posted to the west, and often patrolled far up the Isen, for the Orcs were wont 
to come south-east from the tail end of the Misty Mountains, that we call the 
Grauberge. For a time, he was Théoden's messenger to Isengard, and perhaps that 
was how he was ensnared, I know not. 'Tis a strange thing, but many of the 
officers who served him in the field died shortly after he began his 
ambassadorship. An odd coincidence that many now see as contrivance, but the 
deaths are already so old that no evidence can be found of foul play, and at the 
time, there was no real cause for suspicion. It was only after councilors began 
to die as well that men looked askance at him, but by then it was too late. For 
it seemed that after he began his duties as a councilor that he had found in 
speech what he lacked as a warrior: skill and passion. He soon had the court 
under his thumb and Théoden round his finger, bent like a ring!" Legolas could 
not quite forbear to grimace at the unwitting but too apt analogy, and for an 
instant, Frodo's tormented face leapt clearly to mind. Courage, my friend! And 
safety, wherever you may be at this moment! "So it stands even now, and no one 
dares to challenge him. Yet! For he cannot stand forever. Soon enough, men will 
rebel but who can say whether it shall not be once more too late?"

"And Éomer would have been their leader, these would-be rebels."

"He would have, yes," Éowyn replied softly and bowed her head a moment. Legolas 
stared at her a long moment, suspicious of what had not been said. After a 
moment, she raised her eyes to his once more, seeming once again the cold-faced 
maiden who kept all at a courteous distance. "Eat, Legolas of Mirkwood! I would 
not have it said that you found our hospitality so ill that you fainted for lack 
of sustenance!"

"An Elf would never be so ill-mannered, my lady," he murmured even as he obeyed.

"Something to remember, doubtless," she replied with a slight smile.

***

It was full dark when Edoras' first lady and Mirkwood's youngest prince entered 
Meduseld by a side door and went calmly through its many halls to its 
southernmost corridor. There opened off of it a small door, one hardly to be 
noticed, and there Éowyn paused. "Do as I do, and say nothing if you can avoid 
it," she instructed. Pulling the door open, she grasped her skirts by one hand 
and raised the lantern with the other as she began the descent. Legolas followed 
carefully, and forced himself to focus, though the darkness seemed so close 
about him it threatened to steal his breath once more. I am not of the darkness, 
and it is no part of me! he repeated to himself, and said naught as he went down 
in his guide's wake. At the bottom of the stairs there stood several men: 
guards, clearly, and as the two of them rounded the blind corner, they closed 
ranks against them, blocking the door. Éowyn ignored the lot of them, striding 
straight up to their commander, who frowned deeply at her presence.

"My lady, this is no place for such as you," the man said gruffly in Rohirric.

"I come to bring a visitor to the Third Marshal, captain," Éowyn replied coldly 
in Westron. "Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, and a guest of my family, would thank 
the Marshal for his aid and consideration. Alas, the prince speaks not our 
tongue and knows not our ways, so I have come to guide him. Let us pass, 
captain."

"I have had no orders concerning this…." the man stalled.

"And you must always have orders in order to decide anything?" Éowyn shot back, 
and Legolas did not miss the grins on the faces of some of the soldiers. Someone 
sniggered, and their captain shot a dark look over his shoulder. Admittedly, the 
scene was ridiculous: the captain alone outmassed Éomund's fair daughter twice 
over, and was armed as well, but Éowyn stood proudly and her disdainful glance 
informed all present that she viewed the entire detail as no better than errant 
boys playing at soldiering. She is taller than she seems, Legolas thought, 
realizing that Éowyn had not to raise her chin very high to stare directly into 
her opponent's face. The captain flushed, whether in embarrassment or fury it 
was difficult to say, but the effect was impressive and Legolas had sternly to 
command his face not to twitch, his lips not to smile at the other's 
discomfiture. "Come, open the door and let us pass! Or send to the warden to ask 
his permission."

"I may not, my lady, he is… indisposed."

"I see. Then please consult with yourself and come to a decision. The night 
grows older, captain!" Éowyn said, letting a touch of scathing contempt and 
impatience color her tone.

The captain was silent a moment longer, but then he gave a sigh and jerked the 
key ring from his belt. "Stand aside," he ordered his men, who fell back 
willingly before their captain's temper and their lady's scorn. "You shall vouch 
for him, my lady? As he cannot vouch for himself…."

"Of course, captain. Come, my lord prince," Éowyn beckoned imperiously and swept 
into the low-ceilinged corridor beyond, turning left without a backwards glance. 
The door slammed shut behind them, and Legolas shivered slightly, wishing he had 
Gimli beside him. A Dwarf would not find the cramped, subterranean corridor 
daunting, but Legolas found the space claustrophobically tight. His father's 
halls had prison cells which, like the rest of the city, were below ground, but 
the Elves had delved carefully so that free air could flow through all areas of 
the city, and even the dungeon had a vaulted ceiling, else no Elf would have 
stayed there for long, even to guard it. Soon Gimli shall come, the prince 
comforted himself. And I must not be found wanting in the mean time! 'Tis but 
this injury that makes of this unease more than it is! So he told himself and 
followed Éowyn, who seemed to know precisely where she went.

"Éomer shall be in the back, where traitors are kept," the woman of Rohan said 
over her shoulder. "'Tis not far! Come! Swiftly!"

***

Éomer sat upon the plank that served as both bed and bench, back wedged into the 
corner, eyes closed, one leg drawn up to his chest while the other dangled over 
the edge. He had his arms clasped about the one knee, his chin rested on his 
forearms, and his chest felt hollow with grief and hopelessness. Since his 
incarceration earlier that day, he had paced his tiny cell three hundred and 
seventy-three times (that he had counted), brooding on the misfortunes of his 
house and country. And when he had lost patience with the repetitive nature of 
his thoughts, he had tried his best to divert himself: humming old tunes that he 
had long loved; playing chess in his head and losing with ever victory; trying 
to calculate the costs of grain for the next year if the weather held; 
speculating on the bets men had probably already placed on the spring races that 
were always held in Rohan; wondering whether anyone had seen to Firefoot; 
counting horses in his head as he had as a boy when he had been unable to sleep; 
and finally adding long chains of numbers for no particular reason except that 
it kept him busy. But eventually, his thoughts had turned to darker things in 
spite of himself. Grief for Théodred had descended with such suddenness it had 
caught him by surprise, and in the lonely confines of his cell, he had wept for 
the cousin who had been his friend and guide since he was a child. And what of 
Éowyn? He worried incessantly over her, cursing Gríma in the darkness, and had 
swiftly discovered that in spite of years spent among soldiers, his vocabulary 
was not so extensive as he might wish in this instance. As his defenses wore 
swiftly down, even his usual restless energy had abandoned him, and he had sunk 
into a sort of bleak state of attente, waiting for the axe to fall, knowing it 
must, and wishing only that the farce of a trial were over already.

For though Éomer was no coward, his was not a spirit to withstand confinement 
for long. All his training had prepared him for the field, for the hardships of 
war and the trials, physical and spiritual, that accompanied it. To sit and wait 
for doom to come and claim him, unable to do aught to prevent it or even to 
forestall it, did violence to one accustomed to think in terms of what damage he 
might do his enemy ere he perished. To die without having managed to accomplish 
anything struck him as dreadful in a way that even a painful deterioration did 
not. Wormtongue could not have devised a worse torture for me had he tried, 
Éomer thought grimly. How long shall he make this period of waiting stretch? The 
full five days? And how many more, if the trial is drawn out? But how could it 
be, for if Gríma would be certain of me, he must paint me a villain so deep in 
treachery there can be no chance of redemption! That should not take him more 
than a day or two! Which still left him with a minimum of seven days in this 
hole, and he shuddered at the thought.

In an attempt to sooth his nerves, Éomer strove to make his mind as blank as the 
fresh-fallen snow, to find that space of focused calm whence he could control 
his frustration, leash his anger and despair, and forget for a time his worry. 
But for all that he tried, it seemed that he needed a solid threat to inspire 
him, and he could not fight a cage. Drawing a deep breath, he held it 'til spots 
danced behind his eyelids, then exhaled slowly, wishing that he could empty 
himself of emotion so readily. I would serve my king honorably, he thought 
bitterly. I would die for Rohan, and I would give whatever I have to help those 
who fight against the malice of Sauron and his creatures, be they wizard or Orc 
or worse than that! I have tried to do these things, but I cannot cure the 
cancer that strangles this realm, nor fight an enemy who wraps himself in royal 
authority. What shall become of Éowyn? What of those who have promised to come 
to Edoras? I would not see Gimli or Aragorn harmed, and I suppose as it stands I 
shall not! But what shall become of them? And of Legolas? I was—am— so sick of 
hiding and seeking ever the secret way, but in the end it mattered not! Here sit 
I, waiting….

"This way!" A voice broke through his dark reverie, and Éomer felt his spine 
stiffen as he jerked his head up and his eyes flew open. Éowyn? But surely the 
warden would not let her in, for the Third Marshal knew well the man's 
reputation as Wormtongue's creature. Light shone forth, coming from some ways up 
the corridor, and Éomer slowly unfolded from his position, hardly daring to hope 
as the sound of light footsteps reached him. "Éomer!"

"Éowyn!" Coming to his feet, he took two strides to reach the doorway, and he 
gripped the bars as the footsteps increased their pace, breaking into a run. The 
light grew brighter, and then his sister's tall form appeared. No more welcome 
sight had he ever seen than her face in that instant, and as she thrust her arms 
through the bars, he grasped her hands tightly, bringing them to his chest as he 
leaned against the cross bars, brother and sister ignoring the barrier in search 
of each other. "Éowyn…."

"Hush! I know, you would not have me stay, but brother, your authority stands in 
shambles, I fear, and I for one shall take advantage of that!" she replied, and 
her brother managed a laugh for the show of spirit.

"Hellcat!" Éomer retorted lovingly. "But how is it that you are come?"

"She poisoned the warden," a new voice said, and the Third Marshal, startled, 
lifted his head to gaze past his sister to where Legolas stood holding a 
lantern. The elven prince bent his bright eyes upon Éowyn, and he cocked a fair 
brow. "Is that not so, my lady?"

"The warden is indisposed," Éowyn replied, which did naught to confirm or deny 
the accusation.

"Éowyn… you did not…." Éomer stammered, caught between admiration and an 
appalled disbelief.

"I did nothing to the warden," she replied, and cast a glance back over her 
shoulder. "Did I not say to remain silent?"

"You also said that Gríma was a man," which meant nothing to Éomer, who could 
not fathom how so banal a truth could be significant.

"And you, being an Elf, are not so blind, is that it?" Éowyn demanded, and 
Legolas gave a half-smile, bowing slightly in acknowledgment.

"You came from the kitchens, and you serve the king often. Is that not what you 
told me?"

"You poisoned the warden?" the Third Marshal demanded. And seeing that Éowyn 
began to reiterate her denial, impatiently added, "Or you had another do so! A 
small difference in the eyes of the law, Éowyn, by the Valar! What possessed 
you?"

"Doubtless the same reckless impulse that led you here, brother, so do not 
reprimand me!" Éowyn's eyes flashed. "The warden shall be quite well by morning. 
Besides, we have not time for such trivial matters!"

"Why have you come? Both of you?" Éomer sighed, accepting that there was naught 
he could do to change his sister's actions.

"I came to thank you for your aid and consideration," Legolas replied smoothly, 
which seemed for some reason to amuse Éowyn greatly. "And I do! But we would 
speak of Edoras and Rohan as well. Your sister has sharp ears and fears not to 
remember all that she hears. It seems that the force that overwhelmed Théodred's 
men was quite large."

"So I had been told," Éomer replied. "I fear that if it is not countered, and 
soon, then our forces shall be divided. As it comes out of Isengard, we have no 
way of knowing whether it constitutes the bulk of Saruman's strength in arms or 
if he has still more men to throw at us."

"How soon could this army reach us here?"

"If its captain kept a swift pace and shortened the rest stops, I doubt not that 
it could reach Edoras in little more than two days. But that assumes they mean 
first to strike at us here: some men will have escaped the wreck of the Fords of 
Isen, I doubt not, and they will have retreated to Helm's Deep. Saruman's 
captain may decide to invest the keep, but he need not use the whole of his 
strength to do that. If he leaves a few companies there, it may be enough, and 
then he could continue south with the rest to raze Edoras."

"How likely is it that he would do this?" Legolas asked, frowning as he 
considered this unsettling speculation.

"It is what I would do, were I in command," Éomer replied with a shrug. "Helm's 
Deep is well known as Erkenbrand's stronghold. But Erkenbrand it was who sent 
messages to Edoras with the news, and who begged for such help as could be 
spared. I doubt not that the straits are dire, for Elfhelm has not returned, or 
had not when I was sent here. I suppose there is no news on that account?" And 
Éomer glanced at Éowyn now.

"I fear not even a whisper has come south," she replied. "But that does not calm 
the whispers at home. Fear is in the air, and men look north with dread, 
awaiting the tidings of loss. You know well whereof I speak, Éomer."

"The Fords are at once an asset and a liability," the Marshal explained for the 
benefit of the their guest. "They are not easily defended because of the lie of 
the land. It seems clear that this attack was well-planned, and I doubt not that 
Saruman knows well how to exploit the weakness of those who may not maneuver 
freely. In any case, if Erkenbrand would reinforce and cover the escapes of the 
Fords, then Helm's Deep is open. Saruman need only prevent those within it from 
escaping, and then he could take Edoras at will, for with so much of our 
strength arrayed to the west already, we are weak here at home."

"Two days, three at the most," Legolas murmured, shaking his fair head. "If we 
had to make a stand here, what chance would you give us?"

"Without aid, our chances dwindle to nothing," the other replied grimly. "Worse, 
even had we help, whom would our people follow? There is no one left, save Háma, 
but he is not known widely enough to command the attention of men in a panic. If 
the king will not lead us, then I fear we are lost ere the battle is even 
begun!" He squeezed Éowyn's hands tightly against the anguish that rose in him 
at such a pronouncement.

"There must be some way…." Legolas trailed off, cocking his head suspiciously.

"What is it?" Éowyn demanded, glancing over her shoulder.

"Someone comes. I heard the door open," the prince said softly.

"Perhaps they come for another," Éomer suggested, but quickly fell silent. The 
trio waited, tense, and to Legolas, even their breathing seemed too loud. He 
would have shuttered the lamp but that that would seem incriminating if the 
newcomer expected to find them here. And Éomer's words aside, I heard no other 
sounds as we came. I think he must be the only prisoner in this section of the 
dungeons at least! Minutes seemed to drag by, and Legolas closed his eyes. For 
whether or not his human companions could hear it, the footsteps that he had 
tracked since the door's creak were coming unerringly towards them, and the Elf 
felt a shiver pass through him as the shade seemed to grow deeper. "Elbereth 
Gilthoniel!" he breathed, opening his eyes again.

"What say you?" Éowyn asked from behind him, but the Elf did not reply. Soon 
enough, the sound of another's measured tread grew clear even to brother and 
sister, and with it the knowledge that there was no escape.

And as the visitor rounded the bend, Éomer cursed softly under his breath, while 
Éowyn went rigid. Legolas alone did not flinch, but stared eye to eye, 
unblinking and unmoving, with Gríma Wormtongue. The king's councilor swiftly 
looked away, his gaze wandering to Éomer and then to Éowyn, who still stood 
clasping hands through the bars of the cell. "The dungeons are no place for a 
lady," Wormtongue said, and smiled thinly.

"Nor is it a place for my brother, but if he must stay here, then I shall visit 
him!" Éowyn replied tautly. "You may not deny me that at least!"

"But I think that you have had long enough, and a place such as this so quickly 
takes its toll on a fragile spirit," Gríma responded smoothly, stepping closer 
to the pair. And when Éowyn made no move to leave, he added, in a tone that 
would brook no argument, "'Tis time you left, my lady. We shall speak of this 
later."

"Farewell for a time, then, brother," she said, refusing to address Gríma and 
turning instead to Éomer once more. Freeing a hand, she reached up and touched 
his face lightly, giving him a brief smile ere she stepped away and went to 
stand at Legolas's side.

"Take care of him," Éomer replied, but looked to Legolas, and the Elf gave a 
bare nod. That set his heart somewhat at ease, and he glared at the councilor 
balefully, earning a slight snort of contemptuous laughter for his bravado.

"Come, Éowyn, my lord prince," Gríma said, gesturing for them to precede him. "I 
would speak with you both. Pleasant dreams, Éomer!"

Éomer spat on the ground in the councilor's wake, clutching hard at the bars, 
swearing to himself. Damn his eyes! He did not miss the way that Gríma hovered 
over Éowyn, standing far too close, and he felt a wordless, primordial rage rise 
within him. If he should touch her… ! Leaning against the bars, he felt the 
metal cool against throbbing temples. Éowyn was not safe in Edoras, and with his 
confinement, she stood as if naked before Gríma's malice, and Éomer winced at 
his own choice of words. Éowyn! he despaired, while a brother's love and fear 
stabbed at his conscience. But there was naught he could do save wait and brood… 
and dream of revenge. Pleasant dreams indeed! 



~~~~~~






Chapter Sixteen
Dram of Evil







"Dysig, Éowyn! Thu fultumist nic thínum brothore!"

"Bysmere mé nic, runwita!"

"Freche giedde, mín lytling!" Gríma chuckled as they emerged into the south-east 
hall once more. Incomprehensible as the speech of the dwarves was that latest 
exchange to Legolas, but as they had ascended and the barbs had grown more 
caustic, he had felt his wrath well up in response. The patronizing, sneering 
tone of that last comment evoked outrage in the elven prince: an outrage 
exacerbated by the humiliated fury that Éowyn's posture radiated. But there was 
also a touch of fear that showed in the slight hunching of her shoulders, as if 
she recoiled from the councilor's breath on the nape of her neck. Her face white 
as marble and as hard, she came to a sudden halt and whirled to face her 
tormentor, who followed her so closely that they stood now nose to nose. Or they 
would, were he taller or Éowyn shorter! The elf thought. But though Éowyn might 
look down in all senses of the word upon her uncle's councilor, she stood 
clearly at a disadvantage in this encounter. Still, child of warriors, she 
refused to surrender without a fight.

"Ic gelonge éow nic! Nic nu and nic æfre, ful nædre!"* Wormtongue raised a hand, 
and Éowyn seemed to steel herself. The councilor's mouth opened and some cutting 
retort hung clearly on the tip of his tongue, but no sound passed his lips. 
Indeed, it was not only his tongue that was arrested, and he wrenched his gaze 
from Éowyn to stare at Legolas. Or rather, to stare at the hand that gripped his 
wrist firmly and held it suspended there, a bare few inches from Éowyn's face. 
For the elf, watching, had waited until he was certain of the other's intent ere 
he moved, quick as a cat, to intercept the blow. Dragging his eyes up to the 
Legolas' face, the councilor's lips twisted in a grimace of rage, and the prince 
of Mirkwood bared just the tips of his teeth in a gesture that the charitable 
might have called a smile.

"Forgive me, councilor, for I am a stranger to this land and know naught of your 
ways. But some customs stand regardless of place, and no one strikes a woman of 
Rohan." Elf and man stared at each other, and though Gríma quickly looked down, 
the air throbbed with his wrath, and Legolas felt the hair on the nape of his 
neck rise in response as his vision seemed to cloud with shade…

"Enough!" Éowyn intervened, laying a hand on the elf's wrist and batting 
irritably at Gríma's raised arm. The two fell back a bit, rather startled by her 
resurgence, and Legolas released his grip. Éowyn stood now between them, 
shooting a warning look at the elf ere she turned her attention once more to 
Wormtongue. "You would speak to us, councilor, so be swift and do so in a tongue 
that our guest is able to understand!"

Into the poisonous silence that had fallen, Wormtongue drew a breath as if to 
calm himself, and said in a low voice, "I am to bring Legolas before the king. 
As for you, Éowyn, I would speak with you later. For the moment, you are 
dismissed to your chambers, for the day has been long and you have been so very… 
diligent… in the carrying out of your duties." At which Éowyn stiffened, but 
after a few fulminating moments, she nodded.

"Good evening to you, my lord Legolas. I shall see you on the morrow," she said 
with deliberate emphasis on the pronoun, excluding Gríma from her consideration. 
She made him a curtsey, which Legolas acknowledged with a slight bow, and then 
Éomund's daughter whirled and stalked tensely away into the dim-lit halls.

"As for you, prince of Mirkwood, follow me, for you are wanted," Gríma ordered, 
drawing Legolas' attention from the retreating figure of Éowyn. The elf stared 
impassively at the other, attempting to gauge the danger into which he had been 
invited to walk. There was an aura of secret and malicious pleasure about the 
other, and the elven prince wondered at that. What has he persuaded Théoden king 
to say or do? For surely he would not bring me before the king for any good 
reason: he will have prepared the way, of that I am certain! Nevertheless, he 
could not see a way of avoiding the interview, for it would hardly be wise to 
refuse such a command. I must be cautious: if the Shadow should overwhelm me, I 
would be an easy mark even for one unarmed.

With such considerations firmly in mind, he replied coolly, "Lead on then, lord 
Wormtongue!" Smiling to himself as the councilor hissed slightly at the name, 
the elf trailed in the other's wake. They walked now north along a side passage 
that seemed to run parallel to the great hall and throne room. Where the king’s 
quarters lay, the elf knew not, but he would remember the way they took. 
Meduseld might have many corridors and hidden spaces, but he had hunted on paths 
that no man could possibly follow nor dream of finding again. Up a spiraling, 
torch-lit staircase they went, and though he hardened his heart against them, 
Legolas felt the tendrils of darkness reaching out to touch him once more. Is it 
only I who smell it? Can it be that men are insensible to this stench of decay… 
of evil festering in their midst? He wondered, narrowing his eyes as he stared 
daggers at Gríma's back. If anyone could smell the reek of this spiritual rot, 
he doubted not that the councilor could, and more, that the wretch savored it. 
It was an unsettling thought, and as he walked, Legolas held close memories of 
the sun upon the trees of his homeland; of the freedom of branching pathways; of 
Aragorn's voice as he spoke Sindarin, imbuing an immortal tongue with a mortal 
tone and timbre all its own; and last but not least in his thoughts, that 
particular gleam in Gimli's eyes that meant an elven prince was about to learn 
the measure of wit. And whatever it may be that Gríma Wormtongue would show me, 
best that he not stand too close, else he shall learn the measure of an elf's 
wrath! So he vowed, and hoped it was no hollow promise.

At length, they came to an upper hallway, laid with a thick carpet so that sound 
seemed to fall dead in that space. At the end of the hall there was a door, and 
through it Gríma led him. Legolas entered slowly, disliking the feeling that he 
walked now into a tomb–or a trap! The antechamber, however, held nothing 
unexpected, unless it was the feeling of disuse and mustiness that pricked at 
the elf’s instinct for trouble. "I thought you said that you would take me to 
the king!" Legolas said suspiciously.

"And I would. This way, Master Elf," Gríma replied, in a tone that suggested he 
spoke to an impatient child. If he intended to insult the other, however, then 
for once he missed his mark, for Legolas found the very idea so utterly absurd 
that he nearly laughed aloud in spite of the chill that ran through him. Through 
a second set of doors they went, and as Legolas stepped over the threshold, 
Gríma moved sideways, allowing the elf an unimpeded view of the chamber. It also 
put his back to a wall, and Legolas, well-versed in the intricate dance of 
battle, moved easily and automatically to the other side, putting space between 
them. Not that I believe that this stooped creature could best me in an open 
fight, even injured as I am, but I must not be careless! He let his eyes wander 
the room, noting the deep green hangings and the rather closed and stuffy feel 
of the place… and then he saw the bed. Almost immediately, he cursed, moving 
forward for a closer look. "Théoden king?" He murmured, frowning at the supine 
form. Is he dead? Nay, he breathes… but there is something wrong… Valar help me, 
there is something dreadfully wrong! To his eyes, the king seemed more than 
ancient: he seemed utterly leeched of any strength, veiled in a shroud of 
darkness that seemed spun of the cobwebs of Mirkwood. Turning sharply on Gríma, 
Legolas demanded, "What have you done?"

"His health fails, and we who have a care for Rohan's future must see to it that 
the king sleeps undisturbed," Gríma said from his place by the door, and Legolas 
felt every muscle tense at the implications. "Think you that I do not see your 
purpose, Master Elf? You think to rekindle the guttering torch, you and Éowyn."

"Do not you speak her name to me!" Legolas snapped, turning back now to stare at 
the king's lined face. "I will not hear you sully it!"

"As you wish," Gríma replied, seeming quite unconcerned. "‘Tis a futile project, 
prince of Mirkwood, and you must be made to understand that. Are you so arrogant 
as to think that you could rouse this carcass to action? Look at him! What is 
this king but worm's food? He dies, Legolas, and that is the only gift he can 
possibly give us! Rohan's strength failed long ago–indeed, it bound itself to 
death ere ever there was a Rohan! By choosing Gondor and the west, it has marked 
itself for condemned, for the west fades. Even as do the elves!" Legolas hissed 
softly, shooting a quick, venomous glance over his shoulder ere he sank to one 
knee to stare at eye level at Théoden. "We do but play at greatness, and ignore 
the truth: that there are other powers poised to fall upon us, and before them 
there can be no resistance, for truly they are great."

"Saruman is a puppet of Mordor, and Mordor naught but a ruined land! You are a 
fool, Wormtongue!" Legolas replied, lifting a hand to hesitantly touch the 
king's temples. The pulse seemed faint, but steady, and the elf pursed his lips 
thoughtfully, feeling that beat thrum softly through his blood. Is it possible… 
?

"And yet the East shall triumph in the end, and I shall rise with it! Too long 
have I served and been overlooked! Too long have a few brash children played at 
politics and blithely ignored the reality that lies beyond these green fields: 
Mordor rebuilt, more powerful than before, and its enemies reduced to naught but 
husks of their former selves. Gondor is weak, Eriador is nothing, the Dwarves 
teeter on the brink of collapse with each threat, and the elves? What have your 
kind done to aid us in a thousand years and more? Naught! You sit in your 
woodlands and sing pretty words, like birds in a cage of their own crafting! And 
when the pinch comes, you flee to the seas to drown your sorrows! You… what do 
you?" The tirade ended abruptly in a sharp, suspicious question.

For Legolas had listened with but half an ear, continuing his gentle exploration 
of the aged face that lay so still before him. His hands laid now over the 
king's ears with his thumbs pressed gently over the closed eyelids, the elf 
leaned close, ignoring both the ache in his shoulder as the cramped position 
strained the muscle and the risk to himself. And while Gríma had waxed eloquent, 
he had begun to sing very softly, seeming to blow his tune into the king's 
mouth. Every creature has its song was an elvish maxim, and though a mortal 
might take that for a figure of speech, it was meant quite literally. For we 
have each of us our own rhythm, set first by the heart that beats in us, and the 
melody of our thoughts comes of the harmony of body and soul, of govyat among 
the elves. Among men, that harmony was harder for an elf to discern, though the 
song was always there. Always there… always… He knew a goodly part of Aragorn's, 
and he was learning the infinitely complex melody that was Gimli; even Frodo's 
song was not wholly unknown to the elf, though he would have needed far more 
time to begin to learn it in its fullness. Always there… always there… Legolas 
felt himself falling into Théoden's rhythm, broken though it was, and the line 
of his song faltered slightly ere it adapted, like an instrument that had found 
its tuning note. Child of wide fields and a sky even broader than the land… now 
shut away… shut away like Éomer… like a wing-clipped falcon in a cage… like me… 
It seemed to the prince a strange thing that his own wounding, which had cut so 
inexplicably deep and threatened him with utter dissolution, should aid him, but 
confronted with Théoden's pathetic state he felt now the tug of kindred 
suffering. Indeed, he had felt it with that first touch. I know this song…! If I 
can grasp it… ah Théoden, I know you…!

Something stang sharply against the side of his neck, and Legolas gasped, 
snarling up at Wormtongue, who replaced a needle in a vial and then slipped the 
vial into the folds of his robe. The drug stole through his system with 
marvelous swiftness, and the elf wobbled where he crouched. It does not matter, 
if only I can learn this… I begged Aragorn once to teach me of his people… I 
would learn of mortals, I said to him. Have I learned enough? Not long ago in 
Lothlórien I misjudged even Aragorn… do I dare to think I might learn this one 
man's song so well in a moment? The world was growing grey, but Legolas clung to 
the song he hummed now, even as he felt himself collapsing towards the king. 
Théoden king… remember…! Please remember…!

Darkness.

***

"How long do you think this'll go on?"

"How should I know? What do I know of Ents, after all?" Merry sighed softly, 
stretching his arms as the two of them walked, describing a circular path all 
about the clearing where the Entmoot went on. And on… and on… For two days now, 
and they don't show any sign of stopping! Merry thought. Though on second 
thought, the hobbit decided that he wouldn't know a 'farewell' from an elvish 
symphony in this case. The ponderously slow music of Entish speech, with its 
myriad intonations and drawn out syllables rose and fell in a rather mesmerizing 
manner, never stopping even during the night. The hobbits had spent the first 
night tossing and turning, unable to sleep until at last they had stuffed their 
cloaks in their ears and huddled up against each other for warmth. Do they ever 
get thirsty, I wonder? I would, singing like that all day long! Merry wondered. 
But so far as he could tell, no one had gone off to the nearby stream for a 
drink, unless Ents could sprout roots like trees and suck the water from the 
soil itself. And since everyone seemed to have forgotten about them, he and 
Pippin spent their time wandering about (though they never went too far from 
their established route) and talking quietly; or else they would sit for a time 
in silence. But whereas they might once have amused themselves with verbal 
sparring or games, neither felt the slightest inclination towards jest. There 
was something about the Ent-song that stilled the impulse towards humor, and 
though beautiful to hear, neither hobbit was insensitive to the wrath contained 
within that music.

"Do you think we'll see the others again?" Pippin asked suddenly, and Merry 
blinked, then cast a sidelong look at his companion. The other's expression was 
worried, yet also longing, as if the young Took wearied of lonely independence.

"I don't know, Pip," Merry replied, wishing that he had more answers for it 
seemed he had been saying that rather a lot of late. "I just hope they're 
alright."

"Me, too. At least Sam and Frodo had a chance to get away clean," Pippin 
replied, and heaved a sigh of his own. "And the others should be well enough. I 
mean, they weren't slain when we… left."

"Right." And that was the end of that conversation. Why this silence between us? 
Merry wondered. Surely that isn't right between hobbits! And yet all their 
conversations tended to fall into awkward pauses, ending in uncomfortable 
stretches of wordless speculation. Just then, a rustling and swishing--as of 
wind through a tree's branches-- sounded behind them, and as the hobbits turned 
round, they saw Bregalad standing there behind them. The young--relatively 
speaking-- Ent, having reached his decision ere moonrise of the first day, would 
periodically come to talk to them, and the hobbits had come to enjoy his 
company.

"Hmmm… A good day to you, young ones!" The Ent said, swaying like a tree in a 
strong wind, which the hobbits had decided must be the equivalent of a bow. "I 
trust you are not yet weary?"

"Not weary, really," Pippin answered, "But restless, if you understand me. It is 
hard to wait and wonder and not even know where the debate stands."

"Oh, I should not worry about that," Bregalad said with confidence. "It goes 
well, though I think it may be a few more days before we move on."

"On to what?"

"Not what! Although in truth, were this Entmoot to follow the usual course, we 
would move on to another topic. But this is an exceptional time, you know, and 
so when we move on, it shall be to a place--to Isengard-- rather than to another 
conversation," the Ent said.

"Isengard… what of Saruman?" Merry asked, apprehensively. Not that he thought 
Saruman didn't deserve a clutch of angry Ents, but he was a wizard, after all.

"What of him? Ents are older than he, Master-Meriadoc-Brandybuck-of-the-Shire- 
of-the-Hobbits," Bregalad said, eliciting a smile from both hobbits. Most of the 
Ents had accepted that they were sadly lacking in properly descriptive names, 
and Bregalad had done so more readily than most. Given the origin of his name, 
Merry supposed this was only to be expected. But he more than others tended to 
call the hobbits by their full "Entish" names, and the idiosyncrasy amused both 
Merry and Pippin. "Know, o hobbits, that a wizard may be a fell enemy, but even 
a wizard needs many years to destroy a forest's strength, and the Ents have that 
in full measure. Saruman shall give us no trouble in himself. I hope only that 
his orcs are there when we come to Orthanc!"

"Well, forgive me if I say I'd rather they weren't!" Pippin replied with a 
shudder. "I have had enough of them to last me a life-time. Or even three 
life-times!"

"Or even an elvish life-time," Merry added for good measure and got a solid nod 
of agreement out of his cousin.

"I do not blame you for that, and I have had more than enough of them for an 
Entish life, which is long indeed. But for the trees that they have destroyed…" 
A shiver ran through Bregalad, shaking his leafy hair as if a cold breeze had 
blown. "My dear rowans… all of them lying felled and dead, their voices lost 
forever… ! For that, they must pay the price! And for the bruises on your 
delicate hides as well they must be made to answer, and shall if ever we find 
them."

"But there must surely be many orcs in Isengard. Orcs and evil men, if I 
remember Gandalf's tale aright," Pippin mused, and turned questioning eyes up to 
the Ent. "Would not the Ents be terribly outnumbered? How would you fight so 
many?"

A most astonishing and delightful flurry of trumpet-like noises answered these 
questions, and the hobbits darted startled looks at each other, for it took them 
a moment to realize that this unexpected sound was an outburst of laughter. 
When, after several minutes, the Ent managed to contain himself, Bregalad bent 
downward and scooped them up in his long arms, raising them to eye level so that 
he could look straight at them, and he smiled enigmatically. "Ah, how indeed! 
You shall see, my hobbits. Very soon indeed you shall see!"

***

Éomer turned away from the bars and his bleak contemplation of the opposite wall 
at the sound of movement behind him. Legolas lay with the marshal’s cloak folded 
beneath his head as a pillow, twitching slightly as if in response to a dream, 
but otherwise he lay precisely as Éomer had placed him some few hours ago. How 
long ago precisely it had been since the guards had dumped the elf’s motionless 
body into the cell with him, he knew not. Long enough, perhaps, for whatever 
drug is in him to begin to dissipate! A cursory examination of the prince of 
Mirkwood had revealed naught unexpected save for the puncture wound to his neck. 
It had bled little, being but a slight scratch, yet if it had felled an elf, 
then clearly it was a potent potion he had been given. Éomer had raised the 
other in his arms, marveling at how light the elf seemed, and done what he could 
to make him comfortable in the rude surroundings. At least his shoulder seems 
intact. But when shall he wake? For a time, he had waited impatiently, thinking 
that the occasional motions might indicate the elf was near to waking. But 
though he had called him a few times, naught had occurred, and at length, 
Legolas had lain quite still save for his breathing.

Now though, he has had time enough to recover, I should think. Perhaps he shall 
wake. And though he would be disappointed to learn otherwise, the diversion that 
these new spasms provided would at least break the monotony and give him 
something to do other than brood. At least for a few minutes! Éomer thought as 
he went and managed to perch sideways on the bench next to the elf. Legolas’ 
breathing grew quicker, and he seemed to flinch as the marshal gently shook him, 
hoping to elicit a response of some sort. "Legolas? Legolas, can you hear me?" 
He asked, pausing. The elf hissed, and his expression twisted in a grimace. 
"Legolas!"

"Wormtongue!" The prince snarled as his eyes flew open. Éomer had no time to 
react as he was seized suddenly and the elf, moving with incredible speed given 
the dead start, launched himself into the marshal.

Éomer yelped in surprise as the hard stone floor greeted his back and he winced 
as his head struck hard. The weight of the elf—which seemed now far less light 
than it had before—landed on his chest, half-crushing the air out of him, and he 
choked as the prince rammed his knuckles into Éomer’s throat with force just 
short of that needed collapse his windpipe. The pressure remained as the elf 
pinned him there, and in spite of his breathless astonishment, the young man 
managed to gasp, "Le…’o’as!" At the same time, he grabbed at the elf’s wrist 
desperately, but Legolas would not be moved. The strength in that arm was the 
more surprising for how slender the elf seemed, but that was not what roused 
Éomer’s fear. The blank, unseeing look in the other’s bright green eyes was 
terrifying, as if the elf moved now in a dream, and knew not what he did. 
"…’golas!"

Despite the strangled sound of his voice, the prince blinked, shaking his head 
sharply as he drew a deep breath. After another agonizing moment, during which 
Éomer tried to keep his vision from tunneling, the elf gazed down at him, 
staring, and at last recognition lit his face. "Éomer…?"

"Uhn… !" He could not nod without hurting himself, and the desperate exhalation 
was all he could manage, but chagrin quickly spread over Legolas’ fair face. 
Immediately, the hand on his throat jerked back, and Éomer gasped, gulping air 
like a landed fish as he reached up to clutch his throat automatically.

"What is this?" The elf murmured confusedly, glancing about at his surroundings 
ere he turned back to his suffering companion.

"I … know not!" Éomer gasped, feeling at the new bruising below his adam’s 
apple. Closing his eyes tightly, he concentrated only on breathing, on the 
simple act of pulling air into his starved lungs. "A good… strike…" the Third 
Marshal allowed at length, pushing up onto his elbows with a grimace for the 
headache that resulted from that movement. Gingerly, he felt at the lump forming 
on the back of his head and sighed. I suppose I was fortunate I sat alongside 
him, else, given the shallowness of the cell, I might have struck the bars at a 
bad angle! And given the strength and speed of Legolas’ reaction, such an impact 
could easily have snapped his neck. Looking up at the elf, he offered a slight 
smile to show no real harm had been done. "A very good strike!"

"I am sorry, my friend," Legolas said now, his face concerned. "I thought… my 
dreams have unsettled me of late. Such a thing should not be!"

"My own dreams are none too sunny, either," Éomer dismissed the apology as 
Legolas stood and reached down to help him to rise. The marshal clambered to his 
feet, and then watched as the elf sank down onto the cell’s wooden shelf, 
seeming rather unsteady.

"You do not understand," the prince murmured softly, and an edge of desperation 
entered his tone.

"He drugged you. I saw the mark," Éomer replied in what he hoped was a calming 
tone. He shrugged slightly. "You should not judge yourself so harshly!"

"Nay, Éomer, ‘tis worse than it seems, for I am not the only one to fall to his 
needle!" Legolas said darkly, and glanced at his new cellmate. "Wormtongue drugs 
Théoden at night, and I know not what he uses. That may explain some of the 
king’s pliancy, but there is more…"

"Wait! You saw this?" Éomer asked, interrupting in his astonishment. "How did 
this come to pass? Surely you did nothing so foolish as to follow Wormtongue…"

"Gríma said he would bring me to the king, and so he did. But it was no summons 
of Théoden’s, but the councilor’s invention, as I now perceive. He had but one 
purpose: to convince me that Éorl’s House is laid low at last, and shall not 
rise again to trouble those who would take its place! And to prove that an elf 
has little hope against him!"

"Many have tried to break Wormtongue’s hold, Legolas, and none have succeeded. 
Do not let it trouble you so much that even your dreams are not free of that 
serpent!" Éomer replied, though he grimaced as he spoke. So, the good councilor 
drips poison in his lord’s veins, does he? It does not surprise me, yet I wonder 
that I never thought of that before! Valar but men can be blind! With a 
disgusted shake of his head, and a wince for the pain that that hasty movement 
elicited, the marshal sank down onto the bench beside his companion. "I should 
not have thought Wormtongue would be so rash! It needs little wit as it is to 
recognize his hand in all of this. That he should tell you so much bodes ill 
indeed!"

"Éomer, hear me! Your peril… our peril… is greater than you think!" Legolas said 
urgently, and the Third Marshal raised a brow in skeptical question. The elf’s 
green eyes captured his, and for an unnerving instant, Éomer felt as though 
Legolas sought to turn him inside out, so deeply did that gaze pierce and probe, 
seeking he knew not what. Just ere Éomer would have looked away, though, the 
other released him with a slight grimace of concern. "Hear me," he repeated, "I 
am not as you are, for I am not a man. Since Boromir’s death, I have struggled 
under a shadow that has troubled my heart incessantly, and wounded as I was, I 
thought that darkness my own. But as I have begun to heal, I have become aware 
that not all shadows are of my own casting: some come from another source that 
dwells here, in the heart of Rohan. Saruman’s will it is, I doubt it not, but 
even a wizard may find it no small task to affect the court of Rohan so 
noticeably at a distance."

"Wormtongue is his agent, of that I am certain. Thus do the wizard’s ill designs 
become reality in our land," Éomer replied, with a touch of impatient 
puzzlement, for in truth he was not certain that he knew whereof the elf spoke, 
nor for what end he aimed.

"Gríma son of Gálmód is no mere spy, Third Marshal!" Legolas spoke urgently 
against his doubtful tone, and those green eyes caught his again. This time, the 
elf did not let him go, and it was Éomer who, at length, looked away, feeling 
oddly disturbed by the other’s evident concern. Legolas sighed softly, perhaps 
with disappointment, and then continued on in a low voice, "Creatures there are 
that serve the Dark Lord that are little more than his malice wrought in living 
form. They bear the mark of his hatred as a brand, for they are work of his foul 
hands. Gríma bears also the mark of his master… and his maker. Saruman has not 
Sauron’s power, perhaps, and he has not made of Gríma anything other than a man… 
but where Wormtongue stands, there lies a deeper darkness, and the will of 
Saruman is felt strongly, for that will is in Gríma. Even as Sauron pours his 
will into his creatures, driving them to fulfill his commands, the councilor has 
been… filled… infused with Saruman’s will and he gains thereby a portion of his 
master’s strength and even his gifts. Working through his creature, eating away 
at what was once a free man, Saruman spreads his evil throughout Edoras to 
consume others."

What is Gríma then? The question arose in Éomer’s mind, but he instantly 
dismissed it. For his purposes, it mattered not what he was, but what he did, 
and whether he could be stopped. Saruman’s creature, filled with a wizard’s 
power… That touched something, and for a while, the Third Marshal sought to 
recapture the memory and bring it to conscious recollection. Gríma son of 
Gálmód, who ever served without distinction. And suddenly he gained a voice… a 
voice and a tongue not to be challenged. I wonder! Could that be it? And why are 
some immune, while others bow before it? But such speculation in the end did not 
help him, and so he dismissed it, fixing instead upon another of Legolas’ 
comments. "‘Consume,’ you say. How?"

"As men are ever corrupted and consumed: through their fears and their 
weaknesses. Sometimes even through strength suborned, turned inward against he 
who possesses it," Legolas added, and cast a significant look at him even as 
Éomer felt his stomach clench. O Valar, my sister! Éowyn is alone out there with 
this… creature… loose and unfettered by any. Elfhelm is gone, and I am 
imprisoned, and Théodred is… dead. That loss still cut hard, but now it was 
secondary as the fear that he realized he had suppressed ever since Legolas had 
been thrown in with him broke free at last with shattering clarity. King of the 
Winds, she has stood for too long alone. By choice at first, but now… now she 
has no one, not even Legolas! I had not thought Wormtongue would be able to 
separate them so swiftly! What might she do? I fear to learn how Wormtongue's 
malice shall subvert that strength, as Legolas says. Blue eyes narrowed in grim 
contemplation as Éomer’s mouth became a taut line of tight-lipped anger and 
fear, and his jaw was clenched. Beside him, Legolas gazed worriedly at him, and 
he felt the other’s eyes searching him. "There is naught we can do now," the elf 
said at length. "And yet, however dark, there may be some hope left: Saruman’s 
dominance is not so complete as the Dark Lord’s, after all!" Legolas seemed to 
chide him gently. "Gríma remains a mortal man, though one bent now and bound to 
his master. Destroy the master, and the councilor shall fall with him!"

"But how does one destroy a wizard? And what of Théoden?" Éomer demanded, only 
barely reining in his temper that was born of fear too terrible to show. "If he, 
too, is bound…"

"I know not that he is completely bound, nor do I think that it is the same sort 
of bondage. Gríma’s service is willing, whereas Théoden still fights, or why 
else should Wormtongue continue to drug him? And in any case, is he not your 
kin? He has the strength in him—he must!—to break free. If he can be brought 
back to himself, made to remember himself, then perhaps it shall be enough. 
Alas, I have done what I can in spite of Wormtongue’s intervention. What shall 
happen now, I cannot hazard a guess but our peril waxes with the hours. For 
Wormtongue, in folly or overconfidence, has revealed himself plainly to me, and 
so stands now in peril himself."

"Then doubtless he shall seek the earliest moment to be rid of us both," Éomer 
said grimly. "I know not why Wormtongue should put us together, but you may be 
certain that it is for no good reason. He thinks to use the two of us in his 
schemes, and I fear what part Éowyn may be given against her will!" He squeezed 
his eyes shut against despair. "Valar," he murmured, scarcely aware that he 
spoke aloud, "if I could have but one wish…"

"Say it not!" Legolas interjected sharply. "I hear it in your voice, and I urge 
you: be cautious! Do not abandon your duty to your passion, my lord."

"I shall not. But when the two are conjoined… well then!" Éomer replied in a low 
voice, and even he was surprised by the dark lust in his tone: a lust for 
vengeance, for it seemed to him that it was already too late, and that he could 
hope for little else.

"Gríma is not one man’s affair, but a nation’s," Legolas said, clearly warning 
him. "This matter touches you too closely."

"Any who fall under this shadow are too close to it!" Éomer sighed. Then, 
shooting a quick glance at the elf out of the corners of his eyes, the marshal 
suggested, "Sleep, if you need it! I know you have had a hard journey, and it 
may be some while ere the drug leaves you entirely. I shall wake you should 
aught of import occur."

Legolas regarded the other for a long moment, and Éomer knew that the other was 
not deceived—that the elf heard all too clearly the dark thoughts that lay 
behind his words. After a long pause, the prince said softly but firmly, "Éowyn 
went to her chambers and that was the last that I saw of her. Wormtongue let her 
go, Éomer! Take that for a comfort and hope for a change of the tides."

Éomer said naught to that, only cocked a pale brow at the elf, and though he 
sensed Legolas’ worried disappointment, there was also a resigned acceptance in 
the way that the other turned away with a sigh. Clearly, the prince knew 
intransigence when he saw it.

For his part, Legolas closed his eyes once more against the distraction of his 
surroundings, and he shrugged carefully, feeling the pull of healing muscles. I 
have done my best, and though it may not be enough, for the moment I can do no 
more, for Éomer or for any other. And I have need of rest… not sleep, but a time 
to order all that is within me against this threat, for if it goes ill—or worse, 
rather!—I would not meet death unprepared!

***

Éowyn knelt in the middle of her room with a small box laid across her knees. Be 
thou brave, daughter mine, and go now to thy brother, for he shall need thee, 
and thou shalt need him! Her mother’s last words to her, all those years ago, 
and the child she had been had wanted to please her mother so badly. But I was 
too afraid to move. I knew she would leave us, and I could not understand why! 
She smiled slightly. At the time, I knew not that it was not her choice, that 
death comes to us all in time. Théodwyn had understood, she thought, for her 
mother had made an effort to smile, and then held out a hand to her daughter. 
Éowyn would have clung to it, but that Théodwyn had said painfully, "See child! 
See this ring? Take it, and keep it safe for me… until I should need it again, 
when I see thy father once more." Éowyn had managed to take the gold band, set 
with an emerald and a ruby cut to seem as though they twined about each other, 
from her mother’s hand, and Théodwyn had pressed it into her own before she had 
sent her away for the last time. In all the years since her mother’s untimely 
death, Éowyn had kept the ring with her, though she had never worn it. For it 
was hers, and I took it to keep it for her, not to wear it myself. But whenever 
she felt in need of comfort, she would take it out to look at, and to remember 
her mother’s face more clearly.

Tonight, though, she felt in need of comfort as never before, for Wormtongue’s 
double-barbed words still rang in her ears: I would speak with you later! Éowyn 
felt her cheeks flush hotly, remembering the imperious, disdainful tone; 
Wormtongue had seemed almost as a parent ordering a disobedient child about. But 
I doubt not that what he wants of me is hardly paternal in nature! Indeed, she 
knew well that he pursued her, hunted her like some beast of the field. And when 
he caught her… That scarcely bore thinking on, but Éowyn knew she could afford 
no illusions tonight. For years she had schemed and plotted, seeking some way to 
drive the serpent from Edoras. Her resistance was built about little things, for 
a woman had not a man’s prestige, but she had grown adept at making the most of 
small opportunities: a word here or there sufficed to spread rumors throughout 
the court, and though men might at first dismiss the tales of wives or servants, 
eventually they would begin to wonder. And if the rumors persisted long enough, 
and were consistent with others and with their own fears, then even the great 
would begin to believe until the rumors became fact. As in truth, they were, for 
Éowyn never spread lies. Her own network of spies–lower placed, naturally, than 
she might wish–brought her pieces of information which to one accustomed to the 
rhythm of the household meant much more than they might seem to one whose 
concerns lay mainly with affairs of state or the field of battle. But there were 
some few among the latter who honored her judgment, and to them she would pass 
her warnings. Rarely could she forestall completely Wormtongue’s plans, but 
given warning and due consideration, she could usually at least insure that they 
were public knowledge. And occasionally she could, through the influence she 
exerted upon the court’s atmosphere, unsettle his plots enough to turn aside 
their worst effects. Wormtongue knew all of this, of course, and she had ever to 
work to conceal her sources and to replace them whenever he discovered her 
informants, but thus far the contest between them was at a stalemate.

And that might well end tonight, Éowyn thought, feeling a flutter of fear in her 
breast. For she had never been caught before–not with her shirt red as the 
saying went. Nothing she did went unnoticed, and eventually all her efforts came 
to light, but events discovered after the fact were far less dangerous to her 
than a half-achieved plot. I was too careless tonight! But I had no choice, for 
Elfhelm is gone, and Háma too closely watched! And now I may have doomed Legolas 
along with me, for I fear Wormtongue’s intentions. Has he already convinced the 
king that he is a conspirator even as Éomer? What nonsense, and yet I have just 
given him proof! What made him go to the dungeons tonight? Or did he learn of 
the warden’s ‘food poisoning’? In the end, she gave up speculating, for it 
mattered not how Wormtongue had tumbled to them. He may have come only to gloat 
over Éomer, I know not! We are caught in the snare at last. At least I got a 
message out before I was caught. If only the messenger arrives at Helm’s Deep 
ere Saruman’s army does! Not that it shall help us, but at least Elfhelm and 
Erkenbrand, if they survive the rout, shall know the truth. They may yet muster 
enough resistance to salvage something out of the ruins, even if Rohan falls.

A knock sounded, and Éowyn quickly shut the box’s lid and hid it away in her 
trunk. The knock was repeated, and she crossed quickly to the door, steeling 
herself. I am Éowyn, daughter of Théodwyn of the House of Éorl. My father was 
Éomund, Marshal of the Mark. I bear the shield of Rohan, and I shall not fear a 
snake! It had been her litany since she had taken up the ancient office of 
shieldmaiden, and usually it helped to calm her. Tonight, it served only to mask 
her fear, but so long as Wormtongue did not see it, she would be content. Think 
of Éomer! Think of Legolas, and do not flinch, lass, for their straits are worse 
than yours! With that reminder, she pulled the door open and greeted Wormtongue 
with a frosty silence.

"Good evening once again, fair maid," the odious man offered.

"Speak your piece here and then be gone, for I have no mind for games," Éowyn 
responded shortly.

"Then we shall play none. Your brother and the elf share a cell tonight, and 
soon the court shall be arrayed against them. I fear that even now, word spreads 
of the treachery of the Third Marshal. And as for the elf? Well, we all know 
that an elf is not to be trusted, particularly not the sorcerers among them. 
Some there are who shall want vengeance… perhaps you know them, even, for they 
let you into the dungeons tonight, and their horror of that error goes deep!" 
Éowyn stiffened, aghast at what she heard though she supposed she ought to have 
expected no less. "I fear, Éowyn, that even duty may not restrain their anger, 
for Legolas attempted to ensorcel the king when he came before him. I know: I 
have seen it, and Théoden shall remember it in the morning!"

"Liar! You arranged that it would seem so! You must have enchanted him yourself, 
for the elf is no sorcerer!" Éowyn spat.

"Ah, but who shall know better? No one in Edoras, surely." Which specific 
qualification made her uneasy. Had he discovered her messenger? And if so, then 
he must be very confident indeed if he cared not who knew outside of the court. 
"The love of the Éorlingas for their king is deep and abiding, Éowyn, and woe to 
he who rouses it against him! I fear that something may happen in the night… and 
would that not be a pity? For however treacherous, I would not have a man of 
your brother’s standing or so unusual a guest murdered in their sleep…"

"You would not dare!" Éowyn hissed, though her heart sank, for she knew well 
that he would. And so he comes now to me… Valar help me, he comes now for me…! 
The councilor had an arm braced against the door so that she could not close it 
and shut him out, and there was a disgusting leer on his face.

"I dare nothing, Éowyn. I do. I act. And I tell you now that without a very 
convincing witness on their behalf, something unfortunate shall happen to your 
brother."

"And what of Legolas?"

"The elf? I care little. He may survive the night or he may not. Who knows? But 
your brother… he is long in his rebellion. He deserves to die for his crimes, 
this all men know. Oh yes, I know how you plot on his behalf, but politics 
smoothes over such discrepancies quite nicely. And Elfhelm is not here, who 
might defend him. There is but one witness left, but I think I shall need to be 
convinced of her sincerity."

There fell a silence, and Éowyn struggled against herself. So we come now to the 
point! Can I even think what I must say and do? The words seemed to catch in her 
throat, held their by her pride that would not yield to any. But Éomer! The 
vision of her brother’s lifeless body hung clearly before her eyes, and she 
wanted to keen her agony to the night as once the women of Rohan had done in the 
days long gone and almost forgotten. We were a wilder people then. Now we are 
too civilized, and we compromise all! "What do you want?" She finally managed in 
a low, sick tone.

Wormtongue raised his heavy-lidded eyes to her own for a brief moment, studying 
her face ere he let them wander her tall form, and she felt a shiver. His hand 
lay heavily upon her shoulder of a sudden, and she felt herself frozen in place 
by a horror that was the worse for having been long-wrought. Éomer…

"Let us discuss that more privately, Éowyn," he murmured. "Will you not let me 
in?" This must not be! Alas, despair, however deep, could but witness reality, 
not change it. Éowyn's decision was made—by her or for her, it mattered no 
longer.

***

A chance guard on his round frowned as he noted the light spilling from one of 
the doors far up the corridor, and he quickened his pace, wondering who was 
abroad. But ere he came close enough to see aught, the door shut again, and for 
all that he looked, there was no one in the hall.

*************

*Gríma/Éowyn exchange:

Gríma: "Foolish, Éowyn! You do not help your brother!

Éowyn: "Do not mock me, councilor!"

Gríma: "Bold words, my child!"

Éowyn: "I do not belong to you! Not now and not ever, foul adder!"

Lot of liberty taken here: I have the words from a word list, basic (really 
basic) grammar from an online course, and I have a smattering of German syntax. 
All three ingredients mixed well and shaken, resulting in the above (very) 
faux-Old-English-cum-Rohirric conversation.

Sites used: http://www.ucalgary.ca/UofC/eduweb (grammar)

http://www.mun.ca/Ansaxdat/vocab/wordlist.html (word list)

Ok, hopefully the timeline is less confusing now. Gimli and Aragorn shall 
reappear soon… I promise!



~~~~~~






Chapter Seventeen
All the King's Horses...






…Couldn't Put Some Things Together Again. ;)

Anyhow, heads up for the unwary: I swapped the Aragorn/Gimli bit from Ch 16 with 
a new Merry/Pippin segment. This should make timeline problem less awful since 
we're not dealing with A/G 'til this chapter. So if you haven't read CH 16: The 
Revision (or even just the revised part), please do so.

*******

"This horse finds every patch of uneven ground!" Aragorn sighed softly and 
gripped his companion the harder.

"I assure you," he replied, "that you imagine things, Gimli! Hasufel has his 
pride, for he was foaled in Rohan and knows this land. If you find a horse with 
a smoother gait, I should pay you in gold for him!" That might have elicited a 
grunt, but it was difficult to be certain as the wind tore at their words, 
whisking anything less than a shout away. The Ranger felt the dwarf's diaphragm 
contract, but that might have been due to Hasufel's lifting slightly to clear a 
patch of stone. Gimli had awakened that morning ill-tempered from the fever and 
dizziness that assailed him, but Aragorn judged him well enough to continue on 
at a good pace. Of course, the dwarf's dislike of horses made it difficult for 
him to push on at what the Ranger would normally have considered a good pace, 
even with Gimli seated safely within the circle of his arms before him. Equally, 
however, Gimli's pride made it impossible to suggest that he tie him in place 
for security's sake. At least I know he shall be well enough! Aragorn thought 
with no small relief. Given another two days, the dwarf would likely be as fit 
as ever, Durin's folk being a hardy race that did not succumb easily or for long 
to illness. In truth, Legolas still worried Aragorn more than Gimli, for the 
nature of his injury meant that it was in the elf's hands to better or worsen 
his state. Let us hope that he has found a way to help himself!

Whatever Gimli's complaints about their mount, Hasufel ran swift and smooth over 
the plains of Rohan. And if the horse was not one of the near legendary mearas, 
still, he was a worthy beast and Aragorn at least had horsemanship enough to 
appreciate his efforts. Indeed, for all that the Ranger continued to rein him 
in, Hasufel, after a few minutes' even speed, would begin to accelerate again. 
Given his head, he would doubtless make the journey at a gallop, but there was 
no point in causing Gimli to suffer overmuch. For beneath the gruff complaints, 
there was a definite edge of fear to the dwarf's tone that he could devote no 
energy to suppressing. Not while he battles this poison! Aragorn thought grimly. 
And yet we need haste, for though Éomer said naught overtly, there is something 
gravely wrong in Rohan. No horse herds in the Eastfold, and a new law that goes 
against former custom. And a note in Éomer's voice that, reviewed now countless 
times in his mind, made the Ranger deeply uneasy. What passes at Edoras and 
elsewhere that could teach one so fearless as he to fear?

By Aragorn's calculations, Legolas would have reached the court yesterday, if 
the company had ridden through the night. And if we press hard, we shall see 
Edoras by sunrise tomorrow. He glanced down at the top of Gimli's head, 
hesitating an instant on his friend's behalf, ere he came to a decision. "Hep! 
Gan, Hasufel!" With a snort and a toss of his head, the horse fairly leapt to 
obey, and Gimli's curse was lost in the wind. The day waxed and waned with but 
one stop, and as night fell, still Hasufel bore them ever homeward to Edoras.

***

Éomer opened his eyes and sighed softly, grimacing at the crick in his neck. The 
arm that pillowed his head was numb from lack of circulation, and his legs felt 
cramped and stiff. Injuries inflicted by Legolas aside, a night spent in a 
dungeon cell barely longer than Éomer himself was tall, and with but a hard 
plank for a bed, guaranteed discomfort. Particularly since he and the elf had to 
share the plank, quarters were close indeed. Éomer had not actually intended to 
sleep at all that night, but the cell's oppressive atmosphere had worn him down 
more thoroughly and swiftly than a hard-fought battle, and in the end he had 
succumbed to the siren song of sleep. Alas, as he had lain curled up on the 
bench, cursing the splinters, his mind had immediately begun to tumble through 
the events of the past few days with frenetic intensity. Éowyn's pale face and 
Gríma's hated one kept reappearing just as he thought to drop off into slumber, 
dragging him back to painful wakefulness. As a result, he was now thoroughly 
exhausted but unable to lie still any longer. Levering himself up on one elbow, 
the Third Marshal clenched his teeth as his headache returned in full force, and 
he glanced blearily at his cellmate.

Well, he thought, no changes there! Legolas sat cross-legged with his feet 
tucked up under himself, hands laid upon his knees, seemingly having never moved 
even once during the night. Éomer had wakened several times at odd hours, and 
the sight of the elf staring unblinking at the wall beyond the bars had been… 
eerie. Whether he slept or sat entranced, the Third Marshal had not the 
slightest idea. More, he knew not whether it would be safe to rouse him in less 
than dire need. For do they not say that one ought not to wake a sleep-walker? 
Éomer wondered, wishing he knew whether the elf suffered from a similar 
affliction. But since he did not, he would assume that it was best to leave 
Legolas to his own elven devices and let him wake on his own. Why does he not 
blink? He does when he is conscious, so one assumes that he needs to at times. 
How does he manage without his eyes drying out? Éomer gave a soft grunt as he 
sat up and stretched carefully to work the kinks out of his muscles. Such 
trivial questions were a sure sign of his mind's attempt to occupy itself, and 
he brushed them aside irritably, considering his own state of being. Though no 
light filtered into the dungeon, he was fairly certain that it was morning, and 
his stomach complained of its emptiness. The guards had not fed him since his 
incarceration, though they had brought him water. Éomer knew better than to let 
himself become dehydrated for fear of drugs, and so he had drunk what was given 
him without complaint and hoped for the best. Now, though, since he had decided 
to leave Legolas alone, he had problems of a more immediate and less weighty 
concern than poison in his drink. For the lavatory area was on Legolas' end of 
the cell, and Éomer's bladder informed him that he needed to use it now.

With a soft sigh, the young man rose and moved forward a pace to stand just on 
the edge of the elf's field of vision. Still, Legolas did not move, and Éomer 
pursed his lips, hoping that the prince would not mistake him for an enemy as he 
passed before him. After yesterday's demonstration of elvish martial prowess, 
Éomer was not particularly eager to startle the other into a second violent 
reaction. But nature called, and so, holding his breath, he stepped in front of 
the elf, half-expecting to be thrown up against the bars before he could blink. 
But nothing happened, and after a moment, Éomer let himself breathe once more 
and continued the short distance past Legolas to the hole in the ground that 
served as a latrine. Four more days! He thought distressedly. Four more before a 
trial, and who knows how long Wormtongue may drag it out? I shall be happy to 
see the execution grounds if only to see the sky! That was a depressing 
indicator of how low his spirits could sink, and Éomer sternly berated himself 
for self-pity. Unfortunately, thoughts of Éowyn or Théoden only woke a chill and 
helpless anxiety that seemed to him worse than his own grim future. Would that I 
could simply not think! But that, too, was an impossibility, and Éomer shook his 
blond head sharply as he finished his business, trying to jar himself out of his 
bad mood.

Alas, the quick movement only gave him double vision as the pain in his head 
stabbed at him, and Éomer hissed softly, wincing. Turning much more slowly out 
of respect for the headache, he took a very curtailed stride forward to grasp 
the bars, leaning against them wearily. I wonder how Elfhelm fares. If he took 
most of the King's Muster with him, he might last for a while, or at least 
retreat to Helm's Deep in good order. I know not if I can hope for more than 
that! Éomer had been born and bred to a tradition of war and horsemanship, and 
he had studied his sword-craft since he was ten. He knew very well that if 
something did not change soon, then Rohan was lost. Indeed, even if something 
utterly unexpected occurred-- should Gríma die (O happy thought!) and the king 
rise this very morning, for example-- there were forces at work that they could 
not control. In his absence, the Eastfold was under Éothain's command, and 
though Éothain was a competent, hard-nosed sort of fellow, he lacked the 
charisma to lead well in time of trouble. And then there was Anórien, which was 
prostrated before the Enemy. Cair Andros and Ithilien fought the tide, but both 
forces had lost significant numbers at Osgiliath and elsewhere this summer, and 
he knew not whence Minas Tirith would draw replacements. If they can find them 
at all! The Gondorrim are a valiant people, but we have been losing Anórien for 
two years and more now, and I think the break may have come. Sauron could send 
his creatures through the fens and over that land unchecked, and we would have 
no way to know it ere they reached the Eastfold! At least there were no 
shepherds or horse-herders still at large in that region, for sensing the 
darkening of their fortunes, he had withdrawn them all to relative safety early 
last summer after Osgiliath's fall.

"Someone comes again." The voice behind him spoke suddenly and without preamble, 
and Éomer jumped in his startlement, whirling to face his elvish companion, 
ignoring the pain. Legolas had not moved a muscle, but his eyes were now closed, 
and there was a different quality to his silence: a listening attentiveness that 
bespoke a fine concentration. Éomer glanced almost automatically back over his 
shoulder, though he supposed he would need to wait for a time ere the visitor or 
visitors arrived given the elf's acute hearing. "A light step… running… 
tripping, almost… a stutter… no armor, nothing to sound against aught else…" The 
elf's eyes, green as Rohan's fields and greener, even, opened once more, and 
there was a glimmer of dread in them as Legolas looked to Éomer.

"Who is it?" Éomer asked, feeling premonition stir unpleasantly, and his gut 
knotted up painfully. No… The footsteps reached the marshal's ears, and he felt 
every muscle tense. Too light… too light to be a man…

"I think," the elf said with manifest reluctance, "it must be…" …please let it 
not be…! Éomer squeezed his eyes shut as the footsteps skidded round the last 
corner."…Éowyn!" That last was addressed past him, and Éomer turned slowly round 
to see his sister standing there once more. Swathed in a dress that drew out the 
deep blue of her eyes, she seemed very pale, and her eyes stared at him with a 
mixture of relief and agony. Dark circles lay like woodland shadows beneath her 
eyes, which were a bit swollen as if with weeping, and her hand shook as she 
stepped forward and reached through the bars for her brother.

"You are alive…!" She murmured, reaching up to lay her hand to the side of his 
face as Éomer hastily thrust his left hand through a convenient gap to catch her 
shoulder as she swayed unsteadily. And though her tone was enough to break a 
man's heart, Éomer heard the terrible relief in it.

"Éowyn…" he breathed, his own voice sounding suspiciously husky.

"Alive!" She repeated, as if to reassure herself, and then gave a little laugh 
that ended in a sob as she bowed her head. More sobs followed, and she began to 
tremble like a leaf.

"Béma ahredde ús! Éowyn! Éowyn!" Éomer felt something akin to panic come over 
him, and he grabbed her hard through the bars. "Éowyn!" He cried, giving her a 
rough shake.

What happened next, he was not precisely certain, but there was a sharp crack! 
and he found himself suddenly gazing at the wall to his left, breathing hard, 
and his right cheek ached and throbbed. Someone clutched his arm urgently, and 
as he slowly turned back to gaze at his sister he realized that it was Legolas 
who held him. Éowyn stood there gripping the bars in a white-knuckled grip, and 
her face was expressionless now, eyes hooded and cold as ice as she stared at 
him. "Never speak of this," she said in a low voice that would brook no 
argument. "And never again let me see you panic, Éomer. I cannot bear it!" She 
raised her eyes to his once more, and for all the flatness of her voice, the 
haunted, pleading look in those eyes told the true tale. Éomer reached up and 
touched his cheek, frowning as he felt at the cut there, and he glanced down at 
her hands once more.

"Mother's ring," he murmured softly, and wondered at the sudden divorce of his 
feelings. He could name every one that passed through his heart and soul, yet it 
seemed that he had suddenly lost the ability to feel them. And perhaps I should 
be glad of that, for else I know not what I might do! "What are the terms?"

"I told him I would have none of his crafting or purchase, only this one," Éowyn 
replied calmly, as if she were discussing the cost of flour for the kitchens. 
"He agreed to that, and said that in the morning he would see that I was let in 
to see you again. Any day I like, at any time, even… for what time might be left 
us."

"So for the groom price. What of the bride's price?" He demanded, and Éowyn's 
eyes flitted away almost nervously. "Éowyn…"

"A little thing, brother… so very little in the end, for I have not your wealth 
to draw upon anymore." Her voice grew tight with suppressed tears and humiliated 
rage. "Just a little blood… he promised to take care if I bled too much after…" 
Black specks danced in Éomer's vision, and he felt his legs turn to water. 
Legolas' hand on his arm went quickly round his waist and he felt the elf's 
shoulder brace him. Sucking in air, he shook his head sharply and willed himself 
to keep to his feet, to look at her once more. Éowyn stared back with no small 
concern, and she grasped his hands suddenly. "Are you well?"

"Can you even ask me that?" He demanded, dazed and incredulous.

"How could I not? Éomer, this is the price of your life, do you understand? Not 
forever, nor even for ten days, even, but for the moment!" She shook her head 
sharply. "Were it not for you, I would have slit his throat and gone to the 
scaffold happily! Do not then waste this!"

"And so instead, I shall die on the seventh day cursing my misfortune that I 
lived so long!" He should not have said that, but the words were out, flying 
past his lips in an instant, and Éowyn's expression grew taut as a strung bow. 
Releasing him, she stepped away, drawing herself up with forlorn dignity, and 
before his very eyes he saw her armor herself once more. Of a sudden, there 
simply was no more pain, no more feeling, no remorse: there was only Éowyn 
standing straight, cool as steel and as pliant. "Éowyn!" He began again, but she 
shook her head, commanding with that gesture his silence.

"Rest, brother. I shall come to see you again soon, at least once a day. And be 
certain to eat, both of you. Good day." Nodding politely to Legolas, she turned 
then and strode away, and Éomer heard her footsteps retreat down the corridors.

"Éomer?" Legolas' voice at his side was soft and filled with grieving concern, 
but the marshal scarcely heard him. Éowyn… ah Valar, Éowyn! Éomer thrust the elf 
aside, turned, went to his knees, and promptly threw up. There was little enough 
to vomit, but it was enough to make him feel worse than ever and he slammed a 
fist into the stone wall, not caring that he cut himself in doing so. Any pain 
was preferable to the nauseated horror that filled him, and he squeezed his eyes 
shut against the very real possibility of tears. He felt another's hands upon 
him, felt himself drawn into the shelter of another's embrace, and it was a 
measure of his discomposure that he did not shove the other away. Words sung 
softly in a strange tongue reached him over the sound of his own ragged 
breathing, and in spite of himself, he felt himself falling under their spell. 
Though he clung to the hurt, his anguish diminished somewhat and the raw edge of 
hysteria was muted into a sort of pained acceptance. He felt a hand touch his 
face, reach around to cradle his head gently, and a lassitude descended the 
likes of which he had never experienced before. "Rest, Éomer," Legolas said 
gently, letting his song die for a moment. "I will wake you when she returns." 
Unable to resist the compulsion laid upon him, Éomer let himself drift away on 
the tide of an elvish melody.

***

And as Legolas soothed Éomer, Éowyn went straight to the kitchens. The women 
there murmured politely to her, but they quickly perceived her black mood and 
made haste to move out of her way for she did not slow nor look left or right. 
Edoras was a great city, and had many mouths to feed in the king's household 
alone, so the kitchens were correspondingly vast. And since she had been 
fifteen, they had been Éowyn's responsibility. Now she went and gathered the 
account sheets and summoned the headwoman to her in the medicinal storehouse. 
"Have you seen to my instructions?" She demanded.

"Aye my lady! All that you have asked be stored away, I have laid up against 
need."

"Good. Then I wish for you to procure the following herbs, for I think we may 
also need them," Éowyn said, handing over a list she had just written. The woman 
took it and stared at it for several minutes, for she did not read speedily. But 
eventually, she nodded, though she frowned slightly as well.

"All shall be as you command, my lady."

"Have you the list firmly in your memory?"

"Of course, my lady!" The other replied, drawing herself up, for the headwoman 
prided her nearly infallible memory.

"Very good then. Give me back the list, please, so that I may keep my records 
straight," Éowyn replied, and tucked the list into her kirtle.

"I shall begin today, since it seems urgent. But we have as much as we need of 
the last item, if I may say so--"

"You may not." The finality in Éowyn's voice cut the other off brutally, and the 
headwoman sucked in a breath as she gazed up at the cold face of her mistress.

"As you wish, then… May I go, my lady?"

"Please do so." Éowyn waited until the woman had gone, then she shut the door to 
the storehouse and locked it with a large key. Then, assured of her privacy from 
all, including her betrothed, she sank down onto a barrel of grain and wept as 
tremors shook her slender frame. How did it come to this? She wondered, fairly 
dizzy with shock. Éomer's reaction had been worse than any rage she might have 
imagined, and guilt and doubt racked her. Should I have refused? Should I have 
let him carry out his threats? But in her heart, she knew that she could never 
have permitted that. Indeed, she had tried for years to find a way to free 
herself from the threat of just this bit of blackmail, but so long as she loved 
her brother, Wormtongue could always use him against her. If Éomer were to fall 
in battle, that would be one thing; she would grieve, of course, but a warrior's 
death was honorable and she could ask no more for herself in days so dark as 
these. But to see him murdered in a cell, that she could not have endured if 
there were aught she could do to prevent it. Indeed, she would rather let him 
face the executioner, for she knew he could endure that with dignity, and at 
least all of Rohan would learn how a good man faced unjust death. Not that any 
such considerations eased the sting of her brother's recrimination, and she 
clapped a hand over her mouth so her sobs would not attract attention. Curse 
you, Gríma Wormtongue, whom I must now call 'husband'! For a moment, her mind 
went utterly blank as she struggled against herself to suppress her memories. 
She had heard that some women bled profusely after the first time, and sometimes 
that was quite dangerous. Éowyn supposed others would consider her fortunate 
that she had not, but for herself, she would have been happy never to waken to 
this day.

But I have, and the nightmare will not end soon! Edoras must be readied for 
siege, and my preparations are nearly complete in that respect. Assuming Gríma 
knows not all, the word spreads even now throughout the land: come to Edoras and 
be ready to defend your land! And Elfhelm may learn of our straits, if he lives 
still. He may be able to do little enough, but it is worth a try. And I would 
have someone know about Éomer… that he did not die a guilty man, as Gríma shall 
hold. Somehow, I must hold us together, though I dare not act openly. Not until 
Éomer is… dead. She made herself think it, made herself imagine the day when her 
brother would go at last to rest with their father, and her lips peeled back in 
a silent snarl. Once Éomer was gone and she was wife to Gríma, she would be free 
to act as she pleased, that much she had decided. Théoden was beyond 
redemption-- another painful truth to swallow, but having accepted that her 
brother was walking dead, this was not so difficult to admit as once it had 
been-- and she could no longer hold back on his behalf. Once Éomer is gone, then 
I shall do what I ought to have done many years ago, regardless of the 
consequences! Yes, my husband… come to your wife's sweet arms and learn the 
measure of my love! A foolish girl you may think me-- a toy to amuse you in your 
pride, but I know of the creatures of the earth, even the lowliest. And why not? 
For I know what it is to look up from the ground! Know you, Gríma, of the 
hourglass spider? The one that devours its mate? No? Well, soon you shall! You 
play at high politics, but you know naught of the sort that go on in the 
bedroom, do you now?

Thought of vengeance helped to stop her tears, for she could not afford to waste 
her strength on useless regrets. It is done, after all. Let Wormtongue taste the 
fruits of his labor! Wiping her eyes, she stood and let herself out once more, 
going back through the kitchens. But as she passed a large hearth, she reached 
covertly into her kirtle and tossed the list into the flames ere she moved off 
to speak angrily with one of the cooks for leaving a fire unattended like that. 
And all the while, while the unwitting victim endured her tongue-lashing, 
wondering what had gotten into Lady Éowyn of Rohan, the list was swiftly 
consumed. Soon, there was nothing left, and only two knew that it had ever been… 
or that the last item on the list was foxglove.

***

"Eat, Gimli!" Aragorn ordered, tossing his last packet of lembas to the dwarf. 
Gimli fumbled to catch it and he shot the Ranger a suspicious look.

"You continue to say that, but I note that nothing has passed your mouth but air 
and words!" The dwarf replied, which feisty response elicited a smile from his 
weary companion.

"The elves would say that that is sustenance enough at need."

"And so the dwarves are correct: elves are lunatics!" Gimli countered, making no 
move to eat anything at all. "Besides, you are no elf, Aragorn. For which we 
ought both to be grateful!" He added.

"And I am not sick, either," the Ranger responded, resorting to his trump card 
reluctantly, for he knew that no dwarf liked to be reminded of weakness. "Riding 
is exhausting work for a novice, as well, and we have still some hours still to 
travel ere we draw nigh to Edoras."

"Alas, if you faint for hunger, I shall then be in dire straits for this horse 
heeds me not at all," Gimli said archly, ignoring Aragorn's reference to his own 
diminished capacities and casting a wary look up at Hasufel. Returning his dark 
gaze to the Ranger, the dwarf continued on in as reasonable a tone as ever a 
dwarf employed, "At least take half, for truly, it shall do neither us nor 
Legolas nor anyone good if you cannot speak for us."

Aragorn shook his head and raised his eyes heavenward a moment as if in silent 
appeal, but he chuckled softly, too. "Very well! Such as we have, let us share 
it since otherwise we shall argue the night away." Gimli snorted but obeyed, 
though his left hand still shook. The Ranger reached across the space and 
snagged the smaller morsel, which earned him another glare, but he ignored it. 
Hunger he had lived with before and he had made do with less for far longer than 
this hunt without collapsing. There is, of course, a first time for everything, 
Aragorn admitted as he ate, and the Darkness saps my strength even as it wears 
away at an elf's resistance and delays a dwarf's recovery. May Frodo and Sam at 
least endure it with equanimity! In the mean time, they would soon be reunited 
with Legolas, and the Ranger hoped that they would find him much improved. If he 
is to endure our news, he shall have to be better or I know not how we shall 
tell him! Truthfully, even if the elf were fully recovered, Aragorn was not 
certain how to speak of Merry and Pippin to him. A part of him wished to give 
the task to Gimli, whose friendship with the elf had blossomed so unexpectedly 
deep, but that would be cowardly. How is this any worse than telling a family of 
a Ranger's death, after all? Alas, if it was no worse, it was also no better, 
and Aragorn hated that duty with an almost religious fervor, though he never 
forewent it.

"Tell me more of these Rohirrim, Aragorn," Gimli interrupted his thoughts just 
then, and the Ranger mentally shook himself. "You said you had been among them 
before. When was that?"

"Many years ago, admittedly," Aragorn replied. "After I had wandered for a time, 
learning my trade in the north, I went south to learn of men of different 
sorts."

"And you admire these horse-lords?"

"I do. They are an honest people by and large, being much concerned with honor. 
Not unlike dwarves are," the Ranger said pointedly, and Gimli grunted. "Less 
somber than the Dúnedain-- whether of Arnor or Gondor-- they are, and also less 
learned, but no less true in the end, whatever prejudice may make of such 
differences."

"And yet, my friend, you seem worried despite such praise." Gimli quirked a dark 
brow, and Aragorn grimaced slightly.

"Not all is well in this land if the king orders all strangers to come before 
him or be put to death. There are other things that I miss besides hospitality: 
we have seen no sign of horse-herds nor of any sort of men, though the custom of 
many folk here is to migrate with the seasons, driving their herds and flocks to 
different pastures. And Éomer is afraid of something: I read it in his voice. 
Afraid, and ashamed!" He shook his dark head. "That takes some doing, Gimli, to 
intimidate a Marshal of the Riddermark."

"And yet you counseled me not to fear for Legolas, knowing all of this?" The 
edge in the other's tone was unmistakable, and Aragorn sighed softly, meeting 
the other's stony gaze.

"Yes, because in spite of this… this malady that plagues the land, the Rohirrim 
are not easily cowed and they will hold to what is theirs for as long as they 
may, even if they must be cautious in doing so. I doubt that our friend suffers 
too greatly unless he has somehow managed to embroil himself in Rohan's 
troubles, whatever they be."

"And what are the chances that he shall do just that?"

The Ranger and the dwarf stared at each other for long, and finally, Aragorn 
responded: "I should hope that he would be wise enough to leave well alone…"

"But?"

"But," the Ranger sighed, "This is Legolas that we speak of, and I ought to know 
better than to expect him to behave." Gimli grunted at that, and looked away, 
while Aragorn cursed silently for having misjudged how best to handle the 
dwarf's concerns. He had been too weary and preoccupied at first to deal with 
Gimli's nearly frantic fears, and had sought only to calm them enough to buy 
both of them some peace for a time. But clearly he had erred in painting too 
positive a picture, and now what he had hoped would be a gentle enough wakening 
to the tension in Rohan seemed a reversal of his previous assurances. And so I 
seem a liar! Valar help me, I ought to know better than to fall into such a 
simple trap of words!

"Would they kill him?"

"I cannot tell you 'no' without a doubt, Gimli," Aragorn replied, spreading his 
hands slightly in a gesture of helplessness. "But in Rohan, the crimes that earn 
a capital sentence have to do with treason, murder, or rape. And now this law 
against trespassers, but Legolas has gone to present himself before the court, 
so he cannot be tried and sentenced to death for his obedience."

"And he is not bound to Rohan, so he could not commit treason, could he?"

"I cannot see how he might."

"And he has no reason to wish anyone in this land ill…"

"No, he does not." Neither mentioned the third possibility, for Legolas could 
have no interest in defiling a woman thus. 'Tis more likely he would prove a 
murderer! Aragorn thought, dismissing the very notion. Gimli issued another 
grunt and fell silent for a time, chewing thoughtfully, and the Ranger was 
reminded that he, too, had to eat. However much he had protested at first, he 
never wasted what he was given.

"Well," Gimli said at length in a gruff tone, "I suppose then that he is safe 
enough, in spite of troubles." Gloín's son gazed steadily at him, and Aragorn 
felt some of the tension in his gut unwind at the oblique forgiveness.

"I hope that he is. For I would not lose him either," Isildur's Heir replied, 
and Gimli offered a ghost of a smile ere he growled at Hasufel. The horse was 
tethered on a long enough line that he could wander a bit in search of grass or 
other bits of greenery, and he now nuzzled the dwarf, apparently drawn to the 
scent of lembas. "Away with you, horse! I have naught of interest, surely!" And 
when Hasufel continued to nose about Gimli: "Aragorn!"

"Eathe, eathe, mín freond!" The Ranger stood and reached down to catch Hasufel's 
ear, guiding the animal's head up away from Gimli. The horse whickered at him 
and butted him in the chest, and the dwarf snorted.

"See? Dangerous beasts with no respect!"

"One day you must ask Legolas to teach you the way of the elves with horses," 
Aragorn replied, stroking the horse's neck soothingly. "He but seeks a reward 
for his labors, as do we all in the end." The dwarf watched skeptically as the 
Ranger broke off a small corner of his portion of lembas and offered it to the 
horse. Hasufel gladly accepted and Gimli rolled his eyes.

"Has he not all the fields for his manger?"

"He has worked as hard as we," Aragorn replied.

"Hah!" But the dwarf said no more on the subject, only finished his frugal meal 
ere he turned a wise eye up to his friend. "And what reward do you hope for when 
this war is over, Aragorn?"

"Gondor restored and a life lived in peace for the first time since I was 
fifteen, or a little younger," the Ranger replied simply. And sensing that Gimli 
stared at him still, he raised a brow and asked, "What more could I hope for?"

"I had hoped to learn that, as I know not," the dwarf responded, cocking his 
head. There were times when a dwarf's height had definite advantages, and this 
was one of them: when taller companions habitually looked down to hide their 
smiles, he saw them clear as day, even in the dim light of their fire. "Alright! 
I saw that, and now I think I may hazard a guess, for though I be a dwarf, I 
have seen that look before! Who waits for you at home, my friend?"

"No one," the Ranger replied, and Gimli frowned, for however unexpected, the 
answer rang true. Narrowing his eyes, the dwarf tried a different tack:

"Legolas suspects, you know."

"Does he indeed?" Aragorn gave the horse an affectionate slap and murmured 
something that caused Hasufel to move a little ways away and return to grazing 
on the dew-damp grass. "And has he confided these suspicions?"

"You keep many secrets, Aragorn, for one so honest!" Gimli replied, unwilling to 
admit that Legolas had not, but knowing full well that his refusal to answer the 
question was its own incrimination.

"If I did not keep them, I would not be so called," the Dúnadan replied. "And if 
you do not rest now, then tomorrow you shall suffer for it. I shall take the 
first watch and wake you later."

With a resigned but amused shake of his head, Gimli said, "Very well then. I 
shall not ask further, but one day one of us shall learn the truth!"

"Then I wish you fortune in that endeavor. Good night, Gimli!"

"Good night!" The dwarf curled up beneath his cloak and was soon asleep, for in 
truth he was more weary than was his wont at the end of the day. Bloody orcs! He 
thought disgustedly as he drifted off to sleep.

Meanwhile, Aragorn stood watching him for a time ere he shivered and pulled his 
cloak close about him, going to stand near Hasufel for what warmth the horse's 
body could offer. Good luck indeed, my friend! He thought. For I would share my 
dream with you if I thought I had a hope of attaining it! But all I have is one 
night of memories and guilt the next morning that taints all my remembrance! How 
could I share that with any, even did it not compromise Arwen's honor? With a 
shake of his head, he put such remorseful thoughts aside and turned his 
attention to the future. Tomorrow we reach Edoras, and then… then we shall learn 
the truth, whatever that may be.

*******

Béma ahredde ús!: Oromë save us! Tolkien writes that Oromë was called Béma by 
some men. I have just chosen to assume that these men are the Rohirrim or their 
ancestors (RotK, 393).

Eathe, eathe, mín freond!: Easily, easily, my friend! 



~~~~~




Chapter Eighteen
And All the King's Men






 Háma son of Héor was not a superstitious man. Or at least, no more so than was 
any warrior. He kept no set of blessed bones to dice with when seasonal storms 
threatened, nor looked to eclipses to foretell the future, and in general he 
heeded not the rumors that circulated among the general populace. Had he done 
so, he would have looked to see Éorl himself return on the back of a dragon and 
the resurrection of Helm Hammerhand. In his mind, such wild fantasies and 
practices were quite distinct from the occasional prayer to Béma or the lock of 
his wife's hair that he kept on him for good luck, and as a rule, he frowned 
upon those of the guard who watched their calendars too closely for auspicious 
days or ill-omened moons. That sort of blind striving to grasp what a man could 
not in principle understand was an unneeded distraction, a breech in a unit's 
discipline and a measure of the fear and anxiety that plagued men these days. 
At least I can excuse the latter, for my own heart is uneasy and I know full 
well the root of the malice in this land! He thought moodily. But he had no 
idea what to make of the latest word that had spread like wildfire up from the 
main gates, and Háma wondered whether later he ought to speak to Brand of the 
Gate-guard about the perils of an unguarded tongue.

Never having traveled beyond the borders of the Riddermark, Mundburg was as 
foreign to him as the moon itself, but Rohan had always enjoyed close ties with 
Gondor. Even in these dark times, when the king was fallen into decrepitude and 
despite the efforts of a certain Wormtongue-- Curse his name!-- the bond was not 
yet severed that bound the two realms together, and many there were in the Mark 
who waited anxiously for a positive declaration of war against Mordor. News 
flowed back and forth between Minas Tirith and Edoras on a fairly regular basis, 
and so he knew well the rhyme that had drawn away the lord Boromir. And 
contradictory though it might seem, Háma was willing to accept that worthy's 
errand as legitimate. For the line of the Stewards is a high one, and ever and 
anon there is born among them a soothsayer. I would not have taken Boromir for 
one, but his brother… aye, that I can believe. But even so, there seemed to be a 
division in his soul as to what he believed in the abstract and philosophical 
sense and his expectations as to the unbroken routine of the here and now. Were 
it not for that split, he might have been less troubled and hesitant regarding 
the tale that Brand's runner had relayed two days ago when marshal and guest had 
safely entered the hall: that Éomer's elf-lord played hostage for none other 
than Isildur's fabled Heir.

As Éomer himself had not seen fit to mention that fact-- or rather, that 
unsubstantiated claim-- before the king and court, Háma had judged it best to 
keep his mouth shut and do as he had always done: listen, watch and wait, and be 
certain that the lady Éowyn knew of her brother's whispered words. She had been 
very interested, that was certain, but Háma could not tell whether she believed, 
for she had been quite pressed for time. She had heard him out, and then nodded 
thoughtfully ere she had entrusted him with her instructions with a quick press 
of her hand and a look of silent thanks. Soon enough we shall see the fruits of 
that errand, and I only hope that we shall not end by killing ourselves! Háma 
thought, suppressing the urge to massage the muscles at the base of his neck, 
for he could feel a headache coming on. I do not need this! He thought grumpily. 
'Tis hard enough in the Mark these days simply to do the task assigned one, let 
alone do it well and as it ought to be done! I do not need to deal now with 
would-be legends!

But as was ever the case in important matters, the choice was not his to make: 
fate would present him with perplexities, and he would have to decide what to do 
to tame them. If they can be tamed! And can I tame them if I do not believe? 
Such questions ought not to fall within the purview of the captain of the king's 
household guard, but then again, the king's captain ought not to have to go 
behind his sovereign's back in order to secure the safety of not only the king 
but the realm. He ought not to have to watch as the king's sister-daughter 
worked herself into a most untenable position in order to protect not only her 
brother but the kingdom; he ought not to have to be a conspirator to be loyal. 
There are many things that ought not to be, and which are in spite of that! He 
thought with sour desperation, but men of the Riddermark did not complain of 
fortune. They endured, they followed it, and whithersoever it led, they met the 
devil with a grin. That was tradition, at least. Reality might be different, but 
for the sake of Rohan, Háma had already perjured himself in the eyes of the law 
several times, so he supposed that he might as well seek redress of evil in the 
two wanderers whom Brand escorted now to Meduseld.

They were certainly unlike any others that Háma had ever seen: though grey 
cloaks hung close about their shoulders, eerily seeming to shift in hue to match 
the sky or the stones, the rest of their gear was work of mortal hands. Even so, 
the dwarf's corselet was clearly of far superior make than any that lay within 
Edoras' treasuries, and given the reputation of that stout and fierce race, that 
came as little surprise. The broad-bladed, double-headed axe that the dwarf bore 
had the look of a weapon lovingly tended and kept in immaculate condition 
against all too frequent need. And the scowl on his face matched the one that 
Háma politely refrained from wearing as he turned his attention to the man. 
Héor's son did not lack for inches and he looked up to very few, but this 
wanderer had a hand-span on him. He was Éomer's height easily, and might just 
have a hair's breadth on that worthy as well, though it was hard to tell from 
this angle. Unlike the dwarf, whose raiment proclaimed him a warrior 
well-equipped for battle, the man wore plain clothes of the sort any common 
horse-herder or vagabond might wear: shades of brown and dark green, leather and 
rough home-spun that bore no few blood or grass stains. Naught but the sword 
that depended from a well-worn sword-belt would have marked him for a warrior. 
Naught but that, and his bearing, Háma amended. Even the elf had not made quite 
the same impression on the warden of Théoden's doors, though perhaps the prince 
could be excused on account of injury. This wanderer fairly skewered him with 
his eyes, and Háma had the clear impression that it would not do to cross his 
will without a very good reason.

"Welcome to Meduseld… sirs," Háma managed after a moment's hesitation, uncertain 
of how he ought to address this mismatched pair. "I am Héor's son, Háma, and 
warden of the hall."

"Is Legolas within?" The dwarf asked gruffly, wasting no words on courtesy, and 
the warden cocked his head. According to all the tales that he had ever heard, 
there was no love lost between the elves and the dwarves, and he wondered 
whether that was concern that spoke or less welcome emotions. Need I watch them 
both, to insure that neither tries to make a dent in the other's skull? He hoped 
not, but made a note to attach a minder to the dwarf so that in the event that 
he came near the elf, there would be a witness and someone close at hand to deal 
with the doubtless messy aftermath.

"You shall learn the answers to your questions soon enough, Master Dwarf," he 
replied aloud, the soul of discretion. The dwarf's eyes narrowed slightly, but 
Háma continued on quickly, denying him the opportunity to argue his statement: 
"Who shall I say would come before the king?"

"Gimli, Glóin's son am I," the dwarf replied, and seemed about to say something 
further, but Háma had turned already to gesture to the man.

"I am called Aragorn son of Arathorn," the other replied, and Háma grunted, 
cocking a skeptical brow, awaiting some further declaration. But none was 
forthcoming, so the warden sighed inwardly and let his gaze drift back to the 
dwarf, Gimli, again.

"Then I bid you welcome once more, and must ask that you disarm yourselves, for 
the law of the land permits no weapons to enter the king's presence, save by his 
permission." The dwarf growled something utterly unintelligible, but Háma had 
been warden for many years, and he knew a curse when he heard it, no matter what 
the language. Opening his mouth, he began to explain that there was absolutely 
no choice in this matter when Aragorn spoke again.

"Hwanon cumath theos æ?"*

"You speak Rohirric?" Háma shot him a sharp stare, feeling his heart quicken for 
no discernible reason. "Or know you but a few words?"

"I speak it, and why should I not, who have lived among the Rohirrim before?"

"Have you now? And when was that, good sir?" Háma demanded, hoping that there 
would be no cause to inquire after a lot of horse-herders or farmers who had 
broken the law.

"Many years ago, so fear not for your people," Aragorn replied with a slight 
smile. "But unless I am wrong, it still stands as law that one who has lived 
here and served the king is never again accounted a stranger."

"That is so… but even high officers of the court must surrender their weapons," 
Háma responded. "I would advise you to make no great issue over this, for it is 
required of all, even of Marshals of the Mark."

"Then I shall give you no argument, but ask a question instead," Arathorn's son 
replied even as he unbuckled his sword-belt and motioned for Gimli to hand over 
his axe. The dwarf obeyed with grudging reluctance, but said no more. "Having 
spoken with Éomer, I am led to believe that much goes amiss here." Those 
piercing grey eyes settled once more upon the warden, who found himself nodding 
almost in spite of himself. "Why, then, has not the council intervened?"

"The council?" Háma blinked. "Your visit must have been quite long ago indeed, 
if you know not the answer. There is no council, sir, only a councilor."

"And why has he done naught for Rohan's succor?"

"Why say you that he has not?"

"Gandalf Greyhame spoke with concern of the court of Edoras, and Éomer's voice 
and feel seem to me to justify that concern. Come, I am no spy sent by Saruman," 
Aragorn chided lightly, and when Háma's eyes narrowed, he added gently, "New 
spreads, Háma, warden of Meduseld, and those who have eyes and ears cannot help 
but note the trouble of this land."

"I see," the warden paused considerately, passing Aragorn's sword to one of the 
guard detail to set against the wall. "I fear I am not at liberty to speak much 
about such things, my lord."

"Then it seems that someone must inquire of this councilor."

"If there were any to do so, doubtless that would be the proper course," Háma 
admitted. And as Aragorn passed a second dagger to him, he gave the warden a 
smile that inspired a swiftly suppressed shiver, for it did not quite reach his 
eyes. That look I have seen before, the warden thought warily. Usually it was 
Éomer or Théodred who sported it, and often after learning of another incursion 
into Rohan by orcs or another of Wormtongue's plots to be foiled. It was the 
look a warrior wore into a hopeless or very doubtful battle. A very Rohirrim 
expression indeed, that smile and those eyes that betrayed naught but a warning 
for those who would oppose them, and Aragorn replied in a reasonable tone:

"Then I shall do so. For Ælric Eardstapa left the Mark in good standing, and 
never lost his rank!" At which pronouncement, Háma could not help but stare, 
lips parted in astonishment. Ælric Eardstapa … His father's tales of the court 
came back in an instant, and the warden shook his head as if dazed. Impossible!

"Ælric Eardstapa must be dead!" He exclaimed, eliciting confused looks from the 
younger men of the guard, and hard stares from the older ones. "He would be my 
father's age at least!"

"Older, actually," Aragorn replied deadpan, and Háma shook his head sharply.

"'Tis not possible. I would sooner look to see Isildur's Heir than Ælric!"

"Then look no further, captain, for you have found them both!" And with that, 
Aragorn beckoned Gimli to come and strode past Háma into the halls. And marvel 
of marvels, the guard contingent parted before them like sheep before a pair of 
wolves.

"Captain?" His second in command queried hesitantly, and Háma rounded on him 
fiercely. The other recoiled slightly, automatically stepping back out of range 
of the warden's sword. "What means this?"

"I know not," Háma replied, his tone sharper than the other's question merited. 
Drawing a deep breath, the warden attempted to calm his mind and quell his 
astonished disbelief. But do I disbelieve him? All that he had ever learned made 
the return of Isildur's Heir, not to mention of a man long assumed dead, highly 
improbable. And yet here comes one who claims to be both, and with him travel an 
elf and a dwarf and who knows what else? A pair of Halflings in a pocket, I 
suppose? Upon further consideration, it seemed self-evident that either Aragorn 
was quite mad… or else he was in truth Isildur's Heir. And Ælric, long Thengel's 
champion! Whatever the case, this promised to breed more than ceaseless 
arguments at least, and Háma came swiftly to a decision. "Aldor! Take command 
here. Cyld, Halróf, and you two!" That last summons was directed at a pair of 
the younger lads who had only recently joined the guard and had naught to lose. 
"Follow me and do nothing save by my order alone. Do you understand?" He 
demanded, pinning each of the four with a hard stare.

"Aye, captain!" The chorused response came back, and he nodded sharply.

"Very good. Come then, and go quiet as a cat if you value your skins!" So there 
is another councilor in Edoras, is there? Another councilor to counter 
Wormtongue… to speak for those who need a voice. What is one more act of 
treachery in the name of the kingdom, after all is said and sifted? At the 
least, this disruption should shake the court and perhaps someone's claws will 
lose their hold a bit! And should it go ill-- as well it might!-- I could be in 
worse company than Éomer's! So Háma followed his guests into the hall with a 
smile very like to Aragorn's on his face.

***

"What was that about back there?" Gimli demanded in a basso whisper as he and 
Aragorn made their way towards the throne room. "What said you to the door 
warden?"

"I have told you that I served once in Rohan," the Ranger replied, and the dwarf 
nodded. "Under the law, which has not been changed, once a man has offered his 
sword in defense of the realm and had that offer accepted, he is no longer 
eltheodig-- no longer a stranger, legally. And though he may leave the realm, 
should he return, he retains all privileges that he enjoyed before, save only in 
certain cases of dishonor. As I left Rohan a captain and councilor in good 
standing, I remain one, though one who has been absent for long."

"Why then did you surrender your sword?"

"Because had I contested the new law, I would have risked my standing. And I 
shall need it to argue with Master Wormtongue, of whom Gandalf so fondly spoke 
at the council of Elrond," Aragorn replied grimly.

"But how shall that help you? Surely you would waste your time arguing with 
him?"

"Agreed. I should perhaps have said that I would argue with Théoden, for all 
councilors are co-equal in rank and as Ælric, I need not Gríma's permission to 
address my king."

"Diplomacy!" Gimli sighed softly, shaking his head.

"Politics, which is not always the same thing. Bide a time in silence, Gimli, 
and follow my lead where appropriate!"

"That is easy enough to say!" Gimli muttered. He supposed that Aragorn's plan 
was a good one, but truthfully, he knew too little of legal custom in Rohan to 
make a sound judgment. At the moment, Rohirrim politics interested him only 
insofar as they concerned the fate of a certain prince of Mirkwood, and Gimli 
chafed at the bit to know what had become of him. Háma's smooth deferral of the 
question had not eased his mind, and he chewed on his mustaches pensively as he 
trotted along at Aragorn's side, wishing that the Dúnadan would remember his 
shorter stride. And that he would speak Westron! Mahal curse it all, why can 
they not speak a tongue that all understand? Dwarvish mores aside, it was only 
courtesy to speak the language of a guest. Or, if that were not possible, to at 
least speak a common tongue, commonly agreed upon. I suppose, though, that that 
fellow at the main gate was warning enough! For the hail had come in Rohirric, 
and although Aragorn had answered all in Westron, the other had been quite 
content to carry on his half of the conversation in his native (and to Gimli's 
ears, unintelligible) language. Apparently, though, Rohirric, like disease, was 
catching, and Gimli had waited with what he considered magnanimous patience 
while his companion had haggled with Háma.

"Calmly, my friend, and never fear, you shall learn the answers to your 
questions in good time. If I fail in this gambit, after all, we shall have many 
a long hour in the dungeon to fill," Aragorn replied with a soft chuckle, 
leaving Gimli to wonder at the other's sense of humor.

They came now to a heavy set of ornate doors, and the guards there hesitated not 
an instant to open them and wave them within. A dwarf's eyes, accustomed to 
subterranean dwellings, naturally adjusted well to gloom, and in truth, the 
darkness of the hall had troubled him little. But as they entered the throne 
room, the dwarf frowned. Light streamed through a single, unshuttered window set 
high in the wall, and the contrast between the patch of illuminated floor and 
the rest of the room was stark. But beyond that, Gimli was aware of a sense of 
malice, of illness, almost, that clung to the hall, and he wrinkled his nose 
slightly. 'Tis not a smell… what is it? He wondered as he peered through the 
gloom, squinting as his eyes readjusted.

Upon the throne sat a stooped and wizened figure, and the dwarf felt his stomach 
drop out through the earth as he realized that indeed, this was Rohan's king. 
Frail as a reed he seemed, with his snowy locks and dwarf-long beard. Mahal have 
mercy, this is power that rules the land?! He shot Aragorn a quick glance, but 
Isildur's Heir betrayed nothing in his expression and strode forward to stand 
before the lowest step. "Westhu hal, cyninges mín," he greeted Théoden, and the 
king stirred slightly. "Hieren ge mé?"

"Sé cyning hiera nic elthéodas," came a soft voice from the steps, and Gimli 
jerked his gaze from the king to the figure seated there before the throne. He 
had not even noticed the man, which was telling. It was as if the other's voice 
had made him visible, crafting him a body to contain itself. And I think me that 
I like not the language he speaks, Gimli decided. And I do not mean Rohirric! 
Something in that voice grated on the dwarf's ears, like boulders grinding, or 
the trembling of the earth, and he liked it not at all. Beside him, Aragorn 
cocked his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he stared at the man whose nervous 
blinking began to irritate Gimli further.

"Ic eom nic eltheodig, runwita," the Ranger replied firmly.

"Ah? Hwæt cunnath thæt ús iewan? Neman!" Even Gimli recognized the sneering 
contempt in that question, and the dwarf found his fists balling at his side as 
anger coursed through him on his friend's behalf. Diplomacy! He reminded 
himself, and made certain to clasp his hands behind his back in an effort to 
obey Aragorn's earlier injunction.

"Neman, secgeth Gríma Gálmóds bearnes, mmm? Resteth ne æan ne arweorth her, 
Théoden-cyning?" Was it Gimli's imagination, or did a round of hisses go through 
the hall at that, as if every guard in the room had drawn a sharp breath at 
once? But whatever the guards might think, the apparently pointed question drew 
an inquiry from the king, which the dwarf hoped was a good sign as Théoden had 
not yet spoken a word.

"Hwæt eart thu?" The old man's voice came out as a hoarse whisper, and the 
wrinkled, thin hands that clutched the arms of the throne trembled as Théoden 
leaned forward slightly to stare at Aragorn.

"Hé is neman, cyninges mín!" The councilor replied quickly, adopting an oily 
tone that set Gimli's nerves on edge. "An hefigtyme scrithaner is hé! Sceawiath 
hine, hlaford!"

"Cum her!" Théoden replied, seeming not to notice his councilor, and Aragorn 
went. Up to the steps, and, at the king's shaky gesture, he ascended 'til he 
stood directly before the old man, there to kneel in polite obeisance. "Sceawe 
mé!" The Ranger raised his eyes to Théoden's, and the two men stared at each 
other in silence. Seconds trickled by, becoming minutes, and Gimli fancied that 
Erebor began to change its shape as time wore away at it, so long did that 
silence endure. Even the councilor said naught, though his breath rasped loudly 
and he seemed to have grown even paler, if that were possible. What passes here 
in this hall? The dwarf wondered, frustrated by his inability to understand what 
was said around him. Guardsmen were watching, unabashedly staring in fascination 
at the still scene before them: Aragorn on his knees, seeming before the aged, 
white-haired king rather more young than Gimli had ever thought him to be ere 
that very moment.

At long last, Théoden raised a trembling hand and laid it upon Aragorn's face, 
and it seemed to the dwarf that the old man's eyes grew suspiciously bright and 
glassy. "Ne… ne, thæs cunneth nic wesan!"

"Oncnawath ge mé, Théoden-cyning?"

"Ic sceawie an mann, hwæt ic in gemynd mín sceawie… an Ælric Eardstapa." Speak 
Westron! Gimli felt like suggesting, but upon due consideration, he decided that 
it might be best not to break the mood with any such request. Whatever happened 
between Aragorn and Théoden, it seemed more wholesome than what churned within 
the soul of the odious little councilor. Gimli, gazing at the man, felt a shiver 
pass through him, and the hair on the nape of his neck stood up in response to 
the other's nearly white-eyed stare.

"Giese, hlafordes mín. And mid éower lætanung, éower runwitena sculath thone 
Riddermark mænan!"

At that precise moment, footsteps sounded, and a familiar voice cried out: 
"Gimli!"

"Legolas!" The dwarf turned in astonishment to see Háma of the guard escorting a 
rather startled elf into the hall. And behind him…

"Éomer!" Théoden murmured as the Third Marshal, hands bound behind his back, 
dropped instantly to his knees. To the dwarf's eyes, the man seemed haggard, 
exhausted, and there was in his face something that bespoke an inner torment 
that was grievous to behold. But his eyes blazed with some unidentifiable 
emotion that seemed to give him strength enough to speak the traditional 
greeting in a voice nearly his own. Tûrg Mahalu, what is wrong with him? The 
dwarf hurriedly looked to Legolas, eyes flicking over his friend in a hasty 
evaluation. Mirkwood's prince seemed to be in better spirits than the Marshal at 
least. Indeed, Legolas seemed quite alert, and if there were still a shadow in 
his eyes, he did not droop or withdraw, but fixed his bright stare upon the 
king. Gríma, on the other hand, looked about to suffer an apoplectic fit, but 
that that would rid the court of him too easily.

"Háma!" The councilor snapped, and before the hatred in that voice the captain 
of the guard drew himself up (and drew a deep breath, Gimli noted), seeming as 
one who girds himself against a storm he cannot escape.

"Théoden-cyning," the warden began at almost the same moment, as if he would 
plead his case quickly, ere the councilor could speak much of him.

"Hlafordes mín," Éomer interjected as well, and Gimli shook his head sharply, 
unable to follow the rapid shifts as the babble of voices reached a crescendo, 
each man trying to speak at once in a torrent of impassioned Rohirric. Aragorn's 
silver gaze went swiftly from marshal to guard captain to councilor, and thence 
to Legolas. Throughout it all, other than to hail Gimli, the elf had not spoken, 
nor had he taken his eyes from the king, and the Ranger's eyes narrowed in turn 
as he glanced back at Théoden. And what did that look mean? What else did I just 
miss? The dwarf grumbled to himself, folding his arms across his chest. The king 
sat with head bowed, as if unable to withstand the onslaught of voices and 
pleas. Indeed, Gimli found himself in sympathetic accord with the old man, for 
the sense of helpless fury and desperation that pervaded the court was nearly 
intolerable. No small wonder that Aragorn sensed something amiss! Such an 
atmosphere is well nigh stifling, and it shows… Mahal but it shows! Did Boromir 
face this, I wonder? Did he know how fragile was the ice upon which Rohan 
stood-- and continues to stand-- when he passed through here on his way north? 
Such was but idle speculation, though, and there was naught a dwarf could do but 
wait out the speeches and hope that something came of this seemingly fruitless 
exchange. To his left, Legolas appeared to have come to the same conclusion, for 
he closed his eyes and began to whistle softly to himself, ignoring the bonds 
and the guards and all the racket with peculiarly elvish aplomb.

Oddly, though, the elf's tune seemed to have a soothing effect, for one by one, 
the men fell silent; even Gríma ceased his tirade. But whereas Éomer and Háma 
looked to Legolas with a slightly puzzled fascination, and Aragorn watched the 
king with hawk eyes, the councilor's face darkened. His lips peeled back from 
his teeth, and a hiss escaped him, which seemed to the dwarf a rather excessive 
response to bit of music. Even if it is haunting… Gimli thought, frowning 
thoughtfully.

"Ætstande hine!"

"Why do you fear a mere song, councilor?" Aragorn shot back, startling Gimli 
with his sudden switch.

"A mere song? This elf tried to put a spell on the king before, and this 
treacherous fool allows him a second chance!" Gríma replied, rounding on Háma 
with a malicious gleam in his eyes. "Long have I suspected this one of 
double-dealing…"

Éomer made a strangled noise, and it needed a moment for Gimli to realize that 
the man laughed. The Third Marshal climbed to his feet, shaking his head. "I 
kneel for my king, but for thou I stand, Wormtongue! Craven and traitor I call 
thee, and thou canst but kill me for the naming. Which thou wouldst anyways," 
Éomer spat bitterly. "But I am told that the council convenes, and though I be 
but Éomer Éomund's son 'til my king judges me, I may still plead my case before 
the court. That is, if any man here has the heart as well as the authority to 
hear me." Éomer turned now to Aragorn, and desperate blue eyes fastened on the 
other. "Speak for me, I beg, if you be also Ælric whom my father loved well!"

"That has not been proved…" Gríma interjected hotly.

"Then let us put my claim to the test," Aragorn replied. "There is but one man 
in this hall who knew Ælric, and he is before us. Let the king name me formally, 
if he will."

As the men gazed expectantly at Théoden, Gimli drifted unobtrusively nearer 
Legolas and Éomer, for now that they had come to the breaking point, should 
Théoden's memory fail him, he would not see his friend dragged back below to the 
dungeon. Aragorn I can count upon to take care of himself, after all, but an 
elf? Glóin's son smiled thinly. Théoden sat with his head bowed still, and made 
no move. Has he expired? The dwarf wondered fearfully. A glance up at Legolas 
seemed to tell against that fear, for the elf's eyes remained closed and he 
seemed calm enough. Whether in truth he wrought a spell, as Gríma charged, or 
whether he simply waited after his own fashion, Gimli could not say, but he 
thought that the elf seemed… hopeful. At long last, the king stirred, and a 
tremor seemed to run through him. He lifted his eyes to stare once more at 
Aragorn, who remained kneeling before him. Blue eyes touched then upon Gimli 
himself, and thence the king's gaze roved to find Gríma, Háma, and Éomer. 
Finally, those eyes settled upon Legolas, who opened his own at just that moment 
to meet them. Green and blue, field and sky, and for an instant, Gimli had the 
impression that somehow, the two belonged together, as if a cord more subtle 
than spun mithril bound them to each other. And then Legolas did something, and 
the cord seemed to fall, dissolving, and the dwarf wondered whether it was 
simply a trick of his eyes, brought on by the contrast of sun and shade.

"I know you…" Théoden murmured, never ceasing to gaze at the elf. "You were with 
me that night…"

"I was, your majesty," Legolas replied, bowing low.

"He tried to attack you, my king!" Gríma hissed.

"Attack… how odd, for I remember a light in my dreams…" Théoden shook his head 
sharply, seeming to try to clear his mind as he shifted his attention back to 
Aragorn. "And you! How is it possible that you are here? You were my father's 
captain…"

"The line of Isildur is long-lived, my king," Aragorn replied. "And though I 
have been absent, I have kept my honor and would serve once more… if you will 
name me."

"Name you…"

"Théoden-king, do not let these sorcerers confound you!" Gríma entreated, 
clutching at the king's arm. This time, though, Théoden jerked, as if stung and 
the councilor recoiled slightly before the sharp-eyed glare turned upon him.

"Do not you question me in that tone, councilor. And do not touch me!" Gríma 
hastily withdrew his hand, and Théoden ignored him once more as he turned back 
to the Ranger. "I will name you: you are Ælric Eardstapa, captain and councilor, 
champion of my father in the days of my youth. Other names you have, it seems, 
but those you shall have to declare for yourself, for I know them not. But yours 
is not a face one forgets, not though many years pass." And with that, the king 
stood, and the clatter of his staff upon the floor was loud in the silence. "As 
for you, Éomer, you would speak, and so I give you leave. You need not seek a 
councilor's support."

"Béma be praised," the younger man muttered prayerfully under his breath. "My 
king, I seek redress for wrongs done me and my family! I stand before you with 
the charge of traitor over my head, and though I do not deny that I rode against 
our enemies without permission and allowed strangers to wander free within our 
bounds, surely there can be no such fault laid at the feet of my sister, Éowyn!"

"Éowyn? Where is she?" Théoden demanded, seemingly reminded of her absence.

"Ask Gríma Gálmód's son! Ask him who bought her honor with threats to my life!"

"What is this?" Théoden asked, turning ice-cold eyes upon the shrinking 
councilor.

"He lies, my king! Éowyn agreed to my suit!"

"Before or after you threatened Éomer's death?"

"I promised him a trial, as is his right. I did not threaten to kill him," Gríma 
replied.

"You or your minions, 'tis but a small difference! Ask Éowyn! Surely we may hear 
her voice, for is she not a shieldmaiden?"

"No longer," Gríma replied, and smiled before Éomer's white-faced fury.

"A woman wronged has still redress through her brothers or father assuming they 
live," Aragorn replied mildly. "Perhaps it would be best to judge Éomer first, 
my king."

"You hold yourself guilty of breaking the law, Éomer?"

"I do, my king, but such laws as were crafted by Worm-- by Gríma son of Gálmód I 
hold suspect!"

"As do I!" Háma interjected suddenly, coming to Éomer's aid. "My king, if you 
would hear those who would serve you truly, you will learn that there is not an 
honest man in this court! We are all of us traitors if Éomer is, for we have all 
sought the preservation of the realm and maintenance of the court against the 
bans of Gríma. Slay us all, or pardon us!"

There was a long pause as Théoden considered this plea, and Gimli rocked up onto 
his toes, scarce able to stand the anticipation. Surely he sees the truth now! 
Come, old man, speak! At length, the king turned to Wormtongue, and the 
councilor's pale eyes widened. "My king…" he murmured.

"Háma, take this below and see to it that the cell is secure."

"Gladly, your majesty!" The warden signaled two of his men forward, and they 
were joined by a pair of men stationed in the hall itself. Gríma recoiled before 
them an instant, but then cursed loudly as Halróf none too gently laid hands on 
him and began herding him out of the hall. As the five of them passed before 
Éomer and Legolas, Gríma gave a serpentine hiss and spat at the Marshal, who 
flinched back, a look of disgust on his face. Disgust quickly gave way to anger, 
and he turned sharply to gaze after the councilor.

"Éomer," Aragorn's voice stilled whatever threat the younger man might have 
made, and the Marshal drew a deep breath. "Let him go, my friend. He has been 
dealt with."

"Loose them," Théoden commanded, sinking back down upon the throne. Weary he 
seemed now, but to Gimli, it was a less pervasive fatigue, and one more natural 
than that which had afflicted him before.

"Gimli!" The dwarf turned and cocked a severe brow at the elf, who stood rubbing 
his wrists to restore circulation.

"Master Elf, if you think ever to land yourself in a dungeon again, I shall send 
for my axe and spare both you and I much misery!"

"I shall say one thing for the cells of Edoras: the company is better there!" 
The prince of Mirkwood retorted, eliciting a strangled sound from his companion, 
and some chuckles from the men surrounding the unlikely pair.

"Then perhaps we should return you to one, so that you and Master Gríma may 
converse."

"I--"

"Cyning!" Another of Háma's men appeared just then, bursting through the great 
doors with a look of cautious hope upon his face. "Hlaforda mínes!"

"What news, ceorl?" Théoden asked with a slight frown.

"Cyninges mín," and Gimli sighed softly as the man launched into a swift 
explanation… in Rohirric, of course. Legolas, on the other hand, listened 
intently, and the dwarf's brow knit as he murmured:

"Do not tell me that you understand that!"

"Nay, not truly. But I begin to, I think. Éomer has taught me somewhat."

"Oh? Do tell!"

"I fear some of it I ought not to repeat in the company of the young and naïve." 
The elf flashed a quick smile at his companion, who rolled his eyes.

Whatever news the man had brought, it caused a sensation as exclamations and 
murmurs flitted about the hall. Even Aragorn seemed surprised, but a look of 
grim composure quickly settled on his lean face. And then everyone was moving, 
the king and the Ranger among them, much to Gimli's consternation. "What now?"

"Éomer?" Legolas demanded, glancing at his cell mate of the past few days.

"It seems that the muster of Rohan has arrived," the Marshal replied with a taut 
smile. "Someone sent a summons. Would you care to guess whose work this might 
be?"

"Éowyn!" Legolas breathed.

"My sister never lacked for audacity. But I think me that she may have cut this 
quite fine indeed, for Balcor reports also that a second messenger returned with 
his message undelivered."

"Why?"

"He found Saruman's army between him and Elfhelm," Éomer replied grimly as he 
and the others reached the doors and passed from the hall to the open air. News 
had spread swiftly, it seemed, for hails drifted up from the outer keep as 
people greeted the newcomers. The Marshal paused on the steps and scanned the 
towers along the ramparts. After a moment, he caught his breath and pointed 
towards one that had raised a red banner. "There! See?"

"What means that?" Gimli demanded.

"War comes to Edoras," Éomer said softly, and turned his eyes northwest, staring 
as if he would pierce the layers of stone and see straight through to the host 
that approached. "It has been a long time brewing, but they are coming." With a 
shake of his fair head, the marshal offered a hard-eyed smile as he accepted a 
sword lobbed him by one of the guardsmen. "Take heart, Master Dwarf and you as 
well Legolas, for the wait is well nigh over. No man shall sleep tonight unless 
in death!"

 

******

A/N: This soul (tm) now owned in equal parts by Karaquazian and Alawa, who 
answered my pleas and enabled me to further tweak my OE… hopefully I didn't mess 
it up even more! ;-) Aragorn's Rohirric name changed at the suggestion of Alawa, 
so instead of being "Ælric Homeless" he is now "Ælric Wanderer" which permits of 
something much closer to a nice alliteration (another OE trait. Thank you again 
Alawa).

I hope that you didn't go quite as crazy as Gimli during this chapter, but I 
wanted Rohan to feel foreign after spending so much time in it with Éomer, 
Éowyn, Legolas, and finally Háma. If you did, however, get frustrated, fear not, 
the translation (such as it is) follows. If it really bugged you, let me know 
and I'll (try to) restrain my impulses in the future.

Hwanon cumath theos æ?-- Whence comes this law?

Westhu hal, cyninges mín… Hieren ge mé?‡ Be you hail, my king… Would you hear 
me?

Sé cyning hiera nic elthéodas.‡ The king does not hear foreignors.

Ic eom nic eltheodig, runwita.‡ I am no stranger, councilor.

Ah? Hwæt cunnath thæt ús iewan? Neman!‡ Oh? Who can prove that [lit. who can 
show us that?]? No one!

Neman, secgeth Gríma Gálmóds bearnes, mmm?Resteth ne æan ne arweorth her, 
Théoden-cyning?--> No one, says Gríma Gálmód's son, mmm? Is there neither law 
nor honor here any longer, Théoden king?

Hwæt eart thu?‡ Who are you? [Who art thou?]

Hé is neman, cyninges mín!…An hefigtymer scrianther is hé! Sceawiath hine, 
hlaford!‡ He is no one, my king! A troublesome wander is he! Look at him, lord!

Cum her!… Sceawe mé!… Ne… ne, thæs cunneth nic wesan! ‡ Come here!… Look at me!… 
No, no, this cannot be!

Oncnawath ge mé, Théoden-cyning?‡ Do you recognize me, Théoden king?

Ic sceawie an mann, hwæt ic in gemynd mín sceawie… an Ælric Eardstapa.‡ I 
believe I see a man, whom I see in my memory… one Ælric Wanderer.

Giese, hlafordes mín. And mid éower lætanung, éower runwitena sculath thone 
Riddermark mænan!‡ Yes, my lord. And with your permission, your councilors must 
speak of the kingdom.

Ætstande hine!‡ Stop him!




~~~~~





Chapter Nineteen
Cast the Net Round





 Three thousand men. Three thousand men and such equipage as they had with 
them-- so Háma numbered Edoras' defenders, and the ice of his eyes had not 
melted as he smiled grimly. Aragorn and Éomer had absorbed the bad news in 
silence, and Théoden had nodded thoughtfully. The best count that any could 
manage on their enemies was an even ten thousand, and neither words nor cries 
would better the situation. "Some stragglers may arrive ere sunset and so come 
in the nick of time before our enemies arrive," Háma had added, but no one 
looked to that possibility with hope. Even a few hundred stragglers would make 
little difference when the numbers were so unequal. For Edoras, though it lies 
atop a steep way, is not the place I would have chosen to make a stand, Éomer 
thought as he made his way down towards the outer ramparts. Quite apart from 
the bad odds, the sprawling nature of the Rohirrim settlements in this area, 
all of which were counted as a part of Edoras steading, meant that the sheer 
numbers of displaced civilians would make quarters and rations tight indeed. At 
least, Éomer mused as he passed by a cluster of farmers bearing quivers and 
bows, we may rely upon the fyrd men, so we shall worry less about some of the 
refugees. That would give Edoras' beleaguered forces a boost in archers and 
pike men, but most such citizen soldiers would be held back as a last defense 
before the gates of Meduseld, freeing horsemen and guardsmen to hold the 
forward lines as long as possible. Háma was busily organizing the fyrd ranks at 
the moment, while Théoden had disposed of his men according to the needs of 
Aragorn and Éomer, who had spent the past few hours making of Edoras a 
labyrinth of choke-points and dead-ends for the enemy to discover.

But none of that would matter, and in the end, Edoras was a bad place for a 
siege not because of its architecture, but because whether its people remained 
beyond the walls or clustered fearfully in the court of Meduseld, they would die 
nonetheless. Short of rescue at the hands of Minas Tirith's army entire, Edoras 
was doomed, and so were her defenders, innocent and otherwise. Éomer could taste 
the collective despair on his tongue like bitter dregs, and he supposed that 
that was precisely what it was: the dregs, the last draw on a day so filled with 
reversals he could scarcely comprehend what vast, cosmic conspiracy would put 
them all together in a few short hours of daylight. When he had awakened that 
morning in his cell, cursing his continued existence, he had looked for nothing 
beyond Éowyn's next visit, however painful. Háma's unexpected arrival and terse, 
excited message had roused astonishment and a desperate hope that had seemed to 
be borne out beyond all expectation with Wormtongue's incarceration and 
Théoden's cure. But it had not lasted, and with the messenger's words, he had 
felt his elation plunge once more, only to strike bottom and rebound to a sort 
of mad delight with the world's perversity. No wonder Legolas stared at me when 
I grinned at him earlier! The Third Marshal thought grimly, lips twitching 
nonetheless. There were those who held that his father had had a bit of the 
berserker in him, but most fighting men in Rohan could claim the same. It was 
tradition, fostered and bred into a boy early on, and Éomer tended to dismiss 
such tendencies in himself. After all, he had never been one to laugh while he 
slew; he had never lost control, nor gone into battle so hot-tempered that he 
failed in his duty as a captain-- to protect his people and not to waste them in 
a futile and unnecessary engagement.

Now, though, he wondered: perhaps rumor had been correct, perhaps he had 
inherited a bit more of that ancient, fey humor than he had believed previously. 
At least his emotions had settled to a less fevered pitch, and the 
responsibilities of a Third Marshal had helped in that respect. As Háma had said 
earlier, when Éomer had paused to talk with him on his way into Meduseld, 
certain death focused the mind wonderfully. It made a man aware of what was 
important, and taught him to appreciate what he could in the time left him. He 
could appreciate, therefore, that Edoras' straits, bad as they were, could 
easily have been worse. Éowyn's stealthy preparations may make the difference: 
we may at least give a good account of ourselves and hold out for a day or two, 
perhaps. That must count for something, surely! But at the same time, such 
thoughts only reminded him that he still felt nauseous on her behalf, and a part 
of him felt certain that even were he to live to see a thousand years, that 
nausea would never leave him. Wormtongue's poison had infected him, and the cure 
was beyond him for nothing could undo the past. Nothing could have saved me from 
myself. Legolas was right to fear for me! And if even the last few hours were 
beyond reclaim, the last fifteen minutes were equally lost to him: they were all 
plunging forward towards the abyss. With a toss of his head, Éomer made himself 
put such grim reflections aside and continue on his way towards the high outer 
walls. This is not the time for distraction, and I have done what I could for 
her, after all. Little though it is, and despite the cost. As he reached the 
base of the stairs, he paused to let pass a small contingent of cross-bow 
archers who would act as snipers for those hidden behind the barricades and in 
empty storehouses and shops. As the group's commander hurried by, though, Éomer 
reached out and caught his arm. " My lord?" The man asked, recognizing Éomer.

"Is the lord Aragorn above?"

"Ara… ah, yes. Lord Ælric stands just there, to the left of the gates. He waits 
for you, I think, for ere he sent us off, he asked about you, my lord marshal."

"Good man," Éomer replied, clapping the other on the shoulder by way of 
dismissal as he turned his eyes to the heights. In the fast-waning light, it was 
impossible to distinguish anyone by face, even without a helmet. But there was 
Éomer's standard, surmounted by the royal crest of Edoras, and that meant that 
the tall silhouette standing by it was most likely Aragorn. Tucking his helm 
under one arm, the Third Marshal took the steps two at a time to reach the 
ramparts, and then turned to his left. Down the line of waiting men he strode, 
noting the stillness in their faces, and he grit his teeth against the 
collective agony as men watched that dark army come onward. From this angle and 
range, it was easy enough to spot Aragorn: Isildur's Heir stood taller than any 
save himself, and even had he not, his dark hair set him apart amid the 
profusion of gold braids and silvered armor. And from the contemplative look on 
his face, one might not have realized that they stood now on the edge of 
disaster. This is, Éomer realized with a sudden cold shock, the end of the Mark 
as we know it. Whatever comes next-- final defeat or a new day for those left 
behind-- nothing will ever be the same again. Since Helm's day, no enemy has 
dared to attack Edoras, and even then, no one who had not Eorl's blood in him 
ever sat upon the throne. Curse Saruman! No such glum thoughts showed in his 
face, however, for though young, Éomer knew well that men must not see a 
captain's weakness.

Aragorn glanced sideways, hearing his approach, and gave Éomer a nod. "Is all 
well at the inner keep?" Grey eyes fixed on his own, and the Third Marshal let 
out a slow breath. Clearly, someone-- probably the archer captain-- had told him 
of Éomer's likely whereabouts, and Éomer sensed the concern that weighted that 
silver gaze.

"As well as can be. Háma has the fyrd men and the Meduseld guard firmly in hand, 
and the King's personal guard will see that Théoden is well-protected when we 
reach his position."

"I see." And the way that the other said it told Éomer that Aragorn had not 
missed the omission in his report. But Isildur's Heir knew the meaning of 
discretion and politely did not inquire after Éowyn. And as Éomer had rather 
counted on that courtesy, he let out an unobtrusive sigh of relief, for he had 
no desire to speak of any matter that might bring them round to mention of Gríma 
Wormtongue and questions that he did not want to answer. "The last archers are 
in place, and we wait now for naught but targets to use them against," Aragorn 
continued by way of moving past that awkward pause.

"We shall not lack for those, at least," Éomer replied, and smiled somewhat as 
he added, "I met a few of the archers coming up. They told me that 'lord Ælric' 
was above."

At that, the Ranger gave a soft bark of laughter and shook his dark head, 
running a hand through his hair. "Ælric indeed! I had not thought I would be 
remembered so well that more men would know me as Ælric than Aragorn. I wonder 
whether my birth name even survived the journey from Meduseld to the outer 
keep!"

"It may have, but the king did name you Ælric, after all," Éomer reminded him 
with a soft chuckle. "In any case, you have enough names to bewilder the 
loremasters of Minas Tirith. Four I count, and how many more, I wonder?" He 
paused, letting his gaze sweep over the waiting, motionless men. A warrior 
learned habitually to gauge the subtle differences in mood that washed over an 
army as it waited for the clash. The veteran of many a campaign, it occurred to 
Éomer that there was something… off. Something puzzling… wrong… yes, there is 
something wrong with this forlorn brooding. Quizzically, he glanced over at 
Aragorn, who stood leaning on his hands against a convenient merlon, watching 
the movement along the front lines of that dark host, intent upon his enemies. 
If there were aught amiss, either the Ranger was not aware of it or else he had 
already come to terms with it. Éomer knew not which it was, only that never had 
the air seemed so still to him. It was as if every man stood stiff and poised, 
held suspended by some common injunction to silence. "Béma but it is quiet!" He 
murmured uneasily.

Aragorn stirred at that, turning a considering eye upon the younger man. "Aye, 
it is," said he softly.

"Know you wherefore?" Éomer asked, drawing nearer to keep their words between 
themselves.

"I have my suspicions," the Ranger answered after a minute pause, but then fell 
silent. Clearly, he had no desire to discuss that matter any further, and 
tempted though he was, something in the other's manner decided Éomer against 
pressing him to elaborate. After a few moments, Isildur's Heir gave a soft sigh 
and glanced up once at the unfeeling expanse of darkening sky. Something 
flickered in those sea-grey eyes ere dark lashes veiled them, and then Aragorn 
pushed away from the merlon, giving the Third Marshal a measuring look in 
response to the younger man's staring. And Éomer felt an odd chill sweep through 
him as the pressure of those eyes weighed heavy upon him. Aragorn seemed to seek 
something in him, his gaze probing deeply as if to ask: And are you ready? Are 
you truly ready? Blinking to break that eerie contact, Éomer cast a quick glance 
up at the fading blue of the sky, wondering if there were somewhat there to 
prompt that look. Am I ready? Ready for what? Death? He had been ready for that 
since he was sixteen, and although he had never before faced a battle knowing 
with certainty that he would not survive it, the inevitability did not trouble 
him overmuch. Not that I do not fear, but I have lived with this fear for too 
long to fall prey to it in the end. And if he had, then Aragorn ought to be more 
or less immune to the protests of corporeal sensibilities, which was why he 
dared his companion's eyes once more in the hope of discerning an explanation 
there in spite of the Ranger's silence.

For his part, Aragorn read the other's confused questioning; yet he said naught, 
for he knew well the traditions of Rohan, and recognized whence Éomer's present 
composure stemmed. From a close familiarity with waiting on an honorable death, 
for the familiar can be a comfort, even when it is grim. Which was not to say 
that Éomer was alone in that dreadful alliance with death: Aragorn felt it, 
too-- how could he not? Nevertheless, there was a fundamental difference between 
them that held the Ranger's tongue against revelation. Éomer wants to die, 
though he does not know it, perhaps. I feel it in him, though, as I have felt it 
in others. Poor lad! He is likely worn out from the day's events-- from the 
years that led to that cage and his sister's dishonor, though one must look 
carefully indeed to see his exhaustion. And so he would not add to that 
weariness by telling of the Fellowship's quest, nor by touching on the import of 
that silence that Éomer had remarked. Why trouble him at this late date, when 
composure comes at so high a cost? And Éomer is a warrior, besides: his is not 
to ask, only to do as asked… even as I do. Beyond that, Éomer was young, aching 
still from that confinement, eager for what revenge he might take even if it 
would not last nor save either himself or Éowyn. Young enough to be content to 
die and expurgate his sense of outrage with a last gasp, he thought and hid a 
sad smile. One could do worse than die attempting to defend one's home and lord; 
one could die knowing that the Ring remains still, as Boromir did. As I shall, 
and as Gimli and Legolas shall.

Thought of those two, waiting with the guard of the inner keep, brought some 
comfort to a lonely soul, but even that bond was incomplete. For of the three of 
them, only Aragorn bore Gandalf's burden, or so he hoped. Only he knew that not 
only was the Ring unmade, but that whatever passed after this battle, their 
quest was already in vain-- that it had been since that long ago conversation in 
Rivendell, and that it remained only for the players to exit the stage. And I 
cannot say what lies beyond the curtain that separates the stage from the real. 
If Boromir's death taught me aught, it is to look no further than what 
friendship lies before me. It would be cruel to tell them, to tell any of them 
now. Let them fight this last battle and die still hopeful! At the least, I can 
spare Legolas and Gimli 'til the battle reaches Théoden, he resolved grimly as 
he strained his eyes to find once more Saruman's men in the falling darkness. 
The sun hung still in the sky, but in the next quarter hour it would set, and 
though a prayer or plea hovered on the edge of conscious thought, he stilled it 
ere ever it burst through to trouble his conscience. If we must find our own 
grace, then let me not ask it of those who cannot-- or will not-- give it. 
Lowering his eyes once more, he laid a hand on Andúril's pommel and let the 
chill of steel and gold work its way through him even as his thoughts turned 
westward. Arwen…

"There he is!" That deep rumble of a voice broke through the silence with 
shattering intensity, and men stirred at the sound, shaking off their immobility 
with looks of confusion. Éomer cast a glance back over his shoulder, curious but 
no more. Aragorn, though, turned quickly and his eyes narrowed as he saw the two 
figures that worked their way along the catwalk ledge. Gimli was instantly 
recognizable, but Legolas wore a metal-studded leather jazerant-- lighter and 
more flexible than chain mail-- and the vambrances that covered the motif on the 
shooting brace had Rohirric designs. But for his bright eyes and elvish 
fairness, one might have mistaken him for a younger son of Rohan. And neither of 
them were supposed to be anywhere near the outer ramparts.

"I thought you were to remain with the guard before Meduseld," the Ranger said 
rather sharply, arching a brow at the elf and dwarf who came to stand before 
him. Gimli grunted at that and raised dark eyes to his companion, who met his 
stare and gave a one-shouldered shrug as he calmly unslung his bow.

"Were we? Gimli, I fear I may be more ill than I thought, for I remember no such 
order," Legolas frowned.

"I find it difficult to pick out one voice in amid all this Rohirric babble," 
Gimli snorted with exasperation. "You are the one who has been trying to learn 
this infernal language, not I! You were to listen for orders!" Elf and dwarf 
regarded each other with mutual sympathy, and Aragorn saw more than one man turn 
away or raise a hand to cover his mouth and thereby hide a smile. Beside him, 
Éomer clearly fought a grin.

"Then let me reiterate: your posts are on the ramparts of the inner keep," the 
Ranger replied, pinning first one and then the other with a hard stare. 
Unfortunately, neither Legolas nor Gimli appeared the least intimidated. The old 
Sindarin expression, that companionship and contempt are but the north to the 
south side of the same tree, rose irresistibly to mind as his friends gazed back 
without the slightest apology.

"Was that an order? It seemed a suggestion to me," Gimli asked after a moment, 
and glanced up at the elf for confirmation.

"It could only be a suggestion, for we are not bound to obey lord Ælric who 
commands in Edoras," Legolas replied simply and smiled slightly when Aragorn 
said something uncomplimentary in Sindarin. "I have had my fill of the inner 
keep, and Gimli has had enough of Rohirric. Whither I go, he goes so as not to 
be rendered mute and deaf, and I go whither I please, until the king should come 
again to Minas Tirith. And it pleases me to come here." The staccato clack of 
wood against stone as Legolas firmly planted the bow of Lórien before him like a 
staff punctuated that resolve. The young prince stared at the Ranger with all 
the quiet dignity of his years clouding his face. There could be nothing further 
from a plea than the emotion in those green eyes, and yet the Ranger felt called 
to answer, to assent, nonetheless. Still…

"You cannot even come to a full draw, Legolas," Aragorn replied quietly after a 
beat. "A battle-ax, at least, can in principle be wielded with but one hand."

"Principle is well and good, but practice is better," Gimli replied ere Legolas 
could respond. "Aragorn, whether or not we are at our best, we serve just as 
much purpose here as with these… these… what are they?"

"Fyrd men," Legolas supplied, without releasing Aragorn for a moment. "Is that 
not the term, Éomer?"

"It is," Éomer replied, seeming a bit startled by his sudden inclusion. He 
flicked a glance at Aragorn, then his eyes went back to Gimli and thence to 
Legolas, ere he said, "If you gentlemen will excuse me a moment, I believe I am 
needed elsewhere for a time." With that, the Third Marshal gracefully bowed 
himself out of what was clearly a private conversation and retreated, beckoning 
two others to follow him, allowing the three companions some space. Gimli gave a 
soft grunt, and those who knew him well would have recognized his approval of 
the Rohirrim. Turning back to Aragorn, though, the dwarf continued in a low, 
persuasive voice:

"What harm, Aragorn, if we stand with you or behind you? You cannot shield us in 
the end." And much though Aragorn wished he might make some reassuring response, 
he could not. It was one thing to avoid speaking of the fate of Edoras' 
defenders in order to keep morale from crumbling; it was another entirely to lie 
to two friends who knew well the truth. And since he could not-- would not-- lie 
to them, he sighed softly and beckoned them to come and stand beside him at the 
parapet.

"Stay, then," he said and as the two came to join him, he added in a low voice, 
"Think not that I am not glad of your company, but I wish you would remain 
behind."

"We know that well," Gimli replied. "And we know also that against this threat, 
two more pairs of hands are as nothing. Still, they may yet do some good."

"And if you would not put us at undue risk even now, then do not ask us to let 
you go easily to your own end, where we cannot see it," Legolas added in 
Sindarin, for the sake of any who might still overhear their quiet conversation. 
From the Ranger's left, Gimli nodded in stalwart support, which only lent 
credence to Aragorn's suspicion that this particular ambush had been plotted 
with exquisite care, for the dwarf knew very little Sindarin. A few words only, 
certainly not enough to understand so complicated a sentence! The Ranger gave 
the pair a long look each, but in the end he surrendered. Some battles, after 
all, were not to be won by any means, and he had faced such losses before. But 
rarer and more dear were the battles that he had no desire to win, and he gave 
Legolas and Gimli a brief but unfeigned smile of gratitude-- perhaps his first 
since he had come to Edoras-- and then put all such matters aside. On the plain, 
the approaching host showed dark against the setting sun, casting long shadows 
that seemed to stretch out to touch the walls of Edoras. Soon they shall arrive… 
how many can we take with us, I wonder?

"Ten thousand," Legolas murmured softly, and Aragorn nodded slowly. The 
messenger who had discovered them in his path had had no time to make a head 
count, but an elf's long eyes saw clearly over the distance and none had doubted 
his tally when he had presented it earlier that day. The streets of Edoras were 
empty but for the soldiers who waited at strategic points. And of course, there 
were those who stood upon the walls who would have to fight their way back to 
those waiting in ambush, making themselves bait in order to give Edoras its best 
chance to go down with honor. Ten thousand… Aragorn closed his eyes briefly, 
letting the leaden weight of certainty weigh upon him, feeling the glow of 
determined companionship to either side of him, and he heard once more in his 
mind Arwen's words: There must be moments of joy, else we do not live! Aye, my 
love, there have been moments… minutes, even, since that night, and some seconds 
that came as late as this afternoon. But time runs short now, and death shall 
find us nonetheless!

***

Saruman's army, when it arrived during the full dark of the young night wasted 
no time in beginning the assault. The first volley of arrows went up from the 
orcs and Dunlendings of Isengard, and even the initial restraint of the Rohirrim 
did not confound them or stay their mad dash for the walls. Even as the 
defenders on the ramparts bent their bows and sent down their first flight of 
arrows, grappling hooks were already over the walls. Stones, oil, arrows, the 
occasional dagger-- the enemy clustered so thick that almost every missile found 
a mark, and yet that seemed less a deterrent than a goad. Shrieking their rage 
in a cacophony of orcish and human babble, Rohan's foes scrambled up their 
makeshift ladders, and though the defenders of Edoras cut them down, casting 
many to ruin below, the battle did not slow. No sooner had they paused for 
breath when the hooks were cast up once more. Arrows filled the darkness, 
hissing through the air and disappearing against the darkened sky, only to 
declare themselves again as iron heads clinked against stone, or slammed wetly 
into living flesh.

Even as the defenders sought to deny their foes the walls, the gates below them 
shuddered as orcs and hillmen moved to the fore with a battering ram. Shields 
held high over those who moved it, the ranks closed up about them, forming a 
carapace of leather and steel against the rain of arrows that those of Edoras 
sent down against them. Stones had some better success, but if ever one of the 
ram-wielders fell, another stepped quickly into his place and a new shield was 
raised above him. "If we cannot bring down that ram, then we must be ready on 
the ground," Éomer said grimly as he cut yet another rope.

"We have the company in the square," Aragorn replied, bracing himself against a 
parapet as the wall shuddered again. "The archers can retreat along the walls 
when the time comes. The longer they remain here, the fewer men we shall face!"

And so it was arranged. The majority of the archers were left to their own 
defenses under Aragorn's command, while Éomer took the rest to join their 
fellows in the square and await the fall of the gates. Gimli went with him. "I 
shall be of more assistance there than here! Unless I throw myself over the 
walls, I can do little but cut string!"

"Watch Éomer, Gimli," Aragorn warned just ere the dwarf turned to make off after 
the others. "Keep him alive if you can, for we need him as long as fortune 
allows."

"I shall. Legolas," Gimli paused a moment, gazing up at the elf. Legolas glanced 
down, and for a moment, their eyes met in the darkness. No words were exchanged, 
but at length, the prince of Mirkwood gave a sharp nod and then pivoted smartly 
into a draw, loosing yet another arrow into the swarming darkness below. Gimli 
grunted softly and then broke into a trot, soon disappearing down the steps to 
join Éomer. Even as he did so, new ropes and hooks came flying over the 
ramparts, to be cast down once more.

***

"How goes it?" Háma whirled at that unexpected voice, eyes widening in the 
torch-lit darkness atop the gates of the inner keep.

"My lady, why come you here?" He demanded. "And so attired?" For Éowyn wore not 
her customary white, nor even blue: tonight, the flame reflected off the mail 
that covered her, and an ordinary rider's tabard marked her as one of Rohan's 
own.

"Waste no words on my appearance, son of Héor," she replied rather coolly. "You 
know well wherefore I come. So tell me: how goes it?"

Háma licked his lips, hesitating. Technically, Éowyn's betrothal, forced or 
otherwise, meant she no longer had the right to carry that shield nor wield a 
sword. Certainly she ought not to be here without at least her brother's 
permission, which Éomer had refused as late as this afternoon. To Háma's mind, 
it had been an empty refusal, born of the Third Marshal's protective instincts 
and an unreasonably guilty conscience for what his sister had endured on his 
behalf. Nevertheless, he had said naught, refusing to involve himself in a 
family affair. Yet now that Éowyn stood beside him, it was clear that she would 
not tolerate his denial, and Háma found himself thinking that he had seen more 
of Éowyn over the past few years than had Éomer. To the degree permitted, they 
had shared the danger of court intrigue and plotting behind the backs of their 
supposed betters; they had compromised their honor, lied to their king through 
omission and misdirection, and broken the laws of the land on principle. And he 
had seen her grow colder, grow sterner… indeed, he had watched her wear herself 
out in the service of Rohan, to the point that she had at last prostrated 
herself-- and was that not an apt term? He thought with an inward wince-- to 
shield Edoras' last remaining Marshal. I am not her father, and I should not 
presume to think her my sister, he told himself firmly. Nevertheless, if she was 
not blood kin, she had certainly done as much for him as any blood-brother Háma 
had ever had. My apologies, Éomer! "'Tis hard to say from here, but hear you 
that beat?" And when she nodded, he continued, "That is the sound of a battering 
ram. When it ceases, we shall know that the gates have fallen. After that…." He 
shrugged slightly. "Have you fought in mail before, my lady?"

"I have practiced with it at times."

"Then you know its weight," Háma replied as he turned to face her fully. 
Éomund's daughter stood tall and cold as ice, her long hair caught in a simple 
braid and coiled tightly at the base of her neck to keep it out of her face. 
Very young she looked, and her radiance muted, yet she did not fidget or 
tremble. That may be a good thing… or it may not, Háma thought. He had seen many 
a young lad before his first battle: some could not hold still, others threw up; 
some wept, and some chattered like idiots. And some of them do not move at all, 
as if they had been turned to stone. Unpredictable, those few… sometimes 
tragically so. "My lady," he said therefore, reaching out to touch her shoulder 
gently, commanding with that touch and tone her complete attention. Cocking her 
head, she turned dark blue eyes upon him, and Háma considered his next words 
carefully ere he spoke. "I do not doubt that what training you have received is 
among the best in the land. I do not doubt your courage, for I have seen it too 
often to believe you will wilt before a threat. But this is not the practice 
ground, and when they come through those gates you may not hesitate. Weep if you 
must-- none shall think less of you-- but be certain you do not miss your 
target. That is the only honor that matters here. Do you understand?"

Éowyn was silent for a moment, but then she nodded, once and sharply, and she 
did not smile as she said gravely, "I understand. Do you the same."

"Never fear," Háma muttered, turning back to watch the darkened streets of 
Edoras. And it was then that he realized that he heard no longer the ram.

***

"Fall back!" Legolas unfolded from his crouch at Aragorn's command, and he 
darted along the catwalk as the archers closest to the gates began their 
retreat, shooting as they went. There was little danger of hitting one of their 
own men, for the enemy spilled in through the ruined gates like a black tide. Of 
course, the Dunlendings could now employ their own archers more effectively, and 
the man to Legolas' left jerked suddenly and collapsed with an arrow protruding 
from his chest. And I begin to run short of shafts! The prince thought, even as 
he let off another shot and reached for his quiver once more. Beside him, 
Aragorn ducked an arrow and responded with one of his own, having claimed a bow 
and quiver from a fallen comrade early on. As they approached the stairs that 
led down into the streets below, they began to bottleneck, as some of the 
archers took positions at the top of the steps and others fought to move past 
them, creating a tiered defense should any enemies attempt to follow them. 
Curses sounded in the night, for now the parapets that had protected them became 
a hindrance, constraining them to a space too narrow for easy maneuvering. "By 
pairs, and keep shooting!" Aragorn snapped, thrusting an arm between a trio that 
attempted to extricate itself from the crush. He shoved two of the men forward 
and waited a beat ere he indicated the next two. "Go!" That helped, and as the 
line strung out and began to move more smoothly, Legolas waited patiently. There 
was no question that he would remain with Aragorn, and the others seemed to 
sense that, giving him what berth they could as they ran to their next position.

Below them rose the sounds of combat: war cries in strange tongues, the clamor 
and shriek of metal on metal, of violent collision… of agony as wounded and 
dying men fell before their enemies. Legolas could just make out what seemed to 
be a defensive formation centered around a standard, but he doubted that any but 
an elf would be able to pick it out in the darkness and chaos. Nevertheless, he 
was certain that Éomer stood there, and with him Gimli. I wonder how he fares? 
Can he truly handle that ax with only one hand? Legolas wondered as he bent his 
bow again. His own injury troubled him little as of yet, for having fought his 
way back from the grips of his own despair and confusion, and freed now from the 
interference of the wizard's puppet, he had recourse to an elf's active 
dream-life. All he need do was dream a place that matched the reality of the 
moment, save for the absence of pain. Such was the way of the elves when 
necessity pressed hard, and so long as the body could physically tolerate the 
strain, and the mind remained disciplined, an elf might last for days where a 
human would wither in moments. Alas, Gimli has no such escape! And neither shall 
Éomer or Aragorn. And even my strength will fail in the end, when flesh can no 
longer withstand the demands of the mind. But for the moment, unhampered by 
Gríma's proxy assaults, he felt nothing save a slight weakness, and for that he 
could compensate. The routine of war claimed him, and he moved with it: there 
was but the bow and the battlefield below, punctuated by the necessary evasive 
dance to deny the enemy another victim. His Rohirrim comrades flowed through the 
lens of elvish perception as an ant trail or a current in a river, predictable 
in its overall movement despite the chaos of its individual parts. Only Aragorn 
and those on the steps remained steady in that shifting stream, waiting for the 
last of the men to pass them by.

Something flared in the darkness below, and there came cries as the thatched 
roofs of some of the buildings-- homes? Shops?-- caught fire from a volley of 
flaming arrows. Legolas blinked, adjusting to the sudden glare of light, and 
then he smiled wickedly as he caught sight of the enemy at last. Dunlendings, 
orcs, and some who seemed to hover between the two races, hybrids without hope-- 
Legolas picked a particularly large uruk and took swift but careful aim ere he 
loosed the shaft. As he nocked his next arrow, his target convulsed and 
collapsed, an elvish arrow buried in its chest. At his side, Aragorn cursed 
softly, and Legolas shifted his attention minutely to ask, "What is it?"

"They are already past them and into the streets. Éomer must retreat soon or he 
risks being cut off!" Aragorn replied tautly, laying a gauntleted hand on the 
elf's shoulder. "Come! Stair guard, fall back!" They ran after their fellows, 
pausing every so often to lend support to the positions that they passed, and 
Legolas grimaced. The enemy was moving swiftly-- more swiftly, even, than 
anticipated despite the overwhelming numbers. We may not last a full day, the 
prince realized. A swift glance up at Aragorn's face, visible in the starlight 
to elvish eyes, confirmed that premonition. The Ranger felt his stare, tearing 
his eyes from the scenes of death below to gaze for a moment at Legolas, and 
then he shook his head. "Come! We cannot linger!" And as the pair fell back, 
last of all in the line of archers, arrows whistled past them as their comrades 
shot beyond them to fell the first wave of enemies who streamed up the stairs 
behind them.

***

"Steady as you go!" Éomer shouted the command, sparing a moment to signal one of 
his lieutenants to ta