The Weeping Wraith Katharine the Great katharinethegreatlady@hotmail.com Chapter Twenty-One Summary: Aw, forget it. If you haven’t been reading this from the beginning, go back and start at Chapter One. Otherwise, things won’t make sense at all. This is the last summary I’m even going to bother including. ^_^ Notes: This is now completely A/U, and contains elements drawn from bookverse, movieverse, and Kateverse (see Further other notes section after the reviewer replies in Chapter Twenty for more information on the subject). Disclaimer: Though this story has digressed to an absurd degree from the original Trilogy, it is still operating under the rules and within the environs set down by Master Tolkien, the genius who masterminded the whole enchilada. Bottom line: it ain’t mine. All props to the Great Man. Further notes: My Elvish resources are: the LOTR trilogy, “The Silmarillion,” “The Complete Guide to Middle-earth” by Robert Foster, “The Languages of Tolkien’s Middle-earth” by Ruth S. Noel, the Fellowship of the Ring movie soundtrack’s lyric booklet, the Two Towers movie soundtrack’s lyric booklet, and the Ardalambion website. The morning was but a misty gray murk when Samwise Gamgee opened his weary eyes once more. His first thought was that he should like to wrap his cloak more tightly around his chilled body and fall back into sleep’s forgetfulness, but he saw that Aragorn and the Elves were already awake and moving about, and his sense of duty overcame his weariness. With a yawn, he got to his feet and stretched aching limbs, and shook his head to clear it. Bits of grass flew from his thick mop of hair. “What would your old Gaffer say if he saw you now, Samwise?” he muttered to himself, brushing absently at his travel-worn clothing. “‘Land’s sakes, boy, go get your bath ‘afore your mother sees you like that!’ But I do look like a ruffian, I suppose.” “No more so than any other you see here, Master Samwise,” Lelemir remarked with a smile, coming over to wake Sam’s fellow hobbits from their huddled slumber. She knelt down and touched Merry and Pippin, saying, “Come, Master Periannath, the day is begun, and we must make some haste!” “Days begin far too early among the Elves,” Pippin groaned, but he did sit up, as did his cousin beside him. The two yawned and rubbed at their eyes, but were soon fully awake and standing on their feet, ready to set forth. Truth be told, Sam was rather proud of them; they were all bone-tired, but the two younger hobbits hadn’t complained overmuch despite their weariness and hunger. Sam watched bleakly as Aragorn and Alcarin arranged Boromir atop the low stack of wood that was to serve as the man’s pyre. The wood, mostly dead branches and slender uprooted trees from the vale of the Entwash, had been woven together to form a sort of platform, upon which Boromir’s body had been carefully placed. His hands were folded at his breast, with his sword’s hilt clasped between his fingers and his round shield placed above his head. Sam thought he looked to be asleep, at least from afar; his face was noble and peaceful, eyes closed, with his hair combed and smoothed away from his brow. The arrow that slew him had mercifully been removed from his heart, though where it had gone to, Sam didn’t know. He supposed that either Aragorn or one of the Elves had pulled it out, and the very notion made his stomach turn upside-down. “I suppose they are going to burn him before we set out,” Merry said soberly, watching alongside Sam. “A horrid custom, don’t you think so, Master Gamgee?” Sam shrugged. “I don’t think it’s our business what the Big Folk do with their own folk,” he replied. “Although I wouldn’t ever do such a thing. I’ve heard the story of Tizzy Bracegirdle far too often.” The three hobbits nodded in agreement at that. The tale of Tizzleman Bracegirdle was well-known to hobbits in all four Farthings. “Lady Lelemir, what do Elves do with their own, once they’ve died?” Pippin asked, looking up at her with cheerless eyes. The princess’ expression was grave, and her gray gaze reflected deep sadness. “My people seldom face such a prospect, Pippin. Death is foreign to the Elves, and visits only under the most violent and grievous circumstances.” She sighed then, and continued, “Nevertheless, we of my home forest are more frequently acquainted with death than our kin in Imladris or Lothlórien, I think. An Elf who falls beneath Mirkwood’s trees is given into his family’s care, and they usually bury their kinsman beneath a beloved tree or some other symbol of his life. My own mother was buried in the royal tombs, beside my grandfather.” Pippin’s eyes widened with horror. “Oh! I am sorry to have asked, Lady Lelemir, if it brought such a terrible thing to mind!” “Nay, Pippin, there is no need for apology,” Lelemir told him gently. “We lost her long ago, and my heart is at peace to think that she is happy in the Blessed Realm, awaiting her family’s arrival there.” “I guess we never really asked Legolas about his family,” Merry said forlornly. “He always seemed so strong and unattached, somehow. I don’t suppose I ever thought of him as a child with parents and brothers and sisters.” “I wonder about Boromir’s family, too,” Sam said, very quietly, almost speaking to himself again. “But I guess we shan’t be able to ask him now, either.” “Maybe we ought to ask Aragorn,” Pippin suggested. “If Legolas has a family, then Aragorn ought to as well.” Lelemir laughed softly. “What curiosity your folk possess! Truly, I rarely see such inquisitiveness among my own kin, excepting the very young, and it is refreshing.” Her smile faded then, and she glanced over at the somber proceedings about the makeshift pyre. “But I think that now is not the time for such questions. We will send Boromir’s spirit to join his ancestors, and then we must make haste for Edoras. I have no wish to spend another night on this plain.” Sam shivered. His ears were still ringing with Frodo’s last, desperate cry, and his master’s absence was as a gaping wound in his heart. The Ring hung heavily at his neck, a persistent reminder of the terrible quest he had inherited. “I’ll feel safer inside high walls, that’s for sure,” he mumbled, though the words sounded hollow to him. He was certain he wouldn’t feel safe anywhere for a long time to come. The four of them approached the clear space where Boromir lay at rest. Aragorn had taken up the flaming torch he had prepared before, and Alcarin’s fair face was set in grim lines. The Ranger nodded to the hobbits, lending a specially kind glance to Samwise, and said, “We have but little time before we must begin our journey to Edoras. I would that we reached the city ere night falls; though I wish more time could be spared for a suitable memorial in honor of brave Boromir.” Having spoken so, he moved to place the head of the burning bough he held to the pyre, intending to set it afire. “Wait,” Pippin interjected earnestly, stilling Aragorn’s hand with the insistence in his voice. The Ranger turned a questioning gaze upon the young hobbit. Pippin looked at both his elder cousin and Sam in turn, then asked, in a smallish voice, “Might we place something on the pyre with Boromir, before you light it?” Aragorn gave a short nod. “Of course, Master Hobbit. Do what seems good to you.” “We must put some bread or other fare in his hand,” Pippin said to his fellow hobbits, dropping to his knees to rummage in his pack. Merry nodded his agreement. “Good thinking, cousin,” he said. “An apple or a seedcake would be better, but we haven’t any at hand, have we?” Pippin continued, digging deeply into his bag. “Even if we had, like as not one of you would have eaten it by now,” Sam pointed out. “But it is a good idea, Pippin.” “If a curious Elf might inquire, why do you wish to place food upon the pyre at all, Master Hobbits?” Lelemir asked. “Is it a custom common to your people?” Sam gave a vigorous nod. “Oh, yes,” he answered seriously. “Every hobbit is buried with a bit of food in his hand, ever since the mess over what happened to Tizzy Bracegirdle and all.” Aragorn raised one brow. “What did happen to Tizzy Bracegirdle, Master Gamgee? I fear I have not heard this tale before, and it seems to hold much sway with your folk.” Sam frowned in thought, recalling the story kept alive by his Gaffer and the Shire’s other old timers, who would relate it with due solemnity, shaking their heads and smoking their pipes. “Well, there was a Bracegirdle lad living in the Northfarthing, just south of Hardbottle, I believe—or was it north?” “East, so I heard,” Merry put in. “East of Hardbottle.” “I suppose it doesn’t matter, really,” Sam said, “but his name was Tizzleman, called Tizzy by those who knew him well. Anyway, one day, Master Tizzleman came down with an awful fever, the worst ever seen in the Northfarthing, some reckoned. He got so sick and quiet that everyone assumed he was dead. So they buried him, good and proper, and his relatives started auctioning off his possessions in traditional hobbit fashion. Meanwhile, though, the cold air underground broke Tizzleman’s fever, and he woke up in his casket. ‘Course it was all dark, so he couldn’t rightly see where he was, but all the same he started thrashing around, squealing so’s to wake the real dead. By the time anyone heard the ruckus, poor Tizzleman’d nearly starved. That’s why we always put food in with the folks who pass away, so as the saying goes, they don’t end up ‘in a Tizzy.’” “A wise custom, then,” Alcarin remarked thoughtfully. “What a terrible thing, to wake within a grave,” Lelemir said, her face slightly pale. “I’ve some lembas here,” Pippin piped up. “Do you think that would be all right?” “We’ve been eating it for some weeks now,” said Merry. “I don’t think Boromir would complain; he seemed to like it well enough. Go ahead and put it in his hand, cousin, so Strider can light the fire.” At the mention of fire, Pippin sniffled a little, but he managed to hold back tears as he gingerly tucked some of the Elven waybread beneath Boromir’s stiff fingers, next the hilt of his sword. Then, he swiftly retreated to Merry’s side once more, biting his lip miserably. “Is the arrangement satisfactory now, Sam?” Aragorn asked quietly. Sam nodded. “Yes, sir, it is, and thank you,” he answered. The Ranger gave a slow nod in return, and at length he sighed. “Oh, how I wish that we could return Boromir to his father’s city!” he said regretfully. “They will look for him from the White Tower, but he will not return, and I fear that tidings of his death will not reach that land for many weeks, if not longer. But alas, evil bears down more swiftly upon those who seek its downfall, and I think the days will grow darker until the Enemy is no more. Fare well, noble son of Gondor! May your rest remain untroubled by the darkness of this world!” After that, Aragorn was silent, and the torch was touched to Boromir’s pyre. The flames leaped up eagerly, despite the wood’s dampness, and soon Boromir’s form was concealed within the bright glow and thick smoke. After some time, a low melody threaded through the haze. Sam looked up, his eyes wet, and was surprised to realize that Alcarin was humming, his gentle voice weaving a simple, sorrowful tune that brought a swell of grief to the hobbit’s heart. Yet, though the song was full of sadness, it seemed to bring strength and healing as well; for such was the nature of Elvish songs. Alcarin sang until the flames of Boromir’s pyre began to diminish, and then he fell silent once more. Those gathered stood in quiet thought, and the Sun’s flaming disc finally peeped from its resting place in the east and warmed their chilled bones; but the cold in Sam’s heart lingered on. At length, Aragorn stirred. “It is time to set forth for Edoras. Our companion has gone from our sight, and his troubles are ended; our burden, however, must be borne in earnest. Let us leave this place.” Merry wiped his eyes on his jacket sleeve. “Fare well, Boromir,” he muttered under his breath. Pippin echoed the words, still weeping quietly. Of all the companions, the two youngest hobbits had taken the most liking to the noble man of Gondor, and he had seemed fond of them in return. Sam didn’t say anything, but he closed his eyes for a moment out of respect and heartache. He hadn’t been nearly so close to Boromir—Frodo had been especially wary of the man, Sam knew, though he didn’t have the faintest idea why—but he mourned all the same. Death seemed to be striking nearer and nearer to his heart with each victim it claimed. Frodo’s cry jabbed into his head again, and Sam shook himself furiously. He refused to believe that his master was dead. Frodo couldn’t be dead. A captive, yes, and in terrible danger, but not dead. Aragorn drew the remaining members of the Renewed Fellowship together apart from Boromir’s quietly crackling funeral blaze. “I have no doubt that the smoke will attract the attentions of the Rohirrim. I believe that we will quicker reach Edoras with their help; certainly we will live longer if they know in advance that we intend no treachery.” “You make these folk sound a mite unfriendly, Strider,” Sam remarked. “Are you sure they’ll take us in, if they dislike strangers so much?” “The sons of Eorl are a proud, fierce people,” Aragorn said. “They are valiant in battle, and excellent horsemen—in truth, they prize their horses above all else. Though they do not take kindly to strangers, Sam, especially in these dark days of late, they are not unkind, and have long been the steadfast ally of Gondor. Be assured, they shall present no threat so long as our purpose is made known to them.” “Shall we tell them of the Ring, then?” Pippin asked. “No,” Sam answered immediately. Beware Men, for they easily fall prey! Frodo had said just before fleeing into the darkness, into the strange Silver Rider’s clutches. Sam didn’t entirely understand his master’s words, but he would obey them. His fellow hobbits gave him inquiring looks, but he refused to say any more. “Master Gamgee is right,” Aragorn agreed, seeming unsurprised by Sam’s outburst. “I think it best if we conceal the full particulars of the Quest, but the Rohirrim must be made to know that we oppose the Shadow as vehemently as they themselves do. Fear not, Sam,” he said then, with a reassuring nod, “no one will know of your burden, unless it becomes utterly necessary to reveal it.” Sam said nothing, but was somewhat calmed by the Ranger’s words. Not much was left to say afterward, and before the Sun had fully ascended above the grass-strewn hills, the six companions had resumed their journey northeastward across the grassy plain, toward Edoras. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “Lord Alcarin,” Sam said, after they had been walking for some time, “if you don’t mind my asking, what were you humming this morning? When Boromir’s pyre was lit, I mean.” The tall Elven lord granted his hobbit companion a smile. “Master Perian, did I not ask you to use my name, and to forego my title?” At the hobbit’s apologetic mumble, he chuckled warmly. “Ah, Sam, I spoke merely in jest. As to your question, it was a song created long ago, in honor of one of Boromir’s own ancestors. I thought it only appropriate to voice part of its melody as tribute to Denethor’s son.” “I had not heard it before today, Alcarin,” Aragorn commented from just ahead, glancing back over his shoulder at the Elf and the hobbit, who walked side by side, with the larger of the two shortening his long stride in order to accommodate his companion’s small legs. “I am not surprised,” Alcarin answered, the breeze blowing his dark locks back from his face. “In truth, Aragorn, it was Master Elrond who first crafted the tune. Samwise,” and he looked back down at the Halfling, “you know that Boromir was the son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor? Denethor is, in fact, the last in a long lineage of Stewards, a line that stretches back several generations of Men. One of his ancestors was a man called Mardil Voronwë, the Steadfast. He ruled Gondor well and wisely after the disappearance of the last King, and served the land of his forefathers exceedingly well. When Mardil died, Lord Elrond was moved to craft a song in his honor. That is the song that I sang for Boromir this morn.” “A most fitting choice, indeed,” Aragorn said. “I thank you for doing my brother such an honor, Alcarin.” “I think I should like to learn a song or two, someday,” Sam said thoughtfully. “Mister Frodo was always the more interested in that sort of thing, but all this talk of ancestors and Elves and such makes me keen to know more of it.” “I would be pleased to teach you, if you wish, Master Perian,” Alcarin offered. Sam’s smile was genuine, if somewhat self-conscious. “I would someday, sir, thank you,” he mumbled, again forgetting the Elf-lord’s opinion of honorifics. Alcarin said nothing more, but his quiet laughter rumbled in the warm air above Sam’s head, and the hobbit couldn’t help but feel that the weight at his neck had diminished for the tall warrior’s friendship. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Sun traced a slow, bright path upwards through the sky, as though reluctant to reach its zenith and begin its descent into the west. Aragorn led the Renewed Fellowship with surety, his steps long and tireless, his eyes ever roving about in search of Rohirrim mounts. Lelemir followed after him, with Merry at her right and Pippin at her left. The two younger hobbits were founts of curiosity, eager to know more about the home and kin that Legolas had left behind. The Elf princess readily answered their questions, and her smile shone warmly on them; for a time, they forgot the horrors of the night before. Behind them, then, came Samwise and Alcarin, who did not speak overly much, but were content to walk in each other’s company, listening to the faint exchanges wafting back from the group ahead. “I wouldn’t have thought you were older than Legolas, Lady Lelemir,” Merry said. “You certainly don’t look it! Older, I mean. Begging your pardon if it’s rude to inquire of Elves, but how old are you and Legolas, anyway?” “My years exceed Legolas’ by a scant few, Master Perian,” Lelemir answered, and the tone of her voice held a smile. “But nay, it is not considered impolite to inquire. My brother and I have walked this earth for nigh on thirty generations of men.” The two young hobbits furrowed their brows, thinking. Merry was the first to look up in amazement. “But, Lady Lelemir, that would mean that you and Legolas are three thousand years old! How can that be?” “Remember that death does not naturally come to Elvenkind, Merry,” Lelemir said, shifting her bow from her right hand to her left as she spoke. “In truth, my brother and I are yet young in the sight of our people; but the years bear little import for my kin, for the ages pass swiftly before the eyes of those with no concern for death.” “I don’t think that I should like to live forever,” Pippin remarked with a strangely wistful note in his voice. “A bit longer, perhaps, so I might have the chance to see more of the world, but not forever. Is it dreadfully dull to live forever, Lady Lelemir?” Lelemir threw back her golden head and laughed aloud, and Alcarin’s chuckle reached their ears as well. “At times, perhaps, Pippin,” she answered. “At times. That is why many of my kin have left for the Far West, to escape their weariness of this land and its ills. But that time is far away for myself and my brother, I think; we have not yet despaired of these shores.” “Will you also leave someday, Lady Lelemir?” Pippin asked. “Mayhap someday, but do not fret so, Master Perian!” Lelemir said kindly. “There is much good in this world, and I intend to remain for as long as I may.” Tramping wearily at Alcarin’s side, Sam shook his head. “I don’t rightly see how anyone could live for so long and look so young still,” he mumbled to himself. “Elves! A strange folk, I always said, but good all the same, if a mite old.” “Well, Master Perian, I think that all folk are strange to one another in the beginning,” Alcarin remarked. “As for age, you make me curious: how old do you suppose I am?” Sam looked up at the warrior, surprised. “Why, I don’t know, Lo—Alcarin, I mean. I hadn’t thought much on it. You surely don’t look half a day over thirty in Big Folk reckoning, but I suppose you must be much older than that.” Alcarin’s dark eyes were lit with mirth. “Forgive our laughter, Samwise; it is not born of scorn, but rather of fondness. Elves rarely inquire as to age—it is considered a trivial matter, excepting a young Elf’s coming of age and other such events.” The Elf considered for a moment. “Truthfully, I am hard-pressed to recall the exact number of my years, but I these things I may tell you: I saw the first sunrise and the first crossing of the moon, and I remember a time when the only heavenly lights were the brightest stars ever created. I have seen many a kingdom rise and fall, and I have stood apart from many a war that should not have been fought.” Alcarin lightly touched Sam’s shoulder and added in a softer voice, “But, Master Perian, I believe that years are of less import than the soul which bears them.” “I suppose that’s true enough,” Sam agreed, hefting his pack on his shoulders. “There’s a great many gaffers and gammers back home; some are wise and good, and tell youngsters stories of the old days, and some are bitter and spend their days miserable in their holes. I wonder what sort of gaffer I’ll be, when the time comes. I hope I’m back by then to tell stories, and not still lugging the wretched Thing about my neck!” The Elven lord nodded gravely. “Indeed, my friend, indeed. In my heart, I yearn to return to my home in Imladris, to my lord’s service. Yet I do not think that any such wish shall come to pass ere our quest is fulfilled.” “You’ve the right of it, I think, Alcarin,” Sam said, for once forgetting to be shy with his use of the Elf’s given name. Sadness clouded his face. “And I don’t suppose I’ll see Mr. Frodo again, not soon, maybe not ever. Oh, sir, what if he’s hurt? Or worse? And all alone, without even his Sam by his side!” Alcarin paused for a moment and laid gentle fingers on Sam’s shoulder, silently urging the hobbit to halt and meet his gaze. When Sam looked up, mildly confused at their sudden stop, the Elf’s face was at once grim and filled with compassion. “I know that your master’s loss has wounded you deeply, Samwise,” he said softly. “Your heart carries burdens far greater than any one child of Eru should be forced to bear, and not only the loss of Frodo; a terrible object has been thrust into your keeping, and the quest for its destruction has been laid upon your shoulders.” Alcarin then folded himself down to his knees so that he could look Sam in the eyes as he spoke. “But now, my young friend, you must trust that the Valar will keep watch over Frodo, just as they guard Legolas Thranduilion. Aragorn was right when he said that Frodo’s fate lies in other hands. It is given to you to continue his Quest, and you must lay the worst of your heart’s anguish to rest, or it will drive you mad ere you reach even the near slopes of the Enemy’s mountain.” The hobbit’s gaze was dark and full of tears. “I don’t know how to do that,” he moaned softly. “I feel like something’s tearing me apart from the inside out, and I keep hearing Mr. Frodo calling out in my head. And I can’t help him, not at all!” With that, he began to weep, burying his face in his hands. Alcarin remained where he was, with one hand resting on Sam’s shoulder, his head slightly bowed forward with the weight of the Halfling’s sorrow. Aragorn and the others had stopped a ways ahead, but Lelemir kept the younger hobbits from immediately rushing to their fellow’s aid. Sam’s tears did not last overlong, although deep hiccups rattled in his throat for some time after the sobbing ceased. He murmured small, embarrassed thanks to Alcarin, and tried to hide his face behind his kerchief while he recovered, yet sniffing, yet sighing. Alcarin, for his part, remained silent and still as Samwise dried his eyes and mended himself with his handkerchief. When the hobbit had collected his wits about him once more, the Elf gave a low sigh. “Surely the Lady of the Stars has seen your tears, Samwise,” he murmured. “And there is no shame in weeping for dear souls lost to us. But come, let us hurry and rejoin the others, for the Sun will soon reach her peak in the sky, and Edoras lies far ahead.” Sam nodded, and though his spirit and tread remained heavy, his brief spell of tears had served to soften at least some small part of the vise clenched round his aching heart. He couldn’t quite meet Alcarin’s kind gaze, but he offered a weak smile. “I don’t rightly know where that sprang from, Alcarin. But I do feel a little better for it.” “Sorrow must have a release, or it will poison the soul that carries it,” the Elven warrior replied. He rose to his full height and nodded, as though in approval. “You have a strong heart, Samwise, one that persists even though it has surely broken with grief. I regret that I cannot in some way help you to carry your burdens; but perhaps you might lean on my shoulder when your own strength wanes, so that you do not fall under the weight.” Sam chuckled tiredly. “To be honest, Alcarin, I think that I would more likely lean on your knee than on your shoulder. Why, I couldn’t reach your shoulder if both Meriadoc and Peregrin were stacked beneath me head to toe to head!” Alcarin smiled down at the weary hobbit. “Mayhap not. Well then, you are welcome to my knee, if it pleases you better. But come! you should reassure the others, your fellow periannath in especial; I can see that they are quite worried for you, and I believe Aragorn is keen to resume our journey.” “Likely as not; I know I am. I certainly don’t want to be caught out on this plain again tonight,” Sam said. He cleared his throat, and continued, “I don’t know what one says to properly thank an Elf, Alcarin, but if you’ll lend me some fitting words, I’ll try my best to repeat them back, because I’ll surely mean them.” Alcarin gave a short laugh. “There is no need, Samwise. If I can lighten your load in any fashion, the peace you reap is thanks enough for me.” The two companions then turned and made their way to join their companions, and when Merry and Pippin had satisfied themselves that Samwise was indeed hale, the Renewed Fellowship continued on as before, with Aragorn at the fore and the others following behind… …and far from the companions, far from the quest, far from the Dark One’s treasure and its new bearer, a young hobbit slumped nervelessly against the chill, motionless breast of his captor and wished in his heart for swift death to claim him, that he might not face whatever terrors awaited at the end of his own journey. For he was one Frodo Baggins, taken captive in the midst of the night’s battle; and he shivered and quaked in the dreadful embrace of a spectral figure swathed all in silver, who clutched his prey with wicked claws and rode with all haste for his master’s abode, the darkened tower of Isengard… ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Con't in Chgapter 22