A/N: One-shot. Book or movie verse, your choice. Un-named canon characters. Enjoy. Please leave a review or some constructive criticism :)!
Messengers of Hope
"My dear lad, I am under the impression that you may care for another layer."
Dinendir snapped out of his musings and looked up. It was Lhaithor, smiling in all amiability, holding out a wrinkled, plain grey cloak that was rather worn and moderately filthy, but with a thickness so substantial that it could shield even feeble children from the fierce cold of the peak of Halifirien, the tallest of beacon hills in all of Gondor. And that was exactly where Dinendir and Lhaithor were.
Dinendir was no small child. He was a young man of twenty-seven, tall, defiant, strong as a bull at its prime. Even at the summit of Halifirien he did not need a cloak; not when Lhaithor was by his side, and especially not when Lhaithor was the one offering it. Lhaithor was elderly; Dinendir did not know his age, for each time he had asked, Lhaithor had smiled and looked away. But he suspected that Lhaithor must be sixty at least, for there were many markings on his countenance that were the strokes of age, and there was no longer even the smallest streak of colour – save that from accumulating dirt – found within the depths of his locks.
The old man was cheerful, however. Always cheerful, so much that Dinendir found his merriment incomprehensible. But Dinendir was fond of his smiles. They reminded Dinendir of his father, who lay ill in Minas Tirith, waiting day after day for his sons' returns. They gave Dinendir a certain warmth that could draw the sincerest beam even out of him, whose mind often wandered into gloomy territories.
"Thank you, Lhaithor, but you had best keep the cloak. I am not cold."
Lhaithor laughed, and, ignoring Dinendir's soft protests, wrapped the cloak around him. "You must not lie to me, my child. You have been sitting in the snow for the entire morning. I am wearing my own cloak, as you see, and I am certain I do not need another."
Dinendir knew better than to argue with Lhaithor when he spoke in that light yet adamant tone. The young man gave a nod of gratitude, and pulled the cloak tighter around himself.
Lhaithor smiled and sat down beside the young man. His eyes followed the Dinendir's gaze into the distance, past the large wooden pyramid that should always have held their attentions. The Sun was already high in the sky, for it was mid-day. Its blinding rays bounced off the snow on the rocky ground. But Dinendir and Lhaithor were accustomed to the intensity of such lights. They were able to see past them, and discover the beauty behind them; for such sunrays also gilded the summits of many mountains in the distance, sketching arcs after arcs of golden paths amongst the puffs of clouds in the endless blue sky.
"Lhaithor."
"Yes, my lad?" Lhaithor turned at the sudden address, and saw an odd light twinkling in the young man's eyes, as he often saw when the young man was brooding over heavy thoughts. It was the first time that Dinendir spoke at all while the light was still shimmering in his irises.
Dinendir's fingers tightened around the cloak, and his gaze scattered into the distance. "How long has it been since we last heard news from Minas Tirith?"
Lhaithor's smile faltered. "A fortnight, I believe."
"A fortnight," Dinendir reiterated pensively, twisting an edge of the cloak fabric incessantly with his hands, betraying the emotional turmoil that lay beneath his calm countenance. After a long silence, after he had nearly split the fabric with his nervous fumbling, Dinendir at last heaved a low sigh. "Osgiliath. I wonder about Osgiliath."
Lhaithor shook his head, and placed a comforting hand over the young man's shoulder. "Osgiliath's fate is not in our hands. You must not be anxious. Young Captain Faramir is a capable man. He will ensure the safety of the fort, as well as the lives of all under his command."
A strong wind attacked the summit, ripping crystals of snow from the ground and thrusting them toward the two men's figures. Feeling the sharp, cold sensation of the draft cutting against their faces, the men pulled up their hoods and waited for it to subside.
When the winds calmed, Dinendir stood, and began pacing about. "I should have been in my brother's place, Lhaithor. Better yet, I should be by his side now, defending our fort, defending our city, defending our people. Instead I am here, miles and miles away from where I belong, watching incessantly for some blasted fire that may never come. This is a great punishment indeed, Lhaithor. I would not have tried to defy the Steward's unreasonable orders, had I known the tortures I would suffer in this."
Lhaithor only looked at the young man in deep sympathy. He did not reply.
Dinendir continued to pace back and forth around the large wooden beacon, until, unable to bear the silence any longer, he asked, "Will we ever achieve our purpose here, Lhaithor?"
The elderly man twitched nearly indiscernibly, as his eyes hazed in emotions that Dinendir could not fathom.
"I do not know, my dear Dinendir."
"Has anyone ever achieved our purpose before?"
"I do not think so, my dear Dinendir."
"Then why are we here?" Dinendir burst at last, and there were tears in his eyes. For too long he had sat on the peak of Halifirien repressing his dark thoughts, but his control over his emotions was overpowered by the turmoil of enduring an entire fortnight without hearing news from the endangered Osgiliath. His pace was quickening in frustration, and his voice was desperate in agitation, and he screamed in rage, and his laments echoed in the valleys of the mountains.
"No one has used these beacons before. No one probably will be using them ever. Why do they send us to these forsaken lands, to sit atop sharp rocks and freezing snow, and to watch for years after years over some cursed wood that will never be lit? Why did I not die in my last battle? Why did they not condemn me to death for defying the Steward? Why did they have to obliterate my pride, my honour, my everything – in such a way that will shame me, even as my spirit departs out of Arda in years to come? Why does it have to be this way, Lhaithor? Why?"
The old man gazed sadly as Dinendir stopped beside the beacon and thrust his fist into the wood. With a sigh Lhaithor tore a piece of fabric off his cloak, and, as Dinendir withdrew his fist, stood and made his way to the young man. Several splinters were pinned to in Dinendir's flesh, and with fatherly tenderness Lhaithor removed them and wrapped the fabric around the young man's bleeding hand.
"My child," when he finished with his task, Lhaithor held Dinendir's hands in his, and spoke in the soft and soothing tone that Dinendir had always found comforting. "You must not underestimate the importance of these beacons. They are necessary precautions, and they will save lives one day – your brother's, your father's, and those of countless others. You are not an outcast. You are a soldier of Gondor, just as I am a soldier of Gondor. A soldier will heed to any order that contributes to the benefit of the land, and, believe me, my child, we are charged with duties that may influence the fate of Gondor's entirety."
There was something in Lhaithor's countenance and figure as he voiced those words. Perhaps it was the determination in his eyes. Perhaps it was the adamant tone of his voice. Or perhaps it was the way his hands trembled in a manner of excitation and expectation not fitting for a man who had been atop the beacon hill for decades. Dinendir was affected. Through Lhaithor's warm hands, through Lhaithor's flushing complexion, Dinendir was induced to believe. The old man had long been his most valuable teacher, and faith, Dinendir recognized, had always been the lesson he was trying to teach through his cheerful smiles.
Suddenly the grip of Lhaithor's hands tightened, and his head snapped up. The old man's eyelids twitched, and his whole body began quivering as sweat began to fall off his bushy white brows. His lips moved, as if he wanted to say something, but no words came out. Dinendir inquired in pressing worry, but a yelp full of delight came as a response, assuring him that the old man was not failing in health. Lhaithor released Dinendir's left hand, and pointed, with a trembling finger, to the mountain in the east, behind Dinendir's view.
Dinendir turned.
The soldier of Gondor saw that, at the peak of the Calenhad, amidst the blinding white lights and angling sunrays, an orange flame blazed robustly in the sky.
Dinendir laughed loudly, even though he could not hold back his hot tears.
In haste the two men began to pour oil over the pyramid of wood, and when the oil soaked, Dinendir reached for the small torch that hung above the beacon and thrust it forcefully onto the pile. He pulled Lhaithor back, and within seconds scorching flames devoured the pyramid, and the beacon of Halifirien, the west-most of the seven beacons of Gondor and the closest beacon to Rohan, was kindled.
Dinendir and Lhaithor stood, and watched the beacon flame until it was consumed to the last bits. The flame was warm. It was so warm that they decided to remove their cloaks. It was bright, too; its glow was almost kind. The orange incandescence framed the men's faces and danced within their shimmering eyes.
Dinendir thought of his brother and his father.
Lhaithor thought of another man who, nearly forty years ago, had been condemned here with him; one who had been his companion for thirty-two years, one who now lay at the foot of the mountain and slept in a silent mound.
"Lhaithor."
"Yes, my lad?" Lhaithor wiped away his tears, for he was certain that the blaze from the beacon was bright enough – so bright that his friend could notice wherever he was, even if he was no longer in Arda.
Dinendir was looking west now, and, though his joy was not dimmed, there was a slight worry in his voice. "Will the Rohirrim come to our aid?"
Lhaithor followed his gaze west and smiled.
"I am sure they will, my lad; I am sure they will."
For Lhaithor knew that, be it in Gondor or in Rohan, a message of hope would always be taken to the deepest core of the heart.
Some more A/N: This has been haunting me ever since I saw in the films two figures waving atop a beacon hill at the next mountain, even though they knew that no one would see their hands. It's great to get it out at last.