In the Face of the Shadow
"Have a care, Sire," fretted the scholar anxiously. He knew that the King had been well-advised on the circumstances of this most precious discovery, but he could not help reiterating as he lovingly rolled out the scrolls. "These were found hidden at Cirith Ungol, away from the machinations of orcs, but not time."
Elessar bent curiously over the thick vellum, blowing away centuries of dust, but not touching the material. It looked as if it might crumble at the brush of a hair. "They appear to be of great age."
"Indeed, my liege. From the contents, we have positively determined them to date from before the Last Alliance, when Isildur your ancestor triumphed over the Dark Lord."
"The tower of Cirith Ungol was built after that time."
"It had a predecessor, Sire, a small fortress known as Garth Cirith, which guarded the Pass to Minas Ithil. In fact..." The scholar let his voice trail off. Sensing that he was no longer needed, he stepped softly out of the room, leaving his king engrossed in the documents.
They were brown with age, and cracked more often than not. A cursory glance had revealed nothing more interesting than inventories and rosters; but a smaller sheet, inscribed with a few short opening lines, snagged Elessar's attentions. He bent over the table, riveted by the elegant, flowing script, penned in half-faded ink.
They will not come.
They will not come, and all is at an end.
I have now but one hope left to me: that these words will not be lost; that we who perish here at Garth Cirith will not be forgotten, for we die with honor.
I am Caladhiel, daughter of Beriadan, Captain of Gondor. To his keeping is entrusted the defense of the pass; a grave task, for Garth Cirith is all that stands between the rising might of the Dark Lord Sauron and the fair spires of Minas Ithil. But against the Dread Lord no man can stand, not even my noble father. His is an impossible task: to hold this fortress against the legions of Mordor, which forbids them entrance to the Pass.
His commander would have done better, I think, had he asked him to dam up the sea with a pebble.
For that is what we are - a fragile defense of stone, balanced upon the crags of the Pass. The black ocean of the Dark Lord's minions crashes against our base, spreading back into the East further than the eye can see, pulsing with chaos and the clamour to engulf worlds. They are a maelstrom, these monsters, and they cry to swallow us.
But one thing, at least, they shall be denied.
I do not know how many nights my father and his lieutenants sat in council, for their decision is a cruel submission to desperation. It has been three weeks since battle was joined; a messenger was immediately dispatched to Minas Ithil, to beg for reinforcements and supplies in all haste. For we have only victuals for two months, and number but four hundred battle-fit men. The growing Shadow in the East was noted, but the speed of the Dark Lord's mustering was unforeseen, so our strength is but little.
Minas Ithil has sent neither men nor wagons, and their message is clear: Garth Cirith is alone, and we shall fall, trapped against the mountains that formed our stronghold. This siege is almost at an end, for in addition to the tremendous trebuchets and war-machines, which hammer daily at our walls, the hordes of Sauron have built a massive siege-ramp up to our very gates. Our archers find ready targets in the laborers, but every one that falls is replaced by two more.
The crack of whips and grunts of effort ceased yesterday. Not even the smallest child here need be told: that the ramp was complete and the Garth would be taken on the morrow. For such is the might of Sauron, that none can stand against it - yet in our deaths we may defy him.
I sit here now, on the parapet of the keep, and pen these last words, looking not to the black East, but toward the Pass and the golden West. O, you of the Free Lands, know that we die unbound, as men and women of Gondor, who have never known the chains of slavery! You whom the Shadow has not touched, remember us! Remember us, and let not our deaths be in vain!
O, remember!
The time is come. I have gazed my last on the mountains that separate us from Gondor; they hem us in, pressing us back against the Shadow. But I go now to my father. From his strong embrace, perchance I will glimpse white shores and a green land; a land without Shadow.
The writing ended there. Elessar, recognizing the significance of the account, cast about for a continuation, riffling through the priceless documents until finding another small sheet, written with a much rougher hand. The words were almost indecipherable. An image rose, unbidden, to the king's mind: a young man, crouched in a chamber of shadowed stone, scribbling frantically on the parchment.
She is dead. They are dead. I killed them. I can see their faces, their bodies - oh, forgive me, forgive me! I cannot think, cannot write. My hand is shaking, blurring the ink, wet with my tears... forgive me! I love her - her death was quick, forgive me! I killed her.
I must control myself. I am writing that she may not be forgotten; that what has happened here today may be remembered.
My name is Hirgon. I am a soldier of Gondor, and I die free. My wife and my infant son died free. She will never feel the ravages of Sauron's monsters, and he will never be made sport for them.
I love her. I loved her from the moment I first saw her, gathering the wild white starflowers in the glades of Ithilien. There were other maidens with her, but she surpassed them all in beauty, even as the rose-vine surpass the ivy. She had the most grace of movement, the readiest laugh, and the eyes of the Valar. Others may have thought her a simple village maid, dressed in rough wool and linen, but I am a simple soldier, and Liora my queen.
She was crowned with those same blossoms, the white starflowers, when we wed. I can still see her as I saw her eleven months ago - the sparkle of her eyes, the smoothness of her cheeks, the touch of her hands - and taste the sweetness of her lips.
Oh, forgive me!
For I will yet kiss her warm lips before the end.
I must hurry. Would I that I could tell of it all - our vows of honor and faith, the passion of our nights, the bliss of her surrender, and the warmth of her body cradled in my arms. Not even bards dare sing of such love as ours. She is everything to me!
She bore our son for nine months, and birthed him here, in Garth Cirith, in this rocky nest in the mountains. Scarce a month had passed before Sauron, the Evil Lord, had gathered his army and laid siege to us. It is not Garth Cirith that he wants, we know, but Minas Ithil and all that lies beyond.
There is no stopping him. No help is coming, and already I can hear the battering ram at the gates, and feel its deep drumming pulse through my veins. The gates, only wood, are beginning to shatter. I have little time.
When it became clear that reinforcements were not being sent, we gathered together and resolved not to be taken by the forces of Sauron. For we have heard of the savagery of his armies: of looting and burning, of slavery and imprisonment, of torture and mass rape. One captured by these orcs would be better off dead, for to be in their claws is worse than death.
Thus we have agreed, and thus we have acted upon. Every man among us has put his family to the sword, and in the coming moments will fall upon it himself. We shall not be taken.
Liora is here, by my side as I write this, still warm, still bleeding. We spent our last hours together in near silence, simply savoring the touch of each other, laughing sometimes at our son, marveling at him in his sleep, at his tiny, perfect fingers wrapped so trustingly around one of my large, callused ones. At last the Captain came to us and told us gently that the black army was advancing. We had no more time.
Slowly, I drew my sword, the guttering torchlight inside the fortress glinting dully off the blade. She looked at me, deep eyes full of absolute trust, and set our sleeping babe on the ground. I had to end her first, I knew; I could not kill her son before her eyes. Liora knelt as I stood, shaking, before her, and lifted up her delicate chin to expose her white throat.
I could not kill her.
I could not slit her throat and watch her scarlet lifeblood fountain out; I could not behead her. I dropped to my knees, the sword clattering to the ground as a wave of emotion rolled over me, kissing her neck, her mouth, her cheekbones. She responded, desperately, holding my head in her hands, then finally pulled away. She is stronger than I.
"I love you," was all she whispered, and pulled me into one deep kiss that she knew must be our last. I could not fail her; I must be fast. I drank of her vitality and sweetness willingly, passionately, then ripped out my dagger and thrust it between her ribs into her heart. She died instantly, cradled against my numbed chest. The orcs and their filth will never touch her; she will never see Gondor burn, nor hear the whips and chains of slavery.
Of my son I cannot bear to tell. Would that I had a fast, painless poison to give him! I could not see his tender little body disfigured - poor lad, to have lived in this cold, dark world less than two months! No father should outlive his child, much less murder him. For that is what I am - oh, forgive me! It is out of love that I do this, love for you, my wife, and love for you, my son. Your deaths were quick, though I died a thousand deaths each time.
I can say no more. The gates are splintered. I will fall here, by my wife and child, and that is how they will find us, defiantly free. My sword is sharp, and death, a welcome release.
The blood, already pounding in Elessar's ears, had drained completely away from his face as he finished the short anecdote. It was a long moment before he raised his eyes from the parchment. "This shall not be again," he whispered, his fist clenching on the table. "This shall not be."
Author's Note: Although the above is not a true story, it is very loosely based on one. I normally steer away from the first person, but in a case like this, I think that its subjective nature makes the story much more personal. Freedom, as the saying goes, is not free.