The Beacon-Keeper

Disclaimers: Middle-earth and all its inhabitants belong to J.R.R Tolkien and his estate. I own nothing, intend no infringement of copyright, and am making no money from this.

Rating: G.

Summary: The lighting of the beacons.

Thanks to Isis for beta-ing this.

Reviews will be gratefully received.

Amlaith never knew what roused him, in the slow, dark hours before the dawn. He lay where he was, curled onto one side, still and silent, listening to the night. The bright-edged wind whistled through the closed shutters, and the sheep bleated on the hills. Somewhere near at hand an open door banged restlessly backwards and forwards. Miriel slept on beside him, her dark hair obscuring her face, the thick furs and featherbed pulled up to her chin against the cold which penetrated the manor house.

He snorted at the ceiling, ribbed by age-blackened beams of oak from the Druadan Forest: a manor house in name only, and fitting for a simple grass-knight from the back-country of Gondor, and none of higher stature. Certainly not for a well-bred maiden from Dor-en-Ernil, the treasured daughter of a minor lord. He sighed, and brushed a strand of silken hair from Miriel's face. No, 'twas not at all as it should be, but he had nothing else to give, and she – she had the will and strength of one of the queens of old, a Haleth earlier Age. Even the all-pervasive stench of maturing goat's cheese did not seem to be enough to dissuade her from her folly, and send her fleeing back to her father's arms at Ethir Anduin. Amlaith shivered, curling his hand around hers beneath the mounded furs. The shadows of the years had fallen long on the hills since a merchant's daughter was brought to bed with child, the bastard of the lord of Lamedon, and Denethor was now Steward of the House of Mardil, not Thorondir. But the bastard line had struggled onwards, here, in the rough, wild country of Northern Gondor, hard against the border with the Horse-lords, a small holding between the high snows, and the stone, and he its latest lord.

The pang struck him again beneath his breast, interrupting his meandering thoughts. He stiffened, his eyes wide in the darkness, cold sweat trickling down the back of his neck. The air crackled with a dread foreboding which smote at his heart with the hammer-strength of doom. Moving as one possessed, he struggled from the entwining bedclothes, his gangling limbs flailing in the darkness. He cursed softly as he stubbed his toe against Miriel's ornate dower chest, hopping from foot to foot a he laced his breeches, shivering in the cold air. Tugging a heavy cloak, broidered with his arms at neck and hem, around his shoulders, he stumbled out into the mead hall. His retainers, such as they were, snored softly in the darkness, seemingly oblivious to the reckless pounding in their lord's head, the twisting wrench in his stomach. But then, there was scarce more than a handful of trained men-at-arms amongst the drowsing hill-peasants who raised the sheep amidst the scrubby grass, and the alarums of the outer world little penetrated their thoughts.

Amlaith himself stood, swaying in the archway, wondering if he had allowed some night-fear to twist his reason. Had not Frelaf told him that very eve that if he would persist in reading damnable nonsense from the South, he could expect only night-demons when he slept? The knight paused, one hand clenched against his belly, and contemplated the notion.

But the hair on the back of his neck prickled, and all his senses called him to harken to the danger which seared at them, brighter and more terrible than all the fires of Anor. His fine-lipped mouth clenched into a narrow line, he picked his way down the centre of the hall, skirting the smouldering fire-pit which glowed crimson in the middle of the floor. His eyes scanned the beds lining the walls for a sign of anything amiss, but there was nothing to be seen. Those who owed their loyalty to him slept on, golden heads, and the darker shades of Númenór together, here, in this place where Gondor and Rohan met, and the city of the Kings of old went as often by the name Mundburg as Minas Tirith, and was equally far distant by any name.

Standing before the great, age-seamed doors, Amlaith cracked his shoulders, and sighed. No matter how much he denied it, no matter how much he rode out upon these hills he loved, he missed the city where for such a brief time he had been happy. Where he had been content to sit day upon day among the tomes of the Great Library, breathing in the scents of dust and ancient parchment, and return at night to the cramped lodgings he had shared with Miriel. But those unfortunate enough to incur the Steward's censure rarely stayed in the City for long, and those who befriended his younger son always incurred his censure. Particularly if they were poverty-stricken scholar-knights from the hills.

Amlaith sighed again, and drew back the bolt which held the doors fast, and stepped outside.

He recoiled instantly, his heart shrinking beneath the hand of fear clenched around it. There was something unnatural in this night, in the bleak darkness which surrounded him. He could feel it pressing in upon him, a malevolent presence beyond mortal ken. Instinctively, he turned to the East, seeking the dawn which even now should be touching the sky with the first fingers of light, far away over the Vale of the Anduin.

He shuddered backwards, as if struck a killing blow. There, where there should be light, there was nothing but a deeper darkness, a darkness which seemed to roil and curl in upon itself like a fisted hand. There was ash on the wind, drowning out the smells of sheep, and goat, and grass, and melting snow. He could scarcely breathe for the stench and the pounding of his heart in his throat.

Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,

Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?

The ancient rhymes of the Riddermark rose to his lips unbidden, as he gazed in horror on the darkness eastwards, and his heart failed him. The foul wind tugged at his cloak, skirling through his hair, coiling it into strange shapes before fleeting onwards towards the Ciril.

"A day without dawn…" he whispered, turning the signet on his finger. "Shall it then be the dusk of Gondor?"

But even as he spoke, something flared at the edges of sight, a crimson spark in the gloom. He whirled around, stumbling on the even ground, and stared along the shoulder of the White Mountains at the sight which met his eyes.

Firelight glinted on the melting snow. No shepherd's fire this, a cascade of scarlet and gold against the night. His hand flew to his throat.

The beacon of Calenhad was lit.

Beyond, he knew without seeing, flamed the beacons of Min-Rimmon and Erelas, Nardol and Eilenach, Amon Dîn, and Minas Tirith.

The beacons of Gondor were alight, a chain of fire stretching into the North, calling for help from the horse-lords, as they had since the days of Eorl, and mustering the Men of Gondor, as they had for years beyond count.

But here, at Gondor's most northerly point, even as he watched, the chain faltered, the strength and purpose of Men wavered…

He began to run without knowing that he did so, his lungs burning, his feet pounding over the broken ground. His knife slapped against his hip with each leaping stride. It seemed a very eternity before the familiar hillock took form him before him, emerging from the darkness like some ghost of the Elder Days. He skidded to a halt before it, breathing heavily around the choking knot of his fear. His hands trembled as they touched the worn stone base of the great beacon of Halifiren, and he thought he would never find the tinder box in its nook, although he himself had placed it there.

This had been his forefathers' trust since they were gifted these lands, and now he would fulfill it…

Amlaith swallowed convulsively.

He struck once, and then spark fell to nothing in a heartbeat.

He struck again, and his nerveless fingers would not hold the flint. In the darkness, he scrabbled against the lichened rocks, frantically seeking the fragment of stone.

Kneeling there, his knees chilled, and his hands scuffed, his cloak askew, the knight struck a third time, and the tinder took light. With tremulous hands, he lit a taper, and scrambled onto the neat stack of dry wood, clutching the oil pot in one hand. Wobbling precariously, he poured the oil with one hand, and with the other thrust the burning brand into the waiting pile.

Jumping backwards, staggering as one ankle gave way beneath him, he watched as tentative fingers of flame licked at wood, and then with a great howl of flame, it caught.

The beacon of Halifirien was alight, gilding the sere winter grasses, brightening the night.

He shuddered with sudden exhaustion.

Halifirien, most northerly of the demesnes of Gondor, had not failed in its duty this day. This Dawnless Day.

FINIS