Chapter 26 - Hail, Lord of the Mark!

9th March, 3019 (Third Age)

The coming of Théoden was like an earthquake.

Elanor was seated with Éowyn in one of the central pavilions the next day when a deep rumbling caught her attention. The two women had been discussing weaponry—another topic which lit up Éowyn's grey eyes—when the thundering of hoofbeats interrupted their discussion.

The king's niece rose gracefully.

"Come; King Théoden approaches," she said. Éowyn led the way towards the edge of the high meadow, pausing at the foot of the path by which her uncle would reach the Firienfeld.

Elanor was not particularly squeamish around heights, but she found it rather alarming to stand so close to the brink of the mountain fortress. It looked like miles down to the valley floor below, and a persistent breeze swirled around her body. Éowyn's eyes were fixed upon the valley's entrance, and as Elanor turned there herself she caught a flicker of movement.

It was as if a great, writhing mass of brown and grey poured into Harrowdale. Hundreds of horsemen, bedecked in glinting armour, thudded across the rich green grass. Even from the top of the cliff, Elanor could feel the earth tremble beneath the horse's hooves. She had no way of counting the horsemen, though it looked like thousands. As Théoden's company spilled across the emerald meadow, she was overcome by the majesty of the scene; it was another sharp reminder that she was in a storybook, witnessing the valiant race to war.

A group at the head of the column broke apart from the others. The remainder of the soldiers scattered across the lower valley, taking up residence in the rows of tents which housed the riders who had already gathered. The smaller contingent sped straight through, approaching the foot of the cliff upon which Elanor stood.

It seemed to take forever for the king's detachment to reach them, for the path up to Dunharrow zig-zagged slowly across the face of the cliff. Finally, however, Elanor glanced over the lip and saw that they were just below. A moment later, King Théoden crested the top of the path on his magnificent light grey warhorse.

"Hail, Lord of the Mark!" cried Éowyn. "My heart is glad at your returning."

"And you, Éowyn," said Théoden, dismounting. "Is all well with you?"

"All is well," she answered, and while Elanor caught a touch of distress in her voice, she seemed quite well composed. "All is well. It was a weary road for the people to take, torn suddenly from their homes. There were hard words, for it is long since war has driven us from the green fields; but there have been no evil deeds. All is now ordered, as you see. And your lodging is prepared for you; for I have full tidings of you and knew the hour of your coming."

"So Aragorn has come then," said a voice Elanor recognised as Éomer, halting near his uncle. "Is he still here?"

"No, he is gone," said Éowyn, turning away and looking at the mountains dark against the east and south.

"Whither did he go?" asked Éomer.

"I do not know," she answered. "He came at night, and rode away yestermorn, ere the Sun climbed over the mountain-tops. He is gone."

"You are grieved, daughter," said Théoden, pulling his helm from his head and moving a little closer. "What has happened? Tell me, did he speak of that road?" He pointed away along the darkening line of stones that Elanor knew Aragorn had taken. "Of the Paths of the Dead?"

"Yes, lord," said Éowyn, "and he has passed into the shadows from which none have returned. I could not dissuade him. He is gone."

"Then our paths are sundered," said Éomer. "He is lost. We must ride without him, and our hope dwindles."

Elanor bridled inwardly at this remark, and she gave a short hmph. Cheeks warm, she realised she had captured the king's attention with her low grunt.

Théoden's blue eyes met hers, and Elanor took a moment to study his face. His hair was like snow, but his eyes were sharp and clear. He was a little stooped, but still towered over six feet, and his face was proud and grave. He looked to be about seventy, far older than Elanor had anticipated. Perhaps his most distinguishing feature was the great white beard which fell midway down his chest.

"This is Lady Elanor, of Rivendell, uncle," Éowyn said. "She rode with Lord Aragorn's company, and remained here when they chose their perilous road."

Théoden inclined his head slightly. "Then I fear you are all that is left of that company, my Lady Elanor; wise indeed you are, to avoid the shadow of the mountain."

She couldn't help but smile as she bowed in return.

"I have known Aragorn for a short while, but if any were to pass by that road unscathed, it would be he, Your Majesty," replied Elanor, a note of amusement in her voice. The Rohirrim were extremely superstitious, and whilst she couldn't blame them, she wished they were a little less doom-and-gloom about Aragorn's likelihood of survival.

Théoden surveyed her acutely for a moment. "You are hopeful."

"They are as capable a company as I have ever seen." Even if they're one of the first and only companies I have ever seen.

The king looked thoughtful at that, before nodding once more. "I dearly hope you are correct, Lady Elanor." Then, turning to Éowyn, he gave a weary smile. "Come, sister-daughter, for there are many things to speak of."

A rider Elanor did not recognise moved forward to take Théoden's reins, and the pair walked back towards the centre of the valley. Unsure what she was supposed to do, Elanor watched whilst Éomer dismounted and moved towards her.

"Well met, Lady Elanor," he said, bowing briefly.

"And you, Lord Éomer," she replied, nodding with less deference than she had reserved for King Théoden. Part of her was still slightly injured at his less-than-courteous greeting back at Helm's Deep.

"I am gladdened that you have found the company of my sister," he said, reaching up to slip his reins over his horse's head with surprising ease; his horse was a mighty destrier, but Éomer stood almost of a height with Aragorn.

Lucky… he has no idea how hard that is with Fundanár…

"So am I," she replied truthfully, willing herself to be polite. She glanced around, still seeking one familiar figure. "Did the hobbit Meriadoc travel with you, Lord Éomer?"

"Indeed he did," he replied, an amused smile transforming his otherwise grim face. "He should not be far off. Come, we shall seek him out. Is he a friend of yours?"

"Yes; we dwelled in Rivendell together for some months."

"Amongst the Elves?"

"Yes."

Éomer's expression hardened a little at this, but he merely nodded. His horse trailing behind, the pair wove past the main part of the king's retinue. After a moment Elanor spied a pony amidst the huge warhorses.

"Merry!" she smiled, hurrying forward.

The hobbit was on the other side of his pony, but hearing his name he peered over it's withers. Seeing Elanor, he grinned broadly.

"Lady Elanor! I had feared you journeyed on with the others, but you are here after all! This is happy news," Merry smiled, moving so his pony no longer stood between them. His brown hair was tousled, but his eyes were as bright as ever.

Feeling acutely conscious of Éomer's eagle-eyed stare at her back, Elanor held out a hand to shake with Merry. The hobbit took it solemnly, twinkling at her. She wished Éomer was not present, for if he was as traditional as he was superstitious he would fiercely disapprove of her embracing Merry.

Better to be safe than sorry.

After assuring each other they were in one piece, Elanor turned back to Éomer, who was watching with a masked expression. Seeing they were finished their greetings, the king's nephew called to a nearby solider.

"The king's esquire requires lodgings," he said.

"Yes, my lord," nodded the other horseman, before approaching Merry with a smile and leading him towards the village of tents.

Elanor was somewhat taken aback as the hobbit was swept away. She turned back to the Rohirric man, wondering whether to question his rudeness. She had hoped to accompany Merry, for the coming events greatly concerned the young halfling. Seeing Éomer's cool grey eyes however, she pressed her lips together.

"King Théoden awaits us, Lady Elanor," he said.

A demand, and not a request. Goodness, what I wouldn't give to take this man down a peg or two!

"Of course," she smiled, her expression sickly-sweet. He waited for her to approach and then continued beside her.

Forgetting herself for a moment, Elanor began to reach for his arm as she had become accustomed to doing with Glorfindel. Her arm half-extended, she bit her lip and allowed it to drop to her side. Éomer did not appear to notice, striding proudly with his horse in tow. She had never been accustomed to the gentlemanly courtesies before coming to Middle Earth; Tim was gentle and polite, but had not been one to open every door and hold her arm at every turn. The Elves did not coddle their womenfolk, but they certainly treasured them. The other men she had encountered—namely the Dúnedain and Boromir—regarded her as positively fragile. It had irked her at the time, for though she made no pretence at being as hardy as a man, she felt more capable than they had given her credit for.

And here you are walking with the future king of Rohan, who doesn't coddle you but regards you as something of an equal, and you're annoyed about it!

She smiled faintly to herself, amused at the changes in attitude that had taken place within her. However, she couldn't quite shake the thought that she would have much preferred to be walking beside the golden-haired Elf lord, chatting in their jovial way. Her foster-brothers were easy companions, but she regarded Glorfindel as much as a brother as they.

Not to mention we look more alike.

That was certainly true.

"Do you know aught of what lies ahead for yourself, Lady Elanor?" inquired Éomer.

"No-o," replied Elanor, slowly. "It depends upon your sister."

Éomer was silent for a moment, before turning to look at her for the first time. "I shall be glad that another goes whither she goes; she needs one to temper and lighten her. She has endured many sorrows."

"I can see as much," she nodded. The man responded in kind, for they swift approached the king's pavilion, and as they did so a trumpet sounded across the Firienfeld.

In the inner part of the pavilion was a small space, curtained off with broidered hangings, and strewn with skins; and near a small table stood Théoden and Éowyn, and a mighty man with strawberry-blonde hair. Éomer and Elanor were approached by a tall warrior who said something to the former in the sonorous tongue of Rohan. Éomer seemed to hesitate, and then gave a reluctant nod and passed the other man the reins of his horse. He watched him lead the animal away with great chagrin, before returning his attention to the scene at hand.

"Join us, Éomer sister-son; and you also, Lady Elanor, for Éowyn has told me much of your doings, and that you are wise in the lore of many peoples, not least the Riddermark. I should welcome you at my table," the king intoned, gesturing with an open hand. Éomer moved to his sister's side, and they greeted each other with gentle touch and wordless gesture. Elanor, feeling very much a stranger, did as she was bidden and took a seat beside the strange man with the slightly ruddy hair. To her delight, however, a second soldier entered with Merry in tow at that moment. As the king's esquire, the hobbit was left standing at Théoden's right shoulder. After a few minutes, he seemed to come to himself.

"Come, Master Meriadoc!" he said. "You shall not stand. You shall sit beside me, as long as I remain in my own lands, and lighten my heart with tales."

Room was made for the hobbit at the king's left hand, but no one called for any tale. There was indeed little speech, and they ate and drank for the most part in silence.

Elanor was unsure whether to speak out, for the customs of Elves seemed very far removed from the rustic and hale land of Rohan. Merry, however, appeared unable to stem his curiosity. She watched as he plucked up his courage.

"Twice now, lord, I have heard of the Paths of the Dead," he said. "What are they? And where has Strider, I mean the Lord Aragorn, where has he gone?"

The king sighed, but no one answered, until at last Éomer spoke. "We do not know, and our hearts are heavy," he said. "But as for the Paths of the Dead, you have yourself walked on their first steps. Nay, I speak no words of ill omen! The road that we have climbed is the approach to the Door, yonder in the Dimholt. But what lies beyond no man knows."

"No man knows," said Théoden: "yet ancient legend, now seldom spoken, has somewhat to report. If these old tales speak true that have come down from father to son in the House of Eorl, then the Door under Dwimorberg leads to a secret way that goes beneath the mountain to some forgotten

end. But none have ever ventured in to search its secrets, since Baldor, son of Brego, passed the Door and was never seen among men again. A rash vow he spoke, as he drained the horn at that feast which Brego made to hallow new-built Meduseld, and he came never to the high seat of which he was the heir.

"Folk say that Dead Men out of the Dark Years guard the way and will suffer no living man to come to their hidden halls; but at whiles they may themselves be seen passing out of the door like shadows and down the stony road. Then the people of Harrowdale shut fast their doors and shroud their windows and are afraid. But the Dead come seldom forth and only at times of great unquiet and coming death."

Elanor listened, rapt. The story was mystical and… well… illusory. Even though she had been repeatedly reminded how insular Arda was, it still came as a shock that the Rohirrim hadn't heard of the Army of the Dead.

I guess that's what happens with a complete lack of record-keeping, low literacy, and a whole lot of mystery and superstition… probably no one spoke of the oath-breaking to the Rohirrim, and so they just assume…

She sighed inwardly. It had been weeks since she'd read over the histories of Middle Earth, and The Silmarillion had little to say of Rohan. She couldn't remember the precise dates of events such as those; little matters had been crowded out by the things she was forced to remember for the sake of survival.

"Yet it is said in Harrowdale," said Éowyn in a low voice, "that in the moonless nights but little while ago a great host in strange array passed by. Whence they came none knew, but they went up the stony road and vanished into the hill, as if they went to keep a tryst."

"Then why has Aragorn gone that way?" asked Merry. "Don't you know anything that would explain it?"

"Unless he has spoken words to you as his friend that we have not heard," said Éomer, "none now in the land of the living can tell his purpose."

Well that's not entirely true.

Elanor's face must have belied her, for Éowyn caught her eye for a moment. Her elder brother seemed to follow her gaze, and his shrewd glance read her expression clearly.

"And yet it seems that one of our number is not so ill informed! What light may you shed upon the matter, Lady Elanor of Rivendell?" he inquired, with a trace of incredulity. "The fey spirit of the Elves hath given thee powers beyond other mortals, perhaps?"

Goodness me, that's a pickle!

Elanor was at once besieged by five pairs of eyes, including the Rohirric soldier she had heard Éomer call Dúnhere. Merry appeared utterly astonished, and Théoden's brow was furrowed with the intensity of his stare. It took her a moment to gather her thoughts before she spoke.

"Many of those who walk the Paths of the Dead I count among my friends," she said, softly. Elladan, Elrohir, Halbarad, Glorfindel, Aragorn, Legolas… Eärendur, even, and Hithraur and the others…

"War separates many friends," remarked Éomer carelessly, and Elanor was unable to stop herself quirking an eyebrow at him.

"And yet that is little comfort," she countered. "What is more reassuring is this; Aragorn goes in search of more warriors to ensure victory in the coming war." Too much? Too little? It's as precarious as walking a tight rope!

Elanor found it increasingly difficult to keep ahold of the various lies, background stories and justifications she had accumulated, and sent her second fervent prayer skyward to Eru that she hadn't made an irreparable blunder.

"What good could come of such a path?" cried Éowyn, genuinely distressed. "Such a great risk—on the eve of battle! Could not his own strength of arms been aid enough?" Any sense of hope which Elanor had managed to impress upon her seemed torn to shreds in the light of her uncle's old wives tales. She felt her words die on the tip of her tongue, and her forehead wrinkled with anguish.

"A great deal of good!" Elanor returned, steeling herself for the barrage of questions which were sure to come. "I have—there—my people have a measure of foresight," she began, pausing briefly to survey the various reactions. It appeared promising. "I have been bequeathed with a certain—understanding, of future events—nothing to do with the Elves—" this directed at Éomer in a biting tone "—and I know some of what is to come; enough that I am assured of the importance of Lord Aragorn's mission, that he shall counter a great threat from the south, and that all shall be well ere the end." Even if you, Théoden, will die, and you, Éowyn, almost join him in... well... wherever you go when you die in Rohan.

Silence met her speech.

"Sage words, and yet I see little evidence that you speak true," put in Éomer, after a moment. Elanor turned to him once more, feeling increasingly short-tempered with the man. He was extremely proud and possessed a fieriness of spirit that was certainly admirable; his propensity for brashness, however, Elanor was less fond of. A burning frustration surged through her, and she placed her knife down forcefully.

"What have you to lose in believing that I speak the truth?" She glanced at Théoden, hoping to gauge the king's reaction. "I am completely certain about it; Aragorn will win this whole thing, and it's not hopeless and stuff like you're saying," she cried, slipping out of her Middle Earth-speak and into her old modernisms in the stress of the moment. She bit her tongue.

Théoden was nodding thoughtfully, though Éomer was still studying her with sharp suspicion. Possibly admitting to having foresight wasn't her greatest moment; it certainly hadn't appeased Éomer any.

They probably think I'm some kind of Elvish witch; Éowyn at least seems to have gotten past that, but with Éomer watching me like a fox in a henhouse… if Théoden…

The king was still silent, frowning into his snowy beard. At length his blue eyes met Elanor's, and he gave a small smile. He had just opened his mouth to speak when a noise was heard from outside; a man's voice cried the name of Théoden, and the challenge of the guard.

A moment later, the captain of the Guard thrust aside the curtain.

"A man is here, lord," he said, "an errand-rider of Gondor. He wishes to come before you at once."

"Let him come!" said Théoden.

The night was darker than pitch, heavy clouds blotting out even the stars. Glorfindel frowned deeply as peered ahead, rolling easily with Asfaloth's smooth gait.

The physical darkness through which the Grey Company rode did not trouble him, for the night held no terrors for him. Rather, the chill within his heart caused his brow to furrow and the nape of his neck to prickle peculiarly.

Ahead, he could see the dark forms of Aragorn and Halbarad, leading the group onwards. To his right rode Elladan and Elrohir, the elder twin identifiable by the snowy colour of his mount, and to his left Legolas. Behind thundered the rest of the Dúnedain, faces drawn with weariness and fear.

And little wonder!

Mountains loomed over the party on both sides, like great accusing sentinels that stretched upwards unseen. The road they travelled upon was smooth and relatively easy, passing through the realm of Gondor to the south of Ered Nimrais. Ahead were rolling grasslands, the realms of Lebinnin and Losarnach rushing to greet the Anduin south of Osgiliath.

As great as Glorfindel's endurance was, he had begun to feel worn. He harboured great admiration for Aragorn, subduing his flesh beneath the weight of duty. The child Glorfindel had been fond of years ago was swallowed up in the man he saw now. A great man, certainly, but stern and weathered. Somehow, the son of Arathorn journeyed on, denying need for nourishment or sleep. Glorfindel, for his part, could rest reasonably well in the saddle, allowing his thoughts to stray in rhapsodical memories.

Tonight, however, he was denied even that pleasure.

He had walked the Hall of Mandos once, caught by the haunting melodies and the faces of those gone before him. To depart Námo's realm was an experience granted to few of the Noldor, least of all those whom had followed Fingolfin to Beleriand.

Glorfindel's mouth quirked wryly at that. Mandos was reputed for his long memory. Were it not for The Lady of Mercy, Glorfindel knew assuredly that he would dwell in the Halls yet.

Fortunate indeed, then, that Nienna spoke on your behalf! And fortunate that Manwë saw fit that you return, for the Ñoldor are scarce granted such leniency!

He shook his head, refocusing on the dim road ahead. One brush with death had been sufficient for the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower; still, the road over which the Grey Company had passed sent a trickle of fear down his spine. The grey memories of his old life and final moments were repainted in garish detail before his eyes as they had passed beneath the shadow of the mountain. His stomach roiled as he recalled it.

The very fact that the Dead discomfited him so much filled Glorfindel with a measure of disgust and self-loathing. The Eldar had little to fear from those gone before them, though to pass the ghosts of men was certainly an unpleasant experience. And yet, neither Legolas nor Elrond's sons had quaked before the Stone of Erech. Even the Dúnedain had swallowed their fear, for the love of their captain was sufficient that they should proceed—even Halbarad, who foresaw his death beyond.

As Elanor predicted…

Glorfindel shook himself. He could vividly recall the icy fingers which tore at his heart, scrabbling feverishly at his inmost being. All the while their haunting voices raised in song;

Come… come back… join us… the path is easy…

"Aulë, aní athya," he muttered, scattering the morbid thoughts. The road was yet long, and he had need of his strength.

'Tis great wonder that Elanor endured the journey southwards, though I suppose I should cease to be surprised at her, he thought, and the recollection brought a strained smile to his face. She has grown courteous in speech; did I not know her origins, I would believe her to be native-born, so much has she improved… in every aspect…

He frowned again, though the light creases between his eyebrows were lesser than his earlier furrows. He would follow Aragorn as long as was required, for he had pledged himself to the cause. Not only that, he knew—thanks to Elanor once more—that the Ranger would claim the throne of Gondor, and Glorfindel felt the will of Manwë pressing him to further that cause.

Nevertheless, he would be glad when all was over.

Too many hasty goodbyes, he concluded, attempting to reassure his already-ruffled feä. That is all. It is of little import. I am here by the will and grace of the Valar. Is that not enough?

He paused, long fingers burrowed in Asfaloth's snow-white mane. Half-fearfully, he sent his thoughts skyward, like a tentative child asking a question.

Ought I to ask more than that?

No response.

No, he would not, for to do so would be to test the patience of those who had graciously given him a second chance. Before he could push the matter from his mind, however, he was struck by a lingering recollection.

"You are like a brother to me as well."

The memory caused him to grit his teeth, for it tasted of soured mead and made swallowing difficult. Scolding himself for allowing his thoughts to stray, Glorfindel readjusted his hands on Asfaloth's reins.

"I will conquer this," he muttered, voice low. So intently did he stare out at the road ahead, that he missed seeing Legolas turn to survey him for a moment. A soft and knowing smile tugged at the Silvan Elf's lips, and Glorfindel would have objected hotly had he voiced his thoughts. As it were, Legolas was left to muse upon it at his leisure, free from the Elf Lord's protestations.

TRANSLATIONS & NOTES

There's some Silmarillion stuff in this chapter, so if you're unfamiliar with the books (or just haven't read them in a long time—sometimes it's easy to get mixed up) I have included a list of names and other titles for the ones mentioned in this chapter.

Mandos - the doorman and Judger of the Dead. Those Elves who die pass to his halls. He, his brother Lórien and sister Nienna are known as the Masters of Spirits. Wiki him for more details, or reread Silm.

Námo - another name for Mandos

Nienna - Mandos' sister, known as She Who Weeps. Responsible for mercy and grief. According to some sources, Gandalf the Maia was one of her apprentices, and she taught him compassion/pity.

Lady of Mercy - a title given to Nienna

Manwë - Lord of the Valar, and the lord of winds and air. Greatest of the Valar.

Asfaloth - Glorfindel's fabulous light grey horse, as mentioned in The Lord of the Rings books. I hadn't mentioned his name yet so I thought I'd just clarify.

Aulë - the Smith and lord of all the substances of the earth. He was known as a great craftsman and taught the Noldor in Valinor many things.

aní athya - "aid me" (lit. "help/comfort/assist me" in Quenya)

The Firienfeld - the meadow at the top of Dunharrow, where the king and his retinue camped.

A/N on Glorfindel - I personally accept the head-canon that Glorfindel in Rings is the same Glorfindel from Gondolin, who was sent back by the Valar to do work in Middle Earth. I have mentioned this before in an earlier chapter (where Elanor brings up the other Glorfindel she found reference to) and thought I'd just bring it up again in case you hadn't read it for a while. It is speculated that Glorfindel came back with the two Blue Wizards, and I like that idea. I believe Glorfindel arrived in the Havens and then travelled to aid Elrond in the War of the Ring, making a home in Imladris and—in this fic—joining the Fellowship. He is one of my favourite Silm/Rings characters and I have worked to make his character consistent, rather playful, and noble as I always imagined.

There's Chapter 26. I guess there's not much here I can say that I haven't said in previous chapters; except I do love reviews, and I am so excited that you've stuck it out this far! Enjoy :)