Chapter 30 - The Battle for Minas Tirith, Part 2.
The battlefield was a living nightmare.
Following in the wake of Théoden King was a plunging, screaming mass of humans and horseflesh. As they careered towards the road which passed across the Pelennor Fields in the direction of the River, Elanor was swept up in the bewildering terror that was war. Before the ferocity of the thundering horses, the orcs they had encountered had been crushed. Whilst a few moments before Elanor had regretted her placement in the middle of the column, now she was profoundly relieved. No creature of Sauron's survived to challenge her as Fundanár leapt nimbly across the scattered wreckage.
Her body felt like it was riding on the crest of a wave, full of the exhilaration and fear as Fundanár's sure feet ate up the turf. As they neared the road, Théoden slowed, and Elanor and Éowyn drew closer behind him. She saw the king glance around in search of new foes, before turning southward towards a bunch of peculiar looking humans. They were clad in red tunics, trimmed with gold, and bore a peculiar standard.
Théoden charged.
Snowmane was a swift steed, but the king checked him slightly as he wheeled the large stallion. Realising that she had to redirect Fundanár, Elanor clutched at the reins with her left hand, still holding her sword gingerly in her right. Luckily for her, the Elvish gelding responded to the lightest touch of the strap on his neck and obliged by following the rest of the company perfectly.
And then the real fight began.
Théoden flew towards this new group of warriors, and Elanor realised with a lurch that they would engage these forces properly. For a moment the adrenaline which had kept her moving seemed to falter, but they were off again before her buzz could die.
The two forces met in a hideous cacophony of screams and metal-on-metal. Théoden plunged towards the centre of these new enemies, and Elanor saw what appeared to be the captain rise to meet the Rohirric king. And then Elanor was faced with her own foe.
This company were also mounted, and as they met in their savage kiss Elanor saw a man loom up in her vision. With a cry, she thrust forward vaguely, catching the man on one side with the tip of the blade. Were it anything but Elf-wrought steel, she would have been dead then and there. As it were, the weapon pierced straight through his corslet made of small plates, embedded almost to the hilt. The speed of Fundanár's gallop drew her alongside her opponent, where her thrice-blessed gelding propped so she had time to withdraw her blade. Her horse half-reared as her enemy's steed threw itself against her, pressing her leg against his. His metal greaves crushed her shin against Fundanár's side, and as they drew close Elanor tugged her sword back out—out of his chest, his breathing, bleeding, flesh…
The man doubled over and plunged forward over his horse's shoulder. Before Elanor could pause to think about it, Fundanár had leapt onwards, leaving a riderless horse amidst the chaos. She was faced with another opponent then, a warrior with his face twisted into a hideous scowl. He raised a sword in a menacing overhand cut, and some of Legolas' training kicked in. Positioned as he was to her right, Elanor had to twist slightly and bring her shield up to take the blow on her left arm. The impact of his cut was shattering, causing her to crumple in the saddle. Fundanár plunged forward, carrying her past him with speed that almost caused her to lose her seat. Hoping that someone behind her would deal with the furious soldier, Elanor continued on into the press of bodies.
Her ears were full of screams, slicing through her consciousness as her blade did flesh. How she managed for the next few minutes was beyond her in hindsight; Legolas' training had not all been forgotten, and the rush of battle lent strength to her weary limbs. Fundanár was an intelligent animal, and managed to guide his mistress in the wake of King Théoden without incident. Had it not been for his convenient plunging, halting and weaving, Elanor would've lost her head half a dozen times.
Having just dispatched of the latest opponent—avoided by Fundanár's timely rearing, which threw his rider off balance and allowed Elanor to swing gracelessly at his head—she found that the remainder of the forces had fled. Théoden stood in the middle of their group, his blue eyes staring coldly at the backs of their foes. His mighty shoulders rose and fell with his quickened breaths, and for some peculiar reason Elanor noticed that his white beard had been sheared off on one side. It gave him a peculiarly rakish appearance. It was an odd thing to observe, whilst the screams of dying men assaulted her ears.
In that instant, however, the light which had fallen upon the battlefield dimmed, and Elanor's armour seemed terribly heavy, and her sword like a shackle on her arm. The new morning was blotted from the sky. Dark fell about him. Horses reared and screamed. Men cast from the saddle lay grovelling on the ground.
"To me! To me!" cried Théoden. "Up Eorlingas! Fear no darkness!" But Snowmane wild with terror stood up on high, fighting with the air, and then with a great scream he crashed upon his side: a black dart had pierced him. The king fell beneath him.
"No!" Elanor cried, the sound rent from her lungs like someone had snatched her breath with cruel fingers.
Then terror beyond all she had ever known took her.
It felt as if ice clawed at her person, filling her with complete and utter dread. Her heart felt as if it were being gripped in a vice, all hope milked out with ruthless malice.
All is lost! her mind screamed.
There's no hope! Oh, I want to go home! I just want to go home!
Then the fell beast came, the creature of nightmares. It was infinitely worse than Elanor could ever have envisioned, even with Peter Jackson's vivid creations. It was halfway between a bird and a lizard, winged and featherless, with leathery skin and a stench that managed to be even worse than the scent of death.
Down, down it came, and then, folding its fingered webs, it gave a croaking cry, and settled upon the body of Snowmane, digging in its claws, stooping its long naked neck.
Upon it sat a shape, black-mantled, huge and threatening. A crown of steel he bore, but between rim and robe naught was there to see, save only a deadly gleam of eyes: the Lord of the Nazgûl. To the air he had returned, summoning his steed ere the darkness failed, and now he was come again, bringing ruin, turning hope to despair, and victory to death. A great black mace he wielded.
Her body wrought with tension, Elanor lowered her sword and watched aghast as the creature fell upon Théoden's form. She was some twenty metres away, and whilst Fundanár stood in relative quiet, Elanor had no desire to move closer. The gelding was uneasy, though he did not flee.
The knights of Théoden's house lay slain about him, or else mastered by the madness of their steeds were borne far away. Only one remained by him: Éowyn, faithful beyond fear. And Elanor saw that her shoulders quivered with emotion, for she had oft said that she loved Théoden as a father. Windfola had also borne his mistress and Merry the hobbit through the charge, though Elanor had not spared a moment to locate her friends. When the shadow had fallen, the horse had thrown them both, and now ran wild on the plain. To Elanor's great horror, she saw Merry crawling on all fours like a dazed beast, and he seemed unable to gather his wits. To her later chagrin, she could find nothing within herself to rush to his aid; her adrenaline had run it's course, and she had no thoughts now save self-preservation.
"Begone, foul dwimmerlaik, lord of carrion! Leave the dead in peace!" cried Éowyn in challenge, and Elanor's heart leapt to see her friend's courage.
A cold voice answered: "Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey! Or he will not slay thee in thy turn. He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye."
A sword rang as it was drawn. "Do what you will; but I will hinder it, if I may."
"Hinder me? Thou fool. No living man may hinder me!"
Then Elanor heard of all sounds in that moment the strangest. Éowyn laughed, and the clear voice was like a ring of steel. "But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund's daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you if you touch him."
That is the most badass thing I ever heard!
The winged creature screamed at her, but the Ringwraith made no answer, and was silent, as if in sudden doubt. Very amazement for a moment conquered Elanor's fear. She stared in amazement at Éowyn, whose helm of secrecy had fallen from her. Her bright gold hair, released from it's bonds, gleamed upon her shoulders. Her eyes, grey as the sea, were hard and fell, though her face was stained with tears. She held her sword and shield up and at the ready. She did not blench: maiden of the Rohirrim, child of kings, slender but as a steel-blade, fair yet terrible. A swift stroke she dealt, skilled and deadly. The outstretched neck of the Nazgûl's steed she clove asunder, and the hewn head fell like a stone. She sprang backward, for the huge shape crashed to ruin. The beast's wings were outstretched in death, and as the rider upon the creature crumpled a ray of light fell upon Éowyn's magnificent hair.
As Elanor watched, the Black Rider rose from the wreckage, and Elanor's breath caught in her throat as he swung with deadly skill at Éowyn's vulnerable form. With a cry of hatred that stung the very ears like venom he let fall his mace. Her shield was shivered in many pieces, and Elanor saw that her arm hung as if broken. The woman of valour fell to her knees, bowed beneath the malice which was poised ready to kill her.
But suddenly he too stumbled and his stroke went wide, driving into the ground. With a gasp of hope, Elanor glanced to the mighty figure. Sure enough, Merry was curled upon the ground behind him, clutching his knife weakly. As was written, the hobbit had clenched his teeth and stabbed the Nazgûl behind the knee.
"Éowyn! Éowyn!" the hobbit cried.
Then tottering, struggling with her last reserves of strength, Éowyn lifted her sword and drove it between crown and mantle of the horrible creature. Her sword shattered as the great shoulders bowed before her, and his crown rolled away with a clang. Éowyn fell forward upon her fallen foe. With a gasp, Elanor realised the mantle and hauberk were empty. Shapeless they lay now on the ground, torn and tumbled; a cry went up into the shuddering air, and faded to a shrill wailing, passing with the wind, a voice bodiless and thin that died, and was swallowed up, and was never again heard in that age of this world.
With a cry of pain and relief, Elanor kicked Fundanár forward. The gelding covered the distance in barely a moment. Flinging herself from the saddle, Elanor was driven to her knees. The sickness which twisted her stomach and the weight of her armour felt overwhelming.
Think of Éowyn…
The ground was strewn with bodies and with blood, but Elanor placed one resolute hand upon the turf. Pushing up with all her available strength, she regained her feet. Éowyn had not moved, but Merry stood blinking like an owl in the daylight. She saw that his face was marked with tears as he stared at the fallen king.
"Merry!" Elanor sobbed, stumbling towards him. The hobbit turned to her, his expression full of childish fear and agony. He held out his arms as she embraced him, beginning to weep as the import of what she had just seen began to sink in. Something about the hobbit made her feel motherly and protective, despite her own shortcomings.
"We ought to look upon Théoden King once more," said Merry, after a time. His body no longer quivered, and Elanor nodded.
"Come."
The king lay upon the grass, no longer beneath the form of Snowmane, who had rolled away in his agony. Elanor stood by, silently crying, as Merry stooped and lifted Théoden's hand to kiss it. And to Elanor's great surprise, Théoden opened his eyes! and they were clear, and he spoke quietly, though his words were laboured.
"Farewell, Master Holbytla," he said. "My body is broken. I got to my fathers. And even in their mighty company I shall not now be ashamed. I felled the black serpent. A grim morn, and a glad day, and a golden sunset!"
Merry could not speak, but wept anew. "Forgive me lord," he said at last, "if I broke your command, and yet have done no more in your service than to weep at our parting."
The old king smiled, causing Elanor to choke on a lump in her throat. "Grieve not! It is forgiven. Great heart will not be denied. Live now in blessedness; and when you sit in peace with your pipe, think of me! For never now shall I sit with you in Meduseld, as I promised, or listen to your herb-lore." He closed his eyes, and Merry bowed down beside him.
Presently he spoke again. "Where is Éomer? For my eyes darken, and I would see him ere I go. He must be king after me. And I would send word to Éowyn. She… she would not have me leave her, and now I shall not see her again, dearer than daughter."
"Lord, lord," began Merry brokenly, and Elanor took an anxious step forward, "she is—" But at that moment there was a great clamour, and all about them horns and trumpets were blowing. Both looked round; they had forgotten the war, and all the world beside, and many hours it seemed since the king rode to his fall, though in truth it was only a little while. But now Elanor saw that they were in danger of being caught in the very midst of the great battle that would soon be joined.
New forces of the enemy were hastening up the road from the River; and from under the walls came the legions of Morgul; and from the southward fields came footmen of Harad with horsemen before them, and behind them rose the huge backs of the oliphants with war-towers upon them. But northward the white crest of Éomer led the great front of the Rohirrim which he had again gathered and marshalled; and out of the City came all the strength of men that was in it, and the silver swan of Dol Amroth was borne in the van, driving the enemy from the Gate.
"Merry—" cried Elanor, clasping his arm and moving several steps back.
Fortunately for them, Éomer and his company sped towards them, all of the knights of the king who had managed to restrain their steeds. They all looked in wonder at the horrible creature Éowyn had killed, and then Éomer turned to the pair who stood near the fallen king.
Realising that she still wore her helm, Elanor tugged it from her head. Her long, blonde braid fell down her back. Éomer leaped from the saddle, and grief and dismay fell upon him as he came to the king's side and stood there in silence.
Glancing sideways, he seemed to take in Elanor and Merry at that moment.
"Lady Elanor!" he gasped, his stern features filled with horror. "How came you to be on the field?"
Breathing deep, Elanor stared blearily at the soldier who had irked her so much previously.
…he's not bad looking, in reality…
"There are many tales to be told; now is not the time or place—"
"You should be escorted off the field, my lady," he cried, though he paused as one of the knights took the king's banner from the hand of Guthláf the banner-bearer, who lay dead. He lifted the banner up, and Théoden opened his eyes then. Seeing the banner, he made a sign that it should be given to Éomer. He didn't seem to notice Elanor, for which she was rather glad.
"Hail, King of the Mark!" Théoden managed. "Ride now to victory! Bid Éowyn farewell!" And so he died, and knew not that Éowyn lay near him. And those who stood by wept, crying, "Théoden King! Théoden King!"
Elanor lifted her hands to her face, stifling the sobs which came anew.
But Éomer said to them:
Mourn not overmuch! Mighty was the fallen,
meet was his ending. When his mound is raised,
women then shall weep. War now calls us!
Yet he himself wept as he spoke. "Let his knights remain here," he said, "and bear his body in honour from the field, lest the battle ride over it! Yea, and all these other of the king's men that lie here." And he looked at the slain, recalling their names. Then suddenly he beheld his sister Éowyn as she lay, and he knew her. He stood a moment as a man who is pierced in the midst of a cry by an arrow through the heart; and then his face went deathly white, and a cold fury rose in him, so that all speech failed him for a while. A fey mood took him.
"Éowyn, Éowyn!" he cried at last. "Éowyn, how come you here? What madness or devilry is this? Death, death, death! Death take us all!"
"Éomer, please—" cried Elanor, trying to stay any rash behaviour. But Éomer would take no counsel. Without waiting for the approach of the men of the City, he spurred headlong back to the front of the great host, and blew a horn, and cried aloud for the onset. Over the field rang his clear voice calling: "Death! Ride, ride to ruin and the world's ending!"
The host swept away, and Elanor sighed wearily. She had no energy to spare to convince Éomer that his sister was alright.
The knights of Théoden—you mean Éomer, now—began to move about purposefully, straightening the bodies of the other knights who had fallen. Elanor watched mutely, her eyes passing unseeingly over the horrific wounds these men had taken.
They then raised the king, making a sort of stretcher out of cloaks and spears. Several others went to take Éowyn, and Elanor came to herself.
"Wait!" she called, moving as swiftly as she was able towards the fallen woman. The soldiers stared at her in amazement, seeing a second woman on the battlefield. Their leader, however, allowed Elanor to approach. Thanking Eru for her first aid training, Elanor sought for the woman's pulse.
"She lives," she breathed, relieved for that great mercy. "Her heart beats yet, though it is weak."
"We must bear her with haste," cried their leader, beginning to gather her form onto a second stretcher. "Come! For she is in need of a healer."
Satisfied that Éowyn had not been written off for the moment, Elanor cast weary eyes about for the hobbit. She was determined not to lose the poor, weary hobbit. Merry was staring glumly into nothing. Seeing him, Elanor was struck afresh with her own weariness and disillusionment.
No! We must gain the city… we must… safety!
"Come Merry," she said, moving to his side and speaking softly. "We shall ride."
"Ride?" he asked, looking bewildered.
Elanor glanced towards where she had left Fundanár. The gelding, gem amongst horses, remained stock still where Elanor had left him. Thanking Eru for her horse's brilliant training—not for the first time—she clumsily shepherded the hobbit towards the great horse.
"Fundanár," Merry whispered, low, as they approached.
"Aye," Elanor replied, voice choked with peculiar emotion for the steadfastness of the animal. "We must ride; Théoden's men depart for Minas Tirith, and I have no desire to remain in this battle."
Pulling Fundanár's reins over his head with pained difficulty, Elanor cupped her hands to help Merry into the saddle. The hobbit was light, but her arms still shook with the exertion. It took several goes to mount herself, for the mail hauberk was nearly too much for her. Finally, however, with much pulling and scrambling, she was seated in front of Merry.
The men of Rohan had already begun their march towards the city, disregarding Elanor and her companion for the moment. Urging Fundanár into a gentle lope, they made up the distance. As they rode, the clouds lowered, and it began to rain. The water fell in misting droplets, settling into Elanor's cloak and half-blinding her. Absently, she realised that she had left her helm on the field…
She pulled Fundanár back to a walk as they fell in with Théoden's men. Elanor blinked to clear her thoughts. She felt numb, as if there were things she ought to be thinking about at that moment but couldn't. All she could process was her need to stick close to Merry, and to ensure that they found safety.
But, she sighed, her body aching with the strain, I'm alive.
A mist was in Elanor's eyes of tears and weariness when they drew near the ruined Gate of Minas Tirith. She gave little heed to the wreck and slaughter that lay about all. Fire and smoke and stench was in the air; for many engines had been burned or cast into the fire-pits, and many of the slain also, while here and there lay many carcases of the great Southron monsters, half-burned, or broken by stone-cast, or shot through the eyes by the valiant archers of Morthond. The flying rain had ceased for a time, and the sun gleamed up above; but all the lower city was still wrapped in a smouldering reek.
Already men were labouring to clear a way through the jetsam of battle; and now out from the Gate came some bearing litters. Gently they laid Éowyn upon soft pillows; but the king's body they covered with a great cloth of gold, and they bore torches about him, and their flames, pale in the sunlight, were fluttered by the wind.
So Théoden and Éowyn came to the City of Gondor, and all who saw them bared their heads and bowed; and they passed through the ash and fume of the burned circle, and went on and up along the streets of stone. To Elanor the ascent seemed agelong, a meaningless journey in a hateful dream, going on and on to some dim ending that memory cannot seize.
Slowly the lights of the torches in front of Fundanár flickered and went out, and Elanor was riding in a darkness; and she thought, This is a tunnel leading to a tomb; there we shall stay forever. But suddenly into her dream there fell a living voice.
"Well Merry! And Lady Elanor! Thank goodness I have found you!"
Her eyes snapped upwards, as the mist cleared a little, and there was Pippin! They were in a narrow street, and he stood before Fundanár with an expression of amazement and delight.
"Where is the king?" Merry cried, "and Éowyn?" He began to weep again, and Elanor dropped a hand to his shoulder.
"They have gone up into the Citadel," said Pippin. "I think you must have fallen asleep, Lady Elanor, and your horse has taken the wrong turning. When we found that you were not with them, Gandalf sent me to look for you. Poor old Merry! How glad I am to see you again! But you are worn out, and I won't bother you with any talk. But tell me, are you hurt, or wounded, either of you?"
"No," said Merry. "Well, no, I don't think so. But I can't use my right arm, Pippin, not since I stabbed him. And my sword burned all away like a piece of wood."
Pippin's face was anxious. "Well, you had better come with me as quick as you can," he said. "They really shouldn't have let you come alone, though one lady and one hobbit coming in from the battle may be easily overlooked."
"It is not always a misfortune being overlooked," sighed Merry. "I was overlooked just now by—no, no, I can't speak of it. Help me! It's all going dark again, and my arm is very cold." Elanor wished she could comfort him, for even watching the battle had filled her with dismay.
"Come now, it's not far," said Pippin, with a reassuring smile.
"Will you ride with us, Pippin? Fundanár can easily bear another."
With some tricky manoeuvring, Pippin was installed in front of her own the saddle, able to guide them.
"Are you going to bury me?" said Merry, from behind Elanor.
"No indeed!" said Pippin, trying to sound cheerful, though Elanor could see he was wrung with fear and pity. "No, we are going to the Houses of Healing."
Elanor sighed with relief.
Thank Eru.
Elanor's first battle. It was an interesting one to right, quite challenging, and I hope I haven't made it too unrealistic, soppy, or bewildering. I wanted to convey that mostly Elanor got through it by sheer good luck, adrenaline, and her horse having more intelligence than most others of it's kind. She's not special, she's not superhuman, and most of all she had no ability to go to Éowyn's side. She wasn't able to put aside her fear and plunge through, she was paralysed. She's just a normal, terrified girl, lost in the chaos that was war.
Reviews are, as ever, very welcome. :)
I hope you liked it, and I am really excited for the next instalment. There's good stuff coming, there's some romance (get keen!) and some tender reunions.
Thanks so, so much for all of your support and those of who that continue to follow and review. :D
Finwe.