[DISCLAIMER: I do not own the realm of Middle earth, nor any mythology
contained therein. Thanks go to J.R.R. Tolkien for that.]
[References: 'The Lord of the Rings', The Encyclopedia of Arda
(http://www.glyphweb.com/arda/default.htm), 'The Atlas of Middle Earth' (by
Karen Wynn Fonstad), 'Characters from Tolkien' (by David Day).]
[A/N: Thank you so much; Phantom, Dwells in Shadow and Rachel Gardner! I
appreciate the kind words very much. The title of this chapter references a
poem in TTT. And more Gríma, coming soon.]
Chapter Three: Rain on the Mountain, Wind in the Meadow (III. 2947)
The boy scurried across the field, muscles strained, breath raspy. Tears stung his eyes, brought forth by the cool wind that whipped across his pale flesh and should-length hair. A stick was grasped in his left hand, right hand steadied him as he came to a halt. He coughed, raised the stick forward and positioned his feet, lunged at the frigid air. The ground was marshy with melted snow, mud splattered on the bottom cuffs of his pants and covered his flimsy shoes. Gálmód itched his nose with his free hand, eyes scanned the horizon, he was alone. The light would soon fail and Rohan would be covered in darkness.
Invisible enemies assailed him from every side, he was graceful on his feet, seemed to dance in time with every slash from the stick. In a real conflict, though, he would have been slain. He was more gifted with intellect and had a proud poise. The dance he engaged in was a mockery of what he recalled grown men doing.
He shouted into the evening air, stabbing and reeling. Gálmód was generally a quiet boy, barely into his teens, with a love for books and tales of old. He never had a desire to fight with the other boys and did not share the interests of his peers in joining the Marshal. No, contentment came to him in the rich tapestry of his creative mind. The only battles he fought were by himself on clear nights, far from his home. His mother often scolded him, but something drew him into the wild lands.
"Hail, son of the Éorlingas!" A clear, but accented woman's voice called out to him. He spun on his heels, dismayed that someone had seen him.
The rider, a slight woman on black steed, trotted up to him. She pushed back the scarf from her head, revealing a mass of dark braids adorned with seashells and silver beads. Her face was smooth but ancient, spectral in its whiteness. She was clad in strange black robes, accented with red and silver; her dress was slit far up to the thigh, revealing dark riding pants and high leather boots that laced up to her knees.
She looked at the boy, immediately recognized the intense, sad, pale blue eyes. His clothes were dirty, his face smudged with dust. His chest heaved, cheeks flushed from exertion.
"Who are you?" He lowered the stick to his side, became more curious than embarrassed.
"I am known by many names, but I am Lómëí." She smiled at him, he was struck by her shimmering silver eyes and dark hair. He had not seen another human (was she human? There was something ethereal about her) with black hair outside of his family.
"And I am Gálmód, son of Haldanor." He swayed on his feet, glancing behind him in the direction of his home. The sunlight was all but spent. His mother would be furious.
"Haldanor, ays, I thought it so." She smiled, offering a hand from high upon the horse. "I will bring you home, Gálmód. Your parents must worry about you being away so late." He nodded, she offered a hand and he silently slipped onto the horse behind her.
"You are not a woman of Rohan?" His eyes darted over her clothes, covered in strange figures that were similar to the Tengwar figures of the Elves.
"I am a woman of far-off lands, perhaps your father has told you of them?"
He was silenced at the mention of his father.
They sped over the wet, rocky terrain at a terrible speed, he grasped her waist and closed his eyes, felt the softness of her overcoat in his hands and the chill of the night air whisper through his ears. It felt like a dream, not often did he meet strangers from far away lands. And not often did he meet friends of his fathers'.
The woman ran from the dilapidated hut, worry plagued her eyes. She pulled a shawl around her shoulders as Lómëí and the boy approached.
"Gálmód! Get off of there now!" She cried, clamored for him, pulled at his muddy feet. He slipped from the horse without a word, retreating to the doorstop.
"He has passed. Haldanor is gone." The woman whispered, smoothing errant strands of grayed blonde hair from tired eyes. The Rohirrim woman peered up, wrinkled fingers clutched to her chest. Dirt under her fingernails, dirt on her old yet handsome face. She had been tilling all day and had just retired at the fading of the light.
Lómëí nodded silently, dismounted her horse. A strange void consumed her, greater than any she had known before. Even more than the faded memory of her parents. Haldanor. Passed? In her soul she knew it was truth, her soul was blank and the hollowness ate at her marrow. Haldanor. All that remained of him, a name whispered into the dusk. And the morose boy who watched her with those piercing, cool eyes.
"Haldanor." Lómëí gasped, barely audible. Her chest heaved but no sounds came forth. Only hot tears that slicked her face and reflected in the dim starlight.
"Gone. Please do not trouble us anymore." Begging, pleading. Sadness wrapped the woman in a shroud. Léothan was trying her best to remain civil but still make the foreigner know she was no longer welcome.
"I do not- I did not- mean to trouble you, Léothen." A warming wind came from the southwest and for a moment she was struck with such nostalgia she nearly forgot the matter at hand. When her eyes opened again, the woman and her son were standing at the door, ready to go in. "Please, you must know that I never meant to disrupt your household. Gálmód, I remember when you were but a babe in arms. That was the last time I saw you. At least I deserve to know what." Her voice cracked, she turned away from the warmth and light of the hut and gazed into the distant blackness of the horizon.
"Regardless of your intentions, you must leave us now in peace." She pushed Gálmód indoors. The boy lingered a moment, his eyes met the cool gray of gaze Lómëí. She nodded to him, he retreated. Léothen glared at her, still grasping the shawl like a warrior would a shield.
"I am sorry, please believe me. I am sorry for his passing and I am sorry for any grief I may have caused you. Haldanor was my friend." She wiped the tears from her cheeks with her scarf.
Léothen sighed, visibly softened at the other woman's tears. "Yes, I know that, Lómëí. You traveled with him for three years."
"Ays."
He smiled at her in her memory. She felt his gangly frame behind her, hands shyly holding onto her hips, heard his laughter across the desert. Saw his eyes, the shade of the southern sea in the summer. His silver skin under a moonlit night as he slept. Those three years. There was no time to think about it, no time.
"I have one question before you leave, though." Léothen pursued. "For what did he ask you to go into the South? What did he seek?"
Lómëí considered this inquiry for some time. The wind shifted slightly once more, bringing a chill. The horse pawed at the ground, chewed at its bit. "He. He was hired to bring something of value back from Harad. I did not know what he sought at first."
"What was this thing of value? He never told me of it." Léothen pushed further.
She became uncomfortable, pausing for an awkward length of time while the woman raised her eyebrows. "I can not speak of it, not yet. Haldanor requested it be passed to his first-born son upon his coming of age."
Léothen started, brown eyes burning with rage. "How dare you. Elves are not to be trusted, they say! And I believe them. You will not stand before me again, Southron. Leave now and never look back, for your coming has always signaled strife. Gálmód will know of your treachery."
And with that, the conversation abruptly ended with the slamming of a door. Lómëí was in shock. Everything that night had gone entirely wrong. She was supposed to be meeting with her old friend and recalling their adventures by the fireside until the light of day sent them to their respective beds. They were supposed to feast happily on rabbit and cheese and bread and drink ale and laugh at the things that had seemed so important and dire when they had occurred. She had wanted to see how Gálmód had matured and perhaps even teach him sword-play. She had wanted to make peace with Léothen, for their first meeting had been plagued by tension. She saw herself in the Rohirrim woman, at least, had thought she had. Year had passed and resentment still dwelled in both of their hearts.
Haldanor. Her friend was dead. The finality of the death of a man was, to an immortal, nearly beyond comprehension. For her young years, Lómëí had seen death much too frequently. She had almost forgotten that one day, Haldanor would pass. She had not been prepared, it was simply too soon. The mountains eroded, the trees toppled. Paths were obscured, stars faded. And men, no matter how loved or desired they were, died.
Chapter Three: Rain on the Mountain, Wind in the Meadow (III. 2947)
The boy scurried across the field, muscles strained, breath raspy. Tears stung his eyes, brought forth by the cool wind that whipped across his pale flesh and should-length hair. A stick was grasped in his left hand, right hand steadied him as he came to a halt. He coughed, raised the stick forward and positioned his feet, lunged at the frigid air. The ground was marshy with melted snow, mud splattered on the bottom cuffs of his pants and covered his flimsy shoes. Gálmód itched his nose with his free hand, eyes scanned the horizon, he was alone. The light would soon fail and Rohan would be covered in darkness.
Invisible enemies assailed him from every side, he was graceful on his feet, seemed to dance in time with every slash from the stick. In a real conflict, though, he would have been slain. He was more gifted with intellect and had a proud poise. The dance he engaged in was a mockery of what he recalled grown men doing.
He shouted into the evening air, stabbing and reeling. Gálmód was generally a quiet boy, barely into his teens, with a love for books and tales of old. He never had a desire to fight with the other boys and did not share the interests of his peers in joining the Marshal. No, contentment came to him in the rich tapestry of his creative mind. The only battles he fought were by himself on clear nights, far from his home. His mother often scolded him, but something drew him into the wild lands.
"Hail, son of the Éorlingas!" A clear, but accented woman's voice called out to him. He spun on his heels, dismayed that someone had seen him.
The rider, a slight woman on black steed, trotted up to him. She pushed back the scarf from her head, revealing a mass of dark braids adorned with seashells and silver beads. Her face was smooth but ancient, spectral in its whiteness. She was clad in strange black robes, accented with red and silver; her dress was slit far up to the thigh, revealing dark riding pants and high leather boots that laced up to her knees.
She looked at the boy, immediately recognized the intense, sad, pale blue eyes. His clothes were dirty, his face smudged with dust. His chest heaved, cheeks flushed from exertion.
"Who are you?" He lowered the stick to his side, became more curious than embarrassed.
"I am known by many names, but I am Lómëí." She smiled at him, he was struck by her shimmering silver eyes and dark hair. He had not seen another human (was she human? There was something ethereal about her) with black hair outside of his family.
"And I am Gálmód, son of Haldanor." He swayed on his feet, glancing behind him in the direction of his home. The sunlight was all but spent. His mother would be furious.
"Haldanor, ays, I thought it so." She smiled, offering a hand from high upon the horse. "I will bring you home, Gálmód. Your parents must worry about you being away so late." He nodded, she offered a hand and he silently slipped onto the horse behind her.
"You are not a woman of Rohan?" His eyes darted over her clothes, covered in strange figures that were similar to the Tengwar figures of the Elves.
"I am a woman of far-off lands, perhaps your father has told you of them?"
He was silenced at the mention of his father.
They sped over the wet, rocky terrain at a terrible speed, he grasped her waist and closed his eyes, felt the softness of her overcoat in his hands and the chill of the night air whisper through his ears. It felt like a dream, not often did he meet strangers from far away lands. And not often did he meet friends of his fathers'.
The woman ran from the dilapidated hut, worry plagued her eyes. She pulled a shawl around her shoulders as Lómëí and the boy approached.
"Gálmód! Get off of there now!" She cried, clamored for him, pulled at his muddy feet. He slipped from the horse without a word, retreating to the doorstop.
"He has passed. Haldanor is gone." The woman whispered, smoothing errant strands of grayed blonde hair from tired eyes. The Rohirrim woman peered up, wrinkled fingers clutched to her chest. Dirt under her fingernails, dirt on her old yet handsome face. She had been tilling all day and had just retired at the fading of the light.
Lómëí nodded silently, dismounted her horse. A strange void consumed her, greater than any she had known before. Even more than the faded memory of her parents. Haldanor. Passed? In her soul she knew it was truth, her soul was blank and the hollowness ate at her marrow. Haldanor. All that remained of him, a name whispered into the dusk. And the morose boy who watched her with those piercing, cool eyes.
"Haldanor." Lómëí gasped, barely audible. Her chest heaved but no sounds came forth. Only hot tears that slicked her face and reflected in the dim starlight.
"Gone. Please do not trouble us anymore." Begging, pleading. Sadness wrapped the woman in a shroud. Léothan was trying her best to remain civil but still make the foreigner know she was no longer welcome.
"I do not- I did not- mean to trouble you, Léothen." A warming wind came from the southwest and for a moment she was struck with such nostalgia she nearly forgot the matter at hand. When her eyes opened again, the woman and her son were standing at the door, ready to go in. "Please, you must know that I never meant to disrupt your household. Gálmód, I remember when you were but a babe in arms. That was the last time I saw you. At least I deserve to know what." Her voice cracked, she turned away from the warmth and light of the hut and gazed into the distant blackness of the horizon.
"Regardless of your intentions, you must leave us now in peace." She pushed Gálmód indoors. The boy lingered a moment, his eyes met the cool gray of gaze Lómëí. She nodded to him, he retreated. Léothen glared at her, still grasping the shawl like a warrior would a shield.
"I am sorry, please believe me. I am sorry for his passing and I am sorry for any grief I may have caused you. Haldanor was my friend." She wiped the tears from her cheeks with her scarf.
Léothen sighed, visibly softened at the other woman's tears. "Yes, I know that, Lómëí. You traveled with him for three years."
"Ays."
He smiled at her in her memory. She felt his gangly frame behind her, hands shyly holding onto her hips, heard his laughter across the desert. Saw his eyes, the shade of the southern sea in the summer. His silver skin under a moonlit night as he slept. Those three years. There was no time to think about it, no time.
"I have one question before you leave, though." Léothen pursued. "For what did he ask you to go into the South? What did he seek?"
Lómëí considered this inquiry for some time. The wind shifted slightly once more, bringing a chill. The horse pawed at the ground, chewed at its bit. "He. He was hired to bring something of value back from Harad. I did not know what he sought at first."
"What was this thing of value? He never told me of it." Léothen pushed further.
She became uncomfortable, pausing for an awkward length of time while the woman raised her eyebrows. "I can not speak of it, not yet. Haldanor requested it be passed to his first-born son upon his coming of age."
Léothen started, brown eyes burning with rage. "How dare you. Elves are not to be trusted, they say! And I believe them. You will not stand before me again, Southron. Leave now and never look back, for your coming has always signaled strife. Gálmód will know of your treachery."
And with that, the conversation abruptly ended with the slamming of a door. Lómëí was in shock. Everything that night had gone entirely wrong. She was supposed to be meeting with her old friend and recalling their adventures by the fireside until the light of day sent them to their respective beds. They were supposed to feast happily on rabbit and cheese and bread and drink ale and laugh at the things that had seemed so important and dire when they had occurred. She had wanted to see how Gálmód had matured and perhaps even teach him sword-play. She had wanted to make peace with Léothen, for their first meeting had been plagued by tension. She saw herself in the Rohirrim woman, at least, had thought she had. Year had passed and resentment still dwelled in both of their hearts.
Haldanor. Her friend was dead. The finality of the death of a man was, to an immortal, nearly beyond comprehension. For her young years, Lómëí had seen death much too frequently. She had almost forgotten that one day, Haldanor would pass. She had not been prepared, it was simply too soon. The mountains eroded, the trees toppled. Paths were obscured, stars faded. And men, no matter how loved or desired they were, died.