Sarah is here and Sarah is rushed, so Sarah is going to do the unprecedented thing and put off responding to all the fabulous readers until the next chapter!!! Sarah has a good reason: she has to leave the house in just a few minutes and she will not be home until evening at which point she is likely to crash into bed and sleep until the next posting day. Sarah considered putting off the whole deal — responses, chapter, and all — but figured the delightful readers would prefer to have at least half of what was due them if they could not have all. She hopes you will enjoy the chapter!! (Note: Sarah frequently talks in the third person when Sarah is Way Too Busy) ;D *Sarah dashes off*

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries

available at the top of chapter 1)

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Chapter 27

The Gasp of War, The Breath of Peace

"I doubt this room has ever had as much use as we have put to it within these past few weeks." Eorwine noted inconsequentially as he finally allowed himself to sit for a short while in the guardhouse. Gandalf, a pace or two behind him, paused a moment on the threshold, his sharp eyes picking out the stains on the floor and the faint scratches of something heavy being dragged away. His head came up.

"Is all well?"

Aldor nodded from where he stood beside the door, holding it open as the wizard entered. His bow was still in his hand, and some of the Southron's blood remained on his brown leggings. He didn't offer an explanation, and Gandalf neither requested nor demanded one, accepting the boy's word for now as that of an adult.

"Good. Now, to business. Your enemies will most certainly not simply turn about and go home when they discover that their machines are not forthcoming. They will attempt a strike on their own, and you are little ready to withstand them."

"Aye," Eorwine agreed levelly. "About the only thing they cannot do now is crush the walls."

"Actually, they still may. Mûmakil are little use at pushing walls in — those tusks of theirs are not built for it — but they are still considerably strong." The wizard's bushy eyebrows contracted as he hunched forward in thought.

"Could we leave out meat with poison in it for them to eat?" asked Aldor hesitantly. "Mother makes good poison."

From the far side of the room, Rokhiell laughed briefly in spite of herself.

"A fine compliment, Aldor," Gandalf nodded, smiling as well. "Unfortunately, mûmakil do not eat meat. However, that is not to say that you are too far wrong. Of what sort was your poison, madam?"

Rokhiell shook her head, "All women here make it, and it was only for rats; brewed from a root that grows in this country. According to my husband it thins the blood and they die within minutes."

Gandalf nodded thoughtfully, mulling something over in his own head. "How many archers do you have within the walls?"

"Not as many as we ought; many of them were slain before our retreat, and of those that remain…" Eorwine grimaced. "Well, if you had seen them practicing, you would understand."

Gandalf shook his head, "It doesn't matter; their targets should not be small."

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At one end of the field, a Southron began to chant. Harnwe could not see who it was from where he sat, but the voice was deep and confident. A second voice joined it. A third. The sound swelled, slowly at first, and then finally all at once, like a dam bursting. Loud and incessant the chant pounded, the soldiers striking the ground with their spear butts as they shouted, and their blood rising until they could barely be restrained.

Harnwe smiled, his hand caressing the pommel of his scimitar, and signaled, and again the long, vibrating thrum of the battle horn rang out over all, nearly drowned in the roar of the men. With a deafening tramp, the Southrons advanced, still chanting.

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"Are you near done?" Thengel asked calmly, in spite of the sweat on his forehead. The wound on his leg, though by no means mortal, burned painfully and there were no herbs to spare for cooling it.

Bronweg, his hands holding the last of the bandage in place, looked about anxiously, "Near, my lord, but I need some smaller cloth to tie this, else it will come undone."

"Ah," the king shifted to reach the pouch on his belt and rummaged in it for a moment before producing a short length of gray cloth. "Will this do?"

As the marshal accepted it and shook it clean of a few clinging crumbs, the king could not withhold a faint smile. It was the cloth with which Taetho had wrapped his meal when he departed from Edoras.

"Come, sire, I will help you to the barracks."

"No, Bronweg, you will help me to the wall," Thengel corrected him firmly, moving to help himself, if the marshal protested.

The marshal did. "My lord, I beg you will pardon me for arguing, but if you are slain, there will be no heart left in these men!"

"And if I hang back, the result will be the same," Thengel's lips compressed into a firm line as he hoisted himself to his feet. "Now aid me or leave me."

There was a silence, and then the marshal bowed, and leant his arm to his king.

And softly, there came the beginning sounds of a rising chant from outside the walls.

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Aldor brushed dirt from his hands on his already filthy pants and scraped again more vigorously at the walls of the hold. It was well that the Southron prisoners were already gone, for now there was nowhere left to put them. All around him, Aldor could hear the sounds of other people digging into the walls, and under his feet he could feel the loose dirt that he had already scraped away. Further he dug, and faster, until at last he soil encrusted nails found what he was looking for: a pale root, about the size of his hand.

Dropping his shovel, he ran up the stairs and out into the sun, dirt shaking itself free from his clothing as he went. Rokhiell pushed her damp hair from her sweaty forehead as her son came up and accepted the plant quickly, wiping it clean on her skirt and carefully adding it to the pulpy mixture already bubbling and frothing over the fire. About them both was near confusion; other refugees were appearing from the hold, similar roots in hand, and several other women were standing in a close huddle around the small courtyard, each with a pot — or even a few with upturned helmets — simmering over fires. Rokhiell moved to fetch more water from the well as her son ran back the way he had come.

On her return, bucket in hand, she met Gandalf carrying a bundle of arrows and a pouch of stones. The pouch he slung over his shoulder, but the arrows he began to hand out amongst the women. As she passed behind him, he glanced at her and said mildly, "Beautiful day, is it not? And your skirt is on fire."

Rokhiell, her mind dulled by weariness, looked down at her skirt. She had walked too close to one of the fires and the edge of her skirt was just beginning to break into flames. Without time to waste on it, she spilled a portion of the well water down her dress, and continued walking.

She had just reached her own fire when there came a loud grinding noise, followed by a shattering *CLANG*. She twisted around, staring towards the wall where a pronged iron grappling hook had now appeared, as if by violent magic. Another clang, and this time she saw the hook sail over the wall top, drag a short distance, looking for purchase, and finally catch on the parapet.

A riot of screams and cries broke out amongst the startled people, and many began to rush back towards the buildings to take shelter. In the midst of all the confusion, Rokhiell was handed the remaining arrows and she quickly set them, point downwards, in her pot. By the time she looked around, Gandalf was already on the wall top.

Eorwine stooped to check the body of a soldier, struck full on when the grappling hook came over the wall, and sighed. He was quite dead. At his side, Gandalf had pulled out a pouch of stones and was now muttering over one of them. With a last word, he cast it down and it hit the ground, exploding outwards and showering the nearest few Haradrim with white hot stone chips.

"We will have to hold them off for a bit," the wizard said.

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For a little while, Fuinor allowed himself the luxury of cursing his fortune. He had expected that the walls would be torn down for him, and had not carried with him any equipment for scaling the sides of the fort. Then his natural cunning rose to the challenge.

Now he gazed with satisfaction upon his newest plan. Surely, this could not fail. Surely now, at last, he would do something worthy of recognition! Tales would be told of this moment long after he was dead. Smiling scornfully at the weak attempts of a few archers on the battlements, he ordered his own mûmak to be brought closer to the wall top. Alongside his path, a struggle was taking place between the masters of the war beasts and the mûmakil themselves, as the great creatures were herded into two groups and each group chained to the single grappling hook chain. Already several men had been crushed when one of the animals had become angry at being too close to the others of it's kind and had twisted around in it's makeshift harness to bellow in protest.

General Fuinor gave no heed, but continued on, and when at last he reached a better vantage point near the walls, the chains had at last tightened as the mûmakil were given the order to move forward. There was a *clink* *ccccssssh* of metal links rubbing against leathery hide and stone walls, and then the soft cracking sound of old mortar slowly giving way. Fuinor smirked at the doomed fort.

Yes, men would long remember this moment.

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Harnwe gazed fixedly out across his men. He had not been so fool-hardy as to depend solely on the success of his catapults. The surest way to defeat was to neglect the possibility of defeat. The Southron king knew that in the winning of this battle lay his sole way of remaining in power and he refused to take ridiculous chances.

Now the grappling hooks and ladders had been unloaded from the backs of the mû makil and passed amongst the men, and even as the more accurate archers from Thengel's troops mowed down the front ranks, ladders sprang forward and latched onto the parapets all along the wall with iron hooks. The pounding chant fragmented as the men swarmed up them, their voices blending a more chaotic roar as they raised their scimitars at the ready.

Several Rohirrim on the wall tops tried in vain to dislodge the hooks, but the weight of the men on the ladders held them tight to the stones. Southrons began to reach the tops and throw themselves through the openings in the wall top, slashing in strange zigzag patterns to clear themselves a path. Rohirrim fell into the courtyard below as the narrow walls became overcrowded, and for a short time it seemed the fort might be taken in the first attack. Bronweg stayed close at Thengel's side, knowing that with his injured leg the king would be easily thrown down. As the marshal blocked the heavy blows of the first wave of soldiers, Thengel was given a moment's pause with his blade unoccupied. There was an all too familiar metallic clang as another set of ladder hooks met with the stones, and Thengel stared in near fascination as the hooks dug slowly deeper as the enemy began to climb.

An odd remnant of memory strayed through his mind as he recalled a day shortly after he had arrived at Ladin. Bronweg had shown him about, guilt plain on his face as he surveyed the decaying fort. *A gloved hand, coated in crumbling masonry… "I fear I have failed in my trust."* Thrusting his sword blade between the stones, the king felt the steel slide home with greater ease than ought to have been possible. Ignoring the stabbing insistent pain in his leg, he heaved against his sword like a lever, shifting the stone slightly back and forth so as not to risk breaking the blade. There came the sound of footfalls vibrating up the ladder, and the weight increased until at last it overbalanced the stone to which it was anchored.

One of the Southrons gave a cry as the ladder tipped backwards — paused for a heartbeat, standing completely upright with the stone still caught on the hooks — then fell, bringing them with it. A small shower of dust tumbled down with them.

A pleased shout came from somewhere farther down the Rohirrim line and other swords were put to task, but before they could all be brought down, the second wave was upon them.

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Rokhiell's hair was now in complete disarray and her skirt had been set alight twice more in all her running about. Gathering up a large bundle of arrows from their pot, she wrapped an old piece of harness leather around them and handed them off to her son. Half the women had deserted their fires when the fight had broken out, and those that remained were in a half frenzy, trying to get the arrows finished before the archers on the wall tops ran out.

Aldor, careful of the tips, slung the bundle over his shoulder and ran up the stairs to the wall top, using his hands on the steps in front of him to keep his balance. A soldier was waiting for him and hurriedly took the whole bundle. Turning around, Aldor ran back down the steps, two at a time, and back to where his mother was already wrapping a fresh batch.

The arrows were passed gingerly along, orders being shouted loud enough for even the enemy to hear — since the Southrons could not understand their speech anyway.

"Archers," Eorwine bellowed, "fire!"

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All of the members of Kelegalen's company were in need of attention to injuries — Thalion had been caught on the back of the head by some falling debris from the final explosion, and Kelegalen had got a cut across his leg, though he could not remember where from — but Nethtalt had probably faired the worst. Having battled with the Southron, he had several deeper cuts and bruised ribs, besides the abundance of scratches and splinters that everyone seemed to have.

"I am thankful that my Rokhiell is not here," Thalion spoke up with mirth as he sat beside Thorongil and Legolas watching the comical scene that played out before them.

Nethtalt and Findel were having a veritable battle arguing about whether or not Nethtalt was really hurt. Nethtalt was, by far, fairing the better in the argument, but Findel was working her way to his travel pack to retrieve some ointments and bandages anyway.

"Findel please, there is nothing wrong with me that a little water and cloth won't fix when we return to Medui."

"So you say!" Findel called from stable where she was even now digging through Nethtalt's pack in search of the proper supplies. "But I will not be silenced until I have made sure for myself—" she broke off suddenly. "After all," she concluded after a pause, "what would your father say?"

"I refuse to be dragged into the conversation," Kelegalen remarked with a laugh as he came to sit beside Thorongil. Nethtalt sighed and looked to his father for help, but the older man only smiled at his hapless son.

A moment later Findel walked from the stable, her brow knitted into a slight frown as she gazed down at the thing in her hand.

"Nethtalt?" she questioned, sitting beside him and showing him the thing that lay in her palm. "What is this?"

Nethtalt looked down at it and suddenly blushed a brilliant crimson. Thorongil glanced at Kelegalen who was now watching his son closely.

"Uh—I—" Nethtalt's words stumbled to a halt as Findel turned her blue eyes on him.

"Nethtalt," she said slowly, "isn't this that straw bracelet I braided outside the blacksmith's?"

Nethtalt went redder if that was at all possible and for a moment Thorongil worried that the lad would die right there. Then abruptly, the red cleared and he seemed to compose himself. Moving before his nerve left him he quickly took her hand and closed his around the bracelet.

"Findel…there—there is something I wanted to ask you—have wanted to ask you for a long time." Findel frowned for only a moment before her blue eyes grew very large and her cheeks flushed pink. "I—will you be my wife?"

Findel barely let the words tumble out of his mouth. "Yes!" she cried, and threw herself forward into his arms in a jumble of skirts and hay. Nethtalt laughed, finding himself suddenly released of quite a large burden, and embraced her tightly in return.

Thorongil smiled at Legolas who returned it with a chuckle, and both then turned to look at the guardians of the two betrothed. Neither looked like they would recover immediately, even though they had surely seen this moment coming long before hand.

Watching the lass and lad, Thorongil's smile refused to leave his face. But when he turned his gaze to Legolas he found that the chuckle had transformed into a very knowing smile. Thorongil gave him a frown in return which only caused the elf to laugh merrily aloud.

Thorongil determined to ignore his friend.

The sun stained the sky and in the center of the burned and ruined village it illuminated the companions below with a its brilliant light. Elsewhere on the Wold men were locked in battle, balanced as on the tip of sword, their fate ready to sway in either direction; but in in this one place, there was absolute calm and joy.

TBC…