Sarah here! And thank you so much for your cheery acceptance of Thorongil and Legolas' absence! Only two chapters left, and our boys are in both. :D
Lina: *stares in shock* Lina just stifled a rant?? WHOA! :D Don't worry, though, nobody's gonna pin Harnwe's death on you. Or rather, if they did, it would be to give you some chocolate and roses, or something. :P As for Mavranor… *sigh* You two will never get along, will you? Stupid question. At least you were *trying* to be nice. Sort of.
Eomer: Thank you! Your logic was very well timed. ;)
Mouse: Thanks! And it's okay, we really don't expect you to feel much — if any — sympathy for our villains. They have, unfortunately, built too much of a bad reputation for themselves. ;)
None: Glad you liked them! Yep, your boys are back, but nope, I'm afraid Mavranor survives, if you were hoping for a last minute grizzly death. :)
Maranwe: Yup, story-writing is a queer thing, isn't it? I can't exactly recall, but I think I considered finishing off the fight more completely, and then feared I wouldn't be able to pull it off in the same style without it seeming repetitive, so I fell back on summing it up. No, I don't much care for writing battle scenes in the first place — it's true! ;P Sorry if there wasn't much of the sort of thing you like in the last one! There ought to be some humor in these last two chapters here… And of course, as I said above, much more Thorongil and Legolas! :D Worry not: Cassia can't stay away forever! Believe me, we've been longing for her return with equal fervor. ;) We have SW syndrome in so much as that we come up with an idea, and if there isn't a good place for it immediately following our last fic, we put it before it instead and don't worry over it. In this case: yeah, our next fic comes a year after Death or Despair, and about eleven years before Thorongil, so we're jumping back a bit. As for what it's about: we're including a trailer for it in the Special Features section immediately following the end of this fic! :D
Mercredi: S'okay! RL happens to us all. ;) On 24: Thanks! The movie compliment was great to hear, and the praise for Hannah's sabotage was most appreciated. ;) On 25: LOL! It's funny, we actually had several Smokey Bear-like jokes running about after that chapter was finished. Glad you liked it! And a special thanks on Stavhold. I think he probably could have survived the battle and still been free of his self-imposed burden, but sometimes even we Hollywood-ending lovers begin to wonder if too many people are surviving… On 26: We're glad you agree!! We decided prudent flight is a rather neglected branch of heroism. And Duurben thanks you for the applause! ;D On 27: We're seriously glad we didn't confuse you with all our switching back and forth like that. Thanks so much for mentioning our Rokhiell/Gandalf stuff!! You liked everything that we most wanted to get across with their interaction and involvement in the fic. :) Oh yes, and glad the ending worked for you! 'Anti-climactic' seems to be taking the fore over 'original' on the General Opinion Scale, so it's nice to hear some praise for it. On 28: *bows* SO pleased you enjoyed it! And yeah, as a rule: Hannah and I tend to favor 'irony' over 'shock' when we finally slay our villains. Not quite sure why, but there it is… A final thank you on our mûmakil, and Mavranor! Not to mention the fact that you still took the time to review the chapters individually!! *passes Mercredi large dish of chocolate* :D
Belothien: First, bizarrely coincidental but true, a story: Sarah sat down at her computer to respond to all the wonderful feedback, keeping, as she usually did, one window up with the feedback in it, and one Word document up with her responses on it. Happily, she reread Belothien's, fingers poised to respond — and suddenly came to a halt. Cat? What had either of them said about a cat? How in the world could she respond to a laughing comment about a cat when she had no clue where in Middle Earth the word 'cat' came into contact with 'Thorongil'?? So she had to go find the original feedback and her original response, all to say: Yeah, I know what you mean, and I love it when it comes out that I'm really not the only loopy person on the planet. ;D It's okay, laugh all you like at Harnwe's expense: he's dead anyway, and his end was supposed to be ironic — it's a pet villain disposal technique of ours. ;P LOL! I loved that comment of Christopher Lee's! Though I felt bad because Ian McKellin didn't make a very good effort towards passing the praise along — he seemed inclined to think that because of several of the movies Christopher Lee had been in, he wasn't deserving of respect, or something. I love Gandalf, I don't much care for Sir Ian. ;) Thank you on our battle scenes!! And of them, particularly our Eorwine/Gandalf stuff. So glad it came out right! *wipes sweat from forehead and goes to recuperate before the next battle*
Anarril: Thank you! Glad you liked it; you only get one climax, after all. ;) Actually, Mavranor's done her damage for this fic and I'm sorry to say she survives. Alas! :{ Too bad on your one game, congrats on your other!! *cheers* :D
Gwyn: Wow, you're the first! We originally meant for Mavranor to be sympathetic, but then the whole thing with her brother happened, she beat Aragorn to a pulp, and we realized there probably wasn't much chance of her being THAT anymore. Glad to see there's still some compassion for the poor thing. :D
w: We seem to be doing serious damage to your sleeping patterns… *guilty look* Oh, but thank you so much! We are especially glad that we did not keep you permanently confused (big sigh of relief), and that you liked our un-clichéd Rohirrim and Eorwine! Oh yeah, and of course that you demanded more Duurben. Don't worry, he's in these last two chapters as well! ;D We're glad you managed to feel a little sorry for the Southrons; we had meant for people to feel sort of the same way for Mavranor, but she turned out just a little too nasty for even *us* to handle in the end… :P As usual, rereading your feedback so that I can respond to it is making me warm and fuzzy all over. *heads off to post and then grin idiotically at everyone for a few hours*
And here you are: chapter 29! Only one chapter after this to go and we'll have to say good-bye until the next fic. *sniffle*
__________________________________________________________________________
/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \
Thorongil
By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)
(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries
available at the top of chapter 1)
/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \
Chapter 29
Rest
Legolas stood in the shadow of the gate, listening to the rough music of hand carved flutes, and other instruments. It was nothing when compared to the melodies sung in his own home, or especially in Rivendell — the unearthly beauty of elven music could never really be compared to that of mortals, no matter the musician's skill. But to Legolas, who had long ago learned in the company of a ranger the values of men as well as elves, the crooning notes spoke clearly of victory and immeasurable happiness.
Around him the Rohirrim danced and shouted, enjoying the day of rest after so much pain. It was still cold out, and few flowers were in evidence, but bonfires blazed and the women had woven wreathes out of the brown grasses. Children ran about, generally getting in the way, and mothers scolded good-naturedly and urged their husbands to gather more wood. Bandages were frequent and gaps in family circles, but the uninjured strove to make the day a happy one for all and the atmosphere remained bright because of it.
And at the center of the throng, smiling fit to rival the sun herself, was the more immediate cause of the celebration. Nodding gaily to their many guests — for indeed, the invitation had been a generously open one — the two young people yet seemed little to notice the added clamor about them. At last, with a smile, the taller of the two offered his arm to his companion, and she smiled in return, catching up the hem of her white skirt to keep it from tripping her, and followed him. There was a smattering of applause as they joined the dancing, and the musicians seemed to play louder as the woman's brilliant golden hair whipped about her.
Legolas was so absorbed in watching the gay picture before him that he did not notice the other standing silently next to him until he spoke.
"What, Legolas? Will you not dance as well?"
"Strider!" the elf exclaimed, starting in spite of himself. "Where did you come from?"
"The dance, naturally," the captain replied innocently. "I never knew you to be such a wet blanket, my friend, as to stand as still as statue and not even speak to anyone. This is a wedding! You are intended to be bright and cheerful, and you look as solemn as a toad."
"Flattering as always," Legolas grimaced dryly. "With whom were you dancing?"
"Rokhiell, for she seemed to find no difficulty in matching my slower pace," Thorongil smiled self-deprecatingly, gesturing in a general fashion to his own numerous bandages. "However, the next dance was claimed by her husband, and so I set out to discover you. Now what is troubling you, my friend?"
"Nothing, Thorongil, truly. I am perhaps a little reluctant to mix with people who seem to distrust me, but that is all."
Thorongil cast his friend a sidelong look, "Then the fact that I must go tomorrow has nothing to do with it? As I recall you did not seem to think me fit for travel."
"I don't, but if I have not become used to you ignoring my opinions by now, I never shall. You didn't even give in to Duurben's unguarded suggestions of tying you down."
Thorongil chuckled, "It was such a new experience to have Duurben scolding me about anything that I could scarce keep from laughing, let alone take time to look contrite. He shall always be rather stiff around authority, I deem, but he has grown less closed of late, and I am more glad than I can say. It will be a fine journey home."
"Home?" Legolas asked, and there was a faint note of something beneath the syllable that was not a casual question.
Thorongil looked at his friend swiftly, "Yes, Minas Tirith." There was a pause, and then Thorongil continued almost inconsequentially, "I have often thought it odd that Dúnedain are considered to have no home. It is amusing to sit in the Prancing Pony and listen to the talk, for they all chair the same opinion. In truth, my friend, I would say I've had more than my fair share. Homes I have in abundance, all across the face of Middle Earth, and though many are dearer than others, I value them all. Wherever a place is made for me, Legolas: that is my home. And therefore Rivendell is my home, and Mirkwood, and the ground upon which we are standing now is my home as well. I have left a part of myself in each place — have devoted either time, or love, or blood to each — and have in return taken parts of them with me. I shall always feel a great empathy for the people of Rohan, as well as those of Gondor, and the elven realms, and the Shire. It is for this that I have journeyed, and when I return to my father, and to my first home, I will not be empty handed." With a smile, Thorongil rested his hand on his friend's shoulder, "I shall miss you greatly, Legolas Greenleaf."
Legolas smiled in return, reaching up to grip the man's forearm, "And I you."
Thorongil pulled him from the shelter of the gate, "Now come, you will at least give your salutations to the bride and groom. No doubt they have wondered after you and are thinking you have left early."
Willingly, Legolas allowed himself to be guided away. The young couple had finished their dance and were now sitting with several of their closest friends on the rows of straw bales that had been left for those in need of rest. They were talking gaily, and looked up when the man and elf approached.
"There you are, Legolas, we had nearly despaired of you!" Nethtalt laughed, rising to embrace the elf with all the enthusiasm that happiness brings to youth.
"Nonsense," Thorongil retorted, coming quickly to his friend's defense, "you have been far to absorbed in each other to notice anything or anybody else."
Legolas' eyebrows rose at this sudden reversal in his friend's argument.
Findel laughed, having risen in her turn, and looped her arm through her husband's, "He is right, of course. Indeed, I feel a wretched host; I wish we could ride off and escape for several hours, but I should hate to wound them all when they have done so much to give us this day."
Thalion laughed aloud at his niece's honesty, reaching up to rub beneath the bandage about his head — until Rokhiell's hand followed his and pulled his fingers gently away, linking them with her own.
"Speaking of riding off," Kelegalen added, "when will we be deprived of your company?"
"Soon, I fear," Legolas admitted. "Thorongil and Duurben, of course, intend to leave tomorrow, and I must depart soon after. I have delayed long enough and I still have a message I was to deliver."
"Surely someone else has been sent by now," Nethtalt urged, clearly not wishing to bid farewell so soon.
"Aye, that is quite likely, but I cannot leave my father to his worries. I have done so too many times in my life when I could not help it and I should prefer not to do it again when I may prevent it. I am indeed sorry to be leaving you so soon, though."
"Fathers are more important," Nethtalt agreed. "Mayhaps we will meet again?"
"Only the Valar can tell," Thorongil smiled, and shrugged fractionally. "I hope so."
They sat awhile and spoke long of many things. The rebuilding of Nannva had begun in spite of the cold weather, but it would be long before the village was again habitable. Thalion's family intended to stay close to Medui in the meanwhile. King Thengel, before he left, had ordered the rebuilding of the Tulganif and that would begin in the spring. Bronweg had reviewed certain plans for the new fort that should mend the faults of the old one.
They were beginning to talk of the cleaning of the battleground when they were interrupted by the approach of a grim looking soldier carrying under his arm a blackened boy, followed by another older man in a tall blue hat.
"Aldor?" Rokhiell gasped as the boy was set before her. "What in heaven's name have you been about?"
"Fireworks," said Duurben dryly, dusting his hands off. "He and several friends wished to see if the Gandalf's later entertainment would make the bonfire glow green if it were added to the flames."
"It is your own doing," the wizard chuckled. "Or was it not you, Kelegalen, who told him about the destruction of the catapults?"
Kelegalen smiled guiltily and tousled the boy's hair, getting soot on his hands with the motion, "I hope nothing was damaged, sir?"
Duurben's eyebrows rose, "I'm afraid the fire turned a shade of magenta, rather than green, before the firework belched smoke and exploded in their faces. But, amazingly, nobody was injured and nothing caught fire."
The wizard removed his hat and eased himself onto one of the straw bales, "As a reward for past bravery I thought it might be appropriate to come along and save the lad from, er, execution."
Aldor, silent all the while, looked both contrite and sheepish, and at these humorously merciful words he scuffed his boots in the dirt and turned red under the soot. The slayer of Southrons was all but invisible under the skin of a mischievous boy in trouble.
"I should have to consider," laughed Thalion. "Perhaps some work for the blacksmith would help relieve his curiosity concerning fire and other such dangerous elements."
"Or it might get his head blown off," retorted Duurben, smiling in spite of himself. "But I am sorry to interrupt you all."
"Duurben, for shame!" cried Findel. "You are quite one of us now, and cannot slip off so easily as that, no matter how little you enjoy talk."
The soldier inclined his head, not deeming it proper to correct the lady about his motives, but he did not seem sorry to join them either.
"What of you, Gandalf?" Kelegalen asked. "How long will you be remaining?"
"I am leaving with Legolas," the wizard replied calmly, accepting a mug of ale from a passing woman.
"Oh?" queried Thorongil and Legolas in unison. There was a general laugh.
"Might I ask when precisely you made your plans, Mithrandir, or is this a sudden decision?" Legolas' eyebrows rose.
"Not sudden at all. I am headed north and then west, so I shall accompany you as far as the Anduin. If you find there what I suspect you will find, then you should be able to complete your journey quite well on your own."
"Thank you, Gandalf," Thorongil rolled his eyes at the wizard's old habit of riddling. However, he felt his mind ease at the thought that Legolas would be safely on his way, whatever awaited him.
"Eorwine said we might keep Maerhiin and Breon," Duurben commented.
"A generous gift! I shall have to thank him, if I can find him," Thorongil replied. "Does he never rest?"
"Not usually," Kelegalen sighed wryly. "Eorwine has always been a toiler; doom-saying, but stolid. It was not commonly known, but for a time Eorwine spoke so slightingly of his own skills that Bronweg considered placing someone of more notable talent, if not so much experience, in the post. I think he is glad now that he did not."
"Whom did he consider?" frowned Thalion, clearly wondering why he had not heard.
"He asked me, but I told him I did not wish to be permanently tied to the fort unless no other possibility presented itself." Kelegalen shifted a little, a bare sign of hesitation, "It was rumored that for a time he thought of Gálmod, but I do not know the truth of it, and it seems unlikely."
A silence fell, like a pall, over the group, but none of the displeasure was leveled at Kelegalen.
"A mercy it was but a rumor," Rokhiell whispered, leaning against her husband's side.
Nethtalt was staring hard at the grass, as if by merely gazing long enough he could discern the meaning behind the greatest tragedy of the attack. Betrayal. "I suppose he has left Rohan?"
"I doubt it," Thalion shook his head. "He was always one to justify his own actions, no matter how misguided."
Thorongil rose, gazing out across the plains in the direction of the Anduin. The sun was easing towards the west and the constant breeze that seemed to flow through Rohan caught at his dark hair, nearly keeping his words from the hearing of his friends. "I am glad for this at least: that Stavhold died a conqueror. And he knew it." He turned back to face them, his eyes gray with memories of his words with Stavhold in the stable, only weeks before. "He could not forgive himself for holding back. But he could give everything he had, and he did. He died at peace with himself, with his life, and with you. Gálmod will not have such an end, you can be sure. He lived in fear and fled in dishonor; though he may justify, he will never forget. I pity him."
"So do I," Nethtalt murmured softly, and his bride tilted her head to rest on his shoulder.
"Stavhold shall not be forgotten either," Aldor said suddenly, with a sort of fierceness.
"Well spoken, lad!" Gandalf applauded approvingly. "I will grant the young folk this at least: that they are generally well suited for action, if not inclined to thought."
"A very mixed compliment, I must say," Duurben noted dryly. "As night is approaching, it might be well for you to finish with your entertainment before you grant us any further admiration, or before any other young hoodlums make off with your stores."
Another laugh seemed to lighten the mood, though Gandalf gave a mock scowl as he rose. "Young hoodlums are a danger of the trade; but very well, if you so wish it."
Findel rose, pulling new husband with her, "I do, in fact! And I should like to help, now that I am capable of enjoying your handiwork."
Torches had been lit in their sconces beside doors, and more people gathered about the bonfires than danced. Thorongil sat again, with Duurben on one side and Legolas on the other, and tilted his head towards the sky.
There was a distant spark and the sound of Findel's laughter as she darted back into Nethtalt's waiting arms, pushing her hair from her eyes. Then came a massive crackling and a flash and up soared a great silver and gold fireball. It rose higher and higher, shimmering like a comet, and then turned, seeming to gather speed as it fell back towards earth.
The Rohirrim watched it, the blaze reflected in their eyes, and Thorongil swallowed once, as if to hold onto the moment. Expectation.
An explosion. Just before it reached the level of the rooftops, it expanded outwards and curled up, forming a sparkling cocoon, and then blossoming outwards, unfurling, putting down roots in the stars. Thorongil saw it and recalled its name in the moment that it stood in glittering perfection above them. *A mallorn.* Golden leaves and silver trunk. The tree of Lothlórien.
Then the tree dissolved from its uppermost leaves downwards, showering the excited outstretched hands of the children with cool, tingling drops, like dew.
"One of his finest," Legolas murmured.
"Aye," Thorongil nodded solemnly, adding irrelevantly. "I have only ever seen mallyrn in Father's books."
The elf's last words were in his own tongue, and just loud enough for his friend to hear, "Someday I shall see them in person, Strider."
"And I shall see them with you, my friend."
TBC…