It was not until evening that Elrond, shaken to the core of his being, was able to slip away from his duties. Mithrandir, Aragorn, Boromir of Gondor, the Dwarves led by Gimli, and the other delegates had all wanted to discuss the actions of the Seanchan at great length, arguing about the power shown by the strange chained women, the attempt to destroy the Ring, the nature of the Seanchan delegates. Objectively, Elrond could not blame them. If his mind were not occupied by the matter of his wife, he might feel the same. However, his thoughts were so taken up with Celebrian that he had little room to spare for any other matters. He knew that it was not good for his mind to be so occupied, but he could not help it.
At last the meeting of the other delegates had adjourned and he had been able to slip out one of the back doors, to the once-green fields that surrounded the Last Homely Home, the fields where the Seanchan were now encamped.
Extensive changes had been made to the fields in the few days the Seanchan had been there, he saw with rue in his heart. The delicate green turf that had always been Arwen's pride had been cut to shreds by sharp hooves and deep carriage wheels; the dark loam underneath, so rich for growing, had been churned to mud by the passage of many feet. Tents were set up in neat, square blocks, an arrangement that was supposedly only temporary but had all the look of becoming permanent. It was a look that troubled Elrond, though he sternly suppressed the feeling and the thought alike.
Yellow firelight and lamplight came through the rows of tents, throwing patches of illumination on the churned and uneven ground. Men—and women, he saw—were gathered in circles around these fires, dicing, or drinking, or dancing; snatches of song came to him here and there:
Your girl will marry another man
And a muddy grave will be all your land
Food for worms and none to mourn
You'll curse the day you were ever born
If you go to be a soldier
If you go to be a soldier
and then from a group of women clustered around a fire, clapping their hands in time as they sang,
We'll drink and dance and dice all day
And on the boys we'll spend our pay
And we will live however we may
Till we chase the Lady of Shadows
Till we chase the Lady of Shadows
The music was loud, crude and vulgar compared to the more gentle and refined Elven melodies that Elrond was accustomed to—much like Men, the thought came unbidden—yet at the same time there was a sort of life to it, a vitality that the more restrained Elvish songs he knew did not have. It was alive. And the tune, as crude as it was, lent strength to his step even as a slight frown of disapproval crossed his face.
He knew enough about the armor of the Seanchan already to recognize that—Celebrian—had been a rider of one of the flying creatures; he turned left, toward the west, where they kept all their strange beasts. In the distance he heard a loud, ill-tempered roaring from the beast pens, and shouting, slurring voices over the strains of music; none around him so much as started though. Evidently it was normal. He stopped a Seanchan female in the muddy, torn-up street, to inquire of her, "Where is the Elvish rider of—of—of your flying creatures?"
She looked back at him, dark brows drawing together over dark eyes; then her face cleared and she waved one hand. "West," she said, speaking loudly, slowly and clearly—a blessing, for her accent was so slurred that he could barely understand her. "You want Briande, Supreme Der'Morat'Raken. She is in the biggest tent—she shares it with her backrider, Keille."
He followed her gesture, moving like a restless, unseen ghost through the dark and strange byways of the Seanchan camp—the byways that until recently had been the familiar green fields of his home. Several times he stumbled, and barely caught himself—and how could he stumble or lose his footing on this, his home ground? The thought brought pain, but he would not allow himself to think of it; he had other things to concern himself with. In time he saw it; a large tent glowing with yellow light. Loud voices could be heard coming from inside. He went to the entrance, pushed aside the tent flap, and hovered anxiously on the threshold, unsure about whether or not to enter. As he looked inside, his eyes picked out Celebrian.
His gaze went to her at once, locking onto her like a magnet; she was not wearing the strange insectile helmet, and her heavy plate armor had been replaced with a lighter set of leathers. At first he could do nothing more than stare at her, drinking in desperately every detail of his beautiful, loved wife, the wife whose absence had ached like an amputated limb for the past five hundred years. Five hundred years that had weighed on him like eternity. She had not changed, he mused dimly, filling his eyes with her. Her hair had been cut, and that was all. Other than that, she was almost exactly as he remembered her, as he had seen her at the docks of the Grey Havens on the last, lorn day of their parting. Except then—then—she had been pale, he recalled dimly, pale and worn and unhappy; the ordeal she had endured in the orc-lairs had hung over her almost visibly like a shadow. She had barely been able to summon up a smile for him, he remembered, and seeing her like that—so sad and shadowed—had hurt him even more than her absence.
Now—
"What am I going to do with you, I ask?" Her voice was cold, quiet, yet sharp enough to make him flinch before he realized that it was not directed at him. Two young women stood before her, in the same leather armor she wore although less ornate, in rigidly stiff attitudes. They were trying to look humble, it seemed to him, and without much success, though his wife was clearly angry at them. He had forgotten how beautiful she was when she was angry.
She paused, as if waiting for an explanation. None was forthcoming; the two women were silent. After a moment, she spoke again, her voice, if anything, colder than before. "This is the fifth time you've been sent before me this year. The fifth time your activities have landed you in trouble deep enough to be sent to the Supreme Der'Morat'Raken of the Expeditionary Force. Have you still nothing to say for yourself, Lana, Sheilene?"
The two of them glanced briefly at each other. "No, ma'am!" the dark-haired one answered.
Celebrian paused again, watching them. "This attitude of yours is going to get you into real trouble one of these days, Lana. I don't blame you so much, Sheilene, although don't think I hold you completely innocent. But you, Lana—"
"Yes, Supreme Der'Morat!" the shorter, dark-haired woman replied smartly. Celebrian glowered down at her.
"What did you think you were doing back there?" his wife demanded, chilling even further. "Crash-diving the High Lady Suroth's tent?"
"Well, Supreme Der'Morat, it seemed like a good idea at the time," Lana said respectfully.
"Seemed like a good idea at the time. You crash-dived the High Lady's tent because it 'seemed like a good idea at the time,'" she repeated slowly, as if she had never heard such stupidity. She waited another moment, then raised an eyebrow. "If your judgement is so poor, then perhaps this explains your past misdemeanors. Shall I repeat them?"
No answer was forthcoming. Celebrian waited for none. "Suspended from flight twice this year already. By me personally," she continued icily, "for a pattern of suicidally insane crash-dives over seven message-towers and one son of a Blooded High Lord." She did not shout, but her words rang in the room nevertheless. The taller blonde one shot a look sideways at the shorter dark-haired one.
"Limuk son of Etuai?" the other woman hissed.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Nothing, Supreme Der'Morat!"
Celebrian glared at them. "Keep it that way. Now let me tell you," she continued, lowering her voice to just above a whisper. "If you wish to toy with death, that's your own look-out. As far as I'm concerned, you can do whatever you want. Toss reja-blades at each other. Go fishing with Sen T'jore trap-worms. Girls who want to be raken-riders are ten for a silver on the streets of Seandar. Frankly, you're expendable. But your raken ISN'T!"
"Sorry, ma'am!"
"Sorry. Is that all you have to say for yourself?" she demanded. "That you are sorry? As raken-riders, your concern for the welfare of your beast must always come first! If you think that you will ever have a chance to make der'morat without mastering that simple lesson—"
She stopped, for in that moment she had turned, circling the two young humans, and come face to face with the door. With the entrance to her tent. And with Elrond.
Celebrian's face froze; she stared at him, her blue eyes wide, her expression fixed. Elrond could not name the look he saw on her face, but just seeing her again was almost enough to break his heart. He took a faltering step toward her, and managed, "Celebrian—"
And now, he saw, with growing confusion and unease, Celebrian stepped back, not toward him, matching him pace for pace; her brows contracted and her expression twisted into a look of—it could not be dismay, surely not, but- He forced out again, past a blockage of some sort in his throat, "Celebrian, I—"
Now the two human girls, who had been watching the scene, began to giggle. At that sound, Celebrian's brows lowered over her eyes in an expression of displeasure and she came toward him, at last, but with a look of such thunderous anger on her face that it pierced him to the heart. He had never seen her look like that at him before, ever. She advanced on him, each step taken with military precision, and hissed in a low, hard undertone, "Leave. Now."
Leave. It took a moment for the words to sink in. She was telling him to- After all this time—finally, after five hundred years of separation—after five hundred years that had been an eternity to him, she- He managed again only, "Celebrian, please, I have—" Vaguely he was aware of the two human girls giggling even harder behind her.
"Briande!" she snarled at him.
"I—what do you—" He could not think; he was lost in confusion. She was not smiling at him, she did not seem pleased to see him—the wife that he had loved, that he had remained faithful to throughout the centuries, in default of other ties and loves—A sick, cold feeling clutched his heart. "Celebrian, what do you mean when you—"
She actually flinched, he saw, and advanced so close to him that he backed up himself before her relentless onslaught. In the background, her girls were giggling even harder; she heard it, and her own expression stiffened. "My name is Briande Duchen of the Blood of Paendrag," she hissed at him under her breath. "It was granted to me by the Empress of the Nine Moons herself, on the day she manumitted me from da'covale status, and it was a great honor. Every time you call me Celebrian, you take from me what is rightfully mine and I lose sei'taer in the eyes of my women! Leave at once!"
She was actually touching him now, gripping him by his upper arm and shoving him physically back out of the tent; she had heaved him through the door and into the dark night outside hard enough to make him stumble. He stared at her, a dark figure silhouetted by the glowing yellow light from the inside, her features obscured and unrecognizable. He was aware of a distant, dull ache in his heart, a feeling of cold misery that was spreading throughout his soul. His wife was before him—they were together again—and yet somehow, they were apart.
"Cele—Briande," he fumbled for words at last. "Please."
He could not say anything more, did not even know what else he might say to her. He could only manage that single plea as he looked up at this stranger who wore his wife's face. She gave a tiny sigh, and relented. Somewhat.
"I cannot speak with you tonight at anywhere near the length that is necessary," she said, her voice softening almost imperceptibly. "I must prepare for the operation that will get underway tomorrow. Tomorrow, I will talk with you. There are things we must discuss."
"Ce—Briande, I love you," he said in an almost inaudible whisper.
She did not reply. Instead she turned from him and stepped back inside the tent, allowing the drape to fall closed and cutting him off from her. From inside he heard the giggling of the two human women; then Celebrian's shout, "What are you laughing about?!" and then sudden, sharp silence.
Moving leadenly, Elrond turned and stepped back into the night.
She was called Undomiel, the Evenstar, and indeed, night was the time that suited her best; as she wandered through the gardens, caressing a bloom here, a shrub there, coaxing it to flourish to its best, the moon struck light of mithril into her black hair, and turned her flawless skin to purest alabaster, her gray eyes silver with shadow and starlight. Under the light of the moon, she was indeed as beautiful as her ancestress, Luthien Tinuviel, who had loved a mortal man, Beren, and so had fallen into the Doom of Men.
That Doom will also be mine.
A fountain of Luthien rested in the gardens, depicting the moment when she had first been surprised by Beren; Arwen stopped now in front of that cool marble image, looking up at it and listening to the play of water in the basin. Her father had gifted her with it three hundred years ago, when she first planned the gardens; it had been carved in her likeness, for she was Undomiel, and all said that she was as beautiful as her forebear had been. Now, as she gazed up at that cool white marble, silvered by the moonlight, her thoughts turned back to the Doom that she would share with her ancestress.
The Doom of Men.
The thought was never far away, always lurking at the edges of her mind, the shadowed places where she tried not to look. She did not regret the decision that had led to that eventuality; she had chosen freely, had chosen to join with Aragorn, with his fire, his strength, his courage. Sometimes, however, a little, she regretted the doom.
She knew her father had grown somewhat cool toward Aragorn, since the day Aragorn had broached the subject with him; knew that he blamed both Aragorn and himself for what he saw as her loss. She had tried to heal that distance, for it hurt her, but she could not undo the distance unless she undid the choice, and that she would not do. And so her father drew apart, not just from Aragorn, but also from her as well. Not that he was angered toward her; Arwen had never known her father's anger, and never expected to. It was just that—every word they passed, every embrace they gave, now carried with it the knowledge that she was doomed, and he was not.
It saddened her, sometimes. But she had Aragorn, and that was enough.
Her father and her betrothed both had been wrapped in council all day. She had heard, and heard distantly, that there had been some deed done, some foolish act taken on the part of the Seanchan, but did not know what that might be; Elladan and Elrohir, who had attended, had not had the time to speak with her at length since emerging. So she waited here, in the gardens, for one or the other of them to come to her; waited and tended the plants that bloomed around her, that had been shaped and trained and pruned to keep them beautiful.
Footsteps on the paved path, out of sight around a curved row of hedges, jerked her from her reverie; she looked up hopefully to see if Aragorn or her father came to her, but then went still as she heard the approaching one's song, sung in the slurring Seanchan fashion:
"Oh, you'll feed on beans and rotten hay
And a horse's hoof come your naming day
You'll sweat and bleed and never grow old
And your only gold will be dreams of gold
Your only gold will be dreams of gold
If you go to be a soldier
If you go to be a soldier…."
She froze at the sound of that voice. She could not move, or even call out, but remained still and startled in the shadow of Luthien's fountain; her voice stilled within her in surprise, and she could only stare, wide-eyed, as the Seanchan soldier came jauntily, merrily round the hedge.
It was a short female; she was swinging that strange insect helmet in one hand, her short brownish hair riffling in the night breeze, and she was clad in close-fitting leather armor. She was singing loudly, without thought for any that might hear, and when she caught sight of Arwen, standing still as the statue behind her, her voice cut off with a startled choke.
"Bloody Light!" she managed in a strangled fashion, missed a step, tripped over her own feet, and fell flat on the stone walkway. "Bloody flaming Light! Ow!"
Now Arwen moved, going forward perhaps half a dozen steps in startlement before recollecting herself and coming to a stop. "Are—are you harmed?" she faltered, uncertain how to approach this Seanchan; these people were completely outside of anything she had ever experienced.
The Seanchan soldier, however, had rolled and came back to her feet again with ease. "No, I'm fine, you just startled me, is all," she said, grinning ruefully. "I thought I was alone on this path. You're an Other, aren't you?" the Seanchan asked, looking at her closely. "You're the daughter of the Other who owns this house, right?"
"An—an Other?" Arwen asked, confused. "I do not understand—I am an Elfmaiden, if that is what you mean—I am Arwen, Arwen Undomiel, that is the Evenstar-"
"Yeah, Other, Elfmaiden, same thing," the Seanchan said cheerfully. "That's a pretty name, Arwen," she continued. "I'm Keille Sar, morat'raken of the Ever Victorious Army—pleased to meet you," she said, holding out her hand matter-of-factly. Arwen stared at it for a long moment, somewhat disconcerted, then took it lightly; Keille shook with her, then released her.
"You know of Elves?" Arwen asked now, surprised.
"Others? Yeah, we have Others in Seanchan too—in fact, our Supreme Der'Morat'Raken is an Other, Briande. As a matter of fact, I was looking for her—High Lady Suroth has given the go-ahead for us to move against Isengard tomorrow and I thought I should tell her, if she hasn't already heard. Has she come this way? Have you seen her?"
"No, I—I have not," Arwen responded slowly.
The Seanchan—Keille—hissed through her teeth in irritation. "Ah goat-dung," she said dismally. "That means she could be anywhere. Huh. Well, I better go see if I can find her somewhere else. Thanks for your help." So saying, she turned, shifted her helmet to the other hand, and started back the way she had come.
Arwen hovered, irresolute and torn, as the Seanchan continued toward the bend of the hedge. She was curious about these Seanchan—who were these people who came and settled around Rivendell, settled as if they meant to stay, with their strange beasts and armor—and so many women among them? She was frightened too—her father, brothers, and betrothed had all asked her to stay away from them-but this Seanchan did not seem threatening, and….and if she went—when would she get another chance?
"Wait!" she called out suddenly, as Keille reached the turn of the path.
Keille paused and looked back over her shoulder. "Yes?" she asked obligingly.
Now that she had this Seanchan's attention, Arwen suddenly found herself uncertain how to proceed; she swallowed, then took a step closer, half surprised at her own daring. "Stay, if you wish," she said hesitantly. "I—I would speak with you about Seanchan, if you would be so kind as to oblige me. I have not had—much opportunity to talk with your people, since they came, and I have felt the lack."
She fell silent then, looking at Keille hopefully. Keille paused, thinking, then glanced up at the moon's position in the sky. "We-elll," she said doubtfully, drawing out the word, "I really should be trying to find Briande, but—somebody else can tell her, I guess, if she doesn't already know, and—well, I would like a chance to talk with one of you about this Middle-Earth; Briande won't say much about it."
"Is this Briande from Middle-Earth?" Arwen asked.
Keille nodded. "Yeah, originally, but it was a long time ago. Well—" She glanced at the moon again, cut her eyes toward camp, then came to a decision. "All right. I've got time. Come on, let's sit down."
The two women sat on the wide rim of the fountain, as the water splashed in the pool and the shadows of the evening deepened around them, and talked for hours, about many things. Keille started off by telling Arwen a little of the Foretelling by the Empress's soe'feia Truthspeaker that had led to this expedition; she spoke of the Empress who ruled on the Crystal Throne—"a giant ter'angreal that induces awe in all those who approach it," she said, and Arwen, who had no knowledge of what a ter'angreal might be, nodded solemnly—she spoke of the impending Return to the Westlands, the lands on the other side of Seanchan from whence had come Luthair Paendrag Hawkwing, and how soon the Seanchan army was going to go back across the ocean to bring the name of Hawkwing back to Hawkwing's home. This led naturally to talk of the army and how it was structured, and soon at Arwen's request Keille was telling Arwen of how she had come to join up.
"I was born on the Street of Lamps in Imfaral, within sight of the Towers of Midnight, to a glass-blowing family," she explained. "There were seven kids in the family and I was the last, and there wasn't enough money for us all….mostly because of my father. He was a drunkard and what he didn't spend on wine he spent chasing after other women, then he would come home and smack us around—oh, my mother used to get so angry at him! She would have left him in a heartbeat if she could have, but her family hadn't approved of the marriage, so she had nowhere to go. So she had to stick it out. Meanwhile us kids all put up with it and looked for ways to escape….my oldest brother went and lived with some friends on their farm in the countryside; one of my sisters lucked out and was taken for a sul'dam, and finally one day when I was seventeen I decided I had had enough and ran off to join the army. The first year I thought it was the biggest mistake of my life!" she said, laughing. "Oh, I hated it—I would have run away so many times if I had anywhere to go—but round about the beginning of the second year, about the time I started to really get good at working with the rakens, is when I started to realize I was really enjoying what I was doing, and after that, the rest was easy. Really funny how that happens," she said, smiling at the memory; then her voice grew quiet as she talked of the places she had been, the things she had seen and done, traveling wherever her path within the army took her; she spoke of putting down a revolt in Marelendar, on the southeast coast of Seanchan, to campaigning up north against the ever-encroaching Blight, to going on a famine-relief operation when drought hit the N'Kon province—"it's really beautiful down there, they've got eha flowers as high as your head, and some of the buildings date back almost to the reign of Empress Sorao, all blue and crystal—" to training maneuvers in the depths of the Sen T'jore—"lousy, lousy place to train; we were there during the wet season and it rains all—the—time, you can't stay dry if your life depended on it, and everything starts to rust—" She spoke of road-building through the Sa'las Plains—"nice, temperate weather and the men there are very attractive and always willing to do their best for a servant of the Crystal Throne," she added, grinning, and told of a man she had met there who had given her a necklace of blue-stone beads that she still had with her; then she reminisced about campaigning with High Lord Turak through the Serengada Dai, which was apparently very hot and full of sand in parts—"good sand, though, highest quality, trust a glass-blower's daughter to know," while in other parts it was flat and grassy with widely spaced trees—"that's where they train the s'redit, you know." Arwen did not know what a s'redit might be, but she nodded anyway, mesmerized and unwilling to do anything that might stop Keille from talking. That had been the campaign, Keille related, where she had flown seventy-two hours straight through hostile territory to deliver a call for reinforcements to Ground Captain Hisva, a feat for which she had been presented to the Empress at the victory celebration. "It had been the campaign against the Empress's first husband, you know—he had broken away from her and had scraped himself together an army, trying to put his sister on the Crystal Throne—we crushed him though, of course. I felt bad for the Empress," she said, looking openly at Arwen, " although that probably sounds silly; from what I hear she really did love him when they first married. I guess you just never can tell when it comes to men." Finally she grew quiet and thoughtful.
"Yeah," she said at last, her voice soft. "I've been all around Seanchan, I guess, and seen just about everything there is to see. Not bad for a city girl from the Street of Lamps in Imfaral. And now I'm here," she said, smiling slightly. "Halfway across the world, in this Middle-Earth, and when we finish up here, then I'm going back the other way. Back to Paendrag's home. I guess when I get too old and I have to retire, I'll have pretty much seen the entire world. Isn't that something?" she mused, and fell silent for a while, lost in thought.
Arwen was silent as well. She understood very little of what Keille had been saying; the places, the things were so strange and unfamiliar to her that it strained the limits of her comprehension to grasp them. Yet still, she was enthralled by Keille's remembrances. And what she had said—about the Empress, and about her family—Arwen's brows drew slightly together, troubled.
She had no time to think of why, though, because Keille looked back at her. "How about you?" she asked brightly.
"What?" Arwen responded, startled out of her reverie.
"There, I've told you about Seanchan and my entire life-history, why don't you tell me about Middle-Earth? What have you done?"
And Arwen composed her thoughts and began to speak, slowly at first, of the things she knew and had seen.
"The Dark One's Eyes."
Ground Captain Maekel Etari smiled as he gestured toward the two dice that lay, single pips upward, beneath the raised leather cup in Boromir's hand.
"What does that mean?" Boromir asked, staring down at the two dice in the flickering firelight.
The two men were crouched on the ground outside Maekel Etari's tent, before his fire. Although entitled to a pavilion, like Lady Suroth, by virtue of his rank within the army, Maekel Etari was something of the consummate soldier, and always insisted on traveling and living as simply as his men.
Maekel grinned, showing teeth white in a dark-complexioned face. "Depends what game you're playing. Like so many other things in life, the worth of this throw depends on the context in which it's set. Some games, it's a winning throw; others, a losing one." He looked up with one dark eye at the man of Gondor before him. "Given that we're playing sixes, in this case it's a losing one. For you."
Boromir scowled but pushed forward a substantial pile of glittering gold.
"Ahh, that's more like it." Maekel raked it in with a sigh of satisfaction. "Sure you wouldn't care to try and wager that precious horn of yours? It'd fetch a fair amount as an antique…"
"The Horn of Gondor," Boromir began in a tone of barely concealed outrage, "belongs to the Line of Gondor and is not to be frivolously—"
"Meant no offense," Maekel said, leaning back and spreading his hands. "Is it some kind of ter'angreal?"
Boromir frowned now. "I know not this word ter'angreal," he said in confusion. "It is an artifact of great power and strength. It is said that when it is winded within the borders of Gondor, then it will never go unanswered."
"Sounds like the Horn of Valere. Do all the Heroes of the Horn ride to save you?"
"What?"
"Never mind." Maekel shook his head. "Would you like some more wine?"
"If you please."
The Ground Captain poured some more wine from a leather skin into the cracked clay mug he had dug out of his battered wooden foot-locker, a veteran of many campaigns. Boromir raised it and took a gulp.
"Stronger than I'm used to," he said, opening his eyes.
"It's from the Sa'las Plains. They make it strong there." Maekel took a swig right from the skin. "Cough up," he said now, shoving some more gold forward.
Boromir took a sour look at the small pile of gold that belonged to him, and then sighed and shoved half of it forward as well.
"Pairs this time?" Maekel asked.
Boromir shrugged. "What you will."
"Pairs then." He began to shake the dice. "You know, if you want my opinion, you're the only one that showed any guts at that council of the Others. Why do you think I offered to dice with you this evening?"
The other man looked at Maekel. "You really think so?"
"Sure." The Seanchan shrugged, looking Boromir straight on. "That Other Elrond—"
"ElrondHalf-Elven. Elrond Peredhil."
Maekel shrugged. "Elrond. Spouted a lot of nonsense about how the ring belonged to the Enemy or some such, and how it was unfit for us to hold, and so on, and I didn't hear one decent reason as to why we shouldn't use it. Now Der'Sul'dam Katrell, all right, she also said it should be destroyed, but at least she offered a reason—one that I completely agree with, by the way, made with tainted saidin, which frankly gives me the chills. Not one of the Others offered any sort of reason, or even said anything that seemed to make much sense. Except for you. And while, like I said, I support the Der'Sul'dam, I applaud your reason and rationality."
Boromir sighed now, taking another sip from the cup. "If only you were not the only one that feels in that fashion," he said with a sardonic tone. As Maekel lowered the dice cup, looking at him with interest, Boromir now spoke. Perhaps it was the wine, but he found himself unburdening his soul to this swarthy Seanchan. "I am of Gondor. Gondor stands on the edge of Mordor; as such we are closest to the Shadow. I—I have been fighting the Shadow all my life. All my life, and I cannot—I do not—" He broke off. After a moment, he took a breath and went on again. "Elrond has all but told me that I cannot succeed at this task, that my efforts are for less than nothing. And then—Aragorn—he is named Estel, did you know? That is 'Hope' in Elvish. He is the one who will defend Middle-Earth. He will defeat the Shadow, and join again the kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor. He is Isildur's Heir. He is the one who has—who has the right to the Ring. And he won't use it!" Boromir's voice cracked with frustration. "He—He—He is the one who will save us all—who can save us all, and he will not. And I—" He broke off again and looked away, struggling to control himself. He heard Maekel grunt.
"Huh." Rattle of dice being shaken and thrown. "Lucky fives. Tough throw to beat. Hey," he said now, touching Boromir on the arm to bring his attention back. "Sounds like everyone thinks this Aragorn is ta'veren or some such. Is he really that important?"
Boromir nodded, looking down. "I know not the word ta'veren, but he is the one who is destined to defeat the Shadow. Everyone thinks so, even if they don't say it; Peredhil, Mithrandir…." He sighed.
"Huh." Maekel tossed him the dice cup. Slowly, Boromir gathered up the dice from where they had spilled in the dirt and began half-heartedly rattling them. "Lotta pigswill, if you ask me."
"What?" Boromir asked, staring at him; the cup lowered, forgotten.
"Lotta pigswill. Look here," he said to Boromir, shrugging. "I've been all around Seanchan, from Shon Kifar, to the Sa'las Plains, to Marelendar, to Alqam, to—Well, all around. I've seen action in a lot of different places. And I will tell you now," he said, looking Boromir straight on. "No single man or woman is ever that important to the success of a battle or a war. Our armies are going to roll over Mordor, whether or not this Aragorn is even alive. He's not relevant. What's relevant is numbers, types of forces, and how they are deployed. One good strategist is worth a thousand soldiers, yes, but that only goes for strategists in general, not an individual strategist in particular. The only difference is when it comes to Tarmon Gai'don and the Dragon Reborn, and that's a special case, and even then I'm not convinced that he's necessary."
Boromir considered, almost asked, then dismissed it. He shook his head wearily instead. "No," he said dully. "You're wrong. Numbers cannot win this war. I know it. I have fought Mordor's forces all my life, and I have seen—"
He broke off, for Maekel Etari was smiling, a slow, toothy, utterly confident smile. "Have you ever seen Seanchan fighting before?" he asked, grinning.
"Well, no," Boromir was forced to admit.
"Maybe you want to wait until you've seen us fight before you toss your oars. All right?" he asked. As Boromir stared at him, Maekel laughed a little. "Your Mordor sounds no worse or better than our Blight. It's to the north, full of Shadowspawn and other twisted creatures—Trollocs, Myrddraal, Darkhounds, and other hideous monstrosities—a terrible, hard land to fight in. Yet we've fought in it. And more or less tamed it, or at least beaten it back. And this Sauron sounds nowhere near as bad as the Dark One, from what I make out. Never fear. When Hawkwing's seed first arrived on Seanchan, over a thousand years ago, the whole land was filled with the Armies of the Night. Did that dismay us? No! We fought and conquered and subdued the whole continent. We did it once; we can do it again."
Boromir looked at Maekel closely. "You believe that," he said slowly. "You honestly believe that…."
"Of course I do. We should be going out tomorrow; High Lady Suroth has received intelligence from the Third Raken Flight about movement to the south—Isengard, I think it's called. You can come with, if you want."
"Maybe I will." He frowned, pondering.
"Say, anyway, what's a bright young man like you doing wasting his time with all these Others?"
Boromir frowned. "How do you mean?"
"No offense, but this doesn't seem like the kind of land here, this Middle-Earth, where—let's say—where straight thinking is much of an asset, always. Not like in Seanchan. I blame the Others, myself; some of them can be wise, like Der'Morat'Raken Briande, but on the whole it seems like Others simply can't think straight in the same way that men and women can. Seanchan is a whole different story." He paused and eyed Boromir. "We can always use straight thinkers, if you're willing to learn our ways. I can put you in charge of a company, or maybe even take a whole company from this Gondor of yours—you say they've got fighting men; if you have what it takes, you can work your way up and maybe be a Captain of the Ground Forces by the time we've whipped this land into shape and gone back for the Hailene."
Boromir did not know how to answer. He stared at Maekel blankly, until the Seanchan clicked his tongue.
"You gonna throw sometime this dynasty?"
"Oh—I—your forgiveness…." Hastily, blindly, Boromir rattled the cup and threw. When he lifted it from the ground, two pips stared back at him—the Dark One's Eyes. Scowling again, he started to push his gold forward. Only to be stopped by Maekel's hand.
"At pairs, that's the highest throw. You win."
And as Boromir stared at Maekel, the swarthy Seanchan Captain grinned.
Again she fled, but swift he came.
Tinuviel! Tinuviel!
He called her by her Elvish name;
And there she halted, listening.
One moment stood she; and a spell
His voice laid on her: Beren came,
And doom fell on Tinuviel
That in his arms lay glistening.
As Beren looked into her eyes
Within the shadows of her hair,
The trembling starlight of the skies
He saw there mirrored shimmering
Tinuviel the elven-fair,
Immortal maiden elven-wise,
About him cast her shadowy hair
And arms like silver glimmering…
Arwen's voice, soft and reverent, died away into the shadows of the night. She had not the heart to recite the last verse, not now, on such a quiet, tranquil night; but she had told enough of the tale of Tinuviel that Keille knew the ending, even if she could not sing it. She had spoken long, and the moon had crept high into the heavens as she told of the love of Luthien and Beren, in the First Age of the world—"that is an image of her," she had said, nodding to the fountain behind the two women, "at the moment when she was first surprised by Beren"; Keille had turned and had admired the smooth, delicately carved marble image, both of Arwen and her ancestor. Arwen had refrained out of modesty from telling Keille that there were those who thought she was as beautiful as Luthien had been. The Elfmaiden spoke instead of how together Luthien and her love had faced the Great Enemy Morgoth, of whom Sauron was but a pale shadow, in the days of the First Age, and retrieved one of the Silmarils from his crown; as she told of Beren's death, and how Luthien, the first of the Elven maidens to do so, had chosen to follow him into death rather than live out eternity alone, how they had been joyously reunited, so the tales said, beyond the Sundering Sea. She spoke of the union of Idril and Tuor, and how they had been united in the days of the war against Morgoth; how they had given birth to Earendil the Mariner, who had taken to wife Elwing, the granddaughter of Luthien, and had used her Silmaril to obtain aid from beyond the Shadows, and had been given a ship of stars to pilot in the night sky—
A ship then new they built for him
Of mithril and of elven-glass
With shining prow: no shaven oar
Nor sail she bore on silver mast:
The Silmaril as lantern-light
And banner bright with living flame
To gleam thereon by Elbereth
Herself was set, who thither came
And wings immortal made for him
And laid on him undying doom,
To sail the shoreless skies and come
Behind the Sun and light of Moon
She had sung those verses softly for Keille, then had spoken of Earendil's and Elwing's sons, Elros and her father Elrond, and the choice that had been set before them, and before her. "There have been two unions of Elven-maidens and the sons of Men," she had said then, "and there will be one more before my people return across the sea. That of myself and Aragorn, the last chieftain of the Dunedain, Estel and Elessar. For I will take Luthien's choice, and leave my people, and cleave unto him. And by this union, the two lines of the Half-elven shall be united." And then she had sung the song of Tinuviel, leaving the echoes to linger on the air as her voice died to stillness.
The two women sat in silence for a time, the night breathing around them; then Keille stirred as one waking from a bright dream, and said quietly, "That was very beautiful."
Arwen said nothing, but cast her eyes down.
Keille was silent for a moment more, then asked ingenuously, "So what did you do?"
Now Arwen was startled, and she looked back at Keille. "What?"
"What did you do?" Keille asked, looking at her with honest interest.
"I don't understand—"
"Well," Keille went on, her voice somehow naïve and innocent, "I asked you to tell me about yourself, and I got to hear all about your ancestry—and it was a wonderful tale, to be sure, full of heroism and bravery," she said honestly, "but I didn't get to hear what you did. Come on! You must have done something!" she said eagerly. "I want to hear about it! Come on!" she pleaded, looking at Arwen earnestly.
Arwen stared at the short human, sitting eagerly before her, almost stunned. She had just recited the bold tale of her heritage, the mighty deeds of her forerunners, who had shaped Middle-Earth with their daring and courage, and this short daughter of Men brushed it all aside as if these deeds were unimportant and only wanted to know what she had done—what she—
"What did you do?" the human asked again with interest.
"I—I—" Arwen suddenly, abruptly came to the realization that not only was the woman not interested in her ancestry, but also she had nothing to tell the woman. Compared to the human's litany of bold deeds performed by her—deeds related without any trace of braggadocio, furthermore, but as simple fact, as if everyone had or should have had such experiences—Arwen was almost beyond stunned to realize that she had nothing to offer, nothing that could measure up to the tales of distance flights, of wide travels, of fighting and courage and valor that this woman had performed—that in her perhaps twenty-five years of life, this woman had done more and seen more than Arwen had in her three thousand.
The woman was looking at her now with open interest, waiting for her to respond; Arwen scrambled uselessly through her handful of travels—how small and insignificant they suddenly seemed to her, beside the continent-spanning, ocean-spanning travels of this human—and seized at last upon an answer. "Lorien," she said slowly. "I have seen Lothlorien."
"Now that sounds like something; let's hear about it," Keille said, sitting forward with interest. Emboldened by Keille's attention, Arwen continued.
"Lothlorien is the Golden Wood—that is the home of Celeborn and Galadriel, who is the most powerful of the Elves remaining within Middle-Earth. It is—was—the home of my mother," she added almost shyly, "and it was there—in the shadows of Lothlorien—where my mother and father met. It was in the shadows of Lothlorien as well," she went on more quietly, "where I plighted my troth to Aragorn, vowing to forsake my immortality and cleave only unto him."
She might have gone on from there, but Keille spoke up. "See, that's what I don't understand."
"What?" Taken aback again, Arwen looked at her.
"That's what I don't understand," Keille repeated, shrugging. "All right, you and this man—this—Aragorn—love each other. All well and good. But why give up your immortality for him? I wouldn't." she said candidly. "It's too permanent. Once you've done it, you can't go back. So why? Why do it to begin with?"
Arwen marshaled her thoughts, then responded with the same words she had told her father, and her betrothed, when they had inquired the same thing. "Because I love him," she said quietly. "And I had rather live one lifetime with him than all the Ages of the Earth without him."
Keille looked at her dubiously. "Yeah, you say that now," she said, raising one eyebrow curiously. "But, I mean, are you sure you're going to feel that way when you're staring down the barrel of permanent oblivion? If you love him, be with him, but why marry? Why sacrifice your immortality in that fashion?" At Arwen's stunned look, Keille shrugged. "Look, I know how you feel—a little bit anyway—I am a raken rider," she said, leaning forward earnestly. "A raken-rider can't marry—marriage and child-rearing mean an end to your career. Now, I have a casual sweetheart in among the pikemen. Do I marry him? No! Of course not, don't be silly. He and I visit whenever we get the chance; he brings me gifts, I bring him gifts, we look each other up at the end of battles—it's a good relationship. Neither one of us asks any more than the other is willing to give; both sacrifices on each side are equal. No way I would ever give up the skies for him; the skies are worth too much to me, and if he tried to force the choice, I would get rid of him in an instant. He knows it; he is satisfied with things as they are, and it works. Why not do it that way?" she asked, shrugging. "Why not simply visit him until your time in this world ends, then leave? It's a good long run, and you've still got eternity ahead of you to find another man."
Arwen stared at her, unsure how—or even whether—to respond; she stared at the raken-rider as if she had said something completely unintelligible—which, of course, she had. Keille continued to frown, not appearing to notice Arwen's confusion.
"Or better yet, why not take him with you?" Keille asked now, suddenly struck by the thought. "I'm sure if you tried hard enough you could find a way. Take him with you to wherever you're going when you leave this world. That way, if this man is really so important to you that you're willing to spend eternity with him, you get to; he gets to live forever, everybody wins. Why not do that?"
As the short raken-rider paused, waiting for her reply, Arwen struggled to put her thoughts in order. "I—he cannot," she responded at last, getting her feet under her. "He is the—the last of the Dunedain, the heir to Gondor and Arnor," she continued with more confidence. "Father says that Aragorn is the one—that he must reunite the two kingdoms—"
Keille's frown silenced her; the short daughter of Men knitted her brows, thinking. "Mmmm—I don't know," she said doubtfully. "It just doesn't sound like a very fair trade to me, is all I'm saying….I mean, so you're willing to give up your immortality for love of him, but he's not willing to give up his kingdom for love of you? Sounds to me like you're the one making all the sacrifices. Kind of reminds me of a couple of sweethearts I've had in the past, and let's just say they didn't turn out too well."
"No—no, that's not what I—" That was not how it happened, she wanted to protest, that was not how it was, but at that moment she could not. Suddenly it seemed like Keille was speaking sense to her, and even though she knew that was not the case, somehow she could not recall what the case actually was.
The Seanchan watched politely, brows creased slightly, as Arwen struggled with herself, to put her thoughts in order. Neither her father, nor her brothers, nor even Aragorn had spoken to her in this fashion before about her choice. Finally she fell back on the one thing she knew for sure. "I love him," she asserted, regaining some measure of calm. "Aragorn is a good man. He is worth any sacrifice that I might choose to make for him—"
Far from seeming to accept this, Keille only frowned more intensely, and Arwen was struck silent by that deeply dubious expression. After a moment, the human said again, disbelievingly, "Yeah, you say that now….but I mean, are you still gonna think that five or ten years from now, when he's fallen into the bottle, chases every sweet piece of skirt that crosses his path, and smacks you and the kids around?"
Arwen stared at her, bewildered. "What?" she managed after a moment, too astounded to say anything more. "What are you—You don't—you surely cannot think that Aragorn—He would—would never-"
Keille shrugged. "Look," she said, sighing, "All I'm saying is that my mother thought the same thing in the first years of her marriage, until the drink set in. The Empress thought the same of her first husband when they married, right up until the moment he broke from her and raised up an army in support of his sister. Maybe—maybe—this Aragorn of yours is a good one. But you can never really know until it's too late, can you?"
She paused then and studied Arwen's frozen expression. "Ah, I'm sorry," she said then, sighing. "One of these days I'm going to learn to stay out of other women's sweetheart problems. I guess I'm a little cynical, is all; I've had my share of man troubles….I'll just say that each new serious sweetheart I took has been an improvement on the last, and the last one only was rampantly unfaithful to me and stole everything of mine that he could get his hands on, so that should tell you the sort of luck I've had with men. Maybe Aragorn's a good one. He probably is. I'm sure you know what you're doing and have thought it through, it's just—" She paused, looking at Arwen's pale visage in the moonlight. "You seem too intelligent to me to really fall for this belief of true, perfect love at first sight, worth any sacrifice, so I have to wonder….what the real reason you want to give up your immortality is. Maybe one that you haven't admitted to yourself," she said now gently, looking at Arwen closely, waiting for her to reply.
Arwen could not speak. She felt as if her mind had been cracked with a hundred delicate fractures; the calm, cool way that this Seanchan had evaluated the beautiful love she and Aragorn shared left her stunned. She groped for a fragment of a response, but could find nothing to say. She could not argue because this woman was stating things that she knew, from personal experience; the tale of her mother's marriage, of the Seanchan Empress's marriage, of her own—unmarried!—loves had shocked her like a slap in the face. It had never occurred to Arwen that human marriages could be like that. She had seen no marriages like that, at least not among Elves; she felt as if Keille's words had opened a window for her on a world that she had not, until this moment, known existed.
Of course Aragorn would never—would never behave like that.
But a deeper voice came back: Are you sure?
The question that Keille raised still hung in the air—Why are you really willing to sacrifice your immortality? This was a question that even her father had not asked—though he had questioned the wisdom of her choice, he had not questioned the motive behind it; he had simply accepted that she felt that Aragorn's love was worth—her—death. Not so Keille. Keille had utterly rejected the idea that it might be for love of Aragorn. Arwen was in confusion; she felt as if the earth were breaking up underneath her, shifting where she stood. Why are you really willing- She looked up at the daughter of Men. "I—I—"
"Arwen."
The stern voice was her father's; she flinched as she heard it and turned toward him.
Elrond came down the stone path from the other direction, his brows contracted in a frown. Even through her confusion, Arwen had time to think that her father looked distressed; he was too pale, and his eyes were shadowed with something that looked like hurt; his stride was uneven, though the ground was level and though Elves were renowned for their grace and fluidity of movement. He was moving, in fact, almost as if he were in pain. When he saw the Seanchan woman next to her, his frown deepened.
Arwen rose swiftly from the rim of the fountain and stepped back at once, toward the white, still image of Luthien in the center of the pool. The Seanchan woman rose too, looking not at all dismayed, and nodded cordially. "Good evening, Elrond of the Others," she said pleasantly.
Her father did not acknowledge the other woman's courtesy. "Are you in need of assistance?" he asked only. "If you are lost, the Seanchan campgrounds are in that direction." He indicated back the way he had come.
Arwen stared at her father almost openmouthed; she had never known him to be so short with guests before. Proving herself able to take a hint, Keille nodded to him again.
"Thank you for your assistance. I guess I'd better be on my way." She turned toward Arwen now. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Arwen of the Others. Perhaps we shall run into each other again sometime. Wish me luck—we're going out on a raid tomorrow, and it might be dangerous." She did not wait for Arwen's answer, which was good because no answer would have been forthcoming; instead she simply swung her Seanchan helmet up and placed it on her head, then strolled off as merrily as she had come, singing,
"A handsome man and a tune so fine
And plenty of ale and plenty of wine
But the greatest delight that I call mine
Is to chase the Lady of Shadows
Is to chase the Lady of Shadows!"
So singing, she passed around a bend in the path and out of sight.
Scarcely had she gone than Elrond turned his attention to Arwen. "Are you well, daughter?" he asked, and Arwen was almost afraid, for the Elven calm that had always characterized him in her mind was gone, to be replaced by an almost rough urgency that she had never seen from him before.
"Y-Yes," she managed nervously. He seemed to see her upset and became calmer with an effort.
"That is well. When I saw—when I saw the two of you together, I feared…." He trailed off, leaving his thought uncompleted. That was also unlike her father. His eyes had grown distant and he looked back, perhaps unconsciously, to the Seanchan camp.
After a moment he came to himself again. "Daughter, I must repeat my earlier request. Stay away from these Seanchan," he commanded her. "They are—they are unlike to us, and in many ways unwise. I would not have you harmed by them. Do you understand?" he asked, looking at her intently. Arwen cast her eyes down and nodded in acquiescence. She heard her father sigh in relief.
"Is something wrong?" she asked, looking up at him again now.
He hesitated for a moment, and she saw his pallor and the shadows about his eyes more clearly. After a moment, he responded, "No….nothing is wrong; it has merely been a somewhat trying day. I am well, my daughter," he said, giving her a small smile.
"Was—was the council-?"
He shook his head, forestalling her. "Have no fear of the council, Arwen," he said reassuringly. "The situation is in hand. You should retire to your quarters; there will be less chance of meeting with the Seanchan there."
"Of course," she murmured, and turned to go.
