Night was falling, and through its murk the watchers could begin to make out a red glow on the horizon which had nothing to do with sunset. Rain was ringing on mail and helm when a lone rider came trailing up the arching span of the causeway. It was not an elf, and there was no bright mail; the horse was without gear or harness, and the rider looked as if he had bathed in a sump. But this time the clamor was heard clear back into the heart of the citadel, where Théoden was conferring with his captains. Legolas followed the shouting to the outer keep. For once the dwarf had beaten him, since Gimli had gone to hunt for armor while the elf sought a place for them among his people on the battlements. The elf paused on the lip of the ring-wall, tasting one of those rare mortal moments between now and now when the world could change utterly. He looked down. This time, Aragorn was there.
In spite of threats and chastisements, the dwarf seemed to be doing the man no worse harm than he had already suffered that day, so Legolas did not come down. There was little time for reunion. Aragorn strode for the citadel with Gimli trudging after. It showed something of the Ranger's condition that he failed to notice the resolute elf planted before the doors to the inner keep, until Legolas blocked his way with a stern, Le abdollen. The elf held out his hand.
Aragorn broke into a ragged grin as he clasped it. He glanced down. The Evenstar glittered in a palm that was not fair but gnarled, filthy, and stained with dried blood. And that was where it belonged.
The man's fingers closed tightly over it. Hannon le.
Only then did the elf smile, and Aragorn raised his eyes to meet the fierce affection in the gaze of a friend, one who knew the greatest treasure in Rohan now lay in Aragorn's hand.
The world settled back into its proper place along with the jewel. Legolas fell into step beside him as if he had been there all along.
said the elf quietly.
The man glanced at him.
Legolas shook his head. You look terrible.
Comely elf, Aragorn muttered under his breath, drawing a snort from Gimli. Next time, you can kiss my horse.
The doors of the king's hall yielded to Aragorn's shove and swung open with a ponderous groan. Théoden, awaiting them with his captains, stood in full armor. Old Gamling was poised at his liege's side with a mailed glove resting on his sword-hilt. A whisper passed around the stout-walled chamber: Aragorn. Their faces loosened with amazement as much as if their bedraggled visitor had come with the light of the Elendilmir shining from his brow, and the fair elf and sturdy dwarf that stationed themselves on either side of the portal were an everyday occurrence.
What sorcery is this? the king marvelled, in the silence between the Ranger's slow footfalls.
Aragorn crossed the length of the hall and bowed his head. Théoden King. I arrive ahead of the host of Saruman, but they are hard on my heels. How are the defenses?
Théoden looked at him, dazed. I dreamed they were shouting the name of Théodred. And when I realized my ears did not deceive me, I knew it was only the frayed hopes of my men, giving voice to a dream.
I am sorry. Aragorn raised his chin. Your son's horse, Brego, found me, raised me, and bore me here needing no guidance. I owe him my life, and through him Théodred. It was not my intent to come so honored.
The eyes of the king hardened, taking in the sorry state of the Ranger's attire, the layer of grime that could not be scoured away by river or rain, and his torn and bloody shoulder. He hardly cut a regal figure just now. If my son's horse has a mind to bear you anywhere in Rohan, Théoden said finally, who am I to oppose him? Also, your debt is paid.
Aragorn turned at the flash of gold, as one other came into the king's hall. This time it was his turn to gape. The bright elven-mail, sweeping mahogany bow spiralled with gold, and the gleaming swan feathers of the arrows nodding at the elf's shoulder seemed unreal set against drab walls of rough-hewn stone. The one who bore them made the men of Théoden's household look like mere hobbits by comparison. The elf strode towards him with a glad expression, although his speech was grave. Our kinsman said you might not be coming. I am pleased he was mistaken.
Mae govannen, mellon nín... man angol hen? Aragorn forgot all decorum and embraced the elven captain, who suffered it good-naturedly.
Haldir answered in level tones. I come at Elrond's bidding and Galadriel's. We have not forgotten the Heir of Elendil or the Last Alliance, whose work is incomplete until our Enemy is vanquished for all time. The elves are with you, Aragorn.
King Théoden clapped a broad hand on the Ranger's back. You've brought us that luck of yours on which the dwarf keeps harping, Lord Aragorn. Our defenses are strong indeed! Let them come.
*(Well met, my friend... What sorcery is this?)
Such simple moments belonged to another world.
Lightning clawed the sky, but it was a frozen tableau compared to the seething battle below. The sea of orcs stretched off into the night, a river of torches unquenched by the sparse hard drops of rain. Sheets of arrows arced overhead from the elves standing in the garth behind the wall. Up top all was a flurry of bodies, blood, weapons, snarling orcs hurtling down from ladders as fast as ladders and grappling hooks were hurled up, elves flashing with an economy of deadly motion, slicing through their most hated foes. And there was one formidable dwarf.
roared Gimli only yards away, slamming his axe through another orc-helm.
I have twenty-three, Legolas sang out. Nothing touched the forest elf as he spun and danced on the narrow lip of stone, living in a different world from the slow-moving bodies of the orcs heaving around him. His knife spun and plunged into another chest, pulled out in a smooth arc, and alighted briefly in the scabbard tucked against his quiver, as he plucked another arrow and laid it to string. Two more orcs tumbled from the nearest scaling ladder, arrow-pierced. Knives and shafts flew in a complex rhythm as their owner cut his way through mortal danger with the fearlessness of his race. This was life. This was death. Two ends of the same blade.