Crouching, the elf began to work his hands under its bulk, seeking leverage. An older woman hurried over to offer what help she could, supporting some of the weight until he could get a knee under the brute's chest and and heave upwards. It tipped over the parapet with a rattle of armor, striking the base of the wall with a distant crash which echoed the din of the previous night's battle. The sound also muffled the gasp of his impromptu helper when she glanced down and caught sight of the fighter who had been pinned beneath it.
The slight figure was pressed face-first against the joint of the wall and walkway, left arm flung over her head, huddled like a mouse cowering under a root when the hawk flies past. Her sword, bearing the subtle curves and grace of elven blades though lacking decoration or device, lay under her right elbow. Her mail was in a sorry state, crusted with gore from the battle, and black blood stiffened the gray cloak of the Galadrim, twin to the one Legolas wore. Her pale matted hair spilled out from thick braids once rolled beneath the rim of her helm, now falling in an unkempt mass around her ears and hiding them. Even so, it did not take an expert eye to see she was mortal pewter, not elvish silver: she was lithe but not lean, sturdy and compact in her build; and her features were neat yet a little too broad to be called even by humans who didn't know the true meaning of the term.
The gray-haired woman knelt beside her, restrained in her dismay as she looked the stranger over. She would not touch the girl until Legolas nodded permission. She handled the elven-mail as little as possible, nor was she merely trying to avoid the orc's foul blood, for her frock and arms already had a few black smears from the morning's work. When she turned the young woman over, she was due for another shock. The opaque glance she levelled in the elf's direction was almost accusatory. Silently, the elder worked the clasp of the girl's cloak open, resting fingertips against the side of her neck. The woman's lips pressed together into a thin line. With gentle efficiency, she began to gather the fallen fighter's cloak around her. Legolas sighed and laid a long hand across one dirt-stained cheek.
he said sharply.
Startled, the one he had addressed yanked her hands away. She watched intently as the elf probed for tangible signs of injury, cradling the smaller woman's head and rocking it gently from side to side, searching his way down her spine, testing ribs with his fingers as best he could through scale mail. Her face was cool, but not as cold as the stones on which she lay. He frowned, pondering. This seemed a small matter for Aragorn, but he did not wish to disturb the Ranger after so many toils. Hearing her shallow breaths change from faint to certain, Legolas realized there might be no need after all. He opened his hand in a mute request towards the waterskin the older woman was carrying.
Brows knitting, she readily handed it across. Listening carefully, Legolas began to lave the stranger's neck and throat, feeling the air grow chill as the wind from the mountains brushed against his wet fingers. Recalling the glimpse from that night in Lórien, as he dabbed the blood and grime away, Legolas decided to try another remedy that had nothing to do with herb-lore. He cast his mind back to an old ballad of Beleriand which the wood-elves still sang along the northern fences of his father's realm.
Ir geil thinner Fíriel tirn-ed:
I fuin thind gwannol.
I aurlinn, aew goll, palan-
Nallant gaun lim a maeg.
Gelaidh dhuir, minuial 'ael
In emlin gliriel.
Gwaew athrant, i ring a lain
Trî laiss dhyll reniant.
Firiel looked out at three o clock;
the grey night was going;
far away a golden cock
clear and shrill was crowing.
The trees were dark, and the dawn pale,
the waking birds were cheeping.
a wind moved cool and frail
through dim leaves creeping.
Na chenneth tirn i 'lîn 'alol
Al lû calad and 'ael
Bo talf a lass; bo thâr ennas
I vîdh vith hilivren.
Or phain tail thín fain athranner
A dad bendrath tinner,
Revianner cabel trî thâr
I garel pân 'wing mîdh.
She watched the gleam at window grow
til the long light was shimmering
on land and leaf, on grass below
grey dew was glimmering.
Over the floor her white feet crept,
down the stair they twinkled
through the grass they dancing stepped
all with dew besprinkled.
Taeg hammad thín gâr viriath;
Norn e dad i hîr.
Be dulu garel delch dathren
A tirn i nen thinnol.
Heledir dannant dad be harn
Vi aglar thlûn dannol...
Her gown had jewels upon its hem,
as she ran down to the river
and leaned upon a willow-stem
and watched the water quiver.
A kingfisher plunged down like a stone
in a blue flash falling...
His hunch proved true; the stranger's breathing began to quicken at the sound of his voice. Legolas stopped when he noticed that her eyes were squeezed shut, no longer simply closed. She gave a quiet sigh when he fell silent.
she muttered. Well, at least the music's good.
The old woman beside him stirred like a sleepwalker when the girl spoke.
He chuckled. You are somewhat astray, Lady. That king's hall lies many leagues away.
There was a glitter beneath her eyelashes; she was peering at the elf as if trying to make out a falcon's silhouette against the sun. When the other woman started to reach around her to help her up, she shook her head emphatically.
Can you move? he asked, echoing the concern of the human woman beside him.
The stranger countered his question with a hoarse whisper. Haldir? Gwaith nín?
Bemused by her choice of words, Legolas replied, Your people' have taken him down to the citadel. He is defiled by no hands, thanks to yours.
Mortal as they are. A wistful smile touched the corners of her lips. It was just as well he had elven-hearing, for her voice was nearly as faint as her breath. Yet Legolas had the sense that this was due more to habit than hurt. There was something disconcertingly familiar about her phrasing.
Im law charnannen, she answered belatedly.
She is unhurt, he echoed, translating for the older woman who was watching this exchange. The local paused, eying him doubtfully, then inclined her head with a ironic smile that was far more intelligible than the muddled curtsey she gave him before returning to her chores. She left the waterskin lying where he had set it down.
On the other surviving portion of the wall, murmurs between a few other women drifted across the gap, and Legolas caught Éowyn's name peppering the conversation. Evidently his discovery had not gone unnoticed.
The young swordswoman, meanwhile, had braced an elbow against the stones and pushed herself to a sitting position, squinting and shielding her eyes with a fist as she scanned the blood-spattered parapet where Haldir had fallen. Nearby was a heap of chipped swords, helms, quivers and ripped cloaks, gilded bows whose graceful sweeping horns were twisted or snapped, and the bronze leaves of elven-mail that lay scattered like shed scales of dragons, glittering in the sun. The girl's shoulders drooped. Her face was quiet, but it was the calm of a soul struggling to keep pain at arm's length.
Legolas held the waterskin out to her.
She turned her head and favored him with a surprised smile. Why, I should hide under orcs more often. She took it and drank sparingly, as if conserving it for a journey. Then her gaze drifted over the wreckage of the battle, out across the Coomb and back to the Deep, up to the tower shining like a tall spur of flint in the pale sun. Nothing down here was untouched by the debris from the explosion and the bodies and weapons of the fallen, but above the keep the mountains sparkled, massive and snow-capped and untroubled by the goings-on at their knees. she said, tucking a knee against herself, What was the final count?
Legolas regarded her steadily. Helm's Deep stands. But we lost—
She drew a sharp breath and held up her hands to fend off his answer. Too many, I know. I wasn't speaking of that.
The elf tilted his head. What, then?
She leaned towards the inner side of the wall, miming with a finger the soaring flight of an arrow coming up from below and sailing past her shoulder. She gave him a shrewd look. I trust the prince bested the dwarf.
Forty-one and forty-two, he replied, amused. I lost.
Blue eyes flew open at the elf's admission. Strange wizardry! she rasped. Her features softened. Ah, but he is Gimli Lockbearer, isn't he? Gulaur daur vin ent Galadriel.*
Legolas shrugged, hopping to his feet with a faint rattle of arrows at his shoulder. My bow is also a gift of the Lady.
The small woman pursed her lips. she insisted doggedly, I know I should not gainsay my betters, but I fear you have miscounted. With that, she set a hand upon the wall and hauled herself to her feet with less grace. But I am sure Thranduil's son has more important responsibilities than answering the questions of a fíriel who overslept. Thank you, caun fael, for fetching me the sun.
He raised an eyebrow. It was no trouble, my lady. But as for answers, is that really your name?
She reddened. Oh! No, it's Haleth. But I wasn't mocking your singing, my lord. That's what the Galadhrim call me.
He studied her thoughtfully. I see. Well, Haleth, I am going down to join them, if you care to follow.
she paused, looked over her shoulder. She trailed off as her gaze fell upon the castoffs of Lórien, waiting to be carted away like common refuse. Haleth struggled to find another smile. They will need their little fíriel to straighten and sort arrows, as always. But I think I will drink the sun for a while first, unless our orders are to march soon.
Not that I have heard. Legolas observed that in spite of the lightness of her speech, there were tears at war with her eyes, and that she was in danger of losing the battle. Having come to know some of the peculiarities of mortal pride, the elf simply nodded a polite farewell and headed for the stairs.
As he descended, he saw her turn and pace slowly towards the jumbled pile. The woman stooped, took up a long arrow whose swan-feathers gleamed like the snow on the mountains, and turned it slowly in her fingers, head bowed. Just as he dropped below the level of the parapet, a soft elvish prayer drifted down to him, jerking his memory back to the eaves of Fangorn and that moment when it seemed that he and his companions had doubly failed, first losing Boromir, and then the hobbits they had chased halfway across Rohan to save.
Hiro hyn hîdh vi Valannor.**
With those words, at last, the elf realized what it was about Haleth's speech that had been nagging at him. Her voice matched her face: it was the plain, broad accent of Rhovanion, spoken daily in the open-air markets of Dale and the feast-halls of the Beornings. The rhythm of her phrasing, however, was markedly elvish, and it spilled over even into the common tongue. It was not Mirkwood's passionate beat nor the rolling eloquence of Imladris. Like yarn from a spinning wheel, her words unfolded at the stately pace of Lórien, whose inhabitants lived and spoke in a different world. It was like the stalking of a kitten, unconsciously imitating the measured footfalls of a lion.
**(Let them find peace in Valinor.)
Note: The song is actually my translation of part of a poem by Tolkien, The Last Ship however, I had to change the wording in places ("looked out as the stars faded" instead of "three o' clock," e.g.) where our limited Elvish vocabulary is lacking, or where the meter would have gotten so cumbersome the Elvish couldn't be sung.
A few hours later, Legolas sat upon a stack of shields in the armory, reporting to Aragorn all that he had noted in the battle and after. Timdaur was there too, standing mutely by the door with arms folded. The new captain was a very different sort of elf from Haldir, grim and wary like Legolas' own father; his hair was silver and his features were sharp and lean as the prow of a ship. Gimli, meanwhile, was quite unaware how much irritation he was causing their guest, sitting propped in a corner fine-tuning his axe with a whetstone. Aragorn slouched by a rack of spears facing his friends.
... and I guess they have some two thousands all told, including Éomer's men, Legolas concluded.
Gimli whistled. I thought Éomer brought two thousand with him! Gandalf herded them back here none too soon!
Aragorn took a long draw from his pipe as he digested Legolas' account and Timdaur's even more painful news: a fifth of the Galadhrim remained. And we cannot take even two thousand, for the people of Rohan still need a garrison.
Legolas was silent, although he suspected that any garrison they could muster would not be enough to defend the Hornburg against another attack.
Gimli looked up from his axe. Do you think Rohan will ride to Gondor's aid?
Aragorn raised his head like a horse straining at the chalk-line before a race. They knew he yearned to be in Minas Tirith already, to prove or fail all the hopes that had been invested in him. Théoden will ride, he said. The muster at Edoras has already begun. But it will take many days for the Riddermark to set out in force.
They say Gondor is not yet besieged, the dwarf pointed out gruffly.
Aragorn smiled. I cannot see the White City from here, Gimli. But the beacon-fires are not yet lit. There is hope. He turned to Timdaur, expression sobering again. So that is where we stand, my lord. You now know the mettle of men, and we know beyond all dread what sacrifice the Wood has given to secure the muster of Rohan. It may well be the arrow that finds the chink in Sauron's strategies. If you mean to return home and look to Lórien's defenses, you will go with our deepest gratitude. I wish I could do or say more.
Timdaur shook his head, face grave as one of the carved faces of the Argonath. Nay, Lord Aragorn; the Alliance's obligation is not dissolved by a single skirmish. Sauron must be defeated for all Ages, and it is for you to lead this struggle. You need weapons that will not break. Haldir understood this, as do I.
Gimli let out a quiet huff of respect.
Aragorn for his part did not waste more time with empty courtesies. Very well. Do any more elf-hosts come from the Wood or Rivendell?
Lord Elrond and the Lady were taking thought to that when we marched, stated Timdaur, but I do not know the issue of their counsel.
The Ranger rubbed a finger over the white tree embossed upon the vambrace he had kept as a memento of Boromir. I do not think horses can be found for all of you, although I know the Riddermark will provide you with every one they have.
The elf nodded. Then we will take what horses the Rohirrim can spare, and the rest under Rúmil will bear our wounded back to Lórien ere the lands are closed against us.
Aragorn sought his eyes. Please tell him this. For what little it is worth, his brother's name is the first among elves to be woven into the songs of this land, and will be remembered as long as Rohan stands.
Timdaur bowed.
When he had departed, Aragorn turned back to his friends. Gandalf means to pay a visit to Saruman before we take the road east.
Is that wise? Gimli asked, astonished. Does he think Isengard emptied of every orc? And will Sauron wait while we toss pebbles at the walls of Orthanc?
Legolas said nothing, but the dwarf clearly echoed the elf's thought. He fixed keen eyes upon the man.
Gandalf has some errand there, and bade me bring the king. I am sure there is good reason. Aragorn closed his fist tightly over his sword-hilt.
There are the hobbits, Legolas observed quietly.
Gandalf said they were safe, said Gimli doubtfully, although he did not say how or where.
That is an answer I would like before we leave this land, the elf murmured.
And I, said Aragorn. but for them we dare not tarry. Still, Gandalf is right: we must know what strength Isengard has left, before we abandon Rohan to its fate. Théoden must order his realm as best he can ere he departs. And it is better that we ride east in firm knowledge, at least, of the dangers at one end of the road.