Title: The Lords of Gondor
Author: AsianScaper
Disclaimer: Middle-earth and its characters belong to JRR Tolkien. This piece of fiction was not made with the intention of making money. I write only to share. The poem was adapted from earlier works and are entirely mine.
Rating: G
Category: General
Spoilers: None
Feedback: Friends, enemies: Send your comments or constructive criticism to asianscaperyahoo.com. Advice is highly sought after!
Summary: The lords and captains of Gondor ride for the Black Gate.
Archiving: Just email me the URL to allow me a peek.
Dedication: To the just and to the bearers of hope.
Author's Note: This it the first time I'm writing in the first person point of view. This is also the first time that I've based a story more accurately on the movie. It's quite a departure from my usual fare, wherein I try to be true to the original text. But I thought Peter Jackson needed a tribute of some sort. Also, I was able to use this as a comparative study between Beowulf and Tolkien. Such was the thesis statement:
Compared to Beowulf, Tolkien's idea of war in relation to the human person, is that it makes him more human, more noble through the practice of goodness, compassion and hope. In war, it is not about unleashing the beast in the man or on relying entirely upon aggression, physical prowess, or status. Rather, war reaches its true end by releasing the man from the war-beast. Only then, are true lords of Men made.
This story is set in the middle of happenings in The Return of the King, between Chapters 9 (The Last Debate) and 10 (The Black Gates Opens) of Book V. This tells of Aragorn and the hosts of Gondor as they gather from Minas Tirith to march on the fields of Pelennor and onto the Black Gate.
I have yet to meet a king and more so, to tell him of fell deeds that marked my passage into hunger and pain. I have yet to tell him of the many times I was summoned to Minas Tirith on errands of war and how the fourth summons became more than a skirmish at the border. I was thrice hacked at by Orcs and saw, with sombre eyes, my first troll. That first view of it rolling on into seconds and thirds and soon, into hundreds.
My first reckoning was a finger though that mattered little. I watched it roll away in a kind of bewildered terror that waned into watching others lose greater appendages. If a sword could still be held, then lost limbs were of little consequence. The second was a slash on my cheek that glowed red at night and hurt when I smiled. The third disallowed me the use of my arm.
I was lucky, then, to have been brought to the courtyard after the battle, where a deep silence resonated as though the plunge had been taken, waiting for a head to rise from the gloom. I did not understand then, that kings were mightier than men and that the Man sitting by my Lord Faramir was a king of kings, a head risen from darker quays. That he was a king of kings was not hard to believe, however much he looked like any of us and looked not much better off.
The king and his company entered the courtyard and for all the shouts of victory, they were glum. I could feel the air in them, like rain-clouds hovering over one's fields or that nervousness one feels at the snarl of wolves spying lewdly at your neighbour's sheep.
The dead had walked the fields and the cold was a product of their passing.
My hand clasped my sword, more tightly than any healer would allow, and not by my better arm. I knew I would follow my lords to whatever end and that if I could, I would ride if I had a horse. My fields and my neighbour's sheep were reason enough for desperate deeds; the fight was for any beauty laden on these lands of Gondor. I have loved living on its grass and in its many-towered bastions for all my years before this. When at last, at the end of my third duty, just as I had thought all bonds to soldiering were severed, I took my father's land and tilled it. A year after, Osgiliath was overrun.
So there I sat in Minas Tirith, in the near-ruins of a mighty city, where below, everything was grey and broken while high above everything stood whole, glimmering in sun and wind.
A soldier could only do so much on stale bread and warm water. I watched with veiled eyes as the lords talked. There was a prince among them, I heard, and noble Men from the Riddermark. Our Steward was dead, through a tumble born of his own grief and my own breath found songs to bid him farewell. My lord Boromir had died long before. Knowledge of the cleaved horn left little faith in me when I saw it carried to the hall some few months back. I was a tower guard then, used to the sight of messengers in grey and wizards in white, to good news and bad.
Mithrandir himself brought a halfling with him, and I found the little man to be a talisman of good faith. But the child was nobler than I, painting sorrow for Orcs when he could. He spouted his own brand of wisdom through song, when I found him mustering courage at a fire by the walls. I strained my ear for the merry echo of his voice whenever I could hear him through din and metal.
But here I waited, my body mostly broken and in that horrid wait where wizards, Men, and kings huddled into a single will, they called out, "To arms! To arms!" I fell grasping my shield, my helmet, my armour that only another could tighten for me.
"Hurry," Master Pippin told me, appearing suddenly as he was wont to do, helping me to my feet before disappearing into a sea of steel and iron. "We haven't got time to waste!" he called out, lingering in the bustle like a man worrying over stew. His voice mingled with the swarm of voices, a buzzing sound that told of work and haste.
"Odd fellow," a soldier beside me said, handing me my sword and looking me over with some pity. "I am Captain Dahir, son of Mogru. If we have met before, then it would have been in battle. I am in command of the Sixth Regiment of Spearmen."
"And I, Captain Elmar son of Forlong, commanding the Third."
"I've my own pains and not so bad as yours. Shall we go to battle arm in arm?"
It was an invitation, a silent oath to go where I would go and die in the same space I occupied. I have accepted ten more before Dahir's and for all the blood at his side, I nodded and said, "May death follow the tread of your sword and with my life, I give you leave to follow mine."
"It is an honor," he said.
As he helped me fasten my shield to my broken arm, I said, "I feel that our city's defence is a pebble thrown at a lake and that some huger rock is to be hurtled, from the sound of all this hurry. If we are to march to the Gates of Mordor, then all is lost."
"Then all is lost, my lord."
My heart lingered in my stomach for hours.
This was only our first meeting. Dahir must have first originated from Osgiliath at its defence, when Faramir lost the ruined city to Mordor's first assault on the West. He was also more of a soldier than I, equipped with a fine scabbard, worn from nights under the stars and losing much of its former hue. We were what were left of Gondor's men, a trifle compared to its glory some few days back. Such oaths as we had passed between us now held more importance than those that had been made in the beginning. It was a strong resolution that left me praying for both our men's survival.
I called out to a man under my command and found him fastening my breastplate, hurrying in a skilled kind of blur that left me wondering if he had done the job right. I cried out at the grief those actions caused me yet only Dahir heard and I wanted no one to hear. I am a man of Gondor and only cowardice could make a man cry so. There was fear then that I could not understand, a knowledge of sorrow.
"Bring the men about Ardur," I said and the lad of only eighteen summers went down the cobbled streets calling out, "The spearmen, the spearmen! To me! To me!" I could not have shouted with the same passion; I already leaned heavily on my own spear and blood began to spread on my already bloodied shirt.
"My lord, your wounds would not bring you far," Dahir said.
"Your faith would both bring us only to Minas Tirith's gates, my friend."
"Our doubt would bring us only to the walls."
We laughed then, acknowledging our weakness.
Dahir, in a sudden mode of gravity, gathered what little men he had left. His lieutenant arrived with a hundred men only and already, tired enough to groan. They never uttered a word of complaint. I stifled an urge to cringe at the pain that sudden opportunity for a smile gave me. The wound, the wound! It stretched across my cheek! Oh, why is it that it never falls numb whenever I find joy!
We limped on the long road, mostly in silence. In times of dialogue, we talked of shearing, of gathering the crops, and sometimes, of the haughty weather that did little but strip our wheat of nourishment. We both hoped that such misfortune would come to pass after the defeat of evil that neither of us understood. Yet in all our talk, we mentioned nothing of dead men, or broken men, or rider-less Riddermark horses. We did not speak of leaders in Gondor or wizards that headed our wake.
Ah, but Aragorn son of Arathorn, could not escape our discussion.
The king rode back and forth from our column, dressed idly in ceremonial robes, as if he rode happily to battle on an errand of great joy. Or perhaps, an errand of service, I thought, a service to Men.
A vast cape bellowed behind him, chasing him merrily across and I say 'merrily' because there was not much to be cheerful at but the richness of his vestments. Many men followed his tread with their eyes. He was a welcome sight, a star shooting past the gloomy heavens. He had the Tree on his chest and a herald with a flag of similar design following him wherever he went. His companions preferred to ride in a less tiresome fashion, sticking to their own talk and their own grief.
The king owned the mighty brow of a leader, speaking to pockets of soldiers both whole and not, sharing words that had little consequence to politics or his own leadership. I found myself looking up at him and ready to drop my gaze at the power of his. In surprise, I realised that his horse had slowed to a canter by me and that both Dahir and I were compelled to meet his gaze, if only for the respect that was due. He looked me in the eye. Dahir, in his infinite wisdom, bowed low with a hand on his chest, saying, "My lord" in kind reverence.
When this king looked at me, I knew of his age; he was old and grey and I, only a youth for all my years in service. I did drop my gaze, staring at my feet, hoping to find some reprieve from the discomfort of walking with Isildur's heir.
"There is hope yet, Captain" he said to me, his boot level to my shoulder. "Where are you from?"
"From the north, my lord," I replied, arguing that his words were untrue.
"Ah, that land of rolling hills and higher mountains," he said. "I hope the sheep are caged from wolves.
"They are, my lord."
"And your name?"
"Elmar son of Forlong, my lord."
He smiled at my answer, knowing somehow, of my hopelessness. "There is hope yet, Elmar. We are making what mark we can in this Age, both as Men of Middle-Earth and Men of Gondor."
"My lord," I began, my voice gathering some strength, "I would not tell you otherwise but my heart speaks of nothing but a cause long lost to the race of Men."
I thought that I had won the argument; he was silent, frowning with thoughts that may have been darker than mine. Yet slowly, he said in a voice low and firm, "If so, shall we ride to battle arm in arm?"
My head whipped up and I stared at him in blatant surprise. To have used the ceremonial beginnings of an oath done only at desperate hours made me doubtful of our fate. It had the opposite effect; there was suddenly, no resignation in me.
"My lord!" I cried.
"Shall we ride to battle arm in arm?" the king repeated, this time dismounting and stopping the whole train. Echoes of the word 'Halt!' came crashing down the rows and lines of men and in a loud clamour wherein they muttered for silence, the noise of armour came short. Men of Gondor leaned inward into our space and vied for an answer as to why we had stopped.
I had no mind for their attention and only replied, "These words are all I have for you, my king: May death follow the tread of your sword and with my life, I give you leave to follow mine."
"If I have your leave, Elmar, son of Forlong, then Anduril will follow you. And so will all your men." He gestured to Ardur and Dahir, and the sea of faces more alive than weary. The spearmen did not look at Aragorn but at me, with expectation and hope sprouting from the seed he had sown. My king said in a loud voice, "There is hope yet, Captain!" He mounted his horse. "For I will follow you or any who answer my call to whatever end."
"To whatever end," I whispered.
In a tiny moment of shock, his words ringing with some deeper truth, I realised he had galloped off to the front lines. Anduril unsheathed, the Flame of the West, rode proudly with him and I tried to smile again, only to give out a small sound of pain.
I had spoken to the king! Had I told him of my finger? Or my arm? Or that deep wound on my cheek that stung to show him any expression of my gratitude? Had I told him of the many men he had lost or how deeply into debt he now was for all the lives sacrificed for Gondor? I guessed not because all else ached in the same manner they had when they were first inflicted, only that they ached less slowly.
Dahir said, "A true king, that."
"Yes," I said, sighing.
"Do you know where we go to?" the other Captain asked plainly, rubbing some recurring pain on his shoulder. "Have we not completed the defence of Minas Tirith? What other task would the king have us do?"
"Whatever reason it is, I know that our lives are forfeit for some greater cause. I will die for it."
"Then, you're a finer soldier than I," Dahir told me. "The king spoke to you. I should think that is merit enough for both our deeds."
"Thank you," was all that I could think to say. "Though our deeds could not be weighed so easily."
Dahir patted a gloved hand on my shoulder and said, "No, good friend. Thank you. For now I truly see the merit of greater men and what courage their words impart when the path is seemingly bereft of hope."
Ardur, the young lad, went up to me, his dark flowing hair not hindered by his helm. He sang then, in the voice of Gondor, in the voice of mountains and fields and vast plots of land that owned only beauty. It was a song sung at tombs and at celebrations, when they begin.
The lord has fled the world of Men
The lord unsheathed the sword he bore
The lord unfurled his banner when
The lord sought battle more.
The lord will fade like all Men do
In winter or in spring
As tears do fall when death is true
When what's left is remembering.
Oh, sword that breaks and shield that shakes
Delay the end that death conspires!
Before the gate, let courage sate
The honor Man desires!
The halfling appeared from behind Ardur, attracted by the singing and shuffling like a child. He was unlike any youth, for his eyes shone with merriness and deep reserve, with lessons learned in hardship and long bouts of riding. Perhaps it was due to his fellowship with Mithrandir.
"You're riding to a great end, methinks," the hobbit said. "There is some greater cause to this than inevitable death, though that isn't a nice prospect, I'd say. I'm quite sure friends are worth all this," he told me, smiling gently and bearing himself proudly, despite his size.
I walked with him for the rest of that march, Ardur and Dahir beside me.
I did not know what 'friends' he spoke of, yet unlike a dove whose hope leaves at its departure, the hobbit only enforced that which my king gave me.
In the long years I have served in both tower and field, a king who I thought bore little regard for common men like me, brought more hope than I could have possibly given myself. The halfling, in defence of his own Shire, gave Ardur's song more meaning.
Soon, as Master Pippin told me of his own land, lingering on details such as I had with Dahir, I saw a resemblance between ourselves. I perceived the lord in the poem both in him and in me.
-The End-