Chapter 4 notes: Book verse.

Eradan, of Gondor

It is three weeks to the day since I took my oath of service to Gondor and the Lord and Steward. I am young for it, but I did not wish to be sent to the hills with my mother and siblings, to cower in fear and await word without action. I wished to be like my father and to follow him into battle. My mother protested, but my father set my helm on my head and my shield in my hand. Then he turned away with tears on his cheeks. That was the first time I saw my father cry.

The second time was the night before we marched to the Black Gate. He held my face in his hands and I could see the tears glistening in the firelight. It was then I realized that his oath was taken before these dark times, out of love for his people, whereas mine was taken with only the thought of death and glory in battle. Never before had I wished so hard to be like my father. I wished then to remain close to him the next day; not so he could protect me, but so I could protect him and keep him safe for my mother.

I think now that only the young and inexperienced would wish such a thing. He and I, like so many other soldiers, were separated during the battle and now I am alone. I have not yet seen him among the living and I cannot bring myself to look into the faces of the dead, for fear that I will find him there. In truth, I cannot bring myself to move at all, so the only survivors I see are those making their weary way through the battlefield, away from the gates. I almost ask them what now? but they have no energy for anything other than food, rest and peace at last.

My vision is suddenly obscured. There is a gash on my forehead and the blood is seeping into my eyes, but I cannot bring my hand to wipe it away. It is a souvenir from when my helm was swept from my head by a glancing blow. Now it lies under a dead orc, somewhere near the gates.

The king is walking near, pulling orcs off the bodies of dead soldiers of Gondor and Rohan. He is searching, searching and hoping that he does not find his companions among the dead. He sees me standing listlessly near and strides over. One hand tips my head up to his while the other gently explores the cut on my forehead. Kind fingers wipe the blood from my eyes so I can see again. His gaze meets mine and he sighs.

Too young, his eyes say, too young for this burden of service. Suddenly I am exhausted. My eyes slide closed. The sword threatens to slip from my limp fingers. He pulls it from my grasp and sheaths it by my side for me. The weight of the weapon nearly pulls me to my knees. When I open my eyes he is smiling. He squeezes my shoulder in reassurance. I am too weary to even show my respect and thanks to my Lord and King, but I think he does not mind much.

A shadow over our faces draws his eyes upwards. Two eagles hover near. An old man in white slides down to the ground. The White Wizard. He, of all people, deserves my awe, but my attention is drawn to the two limp figures held gently in the eagles' claws.

One has blood dripping from his limp hand. My eyes are riveted to the empty space where his finger should be, even though my stomach turns at the sight. I rip my eyes away from his hand to rest on his face. There is a world of sorrow written in his face, even though he is not conscious. He is not free from his grief and pain even in sleep. He looks so frail that I am surprised that he has not crumbled to dust in the eagle's claws.

The other one is stockier and does not seem so frail, though his face is equally worn from his travels.

They are so still. Even my baby brother, who is a frail child and was often sickly in his first days, is never so still, even in his deepest sleep. Such stillness I have only ever seen in those near death. I am fearful for these two Halflings; afraid that they may never walk, jump or dance again.

Are these the two that held the world on their shoulders? I can barely believe it. They are no taller than my little sister, who has only seen nine summers. It seems impossible, that they could succeed where elves and men have failed, yet their bodies speak of the journey. They sleeping faces tell me that they have tripped and fumbled and crawled their way through a land that I fear to even think of.

I almost turn away, ashamed at my reckless youth, which now seems so very hypocritical, when I catch something else in their faces. It is a shock to find peace under so much damage, but it is there, along with acceptance and comfort. I would never think to find such thoughts in two so apparently devastated individuals.

I look carefully, thinking that my eyes have deceived me, but no. Beneath the dirt and pain lies a steady tranquility. It reminds me of someone who stands in the middle of a storm and says The rain will make the flowers grow stronger.

Is it for the end of the journey at last? Perhaps, though it seems to me that the calm has always been within them and has seen them through their darkest hours. I think that it must be why they risked such a journey; for that sparkle of hope that the world would finally be at peace. Yet even as I think it, my mind rejects the idea. That thought seems too big for these small creatures. They would be more driven for something smaller and dearer to them that the fate of all the free peoples. What then? What peace did they carry with them that enabled them to finish such a feat?

I do not know and I fear I never will. For a moment, I wish that the two Halflings are awake so that they may tell me. Something tells me that this is important; this is something I should remember.

The King finishes his examination of the two and the eagles take off, taking the Halflings to the area where the injured are tended. The King follows them at a sprint. Gandalf turns to follow them with a sigh. As I see that he means to leave, I take an involuntary step forward. I do not wish to be left alone here. Suddenly, I feel tears pounding behind my eyes. In that moment, I feel the desperate need to find my father again, the need to be held as a child, not as a soldier. Gandalf sees my movement and turns to me, concern in his eyes.

"Have you..." My body is trembling with the effort to hold back tears. "Have you seen my father?" He watches me with pity and compassion.

"Eradan, your father waits for you." Then he is gone, leaving me brokenhearted over his words, though I do not know why. I turn to see where he has gone, but there is a man striding near. I know the walk and though his face is streaked with dirt and blood, his face shines with joy. I remember the same look from when he threw me into the air as a child. My father has come for me.

Suddenly I know where the Halflings' peace comes from. Perhaps the joy of children is comfort enough.

The rain will make the flowers grow stronger.

I fall into my father's arms.