Disclaimer: All Star Trek related characters belongs to Paramount; all Lord
of the Rings related characters belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien. I am merely
borrowing them.
Aren't you all the lucky readers! Two chapters in one week!
**********************
THE SHADOW RIDERS
Chapter Seven: The Companions Mourn
Many Elves and many mighty Men, and many of their friends, had perished in the war. Anárion was slain, and Isildur was slain; and Gil-galad and Elendil were no more. Never again shall there be any such league of Elves and Men; for Men multiply and the Firstborn decrease, and the two kindreds are estranged. And ever since that day the race of Númenor has decayed, and the span of their years has lessened. ~J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings
**********************
The warriors rode into Helm's Deep just after mid-afternoon, only a little behind the women and children. Éowyn met them at the front gates, breathless and anxious in her haste. She fluttered around the riders like a white moth, wringing her hands in dismay.
"So few! So few of you have returned!" she cried, gazing at them, eyes wide like a startled deer.
Théoden gazed back at her, his eyes cold as frozen steel. "Our people are safe. We have paid for it with many lives," he said and pushed past the young woman. Éowyn met Malcolm's eyes. Sadly he turned away, not wishing to tell her of Aragorn's fate.
But she was far too perceptive for that, and looked from one to the next, pleading for someone to tell her what had befallen. "My lady...," said Gimli, choking as he spoke the words.
"Lord Aragorn...where is he?" she asked.
"He fell," said Gimli, and could speak no more. Éowyn looked up at her uncle, who bowed his head and strode away. Malcolm slipped down from Hasufel's back and took her hand in his.
"He fought well," he said. "He died a warrior's death. He will be remembered."
"He should be remembered as a king," spat Legolas and stalked away.
"What?" Malcolm said in amazement. "A king?"
"Did you not know, lad?" said Gimli. "Aragorn is heir to the throne of Gondor."
Malcolm searched through his mind, trying to remember just which of the many countries Gondor was. "To the south," said Éowyn. "On the other side of the White Mountains. Minas Tirith, the White City, is the capital."
"Oh, yes. The one with a Steward?" The words left his mouth and Malcolm realized the mistake. "Steward...of course. I apologize. All these names are rather difficult to keep track of. Aragorn was supposed to be king of that country?"
"He is Isildur's heir," said Gimli. "The blood of the Numénoreans runs...ran...in his veins. There is none higher among men."
"Who will be king if he is not?" asked Malcolm.
Éowyn sighed. "Most likely the stewards will claim for themselves the throne of Gondor."
"There were some who did not believe he was the true heir," said Gimli. "Boromir did not for a time."
"Boromir was your other companion?" asked Éowyn, looking rather awed. "The son of the Steward of Gondor? I did not know he traveled with you. An auspicious company you kept, master Gimli."
"Boromir was a good man. He fell as well," said the Dwarf sadly. "Slain by Orcs. Three arrows it took to bring him down! And he slew a great many himself."
Éowyn's face paled, ghost-white in the shadow of the walls. "And your fellowship was broken," she whispered.
"Aye, lass, that it was," said Gimli. "But both of our fallen members cost the enemy dearly. Boromir and Aragorn were the finest of men, and that is not a compliment a Dwarf pays out lightly."
Éowyn's lips thinned; from long experience with Madeleine, Malcolm could tell that she was fighting back tears. The young woman was very strong but Aragorn's death did not hit her lightly. On impulse he drew his arms around her and she collapsed against his chest, drawing long, shuddering breaths. He stroked her hair gently, as he would have done for his sister, and remembered Éomer's command to him. Wormtongue was no longer around, but he must still protect Éowyn; it was his duty and he would continue to do it until---if---Éomer returned.
He held her until she stopped shuddering; finally, she drew away from him, surprisingly dry-eyed but still very pale. "It'll be all right, lass," said Gimli, patting her back. She gave him a weak smile and looked up at the ramparts above them.
"Hoshi was most upset at your leaving," she said to Malcolm. "She slipped my mind for the moment. But perhaps we should go and find her. She stood atop the gate, gazing out to the plains, and I have not glimpsed her since."
"I'll go look for her," said Malcolm, stepping away from Éowyn. "I should probably apologize. I didn't think of her...she was probably not too happy at me for running off without a word to her." He nodded to Gimli and wandered away from them, heading for a nearby stair.
The steps meandered and twisted around in strange patterns; for a few minutes Malcolm was disoriented and found his way to the top of the gate by pure accident.
Hoshi lay curled up against the stones, breathing deeply, eyes closed tight. "Hoshi?" whispered Malcolm, carefully lowering himself down next to her. "Hoshi, are you sleeping?" He ran one hand along the side of her cheek, marveling how soft her skin felt against his rough fingers. She stirred and moved away from his touch, eyelids fluttering. Black eyes gazed out from under thick lashes, but she merely stared at him and did not speak.
"Hoshi, I'm sorry for running off like that," Malcolm said, slipping into English. "Éowyn said you were worried. I should have stayed with you and the women and children. I know I'm still not quite up to speed." This was true. His muscles were already sore from the earlier battle. He thought longingly of the hot showers on Enterprise---something completely unheard of here---and sighed. "Come on, Hoshi, you shouldn't sleep on the hard stone. Come down and I'll find you a blanket."
She sat up and gazed at him without saying a word. Malcolm frowned. "I don't know what else to say, Hoshi. What do you want me to say?" As soon as the words left his mouth he bit his tongue. Good one, Reed, you idiot, he thought. That phrase never brought anything but trouble.
Hoshi's eyes swept up and down his face, her expression one of bemusement, almost as if she did not even recognize him. "I should go help Éowyn," she said at last, and stood up quickly, walking as if in a daze. Malcolm, quite flabbergasted, sat on the stones, with not a clue what to do.
How strange everything was here, he thought, not for the first time, and heaved himself up from the stones. She was obviously angry at him, so angry that she wouldn't even speak to him! But what had he done? Women! He'd never understand them. She should be relieved that he was here and all in one piece... He sighed and started down the stairs, wincing slightly as his ribs protested the move. His tumble from Hasufel's back had not helped them any. Better not tell Hoshi that, he thought. It would just add to the problem.
He looked out along the long wall stretching away from the keep and saw Gimli and Legolas striding along the walkway at the top. With faint surprise he realized that he recognized the place: he and Hoshi had planned to come here on that ill-fated shore leave. How ironic that they should be here now after all. How far in the future was their time, he wondered, since the aerial photographs he remembered were of a much more derelict fortress.
As he walked down to join the Elf and the Dwarf, Malcolm's military mind noted strengths and weaknesses of this fortress. He'd read military strategy in his days at school, and since, but very little dealing with castles, and very little of it even land strategy, since his father had encouraged him to read mostly naval works.
But he knew enough to realize that preparations would have to made if they were to withstand a siege from an invading force. Wargs would not be able to get into the fortress, but he doubted an enemy---especially one so devious as this Saruman character---would be so stupid as to send big dogs, no matter how ferocious, against a stone fortress. Food should be gathered, and shelter found for all the people camped in the halls and open areas behind the long wall.
Tunnels, Malcolm thought. It would be rather simple to dig under that long wall, especially at one of the far ends where the rock cliff jutted out and obstructed the view from the keep. What had they done in the middle ages to detect that? Bowls of water, wasn't it? So that the vibrations from the tunneling could be seen in the water, that was it.
"There are not enough men to defend this keep," said Legolas as Malcolm approached. "When the enemy comes they will not meet heavy resistance."
"I think you underestimate them," said Malcolm. The Elf merely raised an eyebrow. "They are all very strong-willed. They will not give up easily."
"Courage will be no match for what Saruman sends against them," said Legolas, clenching a fist. "I know not what it will be, but the White Wizard is far too devious to be easily stopped."
"I can already see some things we need to improve," replied Malcolm. "For one, the gate is too thin. If they try to...um...knock it down...with a...big log...?"
"Battering ram," supplied Gimli.
"Yes. If they try to knock it down with a battering ram, it will punch right through that thin wood. We need to shore it up, with metal if possible."
"It will be Théoden's decision, not ours," said Legolas grimly. "And I have noticed he does not take kindly to helpful suggestions."
Malcolm stared out over the gray-green valley in front of them, taking in the high stone cliffs and craggy boulders that punctuated the landscape. "He does what he feels is right. But he has much to think about. We should make preparations anyway, without his knowledge." This would be easier with Aragorn here, he thought silently, and from the looks on the others' faces they were thinking the same thing.
"That we should, lad," said Gimli. He clapped Legolas and Malcolm on the shoulders (comically reaching up over his head) and pulled them towards the keep.
Malcolm put Aragorn out of his mind. When the attack did come, tomorrow or the next day or the day after that, they must be ready. More would fall. There was no time to mourn those who already had.
He looked up at the sky, the shadows deepening in the afternoon sun, and did not see the rider galloping down the valley towards the gate of Helm's Deep.
**********************
Archer, Trip, and several of Reed's security personnel clambered up over the rocks outside one of the many ruins all over the planet, frantically trying to get out of the storm. The wind howled in their ears and nipped at their exposed cheeks, and rain sluiced down in icy sheets. A long wall, half-fallen, barred them from reaching what looked like a sort of small castle. In the middle of the wall a great hole gaped wide, partially stopped up with boulders, and they splashed through ankle-deep water to get inside.
Trip slipped and tumbled into the stream, and cursed loudly as he heaved himself out of the water. Even so, Archer barely heard him over the roar of the wind. He looked up to the sky, wincing as the cold raindrops hit his eyes, and swore himself. The shuttle would never be able to get through that maelstrom.
Grabbing one of the security officers as she slipped and narrowly missed a sharp boulder, Archer pointed to the tower and surged out of the water. The others followed him as he broke into a dead run towards the welcome shelter. Up the steps he went, winding around the side of the building, and at the top he found a rotted wooden door, so ancient that it sagged off of its hinges. He kicked it in without thinking twice, and for a moment they all simply stood in the dry room, lit only by the dim light from outside, breathing heavily as the rain dripped from their clothes.
"This is where they were going?" asked Archer.
"Yeah. I was supposed to meet them here," Trip said, shaking the rain out of his jacket. "Two hours from now, as a matter of fact."
"You wouldn't believe to look at it, that it's just late afternoon out there," said Crewman Johnson, slicking his wet hair back from his face and checking the phase pistol at his hip. "Disgusting! I remember why I went out for Starfleet in the first place."
Archer grinned at him and clicked on his flashlight. "Not a fan of inclement weather, crewman?" He swung the light around the room, noting several wooden chests---just as rotten as the door---sitting along the side, and some tattered cloths on the walls. Little else remained in the room.
"Hell no," Johnson said, crossing the room. "Wonder what all this is?"
"It's ancient," said Trip, scanner in hand. "Millennia, even. I can't get a more precise date without going back to the ship." He carefully pulled the lid away from one of the boxes and sneezed as a cloud of dust puffed out into his face. "Ah, there's nothing but crumpled old papers in here," he said, disappointed. Archer shook his head and wandered to the other side of the room, gazing up at the wall hangings. A leaping horse, with a very human-looking rider, pranced over a field of faded green. He felt a twinge of sadness as he looked at it, the same that always went through him when he saw remains of ancient cultures. Someone long in the past had made that with care and skill, each stitch carefully sewn.
And now they were gone, just as his officers might be gone, without a trace except for a few random artifacts left behind. Where could they have gotten to?
With a deep sigh, Archer ordered the crewmen to start setting up a camp, and flipped open his communicator to let T'Pol know they would be down here for a while longer than they'd expected.
*********************** Betcha thought I was gonna send them to join Malcolm and Hoshi, didn't you? No....but don't worry, they have something to do as well. Leave one!
Aren't you all the lucky readers! Two chapters in one week!
**********************
THE SHADOW RIDERS
Chapter Seven: The Companions Mourn
Many Elves and many mighty Men, and many of their friends, had perished in the war. Anárion was slain, and Isildur was slain; and Gil-galad and Elendil were no more. Never again shall there be any such league of Elves and Men; for Men multiply and the Firstborn decrease, and the two kindreds are estranged. And ever since that day the race of Númenor has decayed, and the span of their years has lessened. ~J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings
**********************
The warriors rode into Helm's Deep just after mid-afternoon, only a little behind the women and children. Éowyn met them at the front gates, breathless and anxious in her haste. She fluttered around the riders like a white moth, wringing her hands in dismay.
"So few! So few of you have returned!" she cried, gazing at them, eyes wide like a startled deer.
Théoden gazed back at her, his eyes cold as frozen steel. "Our people are safe. We have paid for it with many lives," he said and pushed past the young woman. Éowyn met Malcolm's eyes. Sadly he turned away, not wishing to tell her of Aragorn's fate.
But she was far too perceptive for that, and looked from one to the next, pleading for someone to tell her what had befallen. "My lady...," said Gimli, choking as he spoke the words.
"Lord Aragorn...where is he?" she asked.
"He fell," said Gimli, and could speak no more. Éowyn looked up at her uncle, who bowed his head and strode away. Malcolm slipped down from Hasufel's back and took her hand in his.
"He fought well," he said. "He died a warrior's death. He will be remembered."
"He should be remembered as a king," spat Legolas and stalked away.
"What?" Malcolm said in amazement. "A king?"
"Did you not know, lad?" said Gimli. "Aragorn is heir to the throne of Gondor."
Malcolm searched through his mind, trying to remember just which of the many countries Gondor was. "To the south," said Éowyn. "On the other side of the White Mountains. Minas Tirith, the White City, is the capital."
"Oh, yes. The one with a Steward?" The words left his mouth and Malcolm realized the mistake. "Steward...of course. I apologize. All these names are rather difficult to keep track of. Aragorn was supposed to be king of that country?"
"He is Isildur's heir," said Gimli. "The blood of the Numénoreans runs...ran...in his veins. There is none higher among men."
"Who will be king if he is not?" asked Malcolm.
Éowyn sighed. "Most likely the stewards will claim for themselves the throne of Gondor."
"There were some who did not believe he was the true heir," said Gimli. "Boromir did not for a time."
"Boromir was your other companion?" asked Éowyn, looking rather awed. "The son of the Steward of Gondor? I did not know he traveled with you. An auspicious company you kept, master Gimli."
"Boromir was a good man. He fell as well," said the Dwarf sadly. "Slain by Orcs. Three arrows it took to bring him down! And he slew a great many himself."
Éowyn's face paled, ghost-white in the shadow of the walls. "And your fellowship was broken," she whispered.
"Aye, lass, that it was," said Gimli. "But both of our fallen members cost the enemy dearly. Boromir and Aragorn were the finest of men, and that is not a compliment a Dwarf pays out lightly."
Éowyn's lips thinned; from long experience with Madeleine, Malcolm could tell that she was fighting back tears. The young woman was very strong but Aragorn's death did not hit her lightly. On impulse he drew his arms around her and she collapsed against his chest, drawing long, shuddering breaths. He stroked her hair gently, as he would have done for his sister, and remembered Éomer's command to him. Wormtongue was no longer around, but he must still protect Éowyn; it was his duty and he would continue to do it until---if---Éomer returned.
He held her until she stopped shuddering; finally, she drew away from him, surprisingly dry-eyed but still very pale. "It'll be all right, lass," said Gimli, patting her back. She gave him a weak smile and looked up at the ramparts above them.
"Hoshi was most upset at your leaving," she said to Malcolm. "She slipped my mind for the moment. But perhaps we should go and find her. She stood atop the gate, gazing out to the plains, and I have not glimpsed her since."
"I'll go look for her," said Malcolm, stepping away from Éowyn. "I should probably apologize. I didn't think of her...she was probably not too happy at me for running off without a word to her." He nodded to Gimli and wandered away from them, heading for a nearby stair.
The steps meandered and twisted around in strange patterns; for a few minutes Malcolm was disoriented and found his way to the top of the gate by pure accident.
Hoshi lay curled up against the stones, breathing deeply, eyes closed tight. "Hoshi?" whispered Malcolm, carefully lowering himself down next to her. "Hoshi, are you sleeping?" He ran one hand along the side of her cheek, marveling how soft her skin felt against his rough fingers. She stirred and moved away from his touch, eyelids fluttering. Black eyes gazed out from under thick lashes, but she merely stared at him and did not speak.
"Hoshi, I'm sorry for running off like that," Malcolm said, slipping into English. "Éowyn said you were worried. I should have stayed with you and the women and children. I know I'm still not quite up to speed." This was true. His muscles were already sore from the earlier battle. He thought longingly of the hot showers on Enterprise---something completely unheard of here---and sighed. "Come on, Hoshi, you shouldn't sleep on the hard stone. Come down and I'll find you a blanket."
She sat up and gazed at him without saying a word. Malcolm frowned. "I don't know what else to say, Hoshi. What do you want me to say?" As soon as the words left his mouth he bit his tongue. Good one, Reed, you idiot, he thought. That phrase never brought anything but trouble.
Hoshi's eyes swept up and down his face, her expression one of bemusement, almost as if she did not even recognize him. "I should go help Éowyn," she said at last, and stood up quickly, walking as if in a daze. Malcolm, quite flabbergasted, sat on the stones, with not a clue what to do.
How strange everything was here, he thought, not for the first time, and heaved himself up from the stones. She was obviously angry at him, so angry that she wouldn't even speak to him! But what had he done? Women! He'd never understand them. She should be relieved that he was here and all in one piece... He sighed and started down the stairs, wincing slightly as his ribs protested the move. His tumble from Hasufel's back had not helped them any. Better not tell Hoshi that, he thought. It would just add to the problem.
He looked out along the long wall stretching away from the keep and saw Gimli and Legolas striding along the walkway at the top. With faint surprise he realized that he recognized the place: he and Hoshi had planned to come here on that ill-fated shore leave. How ironic that they should be here now after all. How far in the future was their time, he wondered, since the aerial photographs he remembered were of a much more derelict fortress.
As he walked down to join the Elf and the Dwarf, Malcolm's military mind noted strengths and weaknesses of this fortress. He'd read military strategy in his days at school, and since, but very little dealing with castles, and very little of it even land strategy, since his father had encouraged him to read mostly naval works.
But he knew enough to realize that preparations would have to made if they were to withstand a siege from an invading force. Wargs would not be able to get into the fortress, but he doubted an enemy---especially one so devious as this Saruman character---would be so stupid as to send big dogs, no matter how ferocious, against a stone fortress. Food should be gathered, and shelter found for all the people camped in the halls and open areas behind the long wall.
Tunnels, Malcolm thought. It would be rather simple to dig under that long wall, especially at one of the far ends where the rock cliff jutted out and obstructed the view from the keep. What had they done in the middle ages to detect that? Bowls of water, wasn't it? So that the vibrations from the tunneling could be seen in the water, that was it.
"There are not enough men to defend this keep," said Legolas as Malcolm approached. "When the enemy comes they will not meet heavy resistance."
"I think you underestimate them," said Malcolm. The Elf merely raised an eyebrow. "They are all very strong-willed. They will not give up easily."
"Courage will be no match for what Saruman sends against them," said Legolas, clenching a fist. "I know not what it will be, but the White Wizard is far too devious to be easily stopped."
"I can already see some things we need to improve," replied Malcolm. "For one, the gate is too thin. If they try to...um...knock it down...with a...big log...?"
"Battering ram," supplied Gimli.
"Yes. If they try to knock it down with a battering ram, it will punch right through that thin wood. We need to shore it up, with metal if possible."
"It will be Théoden's decision, not ours," said Legolas grimly. "And I have noticed he does not take kindly to helpful suggestions."
Malcolm stared out over the gray-green valley in front of them, taking in the high stone cliffs and craggy boulders that punctuated the landscape. "He does what he feels is right. But he has much to think about. We should make preparations anyway, without his knowledge." This would be easier with Aragorn here, he thought silently, and from the looks on the others' faces they were thinking the same thing.
"That we should, lad," said Gimli. He clapped Legolas and Malcolm on the shoulders (comically reaching up over his head) and pulled them towards the keep.
Malcolm put Aragorn out of his mind. When the attack did come, tomorrow or the next day or the day after that, they must be ready. More would fall. There was no time to mourn those who already had.
He looked up at the sky, the shadows deepening in the afternoon sun, and did not see the rider galloping down the valley towards the gate of Helm's Deep.
**********************
Archer, Trip, and several of Reed's security personnel clambered up over the rocks outside one of the many ruins all over the planet, frantically trying to get out of the storm. The wind howled in their ears and nipped at their exposed cheeks, and rain sluiced down in icy sheets. A long wall, half-fallen, barred them from reaching what looked like a sort of small castle. In the middle of the wall a great hole gaped wide, partially stopped up with boulders, and they splashed through ankle-deep water to get inside.
Trip slipped and tumbled into the stream, and cursed loudly as he heaved himself out of the water. Even so, Archer barely heard him over the roar of the wind. He looked up to the sky, wincing as the cold raindrops hit his eyes, and swore himself. The shuttle would never be able to get through that maelstrom.
Grabbing one of the security officers as she slipped and narrowly missed a sharp boulder, Archer pointed to the tower and surged out of the water. The others followed him as he broke into a dead run towards the welcome shelter. Up the steps he went, winding around the side of the building, and at the top he found a rotted wooden door, so ancient that it sagged off of its hinges. He kicked it in without thinking twice, and for a moment they all simply stood in the dry room, lit only by the dim light from outside, breathing heavily as the rain dripped from their clothes.
"This is where they were going?" asked Archer.
"Yeah. I was supposed to meet them here," Trip said, shaking the rain out of his jacket. "Two hours from now, as a matter of fact."
"You wouldn't believe to look at it, that it's just late afternoon out there," said Crewman Johnson, slicking his wet hair back from his face and checking the phase pistol at his hip. "Disgusting! I remember why I went out for Starfleet in the first place."
Archer grinned at him and clicked on his flashlight. "Not a fan of inclement weather, crewman?" He swung the light around the room, noting several wooden chests---just as rotten as the door---sitting along the side, and some tattered cloths on the walls. Little else remained in the room.
"Hell no," Johnson said, crossing the room. "Wonder what all this is?"
"It's ancient," said Trip, scanner in hand. "Millennia, even. I can't get a more precise date without going back to the ship." He carefully pulled the lid away from one of the boxes and sneezed as a cloud of dust puffed out into his face. "Ah, there's nothing but crumpled old papers in here," he said, disappointed. Archer shook his head and wandered to the other side of the room, gazing up at the wall hangings. A leaping horse, with a very human-looking rider, pranced over a field of faded green. He felt a twinge of sadness as he looked at it, the same that always went through him when he saw remains of ancient cultures. Someone long in the past had made that with care and skill, each stitch carefully sewn.
And now they were gone, just as his officers might be gone, without a trace except for a few random artifacts left behind. Where could they have gotten to?
With a deep sigh, Archer ordered the crewmen to start setting up a camp, and flipped open his communicator to let T'Pol know they would be down here for a while longer than they'd expected.
*********************** Betcha thought I was gonna send them to join Malcolm and Hoshi, didn't you? No....but don't worry, they have something to do as well. Leave one!