Author's Note:
Thank you for the response and reviews! Loved them all. And now, more gap-fillers and more scenes I imagined *might* have just happened. Both movie-based when it comes to plot and sort-of text-based when it comes to dialogues. Unfortunately, that means no fun with characters like Elladan, Elrohir, Imrahil…etc. It's turning out longer than I thought it would have – seriously! I thought by now, the Battle of the Pelennor Fields would have been done…
Apologies for the delay in update – I had not written much more after the previous chapter and also wanted to craft each chapter to the best of my ability, so please do not yet give up on this even if the updates are crawling at best.
Chapter 4: The Watch of Night and Day
The dwarf's snore was perhaps loud enough to rust the chains that bound Morgorth in his void and sink all that remained of Middle Earth. Gimli did not stir, and surprisingly, neither did the rest.
They did not watch as sharply tonight, but he did, vigilant as he did every night.
The flickering light pulled a hypnotic play of dancing shadows upon those who slumbered, but it was the darkness of Edoras' walls and the wild Rohirric landscape's calm welcomed Legolas Greenleaf once again. The same hood shielded his light hair; it dulled even the radiance of his bright eyes. The threat from the East startled him anew as it did the first night he had stood outside, its vehement waves more toxic than a thousand Mirkwood arrows, more disquieting than Lothlorien's enchantments.
But to Estel , he had merely said that the Eye of the Enemy moved, never speaking of the increasing edginess and worry that sometimes gripped him, unable to put into words how he feared he had already lost the ability to wholly reconstruct beauty in the midst of annihilating darkness. Such was his unconfessed need and weakness – he could not yet speak of the gnawing wretchedness and of the entombing, despairing dream that burst its bulging seams. Strangely, he awaited the calling of the gulls with gladness, nursing Galadriel's prophecy with anticipation; perhaps it signalled only then that the time for him to sail had finally arrived, that he could relinquish all with nary a regret.
I lamath-en-nûr nín wenniel no nín, an oer vin firiel, a idhrinn vin pelol.
The Eldar had left for the West at the first sign of the necromancer's return, thrust out of a finished age, a leap that was surely most difficult to make. But how could he, when the tide of things now swayed towards the Edain, and he with them? The Eldar had not yet seen Estel …lean, taut and perhaps even gaunt, but fiery and wise, engulfed with violent life, the heir of Elendil and Isildur who would retake the throne of Gondor.
Or would he, having known the anonymous thrill of being an exiled Ranger from the North that granted him illimitable space?
Where he, an Elf, had hesitated, Aragorn had not the same sentiment when he had rashly wrenched the Palantir away from the halfling. And from that, the Istar's ride to Gondor accelerated the final turnings of the wheel that had been put into motion millennia ago. He thought of Eowyn of Rohan, and the heady impetuousness that seemed to govern her and the rest of the Rohirrim, overcompensating for the shallowness of experience with the identical kind of unrepressed rashness he had witnessed Estel demonstrate.
But for now, he found himself drawn to Men, staggering under the effort to obtain illumination about the breach of the two kindreds, laboriously piecing together only ill-jointed fragments of the incomplete, complex mosaic. The Edain and the Firstborn, were they truly different? Legolas sighed, concluding that the elves were merely shrewd and discerning in one realm, unknowing and uncomprehending in another, knowing too little about the Younger children.
Suddenly strewn in the night breeze was a presence that now stood behind him; he did not need to turn to see its face. For the many nights that he had stood watch on Meduseld's parapet, and the Ranger had unfailingly accompanied him; together they were an assemblage of few words and unspoken fears.
"It will not be long now, Aragorn." There was no mistaking that he spoke of many things – what was till then the greatest, pending battle of the age that was surely not long in coming, and thereafter a hopeful peace restored…and perhaps the most unsettling to him…the gradual dominion of Men over Arda.
In the darkness they knew; they were all too aware of the night's duality, its two-faced script that inscribed the odyssey from the outward to the inward and slowed the ongoing passage of time into deterioration. He did not expect the Ranger to reply; the apparent impassivity of the night seemed already to amplify the intensity and acuteness of dismal sorrow.
But yet he did and his next words were startling.
"My friend, do not think such burden upon yourself." The Ranger's fleeting glance was almost bitter as he tilted his head towards the distant stars.
Surely he did not think…?"Legolas," he began, grasping for words. "You seek to comfort and think it is perhaps your duty to discern what is to come, even in part –"
"Nay, I say these in truth, also in a bid to soothe the same misgivings that surely match yours."
"Tell me what it is."
The Elf shook his head.
"Or shall I speak to you as I did Brego? Man le trasta , Legolas, man cenich ? Must I coax you unto obedience as I did a horse?" The Ranger asked mockingly, raising a brow.
"Do you hope to easily bait an Elf?" Legolas countered languidly – then it seemed as if the cool night's air chilled his spirits. "I think you already know, although it seems at first too preposterous even for you to give it voice. That such a reasoning and realisation could come to you," he gestured gently, "it crosses your mind as untrue simply because you do not think such could come to pass. But I tell you that you find yourself closer to the mark than you thought you were."
"And I thought it was Gandalf who remained as cryptic as ever!" Aragorn muttered quietly – the Elf could be exasperating, and as obtuse as the Istar when he chose to be.
It brought a small chuckle. He was glad for the humour he heard, even though it was unwittingly performed.
"Ai, Estel ! The boy I knew in Rivendell is truly a king under a Ranger's cloak! Is not eighty-seven summers a long time, even for a Numenorean? I will not scorn it now as I have done in jest before. What honour is there when a kindred's length of days is pitted against another?" Legolas grinned now, glad for the implausible, unwitting light-heartedness that had started in heaviness.
With sudden warmth, he placed his hand on the Ranger's shoulder, not unlike the gladness that he was filled with when he returned Undomiel to whom it belonged.
"Your wisdom among your kind, Aragorn, is unparalleled." Mirth was fleeting, wiped clean by the countenance of sobriety. " Adan …yet your sight and your stubborn, pedantic hope in this instance surpasses even mine. It shames me, almost."
It was a dangerous incline he believed he had begun slipping downwards, a hidden foe as potent as a torrent of advancing orcs…but he had not paid sufficient heed to it, until its deafening demand for a voice.
"You speak of our harsh exchange in Helm's Deep."
"Aye. That, and more," he admitted freely, not surprised at Estel's directness – it was a quality so seldom balanced with compassion and intuition among the Edain, forged as a jewel, embedded only in the finest of Men. There seemed no reason to hide anything more after the lengths they had gone to establish such ground. "It bothers me overly, not because we behaved as fools – or rather I did – but that you have probably sketched the greatest quandary that beleaguers our kind, that being creatures who are not granted the Gift of Men, we are at times slow of heart to learn. And of this I can speak no more, until more is revealed to me."
They sat in comfortable silence, momentarily at peace with uncertainty. Aragorn was the first to break it.
"I crossed blades with Eowyn of Rohan some time before the journey to Helm's Deep," Aragorn said quietly, watching with interest the shuttered, terse look that hooded the Elf's normally clarion gaze, cloaked by a fine velvet of guilelessness.
"Did she?" He observed lightly with imperceptibly narrowed eyes – he burned to loose more from Aragorn's tongue, yet he waited.
"The Lady Eowyn fears a cage, not death."
"You are a jealous keeper of your words, Aragorn. Why do you tell me this?" He wondered aloud, meting out his response warily.
"Well met, Legolas. I had not intended to speak of this, mellon nin. But the fiery spirit is strong in her – the daughter of kings; she wields a blade as deadly as any male warrior would – her brother is as hot-headed, but not without sound counsel – have you not noticed?"
"You are drawn to her, Aragorn," he murmured instead, neither acceding nor disapproving, not revealing the passing incidents he had with her. Then more quietly, as though to himself, he said, "And she to you."
"She asks for something I cannot give, and sets a likeness for something I cannot fulfil."
"Arwen Undomiel would not have it any other way – she is…far too sundered from her kin to enjoy what the Uttermost West offers."
The tinge of frustration that struck them both was well hidden; they fell once more into the burst of unsettling silence.
"I saw you dance with her," Aragorn made the effort to resume their fine discussion about Rohan's Shieldmaiden, choosing to skip the brief, bittersweet remembrance of Arwen. It was with no small amount of surprise that Legolas caught the sly smile was found only in the corner of Estel's mouth.
"I learnt a new dance; I am honoured that she chose to teach it to me," The Elf opted for neutrality, not wishing to deepen their discourse.
Surely it took a man only of great sensibilities - a man raised among Elves – to be able to perceive a change in their manner. But it was now disconcerting, to see his friend afflicted so.
"I ask for your faith, Legolas. It will be our strength." He found it extraordinary – even patronisingly intolerable perhaps – to hear his counsel repeated to him, astonished at the sybaritic, fickle transfer of sentiments that he himself had initially propagated. "I have given my hope to Men, Estel . Perhaps only to you, in the beginning, but I do believes that changes even as we speak." Against all odds, he felt his sight contract and dim, his eyes welling. What had changed over the course of the past month that had caused his previously unwavering vision to take flight? Could it be the barely credible tale that a Halfling had chosen to destroy Sauron's ring? –Or that the simple mission of reporting Gollum's escape had burgeoned into an unlikely quest that had teetered and slipped past the edge of a knife.Legolas Greenleaf knew not what to think; such disorientation was as unfamiliar as a Dwarf's daily trade dealings. Suddenly he longed to touch the leaves of Mirkwood and stare at the sunlight splayed on its mighty green fronds until he was blinded.
The expanse before them had lightened, the deepening pink shades of an angry dawn a searing beauty whose sure hand pulled behind it the shying night.
"Which one of us is gifted with all?" Aragorn asked at last. "Even Galadriel's Mirror spins out things that may not pass – it shows us merely in part. Many things will not remain – what will remain?"
"A human child willed no tears to escape his lids when he fell over a root with the pack he carried on his back, and still persisted to declare that he was strong enough to bear his then-light burden…if your memory indeed serves you well, Aragorn," he insisted calmly, as though willing the resurfacing of a long-forgotten triviality.
"An age ago, Legolas."
The weight on your shoulders grows, but in that same measure so will the faculties you have been given strengthen, until the time you find they weigh no more than a stone.
It was doubtless they both remembered, savouring the lingering, hypnotic vestiges of the fleeing dark until light overflowed from the horizon, roaring out triumphantly its supremacy over the last, orphaned star.
"This remains, Aragorn Arathornion – mellon nin. Isildur's heir will not fail; my faith in Luthien's line remains."
**********
Passionately baptised by day, flawlessly softened by night, the time when Arda was caught between time's two harmonious movements.
A brooding figure sat a distance from the Watch Tower contemplating Anor's steady climb, a warm goblet held in his hands. He sat stock-still, encased with admiration for its effortless, consistent rotation around Arda, marvelling at the way the ground lit by degrees and shades, each colour tone deepening as each ray intensified.
Not noticing that another figure watched him, leaning against the wood of the Meduseld's outer court.
A small flame in the likeness of Anor's blinding glory appeared – he thought his eyes deceived him – until he saw with breathless disbelief the way its careless fire soon flowed downwards to consume the rest of the stacked wood, converted a harsh golden in the shape of a pyramid ablaze.
The beacons of Gondor…Calenhad glowed remorselessly bright, dappled with the feeble mistiness of the curves of the beacon hills, an uncompromising call for aid. He took in its sight, until he felt lit and consumed by its fire, growing flushed just by thinking of the urgency of the matter; it propelled him to a scrambling of feet onto an upward rush past the broad steps of Meduseld.
His movement was a blur as he rushed past her ill-concealed spot, not noticing the pillar she stood behind, reaching with both hands to seize the closed gates of the great hall.
Its great doors burst open with an unceremonious clang, and he hastened his steps through the threshold, swept with the rough surf of acute anticipation, skidding to a gasping halt several paces from the throne.
"The beacons of Minas Tirith are lit!" He cried. Gondor's survival depended as much on Rohan's troops as much as it did on his attempt to persuade Rohan's King. "Gondor calls for aid!"
The hall had grown quiet – Eowyn of Rohan saw the expressionless faces of the Elf and the Dwarf, and the unbending, commanding countenance of one who dared defiance. He fascinated her deeply at this point – intrigued her by his every movement, as though charisma had been made prisoner within his piquant face. And then she understood the pull of this Man to everyone who surrounded him, how they leaned towards his natural leadership and his unparalleled foresight among the Edain – it was at the tip of her tongue to loose Rohan's finest horses and warriors at his request – it was a desperation that almost mirrored his.
But she kept silent, knowing it was not her place to answer. She could not, in the short time of acquaintance made with him, recall any instant where Aragorn son of Arathorn was almost childishly anxious as time passed infinite, snapped to attention as a needle wheezed on its sharp point before it crashed horizontally onto its side.
Theoden had previously scorned Gondor's ability to honour their vows – would he now dishonour Rohan by refusing his aid in the same manner? Would Theoden require him, a long-lost emissary, a self-exiled King of Gondor beg for the fellowship of Men even in such dire times?
Her brother stood behind her, wound up as tightly as she was, awaiting their uncle's command.
"And Rohan will answer." Her uncle replied with sardonic triumph, a bitter and yet exultant reaffirmation of Rohan's honour left intact above Gondor's tattered soul – was there any praise to be garnered when one merely acted upon the fulfilment of one's vows when the other had not? "Muster the Rohirrim! Assemble the army at Dunharrow, as many men as can be found. You have two days."
"On the third, we ride for Gondor," he stated calmly. "And war."
They already followed him – a displaced ruler of Gondor.
**********
" Hwær cwóm helm? Hwær cwóm byrne? Hwær cwóm scir fyyr? Hige sceal þe heardra, heorte þe cenre, mod sceal þe mare þe ure maegen lytlað ," she whispered softly, relaxing her stern stance as she walked into the quiet stables, away from the bustle of the preparation for the ride to Dunharrow. "Peace, Brego. Your master's sword sang its vengeance against all orcs and other fell creatures of darkness that slew him. Ah, Theodred, lim-strang wæs geboren, bearn léod-cyninga, magorinc mearces, bunden in bryde tó laedenne, bunden in lufe tó ðegnunge ."Windfola was a remarkable steed, as was Arod and Brego; they were living comfort when her memory was wont to fail. Already, the sharp angles and the gentle planes of Theodred's face grew dim, but still he would live even as Brego lived, brought back to life as his new master cleaves a thundering path through rough steppes not dissimilar to the one its former owner did before he passed.
She had not - could not mourn him properly, and now she wanted to, in her own way, as Eomer Eadig hunted the orcs that slew her cousin with his merciless eored.
There was perplexing courage to draw from memory and a certain ease drawn from unrestrained monologue; she took it gladly, passing to touch Arod's and Windfola's nose gently, trickling softly over him the same rohirric words.
"Oh Windfola, to Dunharrow we go, to the rohirric refuge hidden deep in the vales of Ered Nimrais. You do not worry that the ground you run on would suddenly tremble and split into a deep precipice that drains even the most courageous man."
It seemed never more so now that legend and myth coalesced into the white, blinding light that all of them now walked under, mystical sayings and tall tales that grew bones and leapt to sudden, overwhelming existence as living beings shedding their blood on Arda's soil – she felt it well as she knew herself a Shieldmaiden.
"Let not the mind wander where it should not." His quiet voice ricocheted of the thin walls, dying as an echo in her ears. Its nuance and subtle inflexion soon switched, almost shyly mischievous. "Not until sleep clears the cobwebs of today's worry and the 'cannots' become 'indeeds'."
Eowyn felt caught between the expanse of light and the quiet haunting melody that was him, wrapped in the sable waterfall that was Varda's stars in his eyes. But sometimes understanding what he said brought tottering confusion and induced ironic prodding.
"Do all the Elder Children speak near insensibly?"
Legolas Greenleaf laughed. "Have you been spending time with Gimli who waxes dwarven lyrical on unpalatable elvish philosophy? He tells me to speak plainly every chance he gets, as does another now." He moved forwards until they stood side by side, reaching for Arod. "I came to lead Arod from the stables and did not expect to find you here with the horses."
"Does Theoden leave now?" She marvelled at the way the horse bowed to his whim; his kind had a deeper bond with these creatures than she had thought. Then again, they saw so little and understood far less; to her, it was humbling.
"Later, when the sun dips further. I merely wished to take Arod out for a while and will not ride too far. He is saddled and ready. Perhaps the quick rush of air in Calenardhon's rough country will do us both immense good," he replied, watching her curiously as she hurriedly moved to lead Windfola from his stall.
"May I ride with you, Legolas?" It was a request made on a whim and she had fully expected its denial.
He was not as surprised as he thought he might have been, mounting Arod in a dulcet spring so smooth it begged visual greediness.
"Am I any man's keeper?" He quipped. "Do you carry arms on your person?"
Eowyn smiled tightly, and then he saw it in a flash – Theodred's blade – that same blade that he had unhooked and handed to her – fastened securely at some point on Windfola's saddle, eclipsed easily by a folded cloth covering. She tried surreptitiously to copy his movement, that terribly slick leap onto Windfola that she nonetheless fell short of, seeing him trying to hide a grin at her effort.
And then they were off, dispatching the horses in sync that hoofed a cloud of dust in their wake, sleekly sailing past the flabbergasted Rohirrim caught in their preparation, past Gimli's huff and Aragorn's watchful eye, until they angled down Edoras' border into the fields unbound.
The wordless bloodthirst that grew stronger every minute the war of the Ring approached was strangely now her hope incarnate, bent inwards to spill the golden fields as red as dawn. Unutterable pain, nurtured anger…interlocked with bloodlust, a raging warrior waiting for fracture.
The Elf sensed the sinister bend of thoughts that assailed her, fragments of emotion that disturbed him. He pushed his steed harder, ahead, needing to be away from its darkness. She would not have it, twisting the reins and spurring Windfola alongside Arod, matching Legolas gallop for gallop. Around the varied mounds the horses took flight, acting out all that the mind's eye painted on imaginary canvases without script or premeditation.
For this short time, Rohan and its ancient borders were theirs; their dreams had narrowed to fresh grass and dried blades, drowning their already brimming mental coffers with inviolate, incoherent ecstasy.
----
*I lamath-en-nûr nín wenniel no nín, an oer vin firiel, a idhrinn vin pelol
- The voices of my people having departed before me, for our days are fading and our years are withering
* Hwær cwóm helm? Hwær cwóm byrne? Hwær cwóm scir fyyr? Hige sceal þe heardra, heorte þe cenre, mod sceal þe mare þe ure maegen lytlað
- Where is the helm? Where is the hauberk? Where is the red fire? Will shall be the sterner, heart the bolder, spirit the greater as our strength lessens
* Ah, Theodred , lim-strang wæs geboren, bearn léod-cyninga, magorinc mearces, bunden in bryde tó laedenne, bunden in lufe tó ðegnunge
- Ah, Theodred, strong-limbed he was born, this son of Kings, this warrior of Rohan, bound by birth to lead, bound by love to serve
**********