Dreamcast II: The Ivory Host
Chapter 3: A New Direction
Rivers POV
A large hill loomed before us, the steep incline reminding me of the winter slopes of Hastings, lavished with snow. The snow was a thick grass, which provided an unsafe footing. But Shadowfax would conquer it, just like he did the rest. In seconds, he had carved his way up and we were resting atop it.
Just then, I spotted four men lining the border to a forest a quarter mile away. I knew who they were; I had been expecting them for the past hour.
There was the wizard, lacking his pointed hat. Aragorn stood next to him with a callused hand clapping Gimli's beefy shoulder. Then, there was him.
Him! You know who I'm talking about! The one and only HIM. Legolas.
I could feel him from atop the swell of earth, elvish grace sweeping with the wind. His big blue eyes are open and his fingers are relaxing, recoiling from the bowstring...
Then Gandalf whistles. Instead of barreling down the hill like I half expected him to do, we turn and go west, or, at least I think I was west.
I close my eyes and burrow my fingers into Shadowfax's silken mane. My heart is breaking—I came so close to seeing him again. What did he think when he saw my torn and bleeding body? I remember the dying, the painless slip. I remember seeing Kyler and playing the flute. I remember—
"Oi!"
My eyes are open. "Who's there?"
My own voice answers me, except it has a venomous crack. "Shut up, brownie."
The first voice says, "I was only trying to help!"
"I don't need your help, Boromir! I have to defeat Sauron, not because I'm a haughty brat, but because he has Kyler and-"
"You honestly think your brother cares anymore? He's so bent on keeping the story straight that it won't matter...!"
"You honestly think I care either? I have a story too, apart from yours! This isn't a book anymore, Boromir! It's a full-fledged fairy tale, about to end with no happily ever after!"
Either I have gone mad, or my flute has reunited with me.
Probably the first one.
Eowyn's POV
What a grand escort she had, this Lady Rivers. The mystical horse Shadowfax delivered her to us personally. Ever since, she hasn't left his side, minus one meal and two sleeps. Her face was flushed when she got here, claiming to be a messenger of the White Wizard himself.
She constantly looks through a spyglass I lent her. I asked why, and she said she was looking to a person she'd not seen in a while. Her hand brushed against her ear. Did she mean and elf?
Rivers is indeed very pretty, in a latent way. Her white eyes spooked me at first, but I suppose all White Messengers carry that emblem of authority. I especially like the comparison between her milky pearls and Shadowfax's face. Her fingers curl around it delicately and she escapes the burdened land of war-torn frenzy.
A horn sounded. Her spyglass flew to her eye, and she brimmed with happiness at the sight. "They're here!" Gowns and banded tresses flying, she scrambled to greet them, and Shadowfax trumpeted loudly before following.
Aragorn's POV
I was very happy when I saw her, but what was I suppose to do to greet her. She swept me her finest curtsy and let a lustful eye drift to Legolas. She's falling in love with him even if she doesn't know it. I wonder how that feels?
Gandalf tipped his head before rubbing Shadowfax primly on the muzzle. Gimli grumbled, which made her laugh. It was a mournful laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.
Gandalf had us lay down our weapons before we entered the throne room. Rivers was forced to wait outside for saying, "I am a weapon," purely for a bit of fun. Hama sees no fun these days.
Théoden reminded me of a shriveled pinecone, lathered with the ages of men. His snake of a comrade would not let us cleanse him, ordering soldiers to make Gandalf's staff. None were willing to snatch the old man's weapon.
Tensions were rising when Rivers threw open the doors. Four men tumbled to the ground behind her and she was gasping for breath. "Legolas," she rasped, and he tossed her the crystal flute.
The room froze in time when she caught it. It didn't go to her lips; it flew across the room and pinned itself against Théoden's throat, tucked neatly between the aged folds of his chin and chest.
The soldiers roared up and swam about the room in reckless frenzy. I knocked one on the head and kicked the greasy, weaseled Wormtongue over to Gimli, who stepped on his with his beefy foot. Three more came at me and fell to the floor. Legolas brandished his fists, looking ruthlessly efficient.
Rivers stood next to Gandalf, ready to retrieve her flute when Gandalf performed the final cleansing. "Be gone!"
The instrument rolled across the floor, when she scooped it up. Gandalf, grasping her shoulder, whispered something into her ear. Théoden, atop his throne, was awaking. The false hatred and features fell away and all of Rohan rejoiced once more.
The rejoicing...
So long have I waited for a rejoicing.
Rivers POV
A large hill loomed before us, the steep incline reminding me of the winter slopes of Hastings, lavished with snow. The snow was a thick grass, which provided an unsafe footing. But Shadowfax would conquer it, just like he did the rest. In seconds, he had carved his way up and we were resting atop it.
Just then, I spotted four men lining the border to a forest a quarter mile away. I knew who they were; I had been expecting them for the past hour.
There was the wizard, lacking his pointed hat. Aragorn stood next to him with a callused hand clapping Gimli's beefy shoulder. Then, there was him.
Him! You know who I'm talking about! The one and only HIM. Legolas.
I could feel him from atop the swell of earth, elvish grace sweeping with the wind. His big blue eyes are open and his fingers are relaxing, recoiling from the bowstring...
Then Gandalf whistles. Instead of barreling down the hill like I half expected him to do, we turn and go west, or, at least I think I was west.
I close my eyes and burrow my fingers into Shadowfax's silken mane. My heart is breaking—I came so close to seeing him again. What did he think when he saw my torn and bleeding body? I remember the dying, the painless slip. I remember seeing Kyler and playing the flute. I remember—
"Oi!"
My eyes are open. "Who's there?"
My own voice answers me, except it has a venomous crack. "Shut up, brownie."
The first voice says, "I was only trying to help!"
"I don't need your help, Boromir! I have to defeat Sauron, not because I'm a haughty brat, but because he has Kyler and-"
"You honestly think your brother cares anymore? He's so bent on keeping the story straight that it won't matter...!"
"You honestly think I care either? I have a story too, apart from yours! This isn't a book anymore, Boromir! It's a full-fledged fairy tale, about to end with no happily ever after!"
Either I have gone mad, or my flute has reunited with me.
Probably the first one.
Eowyn's POV
What a grand escort she had, this Lady Rivers. The mystical horse Shadowfax delivered her to us personally. Ever since, she hasn't left his side, minus one meal and two sleeps. Her face was flushed when she got here, claiming to be a messenger of the White Wizard himself.
She constantly looks through a spyglass I lent her. I asked why, and she said she was looking to a person she'd not seen in a while. Her hand brushed against her ear. Did she mean and elf?
Rivers is indeed very pretty, in a latent way. Her white eyes spooked me at first, but I suppose all White Messengers carry that emblem of authority. I especially like the comparison between her milky pearls and Shadowfax's face. Her fingers curl around it delicately and she escapes the burdened land of war-torn frenzy.
A horn sounded. Her spyglass flew to her eye, and she brimmed with happiness at the sight. "They're here!" Gowns and banded tresses flying, she scrambled to greet them, and Shadowfax trumpeted loudly before following.
Aragorn's POV
I was very happy when I saw her, but what was I suppose to do to greet her. She swept me her finest curtsy and let a lustful eye drift to Legolas. She's falling in love with him even if she doesn't know it. I wonder how that feels?
Gandalf tipped his head before rubbing Shadowfax primly on the muzzle. Gimli grumbled, which made her laugh. It was a mournful laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.
Gandalf had us lay down our weapons before we entered the throne room. Rivers was forced to wait outside for saying, "I am a weapon," purely for a bit of fun. Hama sees no fun these days.
Théoden reminded me of a shriveled pinecone, lathered with the ages of men. His snake of a comrade would not let us cleanse him, ordering soldiers to make Gandalf's staff. None were willing to snatch the old man's weapon.
Tensions were rising when Rivers threw open the doors. Four men tumbled to the ground behind her and she was gasping for breath. "Legolas," she rasped, and he tossed her the crystal flute.
The room froze in time when she caught it. It didn't go to her lips; it flew across the room and pinned itself against Théoden's throat, tucked neatly between the aged folds of his chin and chest.
The soldiers roared up and swam about the room in reckless frenzy. I knocked one on the head and kicked the greasy, weaseled Wormtongue over to Gimli, who stepped on his with his beefy foot. Three more came at me and fell to the floor. Legolas brandished his fists, looking ruthlessly efficient.
Rivers stood next to Gandalf, ready to retrieve her flute when Gandalf performed the final cleansing. "Be gone!"
The instrument rolled across the floor, when she scooped it up. Gandalf, grasping her shoulder, whispered something into her ear. Théoden, atop his throne, was awaking. The false hatred and features fell away and all of Rohan rejoiced once more.
The rejoicing...
So long have I waited for a rejoicing.