Chapter 18
Year 18 and 19, 4th Age
Elfwine stared at the man, a chill running through him as he realized he was looking at the nemesis who had defined his childhood. Orthale was somewhat disappointingly human - no aura of magic about him, no taint of the Dark Lord. He was just a man - and if he was to be believed, he was a man descended from a line long believed extinct.
"You're him, then," the prince of the Mark commented. "You were the one who sent Kaeliz to Dol Amroth and then tried to wipe out the army of the West."
Orthale smiled thinly and nodded. "You are the clever one, aren't you? Yes, that plan was mine. I was most upset when you caused it to come undone." He shrugged a little and looked into each of their faces. "For years, I have watched and waited for the opportunity to take back what is mine. At first, through arcane means that still lingered after the destruction of the Ring, and once that power was gone, I used my spies, always seeking my moment."
"You killed my parents," Elboron said thickly, his eyes burning with a dangerous, obsessive malice.
Orthale's hand drifted to his sword, braced for anything heroic from the young man. "I did give that order, though Garchuk would have come against your city anyway. I merely helped him plan his attack." His indifference was palpable. "My claim is the Kingship of the Mark and I truly have no dispute with Gondor. However, Elessar's loyalties require him to interfere with me claiming my birthright."
"Even if you are telling the truth...your claim at this point is not really valid," Eldarion argued, his hand gripping Elboron's arm to keep him in place and prevent a tragedy.
Orthale smiled. "Obviously, I feel differently. It is not your concern anymore, however. The death of all three heirs should open up an opportunity I can exploit..." Orthale nodded to the orcs and they started to press in again.
"You can't take the throne without the hammer," Elfwine said desperately, ducking under a lashing blade. "You need Sunder and you know it."
Orthale halted the attack again, looking intrigued and even a little bit desperate. "You know the weapon's name. You are clever. What have you learned?"
Elfwine chewed his lower lip and looked around uneasily. "We found a record...left by Theolen. It took me a long time, but I translated it..." He took a deep breath. "Dwarves came to the Mark seeking safety. Helm offered them the shelter in the Glittering Caves, which they took. The minions of the Dark Lord came and demanded Helm give up the Dwarves, but he refused. They brought a dragon down upon the Mark, and in the face of that, the Dwarves showed Helm the hammer, Sunder, which he used to kill the dragon. But the hammer was cursed and it brought ruin to him and his family. After the defeat of Wulf and his armies, it was put in a safe place."
Elboron and Eldarion gaped at their friend. He had not yet told them all that he had gleaned from the scroll. Elfwine had been saving it to tell them in grand fashion...but necessity had a way of upending plans.
Orthale's expression became more interested than anything else and then he actually laughed a little. "A pity you have to die. I would very much like to see this scroll and discuss it with you." His dark eyes bore into Elfwine. "Where is Sunder now?"
Elfwine looked around. "Let my friends go and I'll tell you."
Orthale laughed. "You are stalling, biding time until rescue. And time is not something I have an abundance of anymore. So, tell me where Sunder is now or I shall carve up your friends in front of you."
"You'll do that anyway, once you have the hammer," Elfwine returned boldly.
The heir of Helm froze him with a stare. "I have no need to kill them if I have the hammer - leaving them alive might even serve to help me bargain with Elessar when it comes time to make peace with Gondor. So, if you tell me where Sunder is and we find it to be there, your friends shall go free."
"We're not going anywhere without Win," Elboron snarled.
"Be quiet, Boro. There's no sense in all of us dying." Elfwine was thinking fast, trying to plot out the best way to survive just a little bit longer. His faith in Legolas and Gimli was iron-clad and so he was certain rescue was only a little way off. "Your word that they will be allowed to go free?"
"Yes, my word, now tell me," Orthale snapped.
"Ah..." Elfwine could have simply made up a location on the far side of the Mark, but he had a feeling that would alert this clever man to the reality that he was making this all up. "I'll need to show you."
Orthale drew his sword and put it to Elboron's throat. "I weary of games, Eomerson."
"Look..." Elfwine thrust his chin out hostilely. "We came here to retrieve it, all right? I know a few marks to look for and I can find it pretty quickly, but it will take longer if I try and describe the marker symbols."
"How convenient..." Orthale glowered at him, obviously conflicted by his need for the weapon and his complete suspicion of Elfwine.
The prince of the Mark had some practice at half-truths, thanks to his unscrupulous friends, but complete lies were still beyond him. So he decided, to be safe, to stick to the facts as much as possible. "The tapestry said the hammer was being kept safe by Helm--"
"I've had that howe taken apart a dozen times," Orthale argued harshly.
"Yes, exactly. So, what the tapestry had to mean was that it was safe in Helm's stronghold, the Hornburg. Now, do we have an agreement?" Elfwine kept his expression as harsh as possible to hide his nervousness.
Orthale clearly did not entirely believe him, but he was too desperate for the chance to risk refusing Elfwine's offer. "Very well, boy. Lead on. But you have a very short while to bring us to Sunder before I start carving up your friends." He sheathed his sword and turned to an orc. "Take a dozen of your men to the entrance to the caves. If the dwarf and the elf do make it back through the door, make sure they go no further."
The orc snarled a response and selected his squad. They trotted off down a darkened corridor, heading for their new assigned post. Their departure evened up the odds a little, but not nearly enough. Orcs took their weapons and then Elfwine was shoved ahead of the group.
The prince of the Mark led them down a corridor, towards the main courtyard. He knew they did not have a great deal of time - Orthale's patience were already worn thin. If he drew this out too long, the killing would start regardless. He wanted to get them into more open ground - if it came to it, that would increase their chances of survival.
Elfwine feigned searching the walls for the markings he had invented, refusing to let himself look back for his friends. The sight of them with orc spears to their backs would have been too much to bear on top of everything else. Heart hammering against his ribs, he took them step by step to the crumbling courtyard and looked around.
The walls had been badly damaged during the war, and subsequent rains and frosts had widened the cracks in the stone. Most of the battlements looked on the verge of collapse, the stone sagging in several places. The courtyard was littered with broken standards and rusting weapons, fading reminders of the days of glory.
Above them towered a massive statue of Helm. Elfwine glared at it, cursing his ancestor for bringing this all down upon them. The curse of the hammer clearly had not gone away with the end of Helm's family. It plagued the members of the ruling house of the Mark to this day. Elfwine truly wished he had never even heard of Sunder.
His gaze drifted to the replica of said hammer, gripped in the statue's hands and his brow suddenly furrowed. For it was strange, if one thought about it, that King Frealaf would go to all the trouble of removing all mention of the hammer from Riddermark lore - to the point of creating the legend of "Hammerhand" to explain Helm's might - and then to erect a statue with the man holding a massive war hammer, contradicting the legends he had worked so hard to spread. Surely such a monument would serve as a reminder...
Ancestors...it couldn't be...
Elfwine stopped himself from gaping and started to look around the ground a little bit, his mind racing with an impossible notion. The prince was simply too stunned and amazed to manage to hide it effectively, and a trickle of fear went down his spine.
Orthale was staring at the statue. "Under my nose the whole time...?"
His clumsy cover failed to have the effect he needed it to have.
Elfwine was about to call upon his friends to do something incredibly heroic (and most likely fatal) when there was a burst of noise from the level below them. Gimli and Legolas crashed through a door and came into the open air, battling orcs every step of the way.
"Hold them!" Orthale ordered, pointing down at the two former Walkers - most of the orcs ran to do just that.
That was all the breathing room that Elboron and Eldarion needed to act. Cries of "Ithilien!" and "Gondor!" filled the air and the young princes surged to the attack. Now they had the body mass and the experience to be a match for a pack of orcs and they used it. In short order, they had their swords back and were clashing with their enemies.
Orthale ignored them. He turned and headed for the stairs to the battlements, his prize now within reach. Elfwine lunged after him, tackling him around the shoulders. At fifteen, he was as tall as a young tree and his hands could easily encompass a man's head. Just because he did not enjoy fighting did not mean he was not versed in it.
Orthale, however, would not be denied. After falling under the prince's assault, he rolled and kicked out, shoving the young man from him. They both rolled to their feet, but Orthale still had his sword and he lashed out with it so fast Elfwine was almost not able to react in time. Leaping backward and arching his body away from the deadly steel, he was still sliced right along the chest by it.
The prince of Rohan fell to the ground, gripping his wound and struggling to rally against the pain.
Orthale raced up the steps, taking them two and three at a time. His entire concern and focus was the hammer. The prince could be deal with later. Elfwine watched him and knew that if he was not stopped, it would be the end of the Mark, and possibly all of the West. A man with Sunder at his side would hardly be satisfied with one kingdom, after all.
Elfwine forced himself to stand, spots appearing in his vision from the pain. He looked to his friends who were being hard pressed by the orcs and very much needed his help. His heart ached to join them, but he knew he had to let them face the orcs on their own. Even if all three of them died today, it would be well as long as Orthale's ambitions were foiled.
The prince of the Mark mounted the steps quickly, one arm around his bleeding chest. He stepped carefully onto the battlements, testing the stone before putting his weight on it. A misstep now would mean disaster for everyone. His gaze drifted briefly to Orthale, who was preparing to leap a gap in the walkway.
Time was almost out.
Elfwine took a deep breath and prayed to his ancestors for some luck and then he ran as only he could, flying over the stones even as they trembled and disintegrated underneath him. The pain in his chest was excruciating, but he kept his focus on Orthale and stopping the man from claiming his prize.
Elfwine reached the gap in the walkway and flew over it, his lighter frame and his momentum making it much easier than it had been for Orthale. Finally, he skidded to a halt before the massive statue, just as Orthale was tapping the hammer with his sword.
The clay that had been artfully disguising the hammer for centuries chipped and fell away, revealing a shiny surface beneath. Orthale grinned in triumph.
Sunder had been found.
"Orthale!" Elfwine screamed, ripping Elessar's dagger from his boot-sheath and slashing the man across the back.
The man cried out and turned, his sword parrying the next swipe of the prince's knife. A look of incomparable rage filled the man's eyes as he started to assail Elfwine with one vicious attack after another. He was not about to be stopped now. He was too close.
Elfwine was driven back, the limited reach of his dagger making it dangerous to try anything more than defense. Had he not been trained by one of the finest weaponsmasters of the Mark, he would have been dead a dozen times over. As it was, though, he was able to at least hold his own.
For a little bit.
Elfwine cried out as the man's booted foot connected with his wounded chest, sending him reeling. He tripped over a piece of debris and very nearly ended up flailing right over the wall. The prince caught himself, but only just barely. Gripping the wall's edge, he stared in numb horror at the harrowing drop before him.
Orthale had once again left him, single-mindedly trying to get his hand on the thing that would end this fight and any other in future. Elfwine turned and stared in horror as the man slid the huge hammer from the statue's grip. Orthale's expression was beatific as he felt the power in his hands, the absolute victory.
"No!" Elfwine cried out.
Orthale brought the hammer against the great statue, which exploded into shards of stone and a cloud of dust. And when the dust cleared, the clay mask upon Sunder had fallen away completely, leaving behind a bright mithril sheen. Orthale laughed in absolute glee, the power in his hands overwhelming.
Elfwine rushed him, desperate to tackle the man straight off the battlements if nothing else - Orthale had to be stopped at any cost. The man reacted with astonishing speed, bringing the hammer around in a blow that surely would have crushed Elfwine's body had it connected. The prince of the Mark narrowly dodged, though, slipping to one knee in the process.
If the hammer weighed anything at all, Orthale did not show it. He whipped Sunder around and down like a toy, bringing down one awful blow after another. Elfwine scrambled out of the way, his reflexes barely saving him.
The massive blows shook the walls and caused huge chunks of them to fall away. The entire structure seemed to groan in protest of the abuse, threatening to disintegrate beneath them.
Elfwine wished his friends were here - he desperately needed help. But they had their own problems so he was forced to meet this challenge alone. As he struggled to stay one step ahead of the deadly swings, he searched back to all the lessons Erkenbrand had taught them.
"A large weapon can kill you in one blow, but the disadvantage is they need you to be at a certain distance to be effective. If you're lucky, brave and fast, you can use a dagger to kill a man wielding a broadsword."
Elfwine paid very close attention to just how quickly Orthale moved; once he had that mapped out, he chose his moment. After one vicious swing, Elfwine leaped forward instead of backward, something that clearly shocked the heir of Helm. He clutched at Orthale's tunic and smashed his head into the other man's brow, a little trick Erkenbrand had taught him.
Orthale tried to shake him off, but Elfwine's grip was too strong. They struggled back and forth a little bit, snarling and cursing at each other. If Orthale had been able to bring himself to drop Sunder, he would have easily been able to overpower Elfwine, but his hunger for the weapon's power overruled his good sense...
Elfwine plunged Elessar's dagger into the man's belly, staring pityingly into the man's wide eyes. He had never killed a man before, and in that moment he vowed to never do so again. In Orthale's eyes he saw a lifetime of dreams and schemes turn to dust and it made him profoundly sad.
Sunder slipped from the man's hand, clattering to the stones with a metallic clang. Even with his fingers too numb to hold it, Orthale was weakly reaching out towards it.
Elfwine stared, transfixed, as the man slid off his knife. Orthale Grimason staggered backwards, clutching his bleeding gut. His gaze turned from Sunder at the last moment, staring at the boy who had defeated him.
And then he pitched backward off the wall.
"How's that? Too tight?"
Elfwine shook his head, smiling a bit at Eldarion. Legolas and Gimli had set them up with a small camp in the lee of one of the more solid walls and then gone off to be sure the orcs were not coming back.
The prince of Gondor smiled back and tied off the bandage.
"You sure Boro will be all right?" Elfwine asked.
Eldarion looked a bit troubled. "His body will heal..." The cloud of worry on his face was painfully obvious.
"But...?"
"You should have seen him with the orcs...he was...inhuman..." Eldarion sighed and looked over to the pallet where there friend rested. The blankets covered the bandages that he was swathed in. "His need for vengeance...worries me..."
Elfwine sighed. "Me too. Maybe once he takes back Minas Ithil...maybe that will be enough."
"I can hope so." Eldarion handed his friend the waterskin and settled back, looking into the small fire they had built. "So, I guess it's all done then. Our great adventure..."
Elfwine laughed a little and then winced as his wound protested. "We're not even twenty yet, you know. I hardly think we've seen the high point of our lives."
Eldarion shrugged moodily. "I know, but...well, this whole business is done. The enemy is dead, the hammer has been dropped down a deep hole in the caves, the orcs have been scattered... No more sneaking about, looking for clues..."
"No more giving my father apoplexy by haring off to the most dangerous places in the West," Elfwine returned dryly.
Eldarion gave him a sour look. "You're entirely too practical." He sighed again. "Next year, Elboron will take back Minas Ithil and he won't really have any business staying here in the Mark. I'm sure my father will decide it's time I came home and started learning to be a prince of Gondor. It...nothing will be the same, Win."
Elfwine felt a pang of loss at that and he nodded. "Childhood isn't forever, Dar. But we sure had some times."
"We certainly did," Eldarion replied with a grin.
"We certainly did," Elboron echoed, not opening his eyes, but smiling beatifically.
The three boys did not tell Legolas and Gimli the entire tale of who Orthale was, not out of a lack of trust, more as a precursor to not telling Eomer. Elfwine loved his father deeply, but he knew the Eomer was not prepared to deal with the idea that Helm had been a murderer and that an entire line of Kings had been lurking in the shadows, seeking the moment to retake their throne.
The story was simplified to the fact that Orthale had been Grima's son and he had been carrying on his father's misdeeds. Eomer listened to the story - over several mugs of ale that had served to calm him after learning of his son's latest brush with death - and then loudly toasted his son and the other heirs for their bravery.
Elfwine was noticeably uneasy with being commended for killing Orthale.
The young heir rather manipulatively used his moment as a hero (as well as all the fuss over his wound) to gain permission to winter with the Elk tribe. It clearly stretched Eomer's patience to the very limit, but the King of the Mark capitulated. Not graciously, but he did capitulate.
So it was that the three heirs were allowed to go and spend the winter with their friends, and Elfwine was allowed to continue his courtship of Magda. As the weeks went on, doubt slipped away. This was no mere infatuation or fleeting affection.
Elfwine of the Mark was in love.
Year 19, 4A Spring
Within the council chambers of King Eomer awaited a small gathering of his most important men. Amrothos was there, of course - he held no official rank but no one disputed his mastery of strategy. Thaedenbrand, Lord of the Westfold, was there, as was Elfhelm, Lord of the Eastfold. Various other captains, clan-chiefs, and herd-masters were there as well, the very elite of the Mark.
Eomer strode in wearing full armor. Everyone scrambled to their feet in respect, eyes collectively wide at the sight of their King thusly ready for battle. His eyes were dark as thunderheads, and his jaw was set.
The King threw his sword down on the table. "I called you all here for two reasons. One, I am ordering you to make ready. The Mark rides to support Prince Elboron reclaim Ithilien in one month. I will have five thousand men, no less. Is that , Eomer King," Elfhelm murmured, his heavy brows furrowed.
The others nodded their assent, caught off guard by the King's foul humor.
"Good. Second, my son is marrying Magda of the Dunlendings. Any man who wishes to argue should speak up now." His eyes drifted meaningfully to the sword he had dropped on the table.
They all stared at him in horror, but the threat of naked steel and the warning in Eomer's eyes gave them pause.
"It...is an abomination, Eomer King," Thaedenbrand told him in a deep, uneasy voice. Ever bit as big as his father had been, he was still quite boyish in looks. But anyone who had seen him in the practice yards knew he was a foe to be feared. "Surely you cannot approve of this."
"No, I don't," Eomer told him seriously. "However, I cannot deny that Dunlendings saved us all. I may not be able to bring myself to trust them, but my son can. And when he rules, maybe he can finally put an end to the war that has plagued us for centuries."
"Peace?" Elfhelm snapped. "With those dogs?"
"The Mark's future Queen is one of those 'dogs' so I would choose your words more carefully," Eomer warned him.
"This will tear the Mark asunder," Thaedenbrand warned.
"Perhaps," Eomer said, his tone slightly more calm. "But really, lads, how many times has my son saved our necks? I don't feel this is a wise idea, but I do feel it is time to put our faith in him."
The men in the room looked very dubious, but they each nodded in turn. Their respect for Eomer and their affection for Elfwine was enough to buy their acquiescence, if not their approval. It would be their sons' problem anyway, and the sons to follow.
Privately, many were concerned about giving command of the army to Prince Elboron, even though it was his by every right. Most everyone knew or had heard that the son of Faramir had been made a bit unstable by the fall of Minas Ithil. Such a leader could create disaster for the army of the West.
Much to everyone's surprise, though, Elboron was quite amenable to all suggestions in plotting out the campaign. He listened to and incorporated ideas from Elessar and Eomer and, of course, Amrothos. In turn, he surprised them with the deft and subtle twists he added to the strategy, showing a glimmer of his father's brilliance.
True to his word, Aldurn begged Eomer to be released from his oaths, and Eomer regretfully complied. He cited Aldurn's years of loyal service and expressed the gratitude of the Mark to the Rider, all of which made Aldurn deeply uneasy.
Immediately following, Aldurn swore his sword to Elboron - "Until death take me" as he put it.
It was late spring when the army of the West topped a ridge and looked down at the Minas Ithil - now Minas Morgul again. The orcs had been quite busy in the last year or so. The forest had been stripped away for leagues around the city and several rings of defenses had been set up. A line of sharpened stakes was first, and then a two separate walls, each a hundred meters high, and beyond that was a massive trench.
All of which had been in the reports, so the army was quite ready to face them. They started their assault at noon, with the sun high in the sky and the orcs at their least effective. They loaded the catapults with burning pitch and lobbed it down upon the first perimeter - causing panic and confusion as well as burning a path through the stakes.
A lightning strike of Dol Amrothian knights swept into the breach, scattering the terrified orcs before them. Very few of the foul creatures made it behind the first wall - Alphros was leading the knights and he had been at Minas Ithil when it had fallen. There was no pity in his heart for the monsters. The massive army of the West arrived at the first wall precisely on schedule and immediately placed their catapults. The timber walls could not long stand the battering, but the orcs held their ground anyway. They ineffectually fired arrows at the army, howling out their challenges.
The wall fell quickly and again, the orcs fell back. Elboron watched coldly as the plan was carried out, sitting a'horse beside his two friends. They could see the bloodlust in his eyes, but he was biding his time. And he seemed to be enjoying crushing the orcs, line by line, and filling them with the same panic the citizens of Minas Ithil suffered. His coldness caused Elfwine and Eldarion to exchange worried looks.
The second wall fell as easily as the first and then the orcs fled, streaming across the bridge spanning the trench and heading for the city proper. The bridge was, predictably, collapsed behind them - no matter that hundreds of orcs had yet to get across.
Elboron watched dispassionately as the Riders of the Mark wiped out the foulkind who were thus trapped.
The men of the West used the orcs' own timber walls as bridges, throwing them down over the trench and riding or marching right across. It had taken only a few hours to breach the defenses the orcs had spent a year building.
The sun was behind them when they reached the city - and the stench of it was the first thing to bring a truly volatile reaction from Elboron. This was his boyhood home and now it looked and smelled like nothing but an orc nest. He rode agitatedly before the walls, waiting impatiently for the siege engines to be brought up.
The purpose of the defenses had been merely to exhaust and slow any attacking army, but that had been the reason Elboron had brought so many men. Now the ones who had fought so hard all day could take their rest and those he had held in reserve could man the siege engines.
Nightfall would bring no solace for those who had killed his parents.
For generations, the story of the retaking of Minas Ithil would be told beside hearths and in great halls. The shocking brutality with which the campaign was executed was the sort that could only be achieved when vengeance was involved. And no one leading the army would have denied that being true. Elessar, Eomer, Elboron...they all wanted blood for what had been done to those they loved.
And the streets ran with blood before it was all said and done.
The gates of the city fell just after dark and the men of the west poured into Minas Morgul, screaming war cries. The problem of light to see by was solved by an idea of Elboron's - set fire to the roofs. He was going to have to rebuild anyway.
The slaughter went on for hours. Orcs were rooted out of cellars and beheaded, they were surrounded by horsemen in the market square and speared, they were chased into burning buildings. Those who tried to flee into the night found that Elboron's malice had inspired him to cover all escapes with woodsman who had taken time to adjust their vision to the darkness.
The darkened forest sang with the sound of bowstrings and no orc who sought escape found anything but death.
By the time the sun came up again, it was over.
Elboron walked the streets with his friends, each of them covered in blood. Only Ithilien's prince seemed ready to continue the fight. The other two were looking a might bit sick from the night of destruction. And his grimness did not set them at ease.
Eomer and Elessar were in the square before the Prince's manor, looking around in horror at the macabre display the orcs had put up. Dozens of bodies - citizens of Minas Ithil - had been impaled and the spears had been planted in the ground.
Elboron stared, numb to blood and horrors now. He looked around, noting that some of the bodies were "fresher" than others, suggesting the orcs had kept prisoners for a while after taking the city. Any slight bit of remorse for the night's brutality evaporated in the face of that.
"Oh no..." Eldarion's voice was barely a whisper.
Elboron turned and choked, unable to believe or comprehend the barbarity of these disgusting creatures. It was not just that they were utterly devoid of anything good or honorable, they were also consumed with the need to descend to further depths of depravity.
Faramir's head hung from the doorway of the Prince's manor.
"Bury them," Elboron murmured and stormed from the square, an idea he had been considering cementing in his mind.
This evil had to be expunged.
"Minas Ithil is no more," Elboron told Elessar that evening. He had still not fully recovered from the sight of his father's head mounted like a trophy. "We'll tear it down so the orcs have no more use of it, but I can't ever come back here, sir."
Elessar nodded, smoking his pipe. They were alone in his tent, a conference between the King and his too-young vassal. Elessar wished desperately that this burden had not fallen on Elboron so young. "As you wish, Elboron. Where will you go?"
"Emyn Arnen," Elboron answered. "There is a small town there now with good walls. My father often talked of it as possibly a more central place to rule Ithilien from."
Again, Elessar nodded. "That would have been my suggestion. You will, of course, be offered every assistance, Elboron. But you know there is no hurry...you can set the builders to work and return to your Uncle's kingdom, if you wish."
Elboron was momentarily wistful, wishing he could turn back time to return to those simple days of running wild in Rohan. Aside from a pitiful need to take shelter in boyhood, however, he had no justifiable excuse.
"Thank you, sir, but those days are over. The West is not safe, sir. That troll is still out there, and I am sure he is rallying more orcs to his cause. He will come at us again and again. He won't ever stop..." Elboron's gaze became haunted. "Won't ever..."
"Elboron..."
Ithilien's Prince looked to his King with a deep and unending sorrow. "My family's charge is to guard against invasion from the East, and I will carry out that duty. Rather than sit and wait while their numbers swell and their plans take root, I will bring the war to them. I will take an army of men - anyone who will follow - into Mordor...and I will exterminate every orc I find."
"Elboron, this does not need to be your course," Elessar argued urgently. "Your family has been avenged, your city has been purged. Your honor should be satisfied.."
"It has nothing to do with that, sir." Elboron swallowed hard and looked him in the eye with a gaze far too old for his sixteen years. "I have to do this, sir. Barahir, my sisters...I have to keep them safe."
Elessar sighed and shook his head sadly. "Very well, Elboron, I won't stand in your way. I just hope you do not let this quest consume you."
Autumn of that year saw Edoras swarmed under by visitors of the highest rank from all over the West. King Elessar and the Lady Arwen were there, as were Elphir, Erchirion, and Alphros. Elboron, Prince of Ithilien, was there, and he brought along his little brother Barahir. And of course, as was becoming custom, where one found him, one found Eldarion.
Eomer's marshals were there, as were a host of Dunlendings. The tension in the city rose to a critical level, but everyone did their best to respect the solemnity of the occasion. And they all seemed to be trying to accept that they wouldn't be allowed to kill each other anymore.
A very nervous Elfwine stood in the back of the Great Hall, flanked by his two friends, who were very amused by his nervousness. Elfwine looked out over the assembly, picking out the faces he knew. Magda's friends, Bahna, Kala, Rees, and Daeor, could be seen over on the Dunlending side of the hall. Bahna and Daeor had grown into massive young men, though their attempts at beard-growing were yet only marginally successful. Kala was heavy with child, and Rees was staying close by her, very protective of his wife.
Across the hall, Elfwine saw Hama sitting between Haleth and Eothain, a small child in his arms. He caught Elfwine's gaze and gave him a very amused glance in return. Whatever childhood rivalry had existed between them had been washed away simply by growing up.
Educh was there, of course, sitting in the fore of his people. He was looking both happy and sad, as fathers do at weddings, and his gaze on Elfwine was completely approving. The prince of the Mark smiled uneasily back at him.
There were noted absences, of course. Elfwine wished desperately to be able to look out and see Erkenbrand sitting beside his son, Thaedenbrand, grinning and anxious for the drinking to start. His death had left a void Elfwine knew could not be filled.
And, of course, not having Eowyn and Faramir there was very sad. At every family gathering, of course, there are faces that were missed, but his aunt and uncle had been taken far too soon.
The doors at the back of the hall opened and Magda came in, flanked by two of Educh's best friends, in the Dunlending tradition. She was radiant in her simple dress of homespun wool. Again, per tradition, she had made the dress herself - though Lothiriel had stood in for the girl's mother to help out. Elfwine's mother's touch was seen in the beautiful embroidery - elk and horse symbols decorated the simple cloth.
Not that Elfwine could think much about such subtle details. His knees suddenly seemed too weak to keep him standing.
"No fainting, Win," Elboron murmured beside him, grinning hugely.
"Yes, save the being on your back for later, Win, really," Eldarion added with an equally bright smile from the other side.
Elfwine blushed, glowering at his friends. "I invited you to stand up for me here, don't make me thrash you in front of all these fine people."
His friends laughed.
Magda was suddenly before him and the two young people smiled at each other. Nervousness, relief, excitement...all were vying for space in his head and he almost vibrated with the swell of emotions. Elfwine remembered Eldarion saying their adventures were over. But for him, this very much felt like the beginning.
There was one guest not on the list, one who had not come through the main entrance or even the gates of the city. The man had other ways to get into Meduseld - secret passages that his minions had used for years. On a day with so much activity and so many different people running around the great keep, no one paid him any mind.
Orthale had survived, barely, but his injuries had left him a broken wreck of a man. Using healing lore long lost to men to piece himself back together, Orthale had managed to recover enough to come here to ruin this special day.
It was a petty gesture and he knew it - but nothing else was left to him. His body was failing and time was running out. Killing the prince of the Mark would not only be sweet vengeance, it would be a perfect final blow from the descendants of Wulf Frecason.
Orthale limped into the Great Hall through a servant's door and he stood in the shadows, watching and looking for the best place to get a clean shot. He would, after all, only have one chance, a single knife-throw. It had to go through the prince's heart.
Orthale's eyes widened in shock as he saw the girl that Elfwine was standing beside. A few mysteries fell into place - how the Rohirrim had known about the attack, why Educh had betrayed him - and he stood stunned for a moment as he sought to comprehend the full meaning of what he was seeing. The feeling racing through him was not rage, though.
It was peace.
Wulf's dream had been to unite Dunlendings and Rohirrim under one King, and that goal had been driven into every son who had come after him. Rationales and justifications may have varied, but the goal had always remained the same. Dedication to that dream had pushed Orthale on through all the many defeats.
And now it was coming to pass and Orthale had no part in it, ironically. Which would have filled him with jealousy or spite even a year ago. After all, who could better fulfill Wulf's legacy than Wulf's heir?
But Orthale was weary now and he was happy to give over the chore to Elfwine's son.
Orthale Grimason, the one the Dunlendings called "Black Soul," turned from the gathered throng and slipped out of the Great Hall, going to seek a place where he could quietly allow death to claim him.
The ceremony had gone on interminably, seemingly - but smoothly and now the Great Hall was filled with noise as everyone celebrated. Eldarion found Elboron outside, sitting on a bench with Barahir in his lap. The gentle, adoring look on his beloved's face as he talked to his little brother was something Eldarion saw far too rarely.
"Did the party move out here?" Eldarion asked, sitting on the bench and offering his companion a mug of ale.
Elboron took it and sipped, wincing. "I can't understand why people like this stuff," he murmured, setting the mug down. "The party was a bit too loud for the Princes of Ithilien. Wasn't it, Baro?" he cooed at the babe in his lap.
Barahir giggled.
Eldarion sipped his own ale and licked his lips. "I am assured it gets better the more of it you drink." He eyed Elboron for a long time. "You really mean to do it, then? Next spring, you're heading into Mordor?"
Elboron nodded, his eyes never leaving Barahir's face. "I have ten thousand volunteers from across Gondor and Rohan."
Eldarion sighed. There was really no point in arguing with his companion when he got like this. "Well, make that ten thousand and one." His fingers entwined with Elboron's.
The Ithilien Prince smiled sweetly at him, a hint of the innocent he used to be shining through. "When was the last time I told you I love you?"
Eldarion actually colored. "I'm not sure..."
"Well, then..." Elboron reached out to take one of the Gondorian prince's braids in his fingers, tugging him close for a kiss that would speak far more eloquently than words.
The celebration grew more boisterous as the patrons grew more inebriated. There was a lot of dancing and carousing and eating and even one or two very brief fights - not always between Dunlendings and Rohirrim. Both peoples enjoyed fighting amongst themselves at least as much as they enjoyed fighting other people.
Elfwine was not sure when Magda vanished. He had finally managed to extricate himself from a throng of weeping girls - all wishing him the very best while jealousy burned in their eyes - and had gone looking for her. Only, there was no sign of her. And when he asked, people had the oddest habit of snickering at him in response.
"Hey, Win?" Eldarion asked, bringing his attention around.
Elfwine turned and saw both of his friends, both of whom were grinning in a way that definitely spelled trouble. "Yes?"
"It's time you got on with the business of being married," Elboron told him.
"Hmm? Oh, yes, well..." He looked around as Thaedenbrand and Hama stepped up to either side of him.
Definitely trouble.
"Come on lads!" Eldarion shouted and the four of them hoisted Elfwine up onto their shoulders and carried him from the hall.
"What are you idiots doing?" Elfwine demanded, struggling a little bit and, unable to help himself, laughing.
"Just what we're charged with doing," Elboron replied.
Several other Rohirrim helped carry the struggling heir along, all of them chortling drunkenly. The first stop was a horse trough - the Rohirrim had their own traditions, of course. They tossed Elfwine in and, once he was nice and soaked, they then carried him back into Meduseld, heading up the stairs.
"Dar! Boro!" Elfwine was trying to warn them of dire consequences, but just then the drunken mob started divesting him of his sodden clothes. "What...?"
The naked prince was then tossed into the wedding chamber and the door was securely shut. He was too shocked to even sputter all the indignities springing to mind.
Magda was waiting for him, wearing only a very thin dress. She giggled hysterically at the sight of her soaked, naked husband.
"They said they would fetch you, beloved...I didn't think they meant literally," she told him with a sparkle in her eye.
Elfwine began to stammer, blushing and, strangely enough, trying to cover himself - all of which was just silly, of course. He tried to make some witty response to her, but then she was kissing him and suddenly, no words really seemed all that important at all.