Warning! Violence and OC death in this chapter.
Evensong Ch 13
Gimli made a particular point of choosing a tent that was pitched on the outskirts of the camp, nearest the trees. Not only did its placement mean it would be convenient for the elf, encouraging him to visit so that he could be inveigled into conversation that would wile away the lonely hours of the night, but also it meant Gimli was a good long way from Aragorn's solicitous care.
The dwarf did not enjoy being coddled, his mind still skipped away from the moment he had woken to find himself swathed in blankets and in his friends' care.
This time he awoke to the dark of deep night, insect song and his own company. A horse called from the picket halfway around the camp. Reason enough for his waking; he needed little sleep even in his prime, now sleep was a reluctant guest easily dismissed.
He sat up, his shoulders reminding him that he had spent the previous day working the portable forge preparing the company's arms for battle.
"That young smith of Aragorn's is showing some promise," he thought to himself, remembering a productive afternoon.
Gimli perched on the edge of his cot and blinked into the still shadows, absently rubbing his right forearm to ease the ache. Leaf-dappled white light illuminated the canvas.
"Pah," he exclaimed out loud, just to break the night's silence. He peered down at his lap. "My beard whitens and yearns to keep company with the moon; Tilion did ever love silver." He yawned, but the action woke him further rather than inclining him to more rest. He wriggled his horny toes back into his boots, and then stood, stretching carefully.
Moving to the end of his cot he put on his leather outerwear, stiff fingers easing as he found familiar buckles and straps. He picked up his axe in a move of pure unconscious habit, slotting it into the sheath at his back, and then pushed his way out of the door-flap to find himself bathed in the moon's welcome. Three days past full, it gave enough light to cast black shadows.
He listened, but heard no elf-song from the trees. The horses still sounded disturbed; another called, answered by one more. He could hear them stamping, moving in their hobbles. He looked up, a blaze of stars raced in the gaps between scurrying clouds.
He blew out an irritated breath. Time around the fire last eve had wetted his appetite for company. The storytelling had been outrageous but he had missed Legolas' dry wit and pointed barbs. Everyone, and that included Aragorn, had treated him with far too much respect. Suddenly remembering his chagrin at Radagast's complete lack of the same, he barked a laugh. He must be getting old; he was becoming querulous.
He turned and started walking towards the horse pickets, he could hear the animals milling around. Then one of the camp sentries shouted a challenge followed almost immediately by another.
A mortal scream rang out and the camp roused. The silence of the night was banished by raised voices as the soldiers woke and scrambled to meet whatever threat loomed.
The ringing sound of fighting came from the opposite side of the camp.
Gimli, axe already in hand, no longer aware of age or infirmity, ran towards the evil clang of metal on metal, brute squeals and grunts and the urgent commands of men.
00000
Legolas felt a bone deep weariness that was as foreign to him as mortality.
This was deep magic he was wielding, calling on his connections with the trees of the Greenwood of his youth and Ithilien of his maturity to mend that which was marred, calling to the honest heartwood of a shadowed forest. All he could feed the enchantment with was his innate strength.
His song faltered. In his own deepest heart he felt fraudulent, a warrior not an adept. His mending of Ithilien was a group affair; in that work he was only a conduit for his people's strength and wisdom. This solo effort felt like arrogance.
Glancing back he saw the two following and the renewed forest singing strength and assurance back to him. He closed his eyes for a second, and then looked up to the stars, begging for their support as he carried on. He was the only elf around; the task was his.
He walked through the black groves calling on the frayed strength of his bond to Middle-earth and the true calling of his ancestors, Silvan and Sindar alike. Later-born he was sure a more ancient elf would have wisely refrained from a task of this magnitude.
The tossing wind in the canopy swished like waves, stirring the call of the sea. He flicked that passion aside. Legolas was Teleri to his feä; this was his land. Land that once held so strong a bond over his people that they had been unable to leave it even at the urgent request of Oromë.
His ancestors had wakened these trees with joyous song. He was of royal blood and his duty now was to save them from evil. Digging even deeper he stepped forward.
His trance-like song trailed green in his wake.
Quickbeam and Radagast followed closely. Radagast reinforcing Quickbeam's assessments of those trees that could be trusted to stay green, Radagast's power putting those more chancy back to vegative sleep.
The night progressed, Menelmacar with his shining belt, swung through the sky guiding the elven song, seemingly sped on by the wind blown clouds. Ithil lit the spaces the allies cleared, washing the cleansed night in purest white.
Finally they came to the clearing with the pit in the middle, already Treebeard's song had joined in harmony with Quickbeam's. Legolas' song, soaring in glorious descant knitted agony into peace.
He was done. Evil lingered at the fringes of the valley but he could not reach it.
The elf stumbled, empty now of any thought or feeling. He was spread, thin as mist and as like to blow away on a stray breeze. Dully he felt pain as his knees impacted on knotted roots bounding the hole.
Quickbeam matched his name and caught the eldar before he pitched headfirst into Treebeard's prison. Tenderly the ent lifted the limp elf and placed him on the moss beneath a newly contrite beech.
Radagast rested a gnarled hand on the golden hair. He shook his head.
"So impetuous, so young. The Valar know not what they are taking on by calling thee so early." Radagast's eye glittered in the moonlight as he turned to meet Quickbeam's concerned face. " He has spent himself this night, old friend. But fear not, the path of dreams will refresh him soon enough, he comes from strong stock. Let us …"
The wizard stiffened and spun to the south, peering into the tree-shrouded distance as if he could pierce the dark and distance by effort of will.
"No! More orcs?" The wizard glowed for a moment as he extended his power, then he went out like an extinguished lamp.
Quickbeam peered at the seeming old man. "There is trouble?"
Radagast leaned on his staff and closed his eyes, his face a seamed map of pain.
"Always, as we fight against this enemy, there will be trouble." He sighed, "Aragorn's camp is beset, but we can do nothing about it from here. Come, let us free your lord."
Quickbeam, with the surprising strength of Radagast anchoring him to the earth, leaned into the pit, reaching, straining, until he was able to knot his twig-like fingers into those of Treebeard. In no time the ancient ent was up and out of the ground. The two tree shepherds then shared a long look and turned to the pit, spreading their long toes into the ground and ripping the root bound soil into sods and chunks. Within minutes the hole was filled in.
0000
Aragorn, like Gimli, slept lightly. The first screams jerked him out of slumber and almost immediately out of bed. Duilin stepped into his tent, saw his lord was awake and stepped to the lamp to turn up its flame.
"Anduril." Aragorn, struggling slightly with his leather surcoat, waved at his sword with a free hand.
Duilin dared to hesitate. "Sire, it would be safer…"
Aragorn made a noise that, had it been made by a dog, would have been described as a snarl. His eyes blazed in outrage at his bodyguard.
Duilin frowned but unhooked Anduril from its stand and went to his lord holding the belt out as if to gird it on to his liege.
Aragorn took the sword firmly out of his hands and started belting it on to himself, all the while moving towards the door flap.
"There is no time, Duilin. We are attacked. Get out there and help the defence."
Duilin, stubborn slipped out of the door first, and then waited for Aragorn to emerge a second later. The two men locked eyes.
"My place is by your side, Sire."
Duilin now had his sword unsheathed, and was scanning the ground around Aragorn for enemies. The rest of Aragorn's guard were either already setting up a defensive perimeter near the pavilion, or running up from the main body of the camp to join the squad.
Aragorn growled again. "The fighting is yonder, Captain."
Duilin looked mulish; Aragorn snapped.
He grabbed his startled bodyguard by the arm and half ran half dragged him over to where Dervoron was mustering the rest of the black and silver clad guard.
Without stopping, the king ploughed straight through the ranks of guards, snatched the Silver Tree of Gondor out of its holder where it was hung marking his headquarters, handed it to Duilin, and then set off towards the sounds of fighting.
Dervoron, with commendable initiative, bellowed the rest of the guard into formation around him, if a step to the rear. Aragorn glanced back and shot Dervoron a fierce grin.
"Gondor! Gondor! To me." The king's lungs nearly matched those of his sergeant. Several more hastily armoured troops sped out from the tents and swelled Dervoron's ranks.
Aragorn finally let go of Duilin's arm. They were reaching the edge of the camp. His bodyguard would not look at him but shouldered the banner and applied himself to scanning all around for threats. In less than a minute they passed the last line of tents and found the disturbance.
There were knots of men fighting back to back against what, at first glance in the moonlight, seemed a swarm of black shapes that resolved themselves quickly into the loathed and varied shapes of orcs.
One group broke over and around the defenders like a wave and then came running on towards the camp.
"Now!' Aragorn bellowed. Dervoron's troops surged around their king and the battlefield dissolved, as always, into chaos.
Aragorn worked his way to his left, aiming for a small hillock that would be as good a place as any to plant Gondor's colours.
Gimli was there before him, with a group of Rohirric warriors on foot forming a double line. The dwarf's silver hair and beard seemed to be working like a beacon for the orcs because the fighting was fierce and bloody, Gimli's flashing axe blade was making short work of any orc unfortunate enough to come within its reach. A man fell to Gimli's left just as Aragorn ran up.
Gimli saw his next adversary quail before him and then turn and run, and realised he had been relieved.
"Took your time, laddie."
Gimli turned to the fallen soldier, and then passed his hand over the sightless eyes, closing them. He looked up at Aragorn, his face grim. Aragorn extended a hand and pulled the dwarf back up to his feet.
"Here they come again." Aragorn was terse as the rabble of orcs, driven now by some of Earnulf's hastily mounted riders, flowed back towards the rise.
The orcs were desperate, horses behind and the well-defended camp ahead, they flung themselves onto the wall of weapons with something like blood curdling despair.
Aragorn cut the head from one, speared another through the heart with Anduril's point and hamstrung another as it turned to flee. Gimli's axe finished the job.
Men's screams mingled with bestial orcish grunts.
Still they came, a last desperate rush.
Aragorn struggled with his adversary, hilt locked on the orcish blade, stepped back and twisted his sword free.
Another blade swung at him, waist high and he still needed to block the orc in front of him.
A black clad body knocked him aside, taking the cut. Aragorn put Anduril through the arm of the beast in front and danced sideways out of the way of the falling orc. His back felt unguarded but then Gimli was there, his solid form back to back with the king. Aragorn took the head off the next stumbling orc and cast around, looking for the next. There were none. The sound of hooves came close and he looked up. Earnulf raised his bloody lance in salute as his eored swept past, chasing the last three orcs as they attempted to reach the dubious sanctuary of the trees.
The level of noise dropped suddenly, to be filled with the groans and cries of the wounded. Aragorn looked around, black clad bodies littered the ground around him, and a furtive wind lifted The Silver Tree, once, twice then left it to play in the forest.
A whimper sounded at Aragorn's feet, he stooped beside the soldier who had saved him in that last melee. Inevitably it was Duilin.
Familiar grief speared the king. That Duilin's loyalty and devotion had led to this meagre end, cut nearly in two by a monster that was thought to be extinct. It was insupportable.
Aragorn dropped to his knees, leant into the man's face, placed his hands on either side of his head, and saw Duilin focus on him in his agony.
"Sire, you live?" Duilin's lips curved up in a travesty of a smile. "I did not fail you?"
Tears sprang unbidden to the king's eye.
"Never, most loyal of men, never."
"Paid my debt, then." Duilin gasped, turned his head within the cradle of the king's hands and let the blood that had filled his mouth trickle free. "Paid …"
The light faded from his eyes and the king bent his head, wrung, wishing, bereft.
TBC
Rose Sared