CHAPTER 8
AMBUSH
The last stars shivered in a final farewell to the children of Iluvatar below, and dawn broke upon camp in an opus of pale light. Those first lights found Aramarth's brow creased with unease, as the General of Gondor had not returned to camp during the night. Still, his greatest restlessness came from the memory of the sinister presence he had seen in the woods.
Aragorn emerged from his quarters as usual with the first lights of the day, stretching lazily after a good rest. He noticed Aramarth standing nearby, still fully armored, sword tightly held by his side, gaze fastened in his direction. He smiled fondly at the elf and walked towards him.
"Well, somebody had an early beginning today," he greeted cheerfully, earning no response from the Elven King. It was then the man noticed that even when the elf's face was directed to him, his eyes seemed to be lost in deep thought and concern.
"Legolas?"
Aramarth still did not answer, nor did he acknowledge Aragorn's presence in any noticeable way. Suddenly, he turned to his left sharply, and strode fast and single-mindedly towards an unidentified objective. Aragorn, of course, felt necessary to follow the distraught elf.
"Where have you been all night? Why did you leave camp?"
Aragorn could hear the elf's raised voice ahead, questioning someone fervently. Then the object of Aramarth's interrogation was revealed, as Hadathor emerged from the forest, a dead stag perched upon his shoulder.
"I've been hunting," the general answered simply, as if it was the most obvious statement ever to be uttered.
"Hunting?" Aramarth's voice reduced to a mere stifled whisper.
"Yes, hunting. What else could I have been doing?" spat the general, walking past the shocked elf. Then, as he went into the encampment, he kept on talking. "I feel flattered that you worry so much over my hunting trip, 'highness', though I don't see why all the fuss. Every man here knows how much I enjoy night hunts... Well, I suppose not every man knows. Still, I don't see a motive for this paranoid behavior," the general finished, his tone as insolent as he could muster.
Aragorn came to stand next to the Elven King, who was almost shaking with rage and embarrassment. "Is there something the matter?" he asked, placing a comforting hand on the overly tense shoulder.
Aramarth swallowed the heavy clot in his throat, feeling the derision in the eyes of the soldiers around him burning his pride. Even worse, he could sense the doubt in the Elven soldiers who had witnessed his falter. It had been so hard to earn their trust and respect; he could not afford to lose it over a gut feeling.
"Nay, it is nothing," he lied, pushing back inside all urges to tell Aragorn about what he had seen the night before; moreover, he would not lose his friend's respect. "Forgive my outburst." And with the hastily mumbled apology he went off with the excuse of preparing his mount. Aragorn was left only to wonder about the elf's strange behavior; in his heart he knew that his friend was keeping something from him.
Aramarth's hurried retreat was however impeded, for Neithan had taken advantage of the episode with Hadathor and had slipped inside camp without being noticed. As far as anyone could tell, he had slept all night within the encampment.
"Good game, General Hadathor!" the young man said, his smile as undecipherable as ever. "I wish I could stay and help you, but I'm afraid I must bid you all farewell.
"But first, King of the Eldar, I ask for your permission to wander the lands under your rule," Neithan said, bowing slightly before Aramarth. The elf's sharp eyes did not miss the wicked glint in the young man's eyes as he did so; but as wounded in his pride as he was, he risked not misjudging and being found wrong yet again.
"You have it, if such is your wish," he said with no hesitation, and stood to a side while Aragorn's attention was bent completely to Neithan's departure.
"You leave us so soon. Has been our company so displeasing for you?" asked the King, hoping he could convince the man to stay yet for a time.
"Save your guile, dear king; I will not be convinced by it, not this time," Neithan said with mirth, patting Aragorn's arm cordially. "I grow restless among so many, and yearn for my solitude, my free routing. I'm not a social man, nor one to follow the footsteps of another."
"I give up then," Aragorn said, raising his arms to the sky in defeat. "But I vow we will meet once more, good Neithan; save my words, for I feel our paths will converge yet again."
"I will, my king, I will; for now I take your leave," Neithan said, hauling a light bundle of supplies upon his shoulder.
"Neithan, you have my leave, but... will you not ask leave from the Queen as well? I'm sure she would want to bestow a parting blessing upon her savior."
Neithan's heart missed a few beats at the mention of Arwen; still, his stance and face revealed nothing of the turmoil inside of him. "I'm sure she rests now. I wouldn't want to bother her."
"Well, in fact, last night she expressed to me her wishes to go see her fellow elves and the Lady Eowyn at the King's city, with Aramarth's permission, of course," Aragorn said, turning his face to the elf in silent request.
A soft smile appeared in Aramarth's face as he responded. "The city is as hers as it could be called mine. Let her come and go within its safety according to her wishes. I will set up a squad to escort her."
"No, no. I wouldn't want to lessen your troop for it is not numerous as it is, and you are to go face Brodda," Aragorn said confidently. "I will send riders to protect the Queen, and they can catch up with us while we move south. I trust there'll be no danger awaiting her while within your borders."
Aramarth stiffened, his whole being screaming to him, reminding him of the shadow lurking in the forest. "I..."
But he felt a hundred pair of eyes scrutinizing him and the fear of appearing impulsive or mistrustful before his peers again forced him to hold his countenance. "I will send a scout then, as a messenger, to survey the path and announce the arrival of the Queen. She shall be received accordingly."
"Settled it is then," Aragorn said satisfied. Then he turned to the retreating Neithan. "Will you then say your farewells to her, young man? She must be up already, preparing for her journey."
"No, my lord. The Queen must be eager to depart, busy with arrangements; I shall not interrupt her. Besides our paths will converge again, you said it yourself."
"Argh! Very well then; I see I can't succeed in an argument with you, Neithan friend. Go, go now and stay safe."
Aragorn's gaze followed the young man as he disappeared within the foliage, heading south. He wondered where his path would go, what new adventures he would find on the way. He was taken out of his reverie, however, by the voice of the Elven King.
"I take your leave as well, Aragorn. I must get ready for the journey to Poros. My soldiers and I will go to the river to water the horses and clean up before the journey; from there we'll depart. I don't expect to come back to camp or to see you until after I meet with Brodda."
Aragorn sighed, frustrated. "Well, this is an outrage! Will you then be off without the Queen's leave as well? I expected such behavior from Neithan, but from you..."
Aragorn abandoned his pretense scolding as soon as the steely eyes of Aramarth met it and froze it into nothing. "Give the Queen my most affectionate farewell. I'll see you in a few days.
"Finlome! Ride to the city and announce the Evenstar's arrival. Have my housekeeper arrange with Lady Eowyn for a worthy reception." An elf mounted hastily and departed silently eastward, bearing every word of his master as it was uttered.
Aragorn had not the heart to retort or argue with Aramarth's decision, and chose to respect his resolution. "Then I give you my leave, with the best of wishes, King of the Elves. Please be very careful," he said sincerely, his heart wishing to go with him, but his duty forcing him to stay with his vassals.
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The Elven riders departed about an hour afterwards, having cleansed themselves and watered their horses properly in the nearby river. Most of them had not had the opportunity to do so the night before, since they were in full watch all along. They turned south from the river, and headed straight towards the River Poros where the Eastern hordes were stationed. They did not return to Gondor's encampment, but as they began their trot, Aramarth could hear a small company of riders leaving eastward to his city from the encampment, Asfaloth's unmistakable neigh confirming Arwen was among the group.
The elf said a short prayer for her protection and called his riders for a full gallop, Mithgor running steadily at his right flank as he always had. Aramarth side-glanced his trusty companion and noticed the wistful stare of the wolf towards the sound of the departing Gondorim company.
"Mithgor?"
The wolf turned to look at his master, and the once feral eyes revealed an absence and yearn the elf had not noticed before. Aramarth slowed Arod's pace to a trot, and narrowed his eyes to look at his friend reproachfully.
"Oh, not you, too!"
The wolf, almost as if understanding every word, lowered its massive head, fixing the amber eyes to the ground.
"Raise your head, noble beast. I do not blame you," Aramarth said, laughing goodheartedly. "You have fallen under powerful a charm, and I should have seen it coming from the moment you set eyes on magnificence such as hers.
"You wish to go to her?" At this, the wolf's eyes rounded with hope and anticipation.
Aramarth glared at the beast's bluntness. "Hmm... will you then, willfully abandon your master? The one who brought you into the world, the one who cared for you all your life?"
Mithgor let out a soft whimper, out of shame but also exasperation and impatience.
"Such loyalty," Aramarth said with irony. "To think it was once for me and not for the first pretty face that rounded your corner."
Once again, the wolf let out a high-pitched whimper; this time, however, it held a pleading tone.
The elf laughed out loud, spurring Arod to a gallop once again.
"Go! Go to her already!" he shouted while on the run. "And keep her safe till my return!"
No further word was necessary as the wolf turned sharply and took off swiftly to find the newly found Queen of its heart, risking not even a last glance to his still-laughing master.
"That rogue!" muttered the Elven King as he evened his pace with the rest of his group.
Rumil looked at his king and smiled broadly, risking a witty comment. "Feeling forsaken much, my lord?"
"Indeed, dear friends," Aramarth replied, and a grin broadened in his fair face. "But, who can blame the poor thing? I, for one, surely cannot!"
A roar of laughter erupted from the otherwise silent and stoic warriors at their king's occurrence. Never had they heard him jest nor express amusement in such an open way. For them, it was a nice change to have their leader release some of the terrible anxiety they could sense in him day by day. In truth, the King felt much relieved that Mithgor was there to protect Arwen from harm.
But soon enough, they all returned to their usual quietness and awareness, as the King once more had adopted his solemn demeanor, leaving no space for more lightheartedness. For over an hour they rode the south road, quick and silent were the steeds, almost as mute as their masters if it weren't for the sound of their canter on the rock of the pathway and the huffs of their chests.
"Halt!"
The whole company stopped at once at Aramarth's call, for the King had sensed something. They all assumed their well-known defensive position, covering all angles in the event of an attack. But no attack came, only the sound of a breathless man sprinting full speed through the forest, coming towards their left flank.
Aramarth grasped his bow, fitted an arrow and aimed steadily towards the sound, the memory of the shadow in the forest pounding in his head. It was then that the man emerged from the woods and into the road, collapsing to his knees before the Elven riders, completely winded. It was Neithan.
Aramarth dropped his bow and got off Arod, striding hurriedly to the man's side. "Neithan! What has happened to you?"
Neithan's eyes were filled with faith at the sight of the Elven King, but he was still too winded to speak properly.
"Aram...arth...."
He began pointing to the east frantically, signaling futilely to the King.
"I... saw..."
"Calm down, Neithan. Tell me what you saw." The King's apprehension began escalating, given the look of utter fret in the man's face, and because it seemed he had been running full speed for leagues to find help.
Neithan's desperation reached its peak and all he could do was shout out hoarsely, with all of the air he could muster, to form two intelligible words.
"The... Queen!"
Aramarth's blood curled with fright in his veins as he heard the unequivocal confirmation of his worst fears. Grabbing the whizzing man by the shoulders, he spoke as serenely as he could manage.
"Neithan, breathe! I need you to breathe! Tell me what must I do?"
Laudable was the young man's effort to bring words out of his pained chest, fighting against the involuntary spasms that shattered his exhausted lungs and rasped throat.
"Two dozen men on... on foot. Hooded... archers... ambush, going northeast... to the... to the road to your city..."
The Elven King stood as fast as lightning. "Horse! Give this man a horse and a sword at once!"
He hauled Neithan atop the ceded steed and placed a sword on his hands. "Ride hard; tell Aragorn. Go!" the King ordered the shaken man, slapping the horse's rump as he hurried towards his own mount. In a heartbeat the Elven company was galloping northeast through the forest, giving a whole new meaning to the word 'haste'. Out of the corner of his eye, Aramarth saw Neithan on the road, pushing his steed to the limit, as much as he had pushed himself to reach for help.
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He wished he had listened to his instincts. He wished the thick forest he loved so much would flatten into bare grassland. More than once he nearly jumped off Arod, feeling he could outrun his trusty steed in his desperation. A myriad of thoughts battered the Elven King while he deftly guided his mount through the tightly lined trees and enmeshing underbrush. He hated Hadathor for triggering his shame; he hated Aragorn for being so confident; but most of all he hated himself for his own pride, feeling the most responsible if the Evenstar was to be endangered.
Over and over again a prayer came out of his lips in trembling, yet hopeful whispers. "Eärendil, oh blessed Mariner of the skies, sail the fair Vingilot into daylight, if only this once and guard your progeny; guard your child from any harm."
Up ahead the forest only thickened, darkening the already murky path, and the sky was veiled with gray haze, almost as if the Powers had turned their faces from the firstborn, revolted by the events taking place underneath Manwe's parchment.
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The heavy burden of twofold failure and guilt pressed down on Neithan as he spurred the steed to go faster. He had disobeyed and betrayed the one he called master, mentor... father. He was never supposed to turn back so soon after pointing the Easterling archers to the Queen's path nor was he to seek the Elf King instead of Elessar.
But he had seen the black fletched arrows, the broad shafts and the sharp tips, knowing that they were to be aimed at the beautiful Queen he had carried in his arms. The memory of her slight weight, of the shape of her delicate body revealed under the drenched clothes, of her perfect face, her eyes, lips and voice; it all came to him fresh and powerful, breaking down all barriers of self control he'd created around his mind.
He could not just stand and let her die, not that day. He ran, against the wishes of his dark master, against everything he had believed and had been taught from his birth. He ran like never before, just to have her enthralling eyes see another dawn.
Then again... perhaps he had failed her as well; perhaps all the power and speed in his limbs had not been enough to save her; perhaps not even the proud elf could be fast or strong enough to save her. How does one know for sure? He had gone to Aramarth because he was everything his master was not. Like day and night they were apart; one bright and noble like the sun; the other dark and furtive like a shadow. He hoped the light of the King could overcome the dark conspiracies of the other, but his hope was small compared to the remorse in his heart.
For the first time in his life, large and bitter tears fell from his eyes, for he knew that whatever the outcome of the day, he would be traitor to his master, to the Kings of men and elves, and the woman he had come to love against his will.
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The wolf had followed them in secrecy, some steps behind Asfaloth's steady pace and through the underbrush of the forest. None of the guards had seen or heard Mithgor, nor did the horses perceive the muted paws or well- concealed scent. The wolf was well taught, a clever tracker, capable of being undetectable even at such a short range.
The fine ears were alert, the trained nose sentient, and the sharp eyes vigilant; no forest noise or movement escaped the watchful wolf while he protected the Evenstar's rearguard. But it wasn't a noise, a movement or a scent that drove Mithgor to suddenly sprint to the middle of the road at the lead of the group, growling loudly and stopping the horses' race at once. It was pure and pungent instinct, the sense of a powerful evil and threat hovering in the air ahead.
Mithgor turned, growling and barking loud and franticly at the horses, trying to drive the group away from a danger only he could perceive; but the men were foolish, incapable of understanding the beast's urgency to turn back and flee. Why would a Royal Gondorim guard turn and cower from their path? Why would a forest wolf intimidate them? Why would they heed a brutish beast?
The guards held to the reins, forcing their uneasy mounts to stay in place and so signing for their own doom. Senseless fools! They even yelled at the noble animal, shooing and menacing with their long spears, trying to drive it away.
Their attempts however, were soon stopped as a shower of black arrows fell on the group, breaking havoc amongst the Gondorim.
A dozen men and their horses had left the encampment to protect the Evenstar; in a matter of seconds only two pairs remained standing. There was no enemy to be seen, and they carried no shields to defend their selves or the Queen. The arrows flew from both sides of the road, the archers well concealed by the dark forest, while a hollow laughter seemed to hang upon the air as the soldiers fell from their horses, black-fletched arrows deeply embedded in their throats.
Mithgor left the road; quick as lightning he went through the trees and bushes, finding his first kill. The archer had no opportunity against the wolf's rage, and only a stifled grunt left his throat as it was ripped apart in a single movement. The archer's companion was crouching only steps away, and the wolf moved stealthily towards his next victim, bearing the blood-covered fangs, more than ready to deal death, as was his nature. Nothing could hinder his killing frenzy once it had begun, nothing but a piercing scream that came from the road, driving the beast to forget about every inch of his own nature and welfare.
"Keep her safe till my return!" the words thumped in the wolf's ears as he charged in the course of the falling arrows towards the bloodied road.
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Everything became a haze to her senses, blurred and confused; everything around her began moving, spinning, spiraling into ruin. She saw as her defenders fell from their mounts one after another, blood spurts tinting the road in a sickly crimson shade, but her mind was too unclear to trigger her instinct to escape, to survive. It was only rational enough to drive out from her a cry of confusion more than fear.
The men's screams of agony seemed to her far, indistinct and receding, like the distant cry of a flying bird on the horizon. She saw them fall, all of them blind and helpless against their unseen enemies. And like in some sick and cruel game, the Queen was the last left atop her horse, paralyzed by a nameless power that held her in the midst of the corpse-covered road, leaving her an easy target, an easy slay.
Sense came back to her in a wave of realization, now aware that she was about to face death. But she was Arwen Undomiel, Queen of men and elves alike, and she raised her chin, head held high in a prideful demonstration of courage for her murderers to behold. Even as tears were on her cheek, her countenance was hard and unyielding like cold stone, for she was ready.
She did not close her eyes. In that last moment of lucidity that comes to us right before death she could clearly hear as the black arrow was fitted and pulled; she could hear the bow squeaking as the archer's strong arms bent it, and then the whizzing sound of the release.
Her soul went to Elessar at that split second in which the arrow flew towards her heart. He would be widowed and heirless, consumed by grief. With one arm she covered the fruit in her womb. Her mind emptied of everything but the love she had for the child she never held while she readied for impact.
It never came.
A righteous beast defied every law of nature and nearly flew in front of her, taking the arrow in the broad chest. Not even a moan escaped the noble Mithgor for he was glad he could serve the Queen when most needed, right in the nick of time.
Arwen saw the wolf fall before her, the thick shaft well-entrenched in the side of its chest. A sob escaped her at the sight of such brave a sacrifice... for nothing, for now naught stood between death and her, and once again, she prepared.
But the wolf, in his inborn wisdom, had known that his sacrifice was not in vain. Mithgor knew, for he had sensed it long before his powerful leap to eternity.
Horses, shouts, piercing slashes and screams of agony. The forest became alive with sounds, as a mighty force made its way through the foliage, annihilating every perfidious archer found accountable for the slaughter that was the road in which Arwen stood alone atop a jittery Asfaloth. Half a dozen arrows were fitted in desperation and aimed at the lonely figure of the Queen; the assassins unwilling to go down without their kill. She felt the dark shafts flying her way and still she did not move, bracing for the imminent pierce.
All she felt was a dry and solid blow on her side, then the violent loss of balance, and the plunge of her body to the bloodstained earth below.
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She hit the ground, curiously not as harshly as expected. The road was muddied, slick with the dark blood of the soldiers, and as the thick, copper-smelling filth touched her face, a wave of nausea overwhelmed her. She opened her eyes to see Asfaloth bolting away from her, leaving her utterly alone. She whimpered with the fear of abandonment, of being left behind to the mercy of the murderers, and struggled to lift her head from the gory dirt; but then she realized the weight that was upon her, pressing her down to the ground.
"You are safe now; stay still." The kind voice was unmistakable, and her heart sung when she realized she was not alone at all.
"Legolas?"
Murderous arrows whizzed above their ears, near, so very near. With horror Arwen heard the shrill clanks of many of them ramming against the back and sides of the Elven King's armor as he shielded her with his own body. She feared for him only, knowing that no harm would come to her, feeling safe underneath the unforeseen comfort of his weight.
"Aramarth..."
"Shhh, you are safe now, you are safe." He breathed the words into her ear softly, over and over like a chant, as if trying to convince himself and the rest of the world that they were true. The King's warm tears fell on the side of her face, leaving clean trails through the grime that covered it.
Arwen felt the need to assure him, to somehow relieve the distress she could sense in his words and tears. "You are here with me now, my king. I am well."
An agonized sob escaped him and he held to her body like a castaway to floating driftwood, while an arrow finally penetrated a weak spot of the Elven armor and pierced the back of Aramarth's arm near his elbow. Yet the pain did not reach him, for his anguish came only from the extended fear of being too late, of losing her to time. In the King's mind, the fact that he had saved her had not quite registered as yet.
Fifteen Elven soldiers quickly formed a circle around the fallen pair; their long shields held side by side like tight dragon scales, creating a fence no arrow could pierce. Shielded from harm, Aramarth breathed in deeply, warily listening to the Queen's heartbeat and feeling the rise and fall of her breathing against his chest along with the tiny and frail life still inside of her. His mind was finally convinced that Queen and Heir were safe, and he let go of her, standing up and struggling to regain composure.
She sat up as well, wiping the filth off her face with her sleeve within the security of the Elven formation. She looked up at the King, who was standing stiff and cold, his hair matted with the sweat of the long race. The rich helm had fallen from his head in the midst of the muddle, and his bright eyes seemed to have frozen, fixed upon the agonizing body of Mithgor laid right beside her.
The elf kneeled back down slowly, hesitantly, his fingers carefully caressing the wolf's grimy pelt. "Mithgor..." His voice was less than a whisper.
The wolf opened his tawny eyes, the pupils dilated with pain and the imminence of death, and faintly wagged the tail at the sight of his master.
"My friend, my brother," Aramarth's voice was hoarse and stifled as he gathered the wolf in his arms. It had to be painful for the noble animal, and yet only soft whimpers of gratitude escaped him. The King cradled the fading body against his chest and whispered calmly in its final hour. "Godspeed, brother wolf. Your feat shan't be forgotten."
With one final stentorian gasp, the wolf's heart faded and stopped, and the King's head bent down in a silent farewell, thick tears falling on his departed friend. But when Aramarth lifted up his face, it was a terrible thing to behold, for his eyes shone with the dark and violent storm gathering within his soul. He stood up, his whole being emanating the terrible wrath that had been unleashed.
The air around him shook with the sound of his battle cry, while he unsheathed the beautiful but deadly sword.
"Gurth gothrim Tel'Quessir!" (Death to the foes of the elves!) The message was clear; no prisoners would be taken.
The King left the shielding circle, incautious of the still occasionally flying arrow. He moved his head from side to side like a predator, searching for a victim on which to unleash his fiery anger. An afterthought seemed to reach him, and he turned to give a final order to his vassals, while forcefully pulling out the pestering arrow that had pierced the back of his arm, ripping skin and flesh, and drawing out blood without as much as a flinch.
"No man nears her." The Elven soldiers nodded slightly; no mortal man would come near the Queen.
And then the King disappeared to a side of the road, eager to begin the hunt.
Arwen was filled with fear of him, of the murderous depths she had glimpsed in his eyes and the vindictive tone she had heard in his voice. She feared what he was capable of doing; she feared what had been unleashed within him; and most of all she feared for the consequences that would be brought.
All her qualms were confirmed soon after, as a harrowing scream was heard in the midst of the forest as the King dealt death; but his hands were not proficient to do it clean and quickly as he'd always done. In this occasion, he took time to inflict as much suffering and torment as he could, lingering in all the fear and pain he could wreak on the loathed men before sending them to the respite of death.
Another agonizing scream was heard and then silence, silence that was only torn by his ferocious voice that commanded the other hunters in the dark forest. "None escapes. Follow them to the end. Herd them all into hell!"
The pounding hoofs and screams confirmed the soldiers' absolute obedience to his every command, while Arwen wept of fear and sorrow, clinging to Mithgor's dead body.
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The unmistakable stench of blood in the road ahead filled Elessar's nostrils as he urged his mount, closely followed by Neithan, Hadathor and the full Gondorim cavalry. He felt lightheaded, weak, yet over-alert, like a ghoul walking in a nightmare.
Neithan had found them just seconds after they stopped their march to the south, due to Hadathor's insistence about a "bad feeling" he had about the Queen's trip to the Elvendom of Ithilien. The young man had stumbled before them while Hadathor whispered to his King to go back into the road to Ithilien, saying that he had forewarnings in his heart about the Queen being endangered. The horse Neithan had been riding fell near death to the ground, its heart and lungs broken from exhaustion.
Five words were exchanged and were enough to turn around the whole cavalry towards the east and to the Queen's aid.
All known prayers came to Aragorn as he rode to meet his worst nightmares. Elvish, dwarvish, even Entish and all the tongues of men he knew of were uttered for the protection of his beloved. How could he not feel? How could he not sense, not know? It was an outrage for him that his general sensed it before he had. He felt incompetent, thoughtless, unworthy of the Evenstar's love. Of course, he never knew about the barrier wrought around his mind and heart by the crafts of a Dark Elf that wanted his ruin only.
A turn on the road and the scene was revealed. Corpses, blood, death, despair; it was all the King of the free peoples could see. He cried out in a voice seemingly not his own, deprived of all pride and nobility.
"Arwen!" It was a call wreaked from the depths of his most primal human nature, like the call of a babe that had lost their parents.
"Estel!" Arwen managed to respond, trying to break a path towards her love, pushing away the Elven soldiers that guarded her. But they would not yield; they would not make way for her.
"Arwen!" Now Aragorn's voice was broken with relief while he stumbled down from his horse with no trace of grace in his movements and ran towards his wife.
What he found as he neared her voice was an impassable wall of stone-faced Eldar, swords drawn in firm hands.
The King of men stopped, already falling into a fit of outrage. "What is this? Let me through at once!"
His request was met with frosty eyes and a raise of the swords. "Stay back, son of Gondor."
Arwen let loose her frustration, pushing and hitting the backs of the stubborn soldiers. "I command you to make way to my king; I order you to stop this madness!" Her voice held the authority of an ancient Elven queen, along with the exasperation of a spoiled lass. And yet, the warriors did not even flinch nor yield an inch of their positions; silent and unmovable like oaks, they stood around the Queen.
At one command from General Hadathor, the Gondorim dismounted and went to their King, swords hastily drawn in defiance to the elves' insolence, thus escalating the hostilities to an alarming level. Only Neithan remained quiet and away from the conflict, his face a mask of watchful neutrality.
Both groups faced forebodingly, one group much larger than the other; still the larger Gondorim party was far edgier than the unyielding Elven formation. Aragorn was beyond himself, mad with the need to hold his beloved; still, he was Elessar Telcontar, and when his vassals approached him, he signaled them to hold back and wait, reluctant to yet more blood spill.
Hadathor, however, had far different intentions. "How dare they menace our King? We will not allow this wrongdoing." The General raised his armed hand and stepped forward threateningly, and many soldiers followed suit, more from instinct than will. Such boldness was however halted by a move so swiftly executed by the Eldar warriors that it was belittling to the men's ability. Before the advancing soldiers could even think of another step, they were faced by arrows tautly drawn on the long bows that only a split second before had been slung on the elves' backs; the unswerving, undaunted eyes of the chiseled warriors looking down on the shafts towards the men's hearts.
The tension of the last instant lengthened unnaturally as everyone braced for the start of the irrational clash; that is, until a single call cut through the thick angst of the moment.
"Dartho!" (Hold!)
The Elven bows were lowered at once, as Aramarth appeared from the rear of the group, carelessly dragging a fallen enemy by the long dark tresses, a breathless Rumil following closely behind.
"Let them be," he said nonchalantly, a strange smile appearing in his features.
The elves broke their lines and the men stood back, baffled; therefore the hostilities were brought to an end, and the Queen was lastly released into the arms of her beloved Estel. They kissed desperately, disregarding the rest of the world around them, violently holding each other as if there was no other day left to do so. Indeed, it had been almost the case, had it not been for the dauntless Elven King who now approached the teary reunion.
"You must forgive the fierce loyalty of my people, Aragorn, Lady Arwen," he said, bowing before the couple still merged in a passionate embrace. "They were under my orders not to allow any mortal man to approach the Evenstar; they merely abode by... quite literally, I must add," he said, while harshly throwing the archer he'd been dragging at the feet of the King and Queen.
He eyed the group of elves that had the audacity to challenge the King of Gondor, his countenance undecided between scolding and approval. Rumil hastily signaled his companions to retreat from the site, still incredulous of their proceedings, and so the small Elven army stood aside, away from the men they had almost engaged with in battle.
"No, Aramarth; there is nothing to forgive. It was the fierce loyalty of your people what saved the Evenstar; I should be thankful for it." Aragorn bowed before the elf, still in the back of his mind a flicker of doubt sparked. A dozen of his finest soldiers had fallen, all dead; and yet not even one Elven soldier seemed to have more than a scratch. More than anything, why had Arwen tensed so evidently when Aramarth neared them? He was filled with more doubtful thoughts he tried to disregard, but it was like his mind was being invaded and conquered from outside, instilling discord in him.
The man eyed the Elven King, and a grimace of disgust involuntarily formed in his face. He had shared many a battle with Legolas, and always he had noticed how the elf-prince managed to come out spotless, even after the most vicious ones. What he saw was completely different, for Aramarth's armor, face and hands were wholly smeared with blood and filth. The elf seemed exhausted, drained from killing, and yet his eyes glistened with bloodthirsty frenzy, as if he wished for more of the same.
Aragorn tried to shake his train of thoughts away. This was his life friend, Legolas, the one who had just saved his beloved wife. He diverted his thoughts, looking to the body Aramarth had tossed at his feet.
"Their garments seem Haradrim," he noted, thinking out loud.
"But their features are clearly of the Easter people," Aramarth countered, kicking the body to face up, revealing the features to be more delicate than those of the Haradrim folk. "And so are their weapons; this is undoubtedly Easterling treachery."
Aragorn's heart flinched. If these assassins were indeed Easterlings, it would mean war with Brodda. War, again.
"Surely we will find out upon interrogation."
"There is none left to interrogate, Aragorn. We slaughtered them all." The elf's voice was spiteful even when saying that their enemies were all already dead.
A tremor embedded into Aragorn's most basic instincts, but the King in him waved it away stubbornly. He did not fear his friend; he could not fear him.
It was not the moment for fears and qualms, and the King of men did what was expected of him
"Then there is no time left to loose. I must reach to Brodda as soon as possible and clear this matter."
"And Ithilien will be there to support Gondor when the time comes," Aramarth added, the spiteful glint in his eyes intensifying even more.
"You ride with us?"
"No, I shall go to my city first and summon the whole army," Aramarth said, picking up Mithgor's body in his arms. "We shall meet you at the bank of the River Poros."
"Arwen will not go to your city." In his heart, Aragorn knew his wife no longer wished to do so.
Aramarth's eyes found the Evenstar's, and he was pained when she recoiled from his turbulent gaze, tightening her hold on Elessar's arm. "I do not blame her," he said, signaling Rumil to pick up the body of the Easterling archer.
"I would have had her stay safe in the fortress of my realm instead of going to face war with you, but these lands have changed and darkened in a day's time. I can no longer see where safety is, so let her stay near you if there is where she feels protected." Aramarth's words held a hint of reproach. After all, she had been saved by Neithan's effort, Mithgor's sacrifice and the elves' skill. The Gondorim had nothing to do with her survival, and yet she chose to stay with them. Besides, so far Arwen had not thanked him.
He furthered his resentment by apologizing for the ambush "How these snakes went through my guarded borders, I do not know. But I will find out and will not take a rest until my lands are made safe once more. I will have my lady walk through this forest with no need of safeguard before the next moon. This, I swear."
Aramarth bowed low, his bloodied hand clutching the breastplate of his armor. "I will meet you soon."
"My horse!" he called, and a young Silvan called Eressel fetched Arod to his side. He slung Mithgor atop and then perched himself on the still sweaty steed.
As he rode, the King of Elves called to his soldiers, "Ride hard, Eldar brothers. Blow your horns through the forests, and let the call for war reach to Emyn Arnen and all the borders of our realm. Thus comes the chance to fulfill all the oaths you've sworn to your King and your ancestors. Follow me, to death and beyond!"
Arwen buried her face in Aragorn's shoulder and the King noted how she trembled. "It is over, my love. We are together now and no harm shall reach you. But come, we must ride now."
The Evenstar raised her troubled face to her husband. "I do not fear for myself. I fear for you, for him, for your kingdoms and most of all for our peoples. The trees, the earth and waters are silent, and yet their silence feels like screams to my heart. A storm is coming."
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Man! That was a looong chapter. It was the least I could do after such a long time, right?
Well, I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope you still find it interesting to keep reading and waiting for.
Thank you, thank you, and thank you again to all you lovelies that review, and remember to do it again, please?
And once again, I want to thank Precious Jewelle for proofreading this monster, I really appreciate your help. Really!
Blessings to all.
Elwe
AMBUSH
The last stars shivered in a final farewell to the children of Iluvatar below, and dawn broke upon camp in an opus of pale light. Those first lights found Aramarth's brow creased with unease, as the General of Gondor had not returned to camp during the night. Still, his greatest restlessness came from the memory of the sinister presence he had seen in the woods.
Aragorn emerged from his quarters as usual with the first lights of the day, stretching lazily after a good rest. He noticed Aramarth standing nearby, still fully armored, sword tightly held by his side, gaze fastened in his direction. He smiled fondly at the elf and walked towards him.
"Well, somebody had an early beginning today," he greeted cheerfully, earning no response from the Elven King. It was then the man noticed that even when the elf's face was directed to him, his eyes seemed to be lost in deep thought and concern.
"Legolas?"
Aramarth still did not answer, nor did he acknowledge Aragorn's presence in any noticeable way. Suddenly, he turned to his left sharply, and strode fast and single-mindedly towards an unidentified objective. Aragorn, of course, felt necessary to follow the distraught elf.
"Where have you been all night? Why did you leave camp?"
Aragorn could hear the elf's raised voice ahead, questioning someone fervently. Then the object of Aramarth's interrogation was revealed, as Hadathor emerged from the forest, a dead stag perched upon his shoulder.
"I've been hunting," the general answered simply, as if it was the most obvious statement ever to be uttered.
"Hunting?" Aramarth's voice reduced to a mere stifled whisper.
"Yes, hunting. What else could I have been doing?" spat the general, walking past the shocked elf. Then, as he went into the encampment, he kept on talking. "I feel flattered that you worry so much over my hunting trip, 'highness', though I don't see why all the fuss. Every man here knows how much I enjoy night hunts... Well, I suppose not every man knows. Still, I don't see a motive for this paranoid behavior," the general finished, his tone as insolent as he could muster.
Aragorn came to stand next to the Elven King, who was almost shaking with rage and embarrassment. "Is there something the matter?" he asked, placing a comforting hand on the overly tense shoulder.
Aramarth swallowed the heavy clot in his throat, feeling the derision in the eyes of the soldiers around him burning his pride. Even worse, he could sense the doubt in the Elven soldiers who had witnessed his falter. It had been so hard to earn their trust and respect; he could not afford to lose it over a gut feeling.
"Nay, it is nothing," he lied, pushing back inside all urges to tell Aragorn about what he had seen the night before; moreover, he would not lose his friend's respect. "Forgive my outburst." And with the hastily mumbled apology he went off with the excuse of preparing his mount. Aragorn was left only to wonder about the elf's strange behavior; in his heart he knew that his friend was keeping something from him.
Aramarth's hurried retreat was however impeded, for Neithan had taken advantage of the episode with Hadathor and had slipped inside camp without being noticed. As far as anyone could tell, he had slept all night within the encampment.
"Good game, General Hadathor!" the young man said, his smile as undecipherable as ever. "I wish I could stay and help you, but I'm afraid I must bid you all farewell.
"But first, King of the Eldar, I ask for your permission to wander the lands under your rule," Neithan said, bowing slightly before Aramarth. The elf's sharp eyes did not miss the wicked glint in the young man's eyes as he did so; but as wounded in his pride as he was, he risked not misjudging and being found wrong yet again.
"You have it, if such is your wish," he said with no hesitation, and stood to a side while Aragorn's attention was bent completely to Neithan's departure.
"You leave us so soon. Has been our company so displeasing for you?" asked the King, hoping he could convince the man to stay yet for a time.
"Save your guile, dear king; I will not be convinced by it, not this time," Neithan said with mirth, patting Aragorn's arm cordially. "I grow restless among so many, and yearn for my solitude, my free routing. I'm not a social man, nor one to follow the footsteps of another."
"I give up then," Aragorn said, raising his arms to the sky in defeat. "But I vow we will meet once more, good Neithan; save my words, for I feel our paths will converge yet again."
"I will, my king, I will; for now I take your leave," Neithan said, hauling a light bundle of supplies upon his shoulder.
"Neithan, you have my leave, but... will you not ask leave from the Queen as well? I'm sure she would want to bestow a parting blessing upon her savior."
Neithan's heart missed a few beats at the mention of Arwen; still, his stance and face revealed nothing of the turmoil inside of him. "I'm sure she rests now. I wouldn't want to bother her."
"Well, in fact, last night she expressed to me her wishes to go see her fellow elves and the Lady Eowyn at the King's city, with Aramarth's permission, of course," Aragorn said, turning his face to the elf in silent request.
A soft smile appeared in Aramarth's face as he responded. "The city is as hers as it could be called mine. Let her come and go within its safety according to her wishes. I will set up a squad to escort her."
"No, no. I wouldn't want to lessen your troop for it is not numerous as it is, and you are to go face Brodda," Aragorn said confidently. "I will send riders to protect the Queen, and they can catch up with us while we move south. I trust there'll be no danger awaiting her while within your borders."
Aramarth stiffened, his whole being screaming to him, reminding him of the shadow lurking in the forest. "I..."
But he felt a hundred pair of eyes scrutinizing him and the fear of appearing impulsive or mistrustful before his peers again forced him to hold his countenance. "I will send a scout then, as a messenger, to survey the path and announce the arrival of the Queen. She shall be received accordingly."
"Settled it is then," Aragorn said satisfied. Then he turned to the retreating Neithan. "Will you then say your farewells to her, young man? She must be up already, preparing for her journey."
"No, my lord. The Queen must be eager to depart, busy with arrangements; I shall not interrupt her. Besides our paths will converge again, you said it yourself."
"Argh! Very well then; I see I can't succeed in an argument with you, Neithan friend. Go, go now and stay safe."
Aragorn's gaze followed the young man as he disappeared within the foliage, heading south. He wondered where his path would go, what new adventures he would find on the way. He was taken out of his reverie, however, by the voice of the Elven King.
"I take your leave as well, Aragorn. I must get ready for the journey to Poros. My soldiers and I will go to the river to water the horses and clean up before the journey; from there we'll depart. I don't expect to come back to camp or to see you until after I meet with Brodda."
Aragorn sighed, frustrated. "Well, this is an outrage! Will you then be off without the Queen's leave as well? I expected such behavior from Neithan, but from you..."
Aragorn abandoned his pretense scolding as soon as the steely eyes of Aramarth met it and froze it into nothing. "Give the Queen my most affectionate farewell. I'll see you in a few days.
"Finlome! Ride to the city and announce the Evenstar's arrival. Have my housekeeper arrange with Lady Eowyn for a worthy reception." An elf mounted hastily and departed silently eastward, bearing every word of his master as it was uttered.
Aragorn had not the heart to retort or argue with Aramarth's decision, and chose to respect his resolution. "Then I give you my leave, with the best of wishes, King of the Elves. Please be very careful," he said sincerely, his heart wishing to go with him, but his duty forcing him to stay with his vassals.
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The Elven riders departed about an hour afterwards, having cleansed themselves and watered their horses properly in the nearby river. Most of them had not had the opportunity to do so the night before, since they were in full watch all along. They turned south from the river, and headed straight towards the River Poros where the Eastern hordes were stationed. They did not return to Gondor's encampment, but as they began their trot, Aramarth could hear a small company of riders leaving eastward to his city from the encampment, Asfaloth's unmistakable neigh confirming Arwen was among the group.
The elf said a short prayer for her protection and called his riders for a full gallop, Mithgor running steadily at his right flank as he always had. Aramarth side-glanced his trusty companion and noticed the wistful stare of the wolf towards the sound of the departing Gondorim company.
"Mithgor?"
The wolf turned to look at his master, and the once feral eyes revealed an absence and yearn the elf had not noticed before. Aramarth slowed Arod's pace to a trot, and narrowed his eyes to look at his friend reproachfully.
"Oh, not you, too!"
The wolf, almost as if understanding every word, lowered its massive head, fixing the amber eyes to the ground.
"Raise your head, noble beast. I do not blame you," Aramarth said, laughing goodheartedly. "You have fallen under powerful a charm, and I should have seen it coming from the moment you set eyes on magnificence such as hers.
"You wish to go to her?" At this, the wolf's eyes rounded with hope and anticipation.
Aramarth glared at the beast's bluntness. "Hmm... will you then, willfully abandon your master? The one who brought you into the world, the one who cared for you all your life?"
Mithgor let out a soft whimper, out of shame but also exasperation and impatience.
"Such loyalty," Aramarth said with irony. "To think it was once for me and not for the first pretty face that rounded your corner."
Once again, the wolf let out a high-pitched whimper; this time, however, it held a pleading tone.
The elf laughed out loud, spurring Arod to a gallop once again.
"Go! Go to her already!" he shouted while on the run. "And keep her safe till my return!"
No further word was necessary as the wolf turned sharply and took off swiftly to find the newly found Queen of its heart, risking not even a last glance to his still-laughing master.
"That rogue!" muttered the Elven King as he evened his pace with the rest of his group.
Rumil looked at his king and smiled broadly, risking a witty comment. "Feeling forsaken much, my lord?"
"Indeed, dear friends," Aramarth replied, and a grin broadened in his fair face. "But, who can blame the poor thing? I, for one, surely cannot!"
A roar of laughter erupted from the otherwise silent and stoic warriors at their king's occurrence. Never had they heard him jest nor express amusement in such an open way. For them, it was a nice change to have their leader release some of the terrible anxiety they could sense in him day by day. In truth, the King felt much relieved that Mithgor was there to protect Arwen from harm.
But soon enough, they all returned to their usual quietness and awareness, as the King once more had adopted his solemn demeanor, leaving no space for more lightheartedness. For over an hour they rode the south road, quick and silent were the steeds, almost as mute as their masters if it weren't for the sound of their canter on the rock of the pathway and the huffs of their chests.
"Halt!"
The whole company stopped at once at Aramarth's call, for the King had sensed something. They all assumed their well-known defensive position, covering all angles in the event of an attack. But no attack came, only the sound of a breathless man sprinting full speed through the forest, coming towards their left flank.
Aramarth grasped his bow, fitted an arrow and aimed steadily towards the sound, the memory of the shadow in the forest pounding in his head. It was then that the man emerged from the woods and into the road, collapsing to his knees before the Elven riders, completely winded. It was Neithan.
Aramarth dropped his bow and got off Arod, striding hurriedly to the man's side. "Neithan! What has happened to you?"
Neithan's eyes were filled with faith at the sight of the Elven King, but he was still too winded to speak properly.
"Aram...arth...."
He began pointing to the east frantically, signaling futilely to the King.
"I... saw..."
"Calm down, Neithan. Tell me what you saw." The King's apprehension began escalating, given the look of utter fret in the man's face, and because it seemed he had been running full speed for leagues to find help.
Neithan's desperation reached its peak and all he could do was shout out hoarsely, with all of the air he could muster, to form two intelligible words.
"The... Queen!"
Aramarth's blood curled with fright in his veins as he heard the unequivocal confirmation of his worst fears. Grabbing the whizzing man by the shoulders, he spoke as serenely as he could manage.
"Neithan, breathe! I need you to breathe! Tell me what must I do?"
Laudable was the young man's effort to bring words out of his pained chest, fighting against the involuntary spasms that shattered his exhausted lungs and rasped throat.
"Two dozen men on... on foot. Hooded... archers... ambush, going northeast... to the... to the road to your city..."
The Elven King stood as fast as lightning. "Horse! Give this man a horse and a sword at once!"
He hauled Neithan atop the ceded steed and placed a sword on his hands. "Ride hard; tell Aragorn. Go!" the King ordered the shaken man, slapping the horse's rump as he hurried towards his own mount. In a heartbeat the Elven company was galloping northeast through the forest, giving a whole new meaning to the word 'haste'. Out of the corner of his eye, Aramarth saw Neithan on the road, pushing his steed to the limit, as much as he had pushed himself to reach for help.
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He wished he had listened to his instincts. He wished the thick forest he loved so much would flatten into bare grassland. More than once he nearly jumped off Arod, feeling he could outrun his trusty steed in his desperation. A myriad of thoughts battered the Elven King while he deftly guided his mount through the tightly lined trees and enmeshing underbrush. He hated Hadathor for triggering his shame; he hated Aragorn for being so confident; but most of all he hated himself for his own pride, feeling the most responsible if the Evenstar was to be endangered.
Over and over again a prayer came out of his lips in trembling, yet hopeful whispers. "Eärendil, oh blessed Mariner of the skies, sail the fair Vingilot into daylight, if only this once and guard your progeny; guard your child from any harm."
Up ahead the forest only thickened, darkening the already murky path, and the sky was veiled with gray haze, almost as if the Powers had turned their faces from the firstborn, revolted by the events taking place underneath Manwe's parchment.
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The heavy burden of twofold failure and guilt pressed down on Neithan as he spurred the steed to go faster. He had disobeyed and betrayed the one he called master, mentor... father. He was never supposed to turn back so soon after pointing the Easterling archers to the Queen's path nor was he to seek the Elf King instead of Elessar.
But he had seen the black fletched arrows, the broad shafts and the sharp tips, knowing that they were to be aimed at the beautiful Queen he had carried in his arms. The memory of her slight weight, of the shape of her delicate body revealed under the drenched clothes, of her perfect face, her eyes, lips and voice; it all came to him fresh and powerful, breaking down all barriers of self control he'd created around his mind.
He could not just stand and let her die, not that day. He ran, against the wishes of his dark master, against everything he had believed and had been taught from his birth. He ran like never before, just to have her enthralling eyes see another dawn.
Then again... perhaps he had failed her as well; perhaps all the power and speed in his limbs had not been enough to save her; perhaps not even the proud elf could be fast or strong enough to save her. How does one know for sure? He had gone to Aramarth because he was everything his master was not. Like day and night they were apart; one bright and noble like the sun; the other dark and furtive like a shadow. He hoped the light of the King could overcome the dark conspiracies of the other, but his hope was small compared to the remorse in his heart.
For the first time in his life, large and bitter tears fell from his eyes, for he knew that whatever the outcome of the day, he would be traitor to his master, to the Kings of men and elves, and the woman he had come to love against his will.
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The wolf had followed them in secrecy, some steps behind Asfaloth's steady pace and through the underbrush of the forest. None of the guards had seen or heard Mithgor, nor did the horses perceive the muted paws or well- concealed scent. The wolf was well taught, a clever tracker, capable of being undetectable even at such a short range.
The fine ears were alert, the trained nose sentient, and the sharp eyes vigilant; no forest noise or movement escaped the watchful wolf while he protected the Evenstar's rearguard. But it wasn't a noise, a movement or a scent that drove Mithgor to suddenly sprint to the middle of the road at the lead of the group, growling loudly and stopping the horses' race at once. It was pure and pungent instinct, the sense of a powerful evil and threat hovering in the air ahead.
Mithgor turned, growling and barking loud and franticly at the horses, trying to drive the group away from a danger only he could perceive; but the men were foolish, incapable of understanding the beast's urgency to turn back and flee. Why would a Royal Gondorim guard turn and cower from their path? Why would a forest wolf intimidate them? Why would they heed a brutish beast?
The guards held to the reins, forcing their uneasy mounts to stay in place and so signing for their own doom. Senseless fools! They even yelled at the noble animal, shooing and menacing with their long spears, trying to drive it away.
Their attempts however, were soon stopped as a shower of black arrows fell on the group, breaking havoc amongst the Gondorim.
A dozen men and their horses had left the encampment to protect the Evenstar; in a matter of seconds only two pairs remained standing. There was no enemy to be seen, and they carried no shields to defend their selves or the Queen. The arrows flew from both sides of the road, the archers well concealed by the dark forest, while a hollow laughter seemed to hang upon the air as the soldiers fell from their horses, black-fletched arrows deeply embedded in their throats.
Mithgor left the road; quick as lightning he went through the trees and bushes, finding his first kill. The archer had no opportunity against the wolf's rage, and only a stifled grunt left his throat as it was ripped apart in a single movement. The archer's companion was crouching only steps away, and the wolf moved stealthily towards his next victim, bearing the blood-covered fangs, more than ready to deal death, as was his nature. Nothing could hinder his killing frenzy once it had begun, nothing but a piercing scream that came from the road, driving the beast to forget about every inch of his own nature and welfare.
"Keep her safe till my return!" the words thumped in the wolf's ears as he charged in the course of the falling arrows towards the bloodied road.
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Everything became a haze to her senses, blurred and confused; everything around her began moving, spinning, spiraling into ruin. She saw as her defenders fell from their mounts one after another, blood spurts tinting the road in a sickly crimson shade, but her mind was too unclear to trigger her instinct to escape, to survive. It was only rational enough to drive out from her a cry of confusion more than fear.
The men's screams of agony seemed to her far, indistinct and receding, like the distant cry of a flying bird on the horizon. She saw them fall, all of them blind and helpless against their unseen enemies. And like in some sick and cruel game, the Queen was the last left atop her horse, paralyzed by a nameless power that held her in the midst of the corpse-covered road, leaving her an easy target, an easy slay.
Sense came back to her in a wave of realization, now aware that she was about to face death. But she was Arwen Undomiel, Queen of men and elves alike, and she raised her chin, head held high in a prideful demonstration of courage for her murderers to behold. Even as tears were on her cheek, her countenance was hard and unyielding like cold stone, for she was ready.
She did not close her eyes. In that last moment of lucidity that comes to us right before death she could clearly hear as the black arrow was fitted and pulled; she could hear the bow squeaking as the archer's strong arms bent it, and then the whizzing sound of the release.
Her soul went to Elessar at that split second in which the arrow flew towards her heart. He would be widowed and heirless, consumed by grief. With one arm she covered the fruit in her womb. Her mind emptied of everything but the love she had for the child she never held while she readied for impact.
It never came.
A righteous beast defied every law of nature and nearly flew in front of her, taking the arrow in the broad chest. Not even a moan escaped the noble Mithgor for he was glad he could serve the Queen when most needed, right in the nick of time.
Arwen saw the wolf fall before her, the thick shaft well-entrenched in the side of its chest. A sob escaped her at the sight of such brave a sacrifice... for nothing, for now naught stood between death and her, and once again, she prepared.
But the wolf, in his inborn wisdom, had known that his sacrifice was not in vain. Mithgor knew, for he had sensed it long before his powerful leap to eternity.
Horses, shouts, piercing slashes and screams of agony. The forest became alive with sounds, as a mighty force made its way through the foliage, annihilating every perfidious archer found accountable for the slaughter that was the road in which Arwen stood alone atop a jittery Asfaloth. Half a dozen arrows were fitted in desperation and aimed at the lonely figure of the Queen; the assassins unwilling to go down without their kill. She felt the dark shafts flying her way and still she did not move, bracing for the imminent pierce.
All she felt was a dry and solid blow on her side, then the violent loss of balance, and the plunge of her body to the bloodstained earth below.
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She hit the ground, curiously not as harshly as expected. The road was muddied, slick with the dark blood of the soldiers, and as the thick, copper-smelling filth touched her face, a wave of nausea overwhelmed her. She opened her eyes to see Asfaloth bolting away from her, leaving her utterly alone. She whimpered with the fear of abandonment, of being left behind to the mercy of the murderers, and struggled to lift her head from the gory dirt; but then she realized the weight that was upon her, pressing her down to the ground.
"You are safe now; stay still." The kind voice was unmistakable, and her heart sung when she realized she was not alone at all.
"Legolas?"
Murderous arrows whizzed above their ears, near, so very near. With horror Arwen heard the shrill clanks of many of them ramming against the back and sides of the Elven King's armor as he shielded her with his own body. She feared for him only, knowing that no harm would come to her, feeling safe underneath the unforeseen comfort of his weight.
"Aramarth..."
"Shhh, you are safe now, you are safe." He breathed the words into her ear softly, over and over like a chant, as if trying to convince himself and the rest of the world that they were true. The King's warm tears fell on the side of her face, leaving clean trails through the grime that covered it.
Arwen felt the need to assure him, to somehow relieve the distress she could sense in his words and tears. "You are here with me now, my king. I am well."
An agonized sob escaped him and he held to her body like a castaway to floating driftwood, while an arrow finally penetrated a weak spot of the Elven armor and pierced the back of Aramarth's arm near his elbow. Yet the pain did not reach him, for his anguish came only from the extended fear of being too late, of losing her to time. In the King's mind, the fact that he had saved her had not quite registered as yet.
Fifteen Elven soldiers quickly formed a circle around the fallen pair; their long shields held side by side like tight dragon scales, creating a fence no arrow could pierce. Shielded from harm, Aramarth breathed in deeply, warily listening to the Queen's heartbeat and feeling the rise and fall of her breathing against his chest along with the tiny and frail life still inside of her. His mind was finally convinced that Queen and Heir were safe, and he let go of her, standing up and struggling to regain composure.
She sat up as well, wiping the filth off her face with her sleeve within the security of the Elven formation. She looked up at the King, who was standing stiff and cold, his hair matted with the sweat of the long race. The rich helm had fallen from his head in the midst of the muddle, and his bright eyes seemed to have frozen, fixed upon the agonizing body of Mithgor laid right beside her.
The elf kneeled back down slowly, hesitantly, his fingers carefully caressing the wolf's grimy pelt. "Mithgor..." His voice was less than a whisper.
The wolf opened his tawny eyes, the pupils dilated with pain and the imminence of death, and faintly wagged the tail at the sight of his master.
"My friend, my brother," Aramarth's voice was hoarse and stifled as he gathered the wolf in his arms. It had to be painful for the noble animal, and yet only soft whimpers of gratitude escaped him. The King cradled the fading body against his chest and whispered calmly in its final hour. "Godspeed, brother wolf. Your feat shan't be forgotten."
With one final stentorian gasp, the wolf's heart faded and stopped, and the King's head bent down in a silent farewell, thick tears falling on his departed friend. But when Aramarth lifted up his face, it was a terrible thing to behold, for his eyes shone with the dark and violent storm gathering within his soul. He stood up, his whole being emanating the terrible wrath that had been unleashed.
The air around him shook with the sound of his battle cry, while he unsheathed the beautiful but deadly sword.
"Gurth gothrim Tel'Quessir!" (Death to the foes of the elves!) The message was clear; no prisoners would be taken.
The King left the shielding circle, incautious of the still occasionally flying arrow. He moved his head from side to side like a predator, searching for a victim on which to unleash his fiery anger. An afterthought seemed to reach him, and he turned to give a final order to his vassals, while forcefully pulling out the pestering arrow that had pierced the back of his arm, ripping skin and flesh, and drawing out blood without as much as a flinch.
"No man nears her." The Elven soldiers nodded slightly; no mortal man would come near the Queen.
And then the King disappeared to a side of the road, eager to begin the hunt.
Arwen was filled with fear of him, of the murderous depths she had glimpsed in his eyes and the vindictive tone she had heard in his voice. She feared what he was capable of doing; she feared what had been unleashed within him; and most of all she feared for the consequences that would be brought.
All her qualms were confirmed soon after, as a harrowing scream was heard in the midst of the forest as the King dealt death; but his hands were not proficient to do it clean and quickly as he'd always done. In this occasion, he took time to inflict as much suffering and torment as he could, lingering in all the fear and pain he could wreak on the loathed men before sending them to the respite of death.
Another agonizing scream was heard and then silence, silence that was only torn by his ferocious voice that commanded the other hunters in the dark forest. "None escapes. Follow them to the end. Herd them all into hell!"
The pounding hoofs and screams confirmed the soldiers' absolute obedience to his every command, while Arwen wept of fear and sorrow, clinging to Mithgor's dead body.
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The unmistakable stench of blood in the road ahead filled Elessar's nostrils as he urged his mount, closely followed by Neithan, Hadathor and the full Gondorim cavalry. He felt lightheaded, weak, yet over-alert, like a ghoul walking in a nightmare.
Neithan had found them just seconds after they stopped their march to the south, due to Hadathor's insistence about a "bad feeling" he had about the Queen's trip to the Elvendom of Ithilien. The young man had stumbled before them while Hadathor whispered to his King to go back into the road to Ithilien, saying that he had forewarnings in his heart about the Queen being endangered. The horse Neithan had been riding fell near death to the ground, its heart and lungs broken from exhaustion.
Five words were exchanged and were enough to turn around the whole cavalry towards the east and to the Queen's aid.
All known prayers came to Aragorn as he rode to meet his worst nightmares. Elvish, dwarvish, even Entish and all the tongues of men he knew of were uttered for the protection of his beloved. How could he not feel? How could he not sense, not know? It was an outrage for him that his general sensed it before he had. He felt incompetent, thoughtless, unworthy of the Evenstar's love. Of course, he never knew about the barrier wrought around his mind and heart by the crafts of a Dark Elf that wanted his ruin only.
A turn on the road and the scene was revealed. Corpses, blood, death, despair; it was all the King of the free peoples could see. He cried out in a voice seemingly not his own, deprived of all pride and nobility.
"Arwen!" It was a call wreaked from the depths of his most primal human nature, like the call of a babe that had lost their parents.
"Estel!" Arwen managed to respond, trying to break a path towards her love, pushing away the Elven soldiers that guarded her. But they would not yield; they would not make way for her.
"Arwen!" Now Aragorn's voice was broken with relief while he stumbled down from his horse with no trace of grace in his movements and ran towards his wife.
What he found as he neared her voice was an impassable wall of stone-faced Eldar, swords drawn in firm hands.
The King of men stopped, already falling into a fit of outrage. "What is this? Let me through at once!"
His request was met with frosty eyes and a raise of the swords. "Stay back, son of Gondor."
Arwen let loose her frustration, pushing and hitting the backs of the stubborn soldiers. "I command you to make way to my king; I order you to stop this madness!" Her voice held the authority of an ancient Elven queen, along with the exasperation of a spoiled lass. And yet, the warriors did not even flinch nor yield an inch of their positions; silent and unmovable like oaks, they stood around the Queen.
At one command from General Hadathor, the Gondorim dismounted and went to their King, swords hastily drawn in defiance to the elves' insolence, thus escalating the hostilities to an alarming level. Only Neithan remained quiet and away from the conflict, his face a mask of watchful neutrality.
Both groups faced forebodingly, one group much larger than the other; still the larger Gondorim party was far edgier than the unyielding Elven formation. Aragorn was beyond himself, mad with the need to hold his beloved; still, he was Elessar Telcontar, and when his vassals approached him, he signaled them to hold back and wait, reluctant to yet more blood spill.
Hadathor, however, had far different intentions. "How dare they menace our King? We will not allow this wrongdoing." The General raised his armed hand and stepped forward threateningly, and many soldiers followed suit, more from instinct than will. Such boldness was however halted by a move so swiftly executed by the Eldar warriors that it was belittling to the men's ability. Before the advancing soldiers could even think of another step, they were faced by arrows tautly drawn on the long bows that only a split second before had been slung on the elves' backs; the unswerving, undaunted eyes of the chiseled warriors looking down on the shafts towards the men's hearts.
The tension of the last instant lengthened unnaturally as everyone braced for the start of the irrational clash; that is, until a single call cut through the thick angst of the moment.
"Dartho!" (Hold!)
The Elven bows were lowered at once, as Aramarth appeared from the rear of the group, carelessly dragging a fallen enemy by the long dark tresses, a breathless Rumil following closely behind.
"Let them be," he said nonchalantly, a strange smile appearing in his features.
The elves broke their lines and the men stood back, baffled; therefore the hostilities were brought to an end, and the Queen was lastly released into the arms of her beloved Estel. They kissed desperately, disregarding the rest of the world around them, violently holding each other as if there was no other day left to do so. Indeed, it had been almost the case, had it not been for the dauntless Elven King who now approached the teary reunion.
"You must forgive the fierce loyalty of my people, Aragorn, Lady Arwen," he said, bowing before the couple still merged in a passionate embrace. "They were under my orders not to allow any mortal man to approach the Evenstar; they merely abode by... quite literally, I must add," he said, while harshly throwing the archer he'd been dragging at the feet of the King and Queen.
He eyed the group of elves that had the audacity to challenge the King of Gondor, his countenance undecided between scolding and approval. Rumil hastily signaled his companions to retreat from the site, still incredulous of their proceedings, and so the small Elven army stood aside, away from the men they had almost engaged with in battle.
"No, Aramarth; there is nothing to forgive. It was the fierce loyalty of your people what saved the Evenstar; I should be thankful for it." Aragorn bowed before the elf, still in the back of his mind a flicker of doubt sparked. A dozen of his finest soldiers had fallen, all dead; and yet not even one Elven soldier seemed to have more than a scratch. More than anything, why had Arwen tensed so evidently when Aramarth neared them? He was filled with more doubtful thoughts he tried to disregard, but it was like his mind was being invaded and conquered from outside, instilling discord in him.
The man eyed the Elven King, and a grimace of disgust involuntarily formed in his face. He had shared many a battle with Legolas, and always he had noticed how the elf-prince managed to come out spotless, even after the most vicious ones. What he saw was completely different, for Aramarth's armor, face and hands were wholly smeared with blood and filth. The elf seemed exhausted, drained from killing, and yet his eyes glistened with bloodthirsty frenzy, as if he wished for more of the same.
Aragorn tried to shake his train of thoughts away. This was his life friend, Legolas, the one who had just saved his beloved wife. He diverted his thoughts, looking to the body Aramarth had tossed at his feet.
"Their garments seem Haradrim," he noted, thinking out loud.
"But their features are clearly of the Easter people," Aramarth countered, kicking the body to face up, revealing the features to be more delicate than those of the Haradrim folk. "And so are their weapons; this is undoubtedly Easterling treachery."
Aragorn's heart flinched. If these assassins were indeed Easterlings, it would mean war with Brodda. War, again.
"Surely we will find out upon interrogation."
"There is none left to interrogate, Aragorn. We slaughtered them all." The elf's voice was spiteful even when saying that their enemies were all already dead.
A tremor embedded into Aragorn's most basic instincts, but the King in him waved it away stubbornly. He did not fear his friend; he could not fear him.
It was not the moment for fears and qualms, and the King of men did what was expected of him
"Then there is no time left to loose. I must reach to Brodda as soon as possible and clear this matter."
"And Ithilien will be there to support Gondor when the time comes," Aramarth added, the spiteful glint in his eyes intensifying even more.
"You ride with us?"
"No, I shall go to my city first and summon the whole army," Aramarth said, picking up Mithgor's body in his arms. "We shall meet you at the bank of the River Poros."
"Arwen will not go to your city." In his heart, Aragorn knew his wife no longer wished to do so.
Aramarth's eyes found the Evenstar's, and he was pained when she recoiled from his turbulent gaze, tightening her hold on Elessar's arm. "I do not blame her," he said, signaling Rumil to pick up the body of the Easterling archer.
"I would have had her stay safe in the fortress of my realm instead of going to face war with you, but these lands have changed and darkened in a day's time. I can no longer see where safety is, so let her stay near you if there is where she feels protected." Aramarth's words held a hint of reproach. After all, she had been saved by Neithan's effort, Mithgor's sacrifice and the elves' skill. The Gondorim had nothing to do with her survival, and yet she chose to stay with them. Besides, so far Arwen had not thanked him.
He furthered his resentment by apologizing for the ambush "How these snakes went through my guarded borders, I do not know. But I will find out and will not take a rest until my lands are made safe once more. I will have my lady walk through this forest with no need of safeguard before the next moon. This, I swear."
Aramarth bowed low, his bloodied hand clutching the breastplate of his armor. "I will meet you soon."
"My horse!" he called, and a young Silvan called Eressel fetched Arod to his side. He slung Mithgor atop and then perched himself on the still sweaty steed.
As he rode, the King of Elves called to his soldiers, "Ride hard, Eldar brothers. Blow your horns through the forests, and let the call for war reach to Emyn Arnen and all the borders of our realm. Thus comes the chance to fulfill all the oaths you've sworn to your King and your ancestors. Follow me, to death and beyond!"
Arwen buried her face in Aragorn's shoulder and the King noted how she trembled. "It is over, my love. We are together now and no harm shall reach you. But come, we must ride now."
The Evenstar raised her troubled face to her husband. "I do not fear for myself. I fear for you, for him, for your kingdoms and most of all for our peoples. The trees, the earth and waters are silent, and yet their silence feels like screams to my heart. A storm is coming."
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Man! That was a looong chapter. It was the least I could do after such a long time, right?
Well, I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope you still find it interesting to keep reading and waiting for.
Thank you, thank you, and thank you again to all you lovelies that review, and remember to do it again, please?
And once again, I want to thank Precious Jewelle for proofreading this monster, I really appreciate your help. Really!
Blessings to all.
Elwe