((Well, here we are, at Chapter Three... This may be the last, but I'm highly doubting it. I'm feeling a #4- Lyris just refuses to go away, it seems. Ah well- you all know how hardheaded she can be. At any rate, I'd really like to thank you all for your reviews- especially the correction on Eomund. I went back, read the story through again, stopped, blinked, and said "Well, what do you know. I did screw up." So thanks. I'll try not to make any more mistakes, but I can't garauntee anything. Okay! Well, I'll stop yabbering. Chapitre Trois!))
The day is bleak- there is simply no other way to describe it. I am tense; I sit beside Eomer with an expression that could curdle milk.
My eyes move silently to my right as Aragorn and his companion come riding to the front. I have much respect for this man; he had been thrust into a position he hadn't wanted, and yet he had handled the situation magnificently. I suppose eventually resignation brings us all round to reason- it certainly did in Eomer's case, after all. I take a breath and steady myself, a faint smile coming to my features. Lyris one, Eomer nothing.
Once Aragorn joins the rank of leaders, we stand silently, staring ahead at the gates that stand equally silent, gates that have stood for ages before my ancestors ever walked the plains of Rohan. I feel a sudden quail in my heart- who am I, Lyris, a mere woman masquerading in a man's game, hope to prove here? I had failed in everything thus far- my king was dead, and I was exposed. What more besides death can I hope to gain, here, when so many like me had fallen in lesser conflicts?
I tighten my fist around the reins and shake it off, well aware of the devices the Dark Lord can employ to dissuade his enemies. I will not be so easily conquered. My former king has fallen, yes, but I have a new king to protect now, a king whom I love more than life, and perhaps my exposition has been for the best. Besides… If death awaits me here, so be it. I have not balked at death before.
Finally, Pippin's voice breaks the silence. "Where are they?" he whispers, and indeed, I am sure the rest of us would like to know too.
Aragorn's face grows grimmer, and he rides forward, the White Wizard, Eomer, the elf prince, our smaller companions, and I trailing behind. We approach, grim-faced and uncertain all. We rein in. "Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth!" Aragorn call. "Let justice be done upon him!"
A moment of silence passes, then two. A few glance about, trying to discern some type of movement atop the gates. I feel the mare shudder beneath me, and I pat her neck once to calm her, glancing to Eomer as well. Hirithlas snorts and shifts, easily sensing his rider's agitation.
"Eomer." The word is nearly silent, and I can tell as he glances to me he is the only one who has heard. Slowly, very slowly, I cross my eyes and let them go back. Eomer glares at me, though I can tell he is trying very hard to suppress a laugh. I grin at him.
He is used to this sort of inanity by now.
We both look up sharply as the gate begins to open. I stare ahead, half-anxious and half-dreading to see what will come through that door. I expect armies, but when my eyes fall to their natural level, I see only a single rider, hideous and purely evil. I feel my shoulders stiffen and my gaze heat, the hairs on my neck raising to stand on end.
There is no face to this rider. Only a mouth, filled with crooked and yellow teeth, gapes from his face like it was formed from a rip, lipless and leering. I feel myself shudder, feel an inherent bloodlust I have never felt before. I want to savage this… thing, want to slash it and tear it and spatter its blood over the ground. I want to hear it choke on its own blood, watch in grim satisfaction as the breath leaves its body. I want to kill, and I want to kill now.
I shudder, shocked at my own emotions. Never have I been so violent. I look to Eomer again, and he seems uncertain, unsure of himself- not the Eomer I know. "Eomer." His eyes clear and he looks to me, a grim expression. I nod. Again, we push the subtle intrusion of the Dark Lord from our spirits.
"My master, Sauron the Great, bids thee welcome," the creature rasps. Again I am filled with a disgust, and again I suppress the urge to kill. He seems to gaze around, though how he manages with no eyes is beyond my comprehension. He approximates a sneer, and this time my lip curls before I can stop it, my knuckles whitening around the reins. "Is there anyone in this throng with the authority to entreat me?" he scorns.
"We do not come to treat with Sauron, faithless and accursed." Gandalf's voice is authoritative as always. As if by some magic, the blood bubbling in my veins cools to a faint simmer, and I feel my tense muscles relax slightly. "Tell your master this: the armies of Mordor must disband. He is to depart these lands, never to return."
The thing, the Mouth, lets out something that is neither cough nor laugh, but certainly a noise of derision. "Old Greybeard," it mocks. "I have a token I am bidden to show thee." He pulls something from a pack and holds it up. My heart leaps to my throat in hot, bitter disbelief.
The halfling's mithril shirt.
Gimli sighs, and Pippin says what we have all been dreading- "Frodo." The Mouth lets out another noise and tosses it to the Wizard, who catches it with a single hand. I glance to Eomer, worry lining my face. He refuses to meet my eyes, staring instead at the shirt. I know what he is thinking by now. Perhaps, if he just believes enough and wills it to not be so, it will not be. It is a foolish hope that all of us cling to in the hours of darkness- a hope which every one of us knows can never be so.
"Frodo!" Pippin cries out.
"Silence," Gandalf bids.
I can see the pain in Pippin's eyes, and I swallow. "No!" he cries out again. Again, the wizard cuts him off with a command of silence. I can sympathize with the poor creature- how many times would I have been bidden to hold my tongue, if I had not played my masquerade?
"The halfling was dear to you, I see," the thing surmises, grinning liplessly. "Know that he suffered greatly at the hands of his hosts."
I close my eyes just a moment, feeling the sickness rising within. So it has failed. No bright tomorrow awaits Middle Earth- instead, only a barren, black plague that will consume all. There is no hope left- and what have I lived my life for? For what, then, has been all my play-acting? For what has been all the slaying I have done, of Orcs, of Uruks, of men? For what has been glory? For what has my life, and the lives of these others been?
Should I simply surrender myself at this moment?
"Who would have thought one so small could have endured so much pain?" The thing pauses to allow the effect to sink in. "And he did, Gandalf. He did." He mocks us with another breath.
I am trying to find the fire in my veins that usually runs so rampant when Aragorn nudges his horse into a walk and approaches the Mouth. "And who is this?" it scorns. "Ilsildur's heir? It takes more to make a King than a broken elvish blade."
Aragorn smiles, and then all at once Anduril comes up in a flash, severing the abomination's head from its shoulders. With its death comes the return of the fire. I sense the independence swell up again, and my lips uncurl and form a grim smile.
"Looks like negotiations are closed," the dwarf notes.
Aragorn wheels his protesting mount about, fixing us all with a gaze filled with icy fire. "I do not believe it!" he announces. Gandalf stares at him, and Aragorn intensifies his stare. "I will not."
"Hear, hear," I add, and Eomer looks to me, then to Aragorn, and I think I catch a faint flash of jealousy. I want to laugh- Eomer has nothing to fear from me where Ilsildur's Heir is concerned. He could never handle me as well as the new King of Rohan does, and besides, there is already too much of a fight for his heart. I am loyal to my First Marshal, now and til the end of days.
Of course, the end of days may arrive in naught but a few hours.
The Black Gates begin to open, and Aragorn turns as we all look up. Through the widening chasm between the gates, all the Hosts of Mordor have gathered, beating and shouting their war cries. "Fall back," Aragorn commands, but we can only stare in open defiance. "Pull back!" he shouts again. "Pull BACK!"
This time we heed his call, and I and Eomer turn with the others, riding back to our armies. They shuffle their feet nervously, and in truth, I cannot blame me. One young soldier, a boy I have mentored for years, looks to me in uncertainty. I give him a grin and a wink- he has avoided me since my exposé, but now he smiles back, gripping his spear a little tighter. I am proud of him.
"Hold your ground!" Aragorn commands. "Hold your ground!
"Sons of Gondor, of Rohan!" he calls out, driving his horse in front of the armies, "my brothers. I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me! A day may come, when the courage of men fail, when we forsake our friends and break all vows of fellowship! But it not this day. An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the Age of Men comes crashing down, but it is not this day! This day we fight! By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand, Men of the West!"
The sound of drawing sword fills the air, and we hold them aloft as our commander turns to face the Hordes of the Evil One. He raises his sword in defiance, and beside Eomer, I feel my soul complete. This! my mind exults. This is what you have lived for! To protect what you love, to come out glorious in victory, or to go down in a fiery trail! The final reckoning, the battle of all battles- this, Lyris, daughter of Eormis, this is what you were born for!
Which is all very well and good, speaks up another little part of my mind, because you're going to need something.
We are surrounded.
A small metallic screech is heard, and I glance down. Even Pippin has drawn his short sword. I glance to Eomer again. He surveys the situation slowly, his eyes roving over the army until they meet mine. There is a smoldering confidence there, the dashing spirit that I have always so loved in him. He smirks, and I return it, our eyes sharing an unspoken promise. Should one of us fall, we will not grieve. Indeed, this is the battle of our lifetime- we should be glad we were born to fight it.
"For Rohan." The thrill of the challenge is in his voice, and I smile.
He reaches out, and we punch our mailed fists together. The dwarf and the elf are bantering about something again, but I pay it no heed.
"For Rohan," I reply, my eyes glittering with anticipation.
We face the hordes, but a whisper is in my head. Elessar, it calls. Aragorn...
I look sharply to Aragorn, who begins to walk forward. His face is uncertain, but I resist the urge to call out to him, wondering if this can be true. He lowers his sword, then turns to face us. "For Frodo," he whispers.
He rushes forward.
The two halflings run after him, shouting, and I scream out a war cry, leading the thunder at my Marshal's side. We crash into the throng of Orcs and Uruks, my blood singing as black fluid spatters my leather armor. My strikes seem to come to me preternaturally, anticipating each enemy's blow and blocking it, my sword striking true at every angle. Eomer and I form a whirlwind together, nearly unstoppable in the symmetry of our strokes.
We are perfect complements, halves of a whole. He is General, and I am Lieutenant. He is Marshal, and I am Rider. He is King, and I am Subject. He is Earth, and I am Fire. He is Air, and I am Water.
He is Man, and I am Woman.
A screech wracks the air, and I glance up to see a sight that makes my blood run cold; a fell beast of the Nazgul, the very same which had taken my king and rendered me powerless to stop it. My heart skips a beat, but then a great brow blur swoops down and then up, tackling the beast and fending it off. "The Eagles!" I hear Pippin cry. "The Eagles are coming!"A smile breaks across my face. Thank Illuvatar for His blessings.
Perhaps I speak too soon.
The Nazgul wheel away, speeding back from whence they came. The battle seems to take a turn for the worst- the Mordor ilk seem to be gaining the upper hand. Desperately, I fight even harder, hoping to inspire those around me. Be not faint of heart, I plead. Hold to your conviction.
But even I cannot take my advice. The battle grows heavy in my limbs; I fade, reverting into defensive strokes. A blade whistles down for my throat- I block it, carrying the foul sword away and angling mine into the offending Uruk's side. Another seeks to bite deep into my side, but I work up the will to whip my blade around, slicing off the hand. I drive my sword into the stomach of the beast, but I stiffen with a gasp.
"Lyris!"
I blink, looking down to see a thick, feathered shaft sprouting from my chest, black arrows marking it as Mordor craft. Eomer is there in a heartbeat, supporting me with one arm whilst fighting off Uruks with his sword. I shake my head and irritably shuffle his arm off, breaking the very tip of the bolt off. "Take it easy, Lyris!" he commands, but I grip my sword again.
"There's no help for it now," I mutter, and join him again, ignoring the slight trickle of blood leaking its way around the bolt. I wonder if it has punctured anything- in any case, I am not dead yet, and I steel my resolve.
Another Uruk dies, but I pay with a gash on my shoulder. We cannot hope to continue this much longer. Eomer stumbles back, his leather armor darkening as blood seeps through a wound on his hip. "All right?" I ask. He makes no answer, just shakes it off and continues to fight.
The fight is dying.
A small space clears, and Eomer looks to me as he gasps for breath. My own breathing is labored, hampered by the protrusion in my torso. Our eyes meet, and we are silent a moment as we strive for the oxygen to speak. Finally, he says it. "Lyris... I love you."
I feel the ring on my finger grow warm suddenly, and a warmth fills me. "I love you too, Eomer," I reply, holding his gaze. This may be our last moment- surely it will be, for neither of us move to join the clash again. Instead, we stand, locked in our personal moment.
We both jump and look startledly as a scream rips through the air, projected from high in the air. The Eye of Sauron is afire, as always, but this time it is consumed, turning in on itself. Everyone stops to stare.
Then, suddenly, like a miracle, a loud crack fills the atmosphere, and the tower starts to fall in on itself. Still afire, the Eye begins to topple, glancing about wildly as if some underling would save it. It swells, then contracts, and I feel my own eyes fill with tears of relief. Like an earthquake, a shockwave erupts from where seconds ago the Dark Lord had come to realize his end, rocking the very core of Middle Earth.
Merry screams Frodo's name in jubilation; I leap, wrapping my arms around Eomer's neck. Fiercely his mouth captures mine, and she share a passionate kiss, holding each other tight. We have won; we have triumphed. Frodo has delivered the Ring, and the salvation of Middle Earth. We have fought this last battle and cleared his path. We have given our all- we have gambled with the dice of Fate and won.
We have fought the battle to end all battles.
The shockwave reaches us, causing Eomer to lose his grip and me to find my feet rather quickly. We glance to our right- the ground is caving in on itself, opening up into a chasm that in seconds will threaten to engulf us as well. Still, I cannot move- all I can see is the spouts of fire reaching up into the dismal sky as Mount Doom erupts. What of the halfling? I wonder, a deep anguish burrowing in my heart. Will he be granted no quarter?
"Frodo," I whisper. Eomer's strong arms pull me into an embrace, and I sag against him. My ribs cry out in pain and the arrow jostles in my flesh, causing my eyes to close. Every wound I have suffered quietly makes itself known, reminding me no human is invincible. But I am warm. I am in Eomer's arms, and I am safe.
I slip into blackness.