The rain ran in small silver rivers down the gently sloping streets of Minas Tirith, trickling over the ancient bricks in tiny leaps as it flowed. Few were about on this gloomy morning, preferring to stay in their homes or to gather in the warm, brightly lit shops, there to chat the time away while waiting for the sun.
Thus it was that no one on the third level noticed the tall man walking slowly down the Street of Trades, his long black cloak soaked through with the rain, his boots-once fine, now much worn with use-scarcely making a noise as they padded through the puddles in the road. Only those who noticed that this walker was trailed by a Gondorian guard might guess his identity. On this damp day, however, the streets were deserted, and the traveler went unheeded. Behind the doors and windows of the shops came the ring of hammers and clang of tools, but none ventured to poke their heads out into the rain to witness the cloaked man's passing.
Aragorn was pleased to have the anonymity as he walked among his people. After spending most of his life by himself, it had taken some time for him to become comfortable in his role as King, responsible for the lives of many. Moving as he did now, unseen and ignored, made him feel almost as he did in those carefree days.
Such a feeling was quite welcome this morning, and he sighed to himself as he strode down the wet street. Today there would be no meeting with the Haradrim. It was a day of rest, for the men of both sides to relax their minds and refresh themselves, and try not to think about the fact that matters were not going as smoothly as they had hoped.
Aragorn tightly squeezed his eyes shut in frustration, as if to block out the memory of the bickering that had marred the past few days. The talks were still genial, but the tone was growing sharper, the diplomatic politeness crumbling a little around the edges. All were having their say, with the words flying thick and fast, and neither side wishing to move an inch.
And the King knew that there were those on both sides now who were beginning to whisper that this had all been a mistake.
The sky darkened just a little as a storm cloud lumbered overhead, and Aragorn mused that it was times like these that he wished he was back in the wild, with no more pressing decision at hand than what to hunt for supper.
A distant roll of thunder broke the silence of the rainy street as the King's stepped slowed. He was nearing one corner of the thoroughfare, where stood a large shop with shuttered windows. The glow of fire and sound of falling hammers within indicated that the establishment was inhabited, and busy. Over its large wooden door hung a sign wrought of iron, depicting the outline of a hammer and chisel.
Aragorn glanced at the sign, smiled, and went inside, closely followed by his bodyguard.
The interior of the hall was large and bright, lit with several small roaring fireplaces and free-standing torchieres. Men stood scattered about the room, lit by the fire's glow as they plied their trade. It was a stone-working shop, and as Minas Tirith was just beginning to make its repairs after the devastating attack the year before, the entire floor was full of men carving stones large and small. The air rang with the music of their tools.
Aragorn pulled down his sodden hood, his long black hair dripping with water, and many of the masons recognized him and bowed. He acknowledged the salute as he walked to the back of the shop, nodding to the men as he went by. His mind, however, was on the one he had come to see, and he knew exactly where to find him.
In the very back of the shop was the area where large carvings were done; a massive door on the farthest wall there opened onto a courtyard behind where stones could be loaded onto sleds and transported to their destination. Here men were fashioning large cap-stones and ornate cornices to replace those destroyed in the War, and it was here that Aragorn found Gimli.
The Dwarf was seated in a corner, his overcoat tossed aside, his sleeves rolled up as he methodically chipped away at a large rectangular block of white stone that sat before him. His hands and clothes were covered with fine white powder and larger chips of rock, and his thick red beard was particularly snowy-looking. At hearing Aragorn's approach, Gimli glanced over at him and smiled, not looking terribly surprised.
"Ah, welcome, lad," he said in greeting, waving one dusty hand towards a rough wooden table that stood nearby. "There's fruit and beer if you've a mind for food and drink."
The King removed his wet cloak, draped it over the corner of the table and wearily sat himself on one of the table's hewn chairs. "Perhaps later, my friend; at the moment I hunger for quiet more than food."
"Quiet!" repeated the dwarf with amusement as he turned back to his work. "You'll not find that in this place, I'm afraid. The hammers here sing every hour of the day. Hm!" He shook his head. "Ah, I'd forgotten how much I'd missed it."
Aragorn sighed again and leaned back, watching Gimli work. "I far prefer the sound of stone-carving to the clamor of shouting voices, no matter how loud or long it is," he remarked. "At least it is producing something worthwhile with all of its noise. I fear we are not."
Gimli glanced over at him, a knowing, sympathetic gleam in his blue eyes. "Is it the brayin' asses from your Council that's burdened your spirit, lad?"
"It is not their braying that worries me so much," replied the King in a tired voice, leaning his head back on the well-worn wooden headrest of the chair. "It is what they are braying, and the fact that the Haradrim seemed determined to bray right back. For three days we have been mired in the same position, and it seems that yesterday was spent simply repeating what had been said the two days before. It is most...frustrating."
"Ah!" chuckled Gimli, holding up his mallet and chisel. "Trust me, lad, that's the time when it does a world of good to take a hammer to hand and start pounding away. If I did not have this place to come to every day, there would probably be two or three of our fellow diplomats walking around here with a scar from a Dwarven axe to call their own."
He laughed and went back to hammering, and Aragorn fell silent, content to simply rest and watch him.
It was really quite amazing to see the small, sturdy Dwarf engaged in his handicraft. The work was so fine and detailed, it seemed impossible that hands as large and strong as his could have crafted it. The block was some four feet long by two feet high, and Gimli was carving out a relief design in its center. In the middle was a running horse upon a grassy plain, powerfully rendered, its muscles straining, its exquisitely rendered mane flying in the wind. Surrounding the horse were several other images, a little smaller but no less finely carved; Aragorn recognized the forms of open books, scrolls, writing tools, and several musical instruments.
"That is a wonderful piece, Master Dwarf," said Aragorn softly, after he had watched Gimli for a while.
Gimli bent forward and blew some dust from the figure he was working on. "Thank you, lad. It is to be the lintel-stone for the main entrance to Lord Faramir and Lady Eowyn's house in Ithilien." He paused and turned to look at his friend. "If they will not consent to the sensible thing, and come dwell in the Glittering Caves, they shall at least have a taste of Dwarven craftsmanship about their home."
A soft smile graced Aragorn's weary features. "It will be dearly appreciated, I am sure," he said wistfully, regarding the beautiful carving. He paused, then looked out to the direction of Mordor. "I wonder how our friends are faring in the dark lands this day?"
"Hm," grunted Gimli as he resumed his work, "you need not be concerned about the Elf. I am certain his people know how to walk between the raindrops, and thus stay dry as a bone."
The King grinned gently at him. "You have not worried about Legolas at all?"
The Dwarf gave him an annoyed look. "Worried? Bah - that lad is charmed, I believe. No need for us to fret over any harm touching so much as a hair on that perfect golden head!"
So saying, he roughly cleared his throat and began chiseling again, a little harder than before, scowling fiercely as if to hide some other, stronger emotion.
Aragorn simply smiled in understanding. "My thoughts have been ever with them these past days as well," he confessed quietly.
Gimli's hand faltered slightly, and he cast a look back at Aragorn, embarrassment mixed with relief.
"It has been my unceasing request to the Valar to bring them all safely back to those they love," the King continued, his voice still hushed. "and I feel certain they will grant it. Let that thought ease your heart; there are more hands at work here than ours alone."
The Dwarf contemplated this for a moment, then nodded. "Aye, lad, I will," he said, looking down as he fiddled with the hammer and chisel in his hands. After a few moments he looked back up, his voice taking on a mischievous tone. "And if the Valar could also give Lord Tuornen a good case of lost voice for a day or two, that would be much appreciated by all as well, I'll be bound."
"Ah!" gasped Aragorn, sitting back and sighing as he wearily placed his head upon the back of the chair and stared up at the soot-covered ceiling. "It is a wonder we have not all lost our speech, with all the debating the past few days. Between the Council members swearing that we are too lenient with the terms of peace, and the Haradrim claiming we are too strict, I am starting to fear it will be the next age before we arrive at any satisfactory conclusion. Facing ten thousand Uruk-hai was not half so much a challenge."
Gimli chuckled and went back to his work. "That did seem a far more simple task," he observed as he positioned the chisel upon the stone.
The King's face grew soft with contemplation. "Yes," he murmured quietly, still gazing upwards. "Many times since assuming the throne, I have found myself thinking of the simplicity of the past, as during our Fellowship, when our paths were plain before us. Then my only care was to survive to the next day, and as dark and uncertain as those days were, there are times I long for them." He sighed.
The Dwarf paused in his labor and looked into the distance as he contemplated this, nodding after a short time of silence. "That was a far less complicated time, to be sure," he said, nodding in agreement before turning to look at his friend. "And would you return there if you could, lad?"
Silence fell as Aragorn contemplated the question, then sat up and folded his hands, facing his friend with a resolute expression on his handsome face.
"No," he said, in a soft but firm voice. "In other days I had no desire for the crown, and walked alone rather than face its weight. Now I fear that weight no longer, for by accepting my duty, I may have the power to accomplish that which I have most longed to see - the true end of Sauron's darkness and the coming of peace to all Men of Middle-earth."
Gimli looked thoughtful for a moment, then put down his tools. "Be assured that that is the wish of the Dwarves as well," he said as he picked up a nearby rag and began wiping his hands with it. "We are willing to welcome the Haradrim as friends, provided they behave themselves. So far they have, but if they prove themselves false..." He raised one finger and shook it a few times, a harder edge coming to his expression. "Let us just say my axe has not forgotten its purpose, even if it has split more wood than heads of late."
"That is much appreciated, Master Dwarf, I assure you," answered Aragorn, sitting back once more. "But thus far I have seen no trickery in our dealings with the men of Harad, and if Chief Adir is as wise as he appears to be, none will be revealed. I will hold hope in my heart to the most bitter of ends in this matter, in spite of what those in the Court may say."
"And ye know we'll be there with you, lad," said Gimli with conviction as he wiped the last of the dust from his hands. "I've still got some strength left in me, after all, and we both know the Elf will be fresh as a spring rose when he's into his fifth age. Between the three of us, not to mention Lord Faramir and Prince Imrahil, we ought t'be able to deal with the more stubborn of the lot."
A sincere smile of gratitude came over Aragorn's weathered face. "My thanks to you for that, Gimli; it is my hope we will have this solved well before the next few days are spent. Will you join me in a midday meal before I return to my chambers and continue my work for tomorrow's meeting? Perhaps between the two of us, we can discern a way to counter their more stubborn contentions."
His friend did not hesitate as he set aside the rag and slid from his stool. "I will! And if words are not successful, there is still the blunt end of my axe."
Gimli laughed a little, apparently delighted at the idea of giving Tuornen's head a good thump, and hurriedly walked away to fetch his cloak.
Aragorn stood, wrapping his own cloak once more around himself as he prepared to go back out into the storm. He heard the thunder rumble again through the thick walls, and prepared himself as he clasped the fastener about his neck. In his heart, he resolved to weather the coming days much as he would weather this rainfall. Beyond the darkness lay a brighter, warmer day, one of promise for all men who would seek it. He had only to stand to his duty and work to calm the tempest now swirling about him, and with the aid of his friends and the grace of the Valar, both Gondor and Harad would have the chance to claim the sunlit future as their own.
Gimli reappeared, completely cleaned now and dressed in his walking cloak.
"Now, these men of Gondor do not know how to brew beer as fine as that of the Dwarves," he said as he approached, "but there is a tavern down the street where it is fairly passable. There we may drink to the safety of our friends, and enjoy a good meal in the bargain."
Aragorn smiled and lifted one arm towards the door. "Today the King of Gondor follows you, Master Dwarf. Pray lead the way!"
Gimli chuckled and went past him to the door, which was pulled open. Outside the day had become even darker and more wet, but they heeded it not, each used to enduring such conditions. Within moments Aragorn and Gimli had stepped through the door, followed by the royal bodyguard. Those watching saw their forms soon vanish into an indistinct haze as they moved down the empty streets towards the lights of the tavern, and some may have felt uncomfortable at the disquieting swiftness with which King, Dwarf, and soldier were swallowed up by the cold rain and increasing gloom.
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Henvain had never moved so fast, for so long, in all of his life.
This thought kept repeating in the young soldier's mind as he huffed along, trying to keep up with Lord Faramir whose gray-cloaked form was darting among the rocks along the puddle-strewn path ahead of him. The rain that had fallen all day had slowed to a slight misting now, but the clouds had remained, not to mention the water that slickened every surface. Going was difficult, but they had not slackened their pace all afternoon, for according to Legolas, their goal was now very near.
Thus Henvain found himself dashing as quietly as possible across the boulder-choked Mordor slopes. They had left the road; now that the lair of the rogue Harad prince was in view, Faramir had determined to go far around their sentries, observe the size of Karil's army, map the location, and then make their way speedily home.
The ground was becoming steeper as they went along, covered with larger and larger rocks. They were moving in stealth, running close to the ground, Legolas out front to watch for the Orcs guarding the hideout's perimeters. It seemed to Henvain that they were skirting the edge of a valley or canyon, when he could take his eyes from the highly unstable terrain long enough to gauge their location. It was all he could do to keep from tripping.
When he could risk it, Henvain stole a glance now and then at the red-orange glow that shimmered in the sky above them. Before it was just a ribbon of light on the horizon; now that they had come close to where the army was, it seemed to fill half the sky, its brightness greater now that the day was waning and, somewhere behind the clouds, the sun had begun to slip below the horizon.
Henvain swallowed a bit as he cast a sideways look at the glow, hating the uncomfortable twinge it gave him in his stomach. It looked altogether too much like the glow from Sauron's mountain, the awful sign of evil he'd seen all of his life over the eastern mountains. It was stupid, he told himself, to feel such dread now; Sauron was dead, and soon they'd deal with this Karil as well. Mordor, as he'd seen, as now just a dead land full of wet, ugly rocks. There was nothing to fear.
He still hated it.
"Henvain!"
He looked up, startled out of his thoughts; Legolas and Faramir had found a lookout point among the rocks along the crest of the ridge, and Lord Faramir was motioning him over.
"Now we'll get this over with," Henvain told himself, and with renewed vigor made his way to the where the two Princes were. He was quite tired of this grand journey; he had seen Mordor and had his adventure, and now he only wanted to go home.
Still staying as close to the ground as he could, Henvain lay almost on his stomach and crawled as swiftly as he could to his commanders. Faramir was nearest to the lip, laying behind a few sheltering rocks and almost completely covered by his long gray cloak, with Legolas crouched down on his right. As Henvain drew near, Faramir looked over at him, gave a nod, then held out a hand, mutely warning him to stop where he was.
Henvain obeyed, his heart pounding, although he was not sure why he felt so nervous.
Faramir eyed him for a moment, whispered, "Wait," and very slowly and cautiously raised himself high enough to see over the crest of the ridge into whatever lay below.
Henvain stared at him, terrified and consumed with curiosity at once. What was the Prince seeing? Surely they would let him take a look, after coming all this way. He had to at least be able to boast to Turwaith that he'd seen the army of Karil before any other Gondorian soldier.
For a moment, all Henvain saw was Faramir looking over the crest of the ridge. The Captain seemed immobile, his long hair blowing about the edges of his hood the only movement. Then, after several moments had passed, Henvain watched as Faramir very slowly lowered his head, as if struck by some horrible sadness.
Henvain frowned, puzzled, but still obeying the order not to move despite the dreadful suspense.
Lord Faramir lay motionless for a few more moments, head still bowed, and even in the dwindling light Henvain could see that the Steward seemed overcome. Then this feeling seemed to pass, for in the next instant Henvain saw his commander lift his head. The sorrow had fled from Faramir's expression now, his face set in lines of firm resolution, a determined gleam in his blue eyes. The grief was gone, or at least buried, and now Henvain saw only Captain Faramir of the White Tower, whose mind was now turned to but one goal: the end of this latest threat to Gondor.
Faramir turned and said something to Legolas, who lifted himself up to peer below them. Then the Steward faced Henvain, and motioned to him to join them atop the summit.
The young soldier was struck by the solemn expression on Faramir's face, and at how the captain's eyes that had looked on him so kindly before still had a deeply sad light in them, as if he could not completely hide his feelings despite the warrior's mask he wore. For a second Henvain hugged the cold, wet rocks, overwhelmed by a sudden unwillingness to look.
Quickly he shook this feeling off, frowning at himself. Why be afraid? As he peeled himself from the side of the hill and edged forward, he tried to still the hammering of his heart. It was only a glimpse at an army they'd soon be destroying, something to brag about to the boys back home.
Swallowing quickly, he inched to the top of the hill, and looked over.
Once, when Henvain and Turwaith were both children, Turwaith had punched Henvain with full force in the stomach. Henvain had long ago forgotten why his older brother had done this, but the memory of how it felt to have the wind so violently and unexpectedly knocked out of him had never faded. There had been the all-consuming pain, the panic of being unable to breathe, the horrible cold sweat, and the wild wondering if he was ever going to taste air again.
When Henvain saw what lay in the valley below them, that sensation flooded over him once more, and he could do nothing but grab onto the cold rocky ledge and stare.
Before them spread a wide, rocky valley, split in half by a narrow, twisting river. The entire area was peppered with thousands of torches, dotting the landscape like earthbound stars, and several larger fires whose flames leapt into the darkening sky. Swarming around those torches were Orcs, thousands of them, more than Henvain had ever seen in one place in his life. The creatures' dark, squat bodies undulated over the ground like gigantic ants; he could hear their guttural voices even from their great distance.
Among the Orcs moved larger figures, gigantic trolls and monstrous beasts of burden, their howls mingling with the cacophony of the Orc's shrill cries. The crack of whips and clank of machinery completed this hellish symphony, and Henvain saw that these creatures were building something in their midst, tall towers several stories high.
'Siege towers,' he thought suddenly as he stared. He'd been too ill from dysentery to witness the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, but he'd heard many stories of the awful towers that had destroyed so many of Minas Tirith's ancient walls, and clearly remembered hearing their horrific thunder of their deadly missiles, and the screams of those who perished beneath them, as he lay helpless in the Houses of Healing.
The thought that an enemy was aiming to set them once again against Gondor made him ill.
Once Henvain could tear his eyes from the black forms upon the plains, he beheld what lay beyond. Along the edge of the valley, set against the slope of the mountains, was a small fortress, obviously ancient, faintly lit by the glow from the many torches and fires, its wide walls flickering ghost-like in and out of sight against the dark hillside. There was one tall, large building and two long, smaller ones, and a very high tower that overlooked the entire plain. Lights burned in the windows there, blinking star-like to mirror the torches upon the ground, and Henvain shuddered to think what its inhabitants might be planning there behind those mighty walls.
Dread rolled over him as he looked again over the huge host working on the siege towers. This would be no quick fight; he knew that Gondor was still rebuilding her forces after the devastation of the War. When he felt certain Karil could not have more than a few hundred disgruntled Orcs at hand, he had not worried. But now...
Suddenly someone shook his shoulder. He blinked and looked over; it was Legolas, his fair face grim beneath the shadows of his deep hood. The Elf motioned; they were moving back down the hill. Henvain saw to his surprise that Lord Faramir was already halfway down the slope, bent over his map and hurriedly making some marks on it. Legolas got to his feet and silently skimmed over the rocks to join Lord Faramir; Henvain followed, bewildered. He had not even noticed Faramir moving.
Henvain's heart was still pounding when he reached his commander's side, his breath only starting to come back. His mind swirled as what he had seen began to fully take hold; it was much worse than anyone, even those men on the Council, had thought. And Gondor was only just healing...
Then he saw Lord Faramir look up, and there was such an expression of strength and resolve upon the young Steward's face that Henvain felt a bit taken aback. The Prince was looking in the direction of the fortress, and although the light was failing fast now, Henvain could plainly see the fortitude engraved there. Those who sought to harm Gondor, it was clear, would have to pass Lord Faramir first.
As Faramir quickly put away the map, Henvain thought about it and felt himself begin to relax a bit, a little abashed at being so uncertain before. Of course; Lord Faramir knew what to do. They would return home now, and the Steward, the King, and all the others in charge would take care of this. Even thousands of Orcs could not prevail against such fire that now burned in the Prince's eyes. Perhaps Henvain could even be a part of it this time and get the battle scar he'd always wanted. Everything was going to be all right.
Then Faramir was on his feet, his aspect somber as he faced them.
"Now, my friends," he said quietly, "we must get home as quickly as possible and tell the King what we have found."
And turning he began to hurry down the hill, as swiftly and quietly as he had ascended it. Legolas went after him, his sharp eyes scanning the rocks around them. Henvain followed, relieved to be on the road home at last, and trying to ignore the disquieting images still reeling through his mind as he told himself repeatedly that everything was going to be all right.
Somehow, he did not believe it.