Chapter 32

Sacrifice

Into the marshes, singing as they went marched the dwarves. King Elessar had deployed them as soon as Elboron had delivered his message. With the rest of the battle won, Aragorn was anxious to send help to his Steward, who he could tell from Elboron's anxious appearance was sorely pushed. Aragorn had wished to go himself but realised that he must put in order the problem he now had with Alatar.

At the head of the dwarves marched Gimli, son of Gloin, his axe still dripping with the blood of his earlier foes and his eyes flashing with tenacity. Aragorn had explained the situation to the dwarf and Gimli was anxious to provide support to the White Company. But for the men of Ithilien's valiant sacrifice, he knew the main battle would have been far harder. He was also concerned about the Steward and King of Rohan who he knew would have been at the heart of the battle.

Behind the dwarves on the hill the company of elves reined in their horses and readied their bows. Prince Legolas sat impeccably at their front, his bow already singing as he dispatched arrow after arrow into the sky at the attacking fell beasts.

Legolas smiled as a familiar gruff voice came back up the hill towards him. "Save some for me, laddie!" Gimli shouted over his shoulder as the pace of his column increased. The dwarves now had their quarry in their sights and they rushed to meet the orcs.

Legolas laughed. "Move your stout legs a little faster, Master Dwarf!" he replied. "Or I shall win this contest easily to your nil score!"

The line of dwarves smashed into the Uruk-hai as they achieved the objective that had been set them so much earlier in the day. They were overrunning finally the last of the valiant White Company soldiers. The orcs were contemplating at last ravaging through the camp of Gondor to claim the prizes they had been promised and fought so steadfastly for. Instead as the invigorated dwarves engaged them they realised that they were still unable to complete their task.

It quickly became apparent that the dwarves were fresher than the uruks. With cries and shrieks of dismay percolating the air the orcs at last gave up their fight and turned and fled. The dwarves followed them unwavering as they screamed revenge for the slaughter of Moria. They chased the fleeing orcs into the water and beyond, showing no quarter as their axes flashed with vengeance.

The fell beasts in the air likewise suffered as the elven arrows found their marks ceaselessly. There were agonised cries as one-by-one the beasts fell from the sky, their leathery hides peppered with many elven shafts. More dwarves appeared to swarm over and finish off the creatures and their riders as they lay defenceless on the bodies of those who had fallen before.

Eventually, from the very south where the Rohirrim had begun their charge long hours before through to banks of the river in the north, the battlefield grew quiet.

Legolas slid down from his horse and glided elegantly over the debris to stand beside Gimli.

"It is done," he said, softly as they watched the last of the orcs being hacked to pieces as they disappeared into the fog.

"Aye, laddie," responded the dwarf grimly.

"How many is your score?" Legolas asked.

Gimli surveyed the results of the carnage before them. As far as they could see out into the water there were piled high the bodies of men and orcs. The mist that had not disappeared all day now shrouded the corpses as they lay and the strange melancholy often felt at the end of a battle settled over the scene. All was quiet except for the ghostly call of a crow chilling the blood of all who heard it.

Gimli snorted sadly. "At least a dozen but it hardly seems to matter now," he said dejectedly.

"It is a high price that Gondor has paid," Legolas said.

"That it is and not just Gondor," sighed Gimli. "What was it all for?"

The elf's eyes twinkled brightly in the gathering doom. "To keep those whom we love safe," he replied, but he shared the growing disquiet that the dwarf felt and he voiced it. "Is there no sign of Faramir?"

"I have seen naught of him or Eomer-King," Gimli's voice was tinged with sadness as his eyes cast around the chaotic scene once more. "Yet Aragorn said they were both here."

"Then we will find them," Legolas said grimly, as he shouldered his bow.

He moved forward to begin his macabre search. Behind him Gimli muttered, the distaste on his face hidden behind his bushy beard as he followed the elf. "I like it not," he said. "There are few enough men of the White Company left standing. If Faramir or Eomer were here we would see them."

They moved to where the surviving members of the Ithilien Company had gathered.

"Who commands here?" Legolas asked.

A blood stained and weary man stepped forward. He wore the garb of the Rangers although it was hard to see so covered was he in the grime of battle. His voice was deep with weariness and sorrow but he bowed loud. "Anborn, Captain of the Ithilien Rangers, my lords," he said.

Legolas nodded. "I remember you, Anborn," he said. "Know you what befell the Prince of Ithilien or the King of Rohan?"

Anborn's blazing eyes went down to the ground. "Alas I do not," he admitted. "At the end the battle was bloody and frenzied. I could see little but the orc in front of me and the comrade by my side. I saw both the Lord Faramir and King Eomer in the water over yonder, at one stage." There was a definite catch in his voice. "I saw neither come back."

Gimli snorted. "Then we must commence our search where you last saw them, Anborn. Can you show us?"

Legolas shook his head. "He has a severe wound, Gimli. We should see him to the healers."

"With respect, Prince Legolas," Anborn said. "I can manage and I would find the Lord Steward before my wound needs seeing to. We have shared much history; I need to know what befell him this dreadful day."

Legolas nodded. "Very well but if you begin to lose your strength tell me and I will see you attended to. Much has been lost this day already, we must lose no more."

The elf, the dwarf and the man then began to walk towards the shore. All still clinging to the hope that they came on a mission of rescue to bring back the men they sort for the healers to make well again. Each heart was heavy with the unspoken truth that what they may find would be the lifeless bodies of the two brothers by law.

"You did what?" Elboron gasped.

After his meeting with his uncle he had followed the blue lights and found the King on the battlefield with the two exhausted wizards. Having delivered his message and accomplished his mission he sought to return to the White Company.

Picking his way in that direction he had come across the battered form of Lord Ingold limping away from the healers. Remembering the lord's attack on his father in the Council, Elboron had expected a bristled reception at best. He had been amazed to find the lord friendly to the point of overpowering him. The reason for this change soon became apparent when Ingold related the tale of the troll and how his life had been saved by the bravery of Prince Eldarion and young Cirion.

Elboron listened wide-eyed with disbelief at the story. "Father will kill him," he muttered.

"On the contrary," Ingold enthused. "Your father should be proud to sire a son with such courage. I would that he were mine!"

Elboron excused himself from the grateful entreaties of the lord. He still wished to return to his father but now he knew his younger brother had been taken unconscious and injured to the healers, he hesitated. King Elessar was sending reinforcements to the marshland, he prayed they would arrive in time and his father would be saved. Thinking through the issues logically, he decided that he could do little more for the White Company, whereas Cirion may have dire need of his support. So judging he turned Snowflake towards the army camp.

It had taken him some time to track down the two boys whom he eventually found in one of the most obvious places: the Steward's tent. He stood before them now. The Prince looked tired and dirty but was otherwise unharmed. Cirion, on the other hand, was lying majestically in a cot with his left arm and left leg splinted and wrapped in massive bandages. The harassed healer who had tended him had told the second son of the Steward that he must rest. However, now that he was fully wakened the memory of the thrill of his exploits rushed through Cirion's veins. The parts of his body he was able to move were therefore more animated than ever.

"We killed a troll!" he repeated delightedly to his older brother.

Eldarion smiled shyly, shaking his head at the younger boy's unquenched enthusiasm. However, he had taken into account Elboron's battle stained clothes, the numerous cuts about his face and body and the weariness of his countenance. Knowing it was little but all he could do at this point, he offered the older boy a drink of water which Elboron gratefully accepted.

"How did you kill a troll?" Elboron asked between controlled sips. He assumed that Ingold had exaggerated the boys' contribution but his brother was affirming it now.

"Well," began Cirion, trying to sit up but letting out a hoot of pain and resting back into the cot before he continued. "You remember what Uncle Pippin told us about how he and Uncle Merry brought down that troll in Moria? I just followed their plan."

Elboron's eyes went wide with incredulity. "You followed a hobbit plan?" he muttered shaking his head. "Peregrin Took's plan at that?"

Cirion beamed. "And it worked!"

Elboron was speechless.

"Ciri," Eldarion sat on the bed beside his friend. "I've heard that story from my father, who I think you will agree, tells it with more candour than Uncle Pippin. As ever Pippin exaggerated! The two hobbits did not bring down that troll, it was the combined efforts of the whole fellowship, your Uncle Boromir and Legolas particularly!"

"Two hobbits could not fight a cave troll," Elboron confirmed. "Let alone kill one!"

Cirion opened his mouth to argue but stopped as the full realisation of exactly what he had done washed through him. All remaining colour from his pale face leeched away. "I thought . . . well it worked, did it not?" he murmured softly, his head down.

Elboron and Eldarion exchanged a glance and smiled as understanding passed between then. The Prince had felt in awe of the heir to the Stewardship since Elboron always appeared so controlled, so grown up and so distant. He had heard his father praising Elboron on a number of occasions and that had fed on his own insecurities to make him feel more inadequate. As a consequence Eldarion had seen Elboron, if not as a threat, then as somehow superior and a gulf had grown between the pair. The Prince had avoided any contact with Elboron and the son of the Steward had felt unable to bridge the gap. But in the last few weeks, mainly through his friendship with Eldoron's younger brother, Eldarion was coming to see there was a lot about the oldest son that was not menacing in the least and in fact he really rather liked. The flicker of a friendship that would grow into a fire that would comfort and protect the whole of Gondor in years to come, had begun to burn. The two had begun to comprehend each other.

As if evidencing this growing understanding, Elboron winked at Eldarion and quickly knelt before him. "I would thank you, my Prince," he said formally. "For without your valour I think my dim little brother would have ended up as troll meat."

Eldarion smiled as Cirion made a very rude noise from the cot.

"Rise, Lord Elboron," Eldarion said matching the other's mock solemnity. "I did only what any one would have done to protect the blatantly brainless. I fear you and I will find him a burden in years to come. I worry what we will do with him."

As he glanced at the invalid Eldarion saw Cirion was sticking out his tongue at the two of them.

Elboron rose. "Maybe a broken arm and leg will have taught him a lesson, my Prince," he responded. "Although I worry he is too dense to even understand the cause of our concern."

Cirion withdrew his tongue to pout. "Stop talking about me so," he cried defensively. "I am still here!"

Elboron gave him his hardest House of Hurin gaze. "There's a wonder," he said.

Behind him Eldarion could control his earnestness no longer and let out a wild guffaw. Very soon the sons of the Steward joined in.

As they slowly stopped laughing Eldarion stared at Elboron. He said, "How goes the rest of the battle?"

The merriment left Elboron's face instantly. "I have dallied too long. I came only to see that you fared well," he said. "I must go back."

"But it is all over now," Cirion said. "One of the soldiers next to me as I waited for the healer told me."

Elboron nodded curtly. "The main field is won. The renegade Istari, Alatar, has been defeated. You father is triumphant, Prince," he said as he gulped down the remains of his drink, placed it on a nearby table and turned to leave.

Eldarion placed a hand on his shoulder. "Why does such good news cause panic to flash in your eye, Bron?" he asked.

Elboron looked over the Prince's head to where Cirion regarded him from the cot. He let out a long sigh before he responded. "It went not well for the White Company."

"That we heard," Eldarion replied softly.

"And father?" Cirion asked, his voice quivering slightly but his eyes flashing dangerously.

Elboron sighed; what could he tell them? That his father had sent him with a message to the King because he knew the end was near? That he had ridden away from the White Company and left them to their doom? That he had been spared when everyone else including his father must have fallen? He wanted to say none of this since he could not be sure of the truth of any of it and the last thing he wanted was to bring despair to his brother. He saw two pairs of young, wide eyes staring at him, waiting for the answer to the question. What could he say? He groped for some form of explanation but could find nothing.

Suddenly there came an unfamiliar voice summoning them through the tent canvas.

"My Lord Steward!" the voice hailed.

The three boys exchanged shocked glances.

"Father is not here," Cirion mumbled. "Unless . . ." he stopped the sentence unable to frame the awful thought that had dawned on them all at the same instant. Cirion's eyes were wild and full of questions as they came to rest on the older brother.

Eldarion sucked up a deep painful breath, his eyes flashing from one brother to the other and back again, as he sensed their doubt, their fear.

Elboron's hand went instinctively to the pouch on his belt where he had secreted his father's ring. He gulped and moved to the door, his heart thundering in his chest. He was more fearful of what he faced now than earlier when he had stood before an army of orcs, for then his father had been by his side. With a trembling hand and licking his lips nervously he pulled back the tent flap to reveal a White Company messenger standing there.

"No," he breathed softly as his stomach knotted and his heart lurched. "It cannot be . . . "

He awakened slowly, only to wish he had not. Faramir could hardly see; and what his other senses revealed was most unpleasant. He felt...crushed. There were heavy things weighing on him, hurting him, blocking his sight. The smell of death, and orcs, was all around him. Where was he?

Somebody moaned in his ear. It was Eomer's voice. He tried to turn his head, but found that he could not manage it; someone's arm was wedged between his chin and his neck and other things were packed too tightly about it. Trying not to panic, he recalled all the battlefields where he had fought. For this place smelled like a slaughterhouse, but he could feel the comforting length of his sword next to his leg.

The place was the marshland near the Sea of Rhun. There had been a battle. A long one. He and the White Company had held the line until they were over-run and could hold no more. Eomer had come; and fought at his side. They had gone down together into the dark. That's where they were now. In the dark.

Was he even alive? He had to be. It hurt too much for him to be dead. But he was on his way; he could feel the cuts and wounds, and knew that he had lost much blood. One or two ribs hurt enough to be cracked or even broken. Maybe that was why it was hard to breathe, why he could not arise. No, that should not be enough to stop him. It hurt to even think.

Faramir tried to call out, to see if Eomer could hear him. His voice was a pathetic croak. He pushed out with his arms, tried to flail around the...bodies? Whose bodies? Were they his men? He could not tell. He knew the smell of orcs that flooded his nostrils now. He could hear no sounds of battle, no cries, no clash of weapons or twang of arrows. If the battle was over - who had won? Would they come here and set him and Eomer afire, seeing naught but a pile of corpses? He could not help a whimper of sudden terror. What if his King had fallen? No! The notion was unendurable. He tried again to push up, and the effort took what little strength he had. He fainted back into the darkness.

Then, an unknown time later, he awoke again. This time, he heard voices. Voices of Men, not orcs! Voices crying in Westron, and in Rohirric!

Gathering all his strength, Faramir cried out "Here!" It was not much, but it sounded louder than a croak. The effort made his head swim. Please let the King be alive, and Elboron, he prayed. And Eomer too...

A crack of light opened above him, then widened. Pressure increased on his chest, but quickly lightened as more bodies were pulled off him. The light hurt his eyes. He could hardly see at all; but he heard voices calling his name. And one voice in particular.

"Faramir, lasto beth nîn!" His King called. He had heard those words before, not so very long ago; in Minas Tirith. Suddenly, he was unsure of the day, of the year.

The last of the bodies that had pinned him was removed, and he could breathe easier. A pair of strong, gentle hands cradled his face. Looking up, Faramir saw his King's dark head wreathed in light.

"I thought I had lost you...mellon-nin" Said Aragorn softly, his voice breaking.

Why, there was a tear trickling down Aragorn's face; Faramir observed. He wanted to tell him not to weep. At least Aragorn seemed uninjured. That was good. "I am well...now," he managed to speak. "You...brought me...back..out of the dark...again." The effort of speaking took much from him. He felt so weary, as if life were leaving him. No, no; not now; it could not be allowed!

"Hush, Faramir. Save your strength. You are going to be all right; we will take you and Eomer back to the camp."

But the warning came too late. Faramir's strength was already gone. He tried to reach out to the King, but could not lift his hand. The dark awaited him, as it always had. Eowyn! He screamed her name soundlessly, desperately, to no avail. Time, light and all sensation fell away from him once more.