Disclaimer: I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.
Wherever the Surge May Sweep
By Jame K.
Chapter Eight: Though Right Was Worsted
One who never turned his back but marched breast forward,
Never doubted clouds would break,
Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph,
Held we fall to rise, are baffled to flight better,
Sleep to wake.
- Robert Browning
The man did not fit in Archet. His garment was a velvety red and was trimmed with a deeper gold. A tri-corn hat with a wide red feather sat jauntily on his head and wisps of black hair lay sedately against his head. The greasy strands seemed as if the life had been sucked from them with too many days of using lamp oil to tame their natural unruliness. He arrived in the town on a rickety, black carriage that he claimed had carried him from Bree.
When the women of Archet gave him odd, fleeting looks, he turned up his crooked hawk nose and wrinkled his long, thin mouth in an air of superiority. He sidestepped the frequent mud puddles with small, mincing steps and drew his cloak around him like it was a royal garment. His hands were encased in soft leather gloves that glowed dully in the midday sun.
Within an hour, the general consensus among Archet's women was that he was an arrogant and crass creature that did not belong in their town. This was quickly passed on to the husbands who told Bartmelou.
So when the stranger arrived at the inn, Bartmelou handed over the ale like he requested but refrained from making any conversation like he normally would do with an out of town stranger. In fact, Bartmelou was downright surly, casting cruel glances from his large eyes and shoving his wide girth around forcefully – as if the stranger's very smell perturbed him.
Mid-afternoon came and the stranger left the bar, heading down the street to the vacant lot where the schoolhouse sat.
Bartmelou watched him from his window and snorted "good riddance" to his wife sitting behind him. Then, the portly innkeeper put the intolerable stranger far from his mind and went back to preparing that night's brew. There was so much to do before business began booming once again.
The stranger stopped on the street just outside the schoolhouse and leaned against the stone corner of a nearby building. He waited there, speaking or looking to no one, and a permanent scowl was etched upon his strong features as his hooded eyes watched the school.
When the school bell rang, the man stood up a little straighter and tucked his hands into his pockets.
Children poured out the front door and he watched carefully as groups of little boys ran by with carefree abandonment.
Some of them shot wondering glances at the strange man but then continued on with their fellows. The man let them – none of them were the one he was looking for so carefully.
Then... "You, boy!" he pushed himself off of the wall and waded through the thick of children to a small dark-haired boy with huge gray eyes. "You are Estel, are you not?"
The child nodded, a happy smile curved on his face. "Yes, sir."
A strange parody of a smile came across the man's face and a choked laugh came from under-used windpipes. "Well, imagine seeing you here. Legolas has told me so much about you."
"You know Legolas?" Skepticism erased the smile and Estel folded his arms protectively around his chest.
"Of course, I know Legolas. He was a dear friend of mine for many years. Listen," the man reached into the folds of his cloak and drew out a folded piece of parchment that was sealed with red wax. "Can you give this to him for me? He will know who I am."
Estel took the letter tentatively. "All right."
The man patted his shoulder. "Good boy. Tell him I will be coming to see him in a few days." Then he looked warningly down at the small boy. "Be sure not to read the letter. It is just for Legolas's eyes. Can you do that?"
"Yes, sir." Estel smiled but it was a little bit forced.
"Thank you." The man backed away, fading back into the shadows of a nearby building. "Make sure you tell Legolas I am coming. And give him my greetings. He will know who I am."
Estel nodded and with one last wary glance at the strange man standing behind him, he turned and scampered off down the street with the letter clutched in one partially grimy palm. By the time he reached the main section of town, he was shouting for his friends to wait up.
The man watched him go with a strange, genuine smile stretching his face. That had been too easy. His master would be so pleased and there would be no mistakes this time. The Heir of Isildur would be theirs.
Brome swayed and almost fell from his wearied horse when his eyes first gazed on the dirty, ramshackle houses of one of Rohan's outer villages. Tears fell down his sallow, hollowed cheeks and he clutched tightly to the dirty mane of the tired mare he had been riding for close to four days.
Within a few moments, he was leaning heavily on his horse in the dusty town square, looking at a passel of unfamiliar faces and asking anyone in his line of sight for word on his mother and sister.
Blank faces stared back at him and mouth whispered just out of his hearing. Pitying glances were exchanged and a few women offered him water.
When it became clear that no one had heard of his mother, Brome asked to be taken to the king. "Saruman," he croaked – on hand gesturing futilely in the direction of Isengard. "Do you not understand? He will come after Rohan."
And the townspeople believed him. The scars and wounds on his body verified his story when the wild gleam in his eyes could not. They had touched his shoulders and comforted him.
"We believe you," they said as they gave him water to drink. "It will be all right. We believe you."
Eventually, he was convinced to rest the night in one of the tiny abodes and take some sustenance for his malnourished body. The townspeople promised that they would help him reach the king on the morrow.
A farmer's wife drew him a bath and fed him so bland soup before tucking him into the softest bed that the young man could ever remember being in. He murmured his thanks and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
It took him a little over a week to reach the king and present his story to Fengel – current king of Rohan. He explained what he had seen and begged the king to take immediate action – to seek help from Gondor, from the elves, from anyone who would come to their aid.
Fengel, however, was a lazy, pleasure-loving king and brushed off the young man's words with a wave of his hand. "It will be well," he said and fondled the nubile breasts of the young woman hanging decadently over his once-regal throne. "Saruman will not seek Rohan. What have we here that he would desire? No – he will pass over us as the drought passes over weeds."
Brome was taken to his mother's home then and his words were put out of the king's mind.
But – fortunately for the good of all of Middle-earth – someone did remember the words of the emaciated young man. Someone who realized what the situation meant – someone who would make sure that something was done.
My Dearest Thranduillion,
I feel I must apologize deeply for not contacting you in these past five years. I can assure you though; you and your young charge have always been on my mind as I go about this accursed hunt for that blasted piece of jewelry. My search leads me to the many depths of Middle-earth but I feel I may at last be drawing close to the actual location of Isildur's bane. I shall not tell you where I am for this letter may fall into unfriendly hands just as easily at it may fall into yours.
There had been foul news on the wind of late, my friend, and I urge you to be cautious. Rumor has reached me that Saruman has sent many men all over Middle-earth hunting for your charge. I fear that they are coming closer. Lórien has sent me dreams that have been dark of late and I fear for the boy's safety – and your own.
I encourage you, Legolas – if you have not already bonded with the boy, do so at once. I realize that it is not the typicality for an elf to create a mental bond with a mortal but your circumstances are far from normal. You have the strength of mind to perform the task – of that I have no doubt.
My candle grows short so this letter must end. May the Valar keep you, young one, and I will visit you when I can.
Mithrandir.
Yellow sunlight reflected oddly against the dull polish of the wooden table as Legolas gently set the dirtied sheet of paper down. His hand lingered atop the curvy handwriting for a moment, tracing the unique letters, before he rubbed the skin between his eyes fiercely.
For five years, there had been no word from Mithrandir – no sign that the wizard had still even been alive. And then – one normal day – the wizard writes him with dire warnings and instructions. Legolas would have been offended if he had not been so preoccupied over the wizard's cryptic words.
He too had felt the uneasiness in his gut – the feeling of unfriendly eyes watching from the darkness of the woods. The trees had swayed and cried out in trepidation and the stars had shivered high above.
Yes, something had been dreadfully wrong in the world; but Legolas had never been able to put a name to the stirrings or a finger on his misgivings – until now. Someone was hunting – hunting him and Estel. The very thought turned his heart inside out and his guts to ice water
Suddenly, Estel could not get home from school fast enough. The one mile journey from the walls of Archet to their house now seemed an insurmountable exodus across legions of enemy territory.
Why had Legolas not gone into town to wait for him? What if even now Saruman's cursed spies lingered just inside the tree line beyond the path, waiting – just waiting – for a young boy to trot by without a care in the world and no knowledge of the danger that was eagerly reaching for him? Would they kill him at once or just take him to their master? Would Legolas ever see the boy again if Estel was snatched away? Or would the elf always be left wondering what had really happened?
Legolas stood quickly, the backs of his knees hitting the wooden edge of the chair in his haste. His eyes remained fixed on the outside of the window – on the bright blue sky with white clouds and the brown strip of a road that led to the walls of Archet. The vacant path that he knew Estel would arrive on.
No. He forced himself to sit back down in the chair and lean back against the smooth wood surface. Everything was fine. Dark eyebrows bunched together and Legolas urged himself into take deep breaths. He was an elf – thousands of years old – and used to living in the dark times. He would not go running after a child that would be home from school at any moment.
Legolas would just sit here and wait for him. In fact – the elf got to his feet again and went over to the cupboards – he would start dinner for Estel. The boy would probably be hungry after school.
But his sea blue eyes were drawn towards the window again and again – waiting for that little black speck to appear on the light brown of the road. He tried to reach out with his mind and question the trees about the boy's whereabouts but the leafy vegetation was silent.
Pale hands rubbed the soft blue material of his over-tunic in a nervous gesture that Legolas had never quite grown out of. The face was fixed on the dinner preparations save for his eyes, which darted rapidly between the door and the letter lying on the table. And the uneasy feeling deep in his innards grew with every bit the sun slipped downwards towards the trees.
Dark was beginning to fall and a chill breeze had picked up over the plain when Legolas first spotted the dark figure of Estel walking up the road. The boy had obviously stopped for some sort of a game with his fellows and his feet were dragging as he clomped up the dusty path.
A luminous smile swelled across Legolas's face and he set down the pan he had been holding with more force then was necessary. Glancing down at the letter, Legolas swept it into one of his inner pockets. With another look at the approaching boy, the elf retired to the living room, sitting himself gracefully in one of the threadbare chairs before the cold fireplace.
When the door swung open with a rusty creak, Legolas had busily engrossed himself with a slender red book. His blue eyes drifted upwards and he threw a normal smile at the boy. "Hello. Was it a good day?"
"Yes." Estel walked over and flopped wearily on the chair next to the elf. "It was swell."
Legolas wrinkled his cheeks. He still did not like that word. "Dinner will be ready soon." The dying sunlight cast odd shadows across his face as he leaned towards Estel. "Go to bed early. You seem exhausted."
Estel nodded and turned his face so he could look the elf straight in the eye. He smiled and pointed to the book still in Legolas's hand. "I was wondering where my Primer had gone off to."
"It looked interesting." The elf examined the gold-lettering and then hastily set the book down. "Go wash up."
The boy ran his fingers through his long, dark hair and stood with a grunt. "We were playing ball by the river. It was fun." He smiled again. "Oh – wait." One grubby hand dug into his jacket and produced a worn letter. "I met a man today after school. Said he knew you and told me to give you this. He said he would be coming around sometime soon."
The letter fluttered down to the small round table and Legolas stared at the folded paper with narrowed eyes. "A letter?" One dark brow arched upwards as he took the letter up and examined the unfamiliar red seal. "Did you recognize him?"
"No. He had funny clothes." Estel shrugged and then walked towards his room. "I do not think he was from Archet."
A little bit of red wax crumbled on to Legolas's lap when he broke the seal but he barely noticed. Only one line had been hastily written on the weathered paper but Legolas felt his breath hitch in his chest anyways.
Saruman sends his regards.
"Are you going to be helping Bartmelou this week? He was asking about you when I went by the store and…" Estel's voice faded away as he came back into the room and peered at Legolas. "What is the matter?"
The burgundy material of the chair shone in the fading sun and washed out any color in Legolas's fair cheeks, making the deep eyes look especially vibrant. The pupils had darkened and the mouth was lined with fear. "A man, you said?" Legolas whispered softly, his hand covering the letters.
"Yes. After school." Estel felt the trepidation from across the room and moved to sit on the arm of the chair next to the elf. His small hand rested on Legolas's muscled shoulder and he leaned his forehead against the bent blond head, his breath rusting the soft strands. "What is wrong?"
Legolas adjusted slightly so his arms were about the small shoulders, feeling the worn material of the shirt and the bumps of shoulder blades. "You need to eat more," he murmured and touched a thin wrist, the tips of his fingers touching as he wrapped them about the thin forearm. "You are too skinny and you are growing every day. They will think I am letting you waste away."
"Is it about the man?" Estel's eyes – the color of a stormy river – blinked in to Legolas's blue ones. "I am all right."
The elf smiled and patted the tip of the boy's nose. A laugh seemed to waver on his lips before he looked away with a slight frown and darkened eyes. White teeth gently nibbled at his lower lip and he wavered only a moment before he came to a decision. "There is something… I would like to talk to you about."
Estel nodded.
Legolas took a deep breath through his mouth and expelled it slowly through his nose. "I would… Sometimes, elves will form mental bonds with those they are close too. They can enable two people to communicate mentally over long distances." Legolas gauged Estel's expression. "It would not hurt. Most say it at first feels like a small tingle and then soon you become used to it…"
Dark brown hair glistened dully in the light as the boy ran one finger over a wavy section, pushing it into place. "Sounds swell." He leaned back with a sigh, his eyes fixed unerringly on Legolas's concerned face. "I trust you."
The elf shifted again, his hand tightening around the boy – offering comfort and gentleness to the boy he had taken as his own. His breathing sounded loud in his own ears as he realized what a step he would be taking. From this point on, Estel – body, soul, and spirit – would be bound to him in every way – for better or for worse. "Would you permit me?"
"Mhm."
"Close your eyes." Legolas raised slim fingers and touched the smooth, tan temples softly. "It will only take a moment. Just relax," he breathed and his own eyes slipped shut.
In Legolas's mental eyes, the little spirit of Estel shone like a bright little star – warm and pulsating in its innocence. His mind stretched towards it even as he shoved images of doing this same task with a young Arathorn. He would not allow those memories to taint the present in anyway.
Blood seemed to move sluggishly through his veins and air turned to thick water. Oxygen whooshed in and out of lungs as Legolas mentally reached forwards, pushing the thoughts of Arathorn into the background of his mind.
Legolas's heart thumped then skipped a beat before thumping again and the elf knew that the boy's heartbeat was matching his own. Another moment and Legolas took the core of Estel's spirit into the folds of his own mind, trying to bathe it with reassurances and love.
A flash of fear clouded the boy's thoughts as he became aware of the new presence existing inside his head. The mind trembled and tried to shy away from the intruder.
Peace, he whispered directly to the boy's mind. It is done. The elf opened his eyes and smiled at the stunned face of the boy as the stormy gray eyes popped open. Was that so bad?
The soft tanned skin between Estel's eyes furrowed and he touched his temple where Legolas's fingers had been moments before. "I can hear you in here," he said wonderingly. "It sounds just like you. Swell."
"Well, it should." Legolas smiled. "You can do the same. Reach towards me. It will get easier with time."
Estel scrunched his mouth into a ball and leaned forwards, closer to the elf as if he could augment the strength of his thoughts with his physical proximity to Legolas. Like this? The mental voice was weak and tentative as it gently echoed within Legolas's mind. "Was that good?" he asked.
Legolas's eyes went unfocused as the innocent words brought back a flood of memories that he had tried so hard to bury. His fingers clutched the rough cloth tightly and he clenched the muscles in his shoulder as Arathorn's voice echoed in his mind like a broken record – an ancient relic of the past that was best left unfound. Was that good, Legolas? Can you hear me in your head?
"Very good," the elf whispered to the memory and the flesh and blood before him. "Very good, my young one." His hand squeezed Estel's upper arm and with some difficulty, he focused on Estel's face. "Good."
Estel smiled. "Will it ever leave?"
"No – no. The bond can become clouded at one end or the other but the only way it can be fully broken is death." Legolas's face twisted bitterly at the memories. "And then the separation is very painful."
"Oh." The boy's face was impressed and his eyes thoughtful as he contemplated this new development in his life. "I do not mind," he said at last, assuaging Legolas's unspoken worries. "It sounds swell."
Legolas laughed. "Very swell." He smiled and stood to his feet, still holding Estel against his hip. He glanced out at the darkened sky and the few stars just beginning to twinkle. "I love you," he whispered – too quiet, he knew, for Estel's mortal ears to catch but he wanted to say it anyway.
Instead of fussing about being carried like a child – as was normal – Estel turned his face into Legolas's chest and sighed. "I love you, too."
"Have you heard the reports?"
The Hall of the Kings was all gray – gray pillars, gray floor, gray steps, gray sunlight filtering through gray windows. Even the Steward of Gondor – Turgon – had gray-streaked hair and thick gray robes with murky gray eyes. Thengel, son of Fengel, normally found the absence of color relaxing but now it just served to make him impatient. "I heard vague details. Saruman moves on Rohan."
Turgon absently brushed strands of his graying hair back from his high brow as his noble robe swept the floor in the midst of his quick pacing. "He creates a new army in the very depths of Isengard. My spies have informed me that he has bred a new kind of orc in his secret dungeons – an orc that will not be wearied by the sunlight – a harder, sturdier orc.
"They say that a fire wiped out some of his work but it will not be long until he rebuilds all that he lost. I fear that it will be only a matter of time until Rohan will be overrun by his legions of orcs." A heavy sigh passed from aging lips and cloudy eyes darkened. "Never has the burden of Steward of Gondor laid so heavily upon me, young prince of Rohan."
"My father," Thengel hesitated, his large blue-gray eyes drifting out the western windows in the direction of Edoras, "he is not suitable to lead an army. Do not hesitate to say it, my lord. I know my father's weaknesses quite well."
"I fear Rohan will fall if we do nothing." Turgon paused to study the young man standing in front of him, tenderness lining the aged wrinkles on his cheeks. "But I do not think your father will ask for or accept our help. He is a stubborn man."
Thengel's wide jaw tensed and he looked down at his roughened hands. "And if I were made king?"
The tapping feet of the guard outside the Hall was the only sound in the solemn stone chamber as both men stared at each other for several long moments. Blue-gray eyes clashed with solemn gray – evaluating honesty and fighting for dominance. At last Thengel looked away – his gaze seeking the direction of the Golden Hall.
"The words you speak," Turgon said with some desperation even as his eyes hardened with a deep resolve that could not – would not – be shaken by anything. "These words… could be considered treasonous against your father. Know that before you proceed. You must be clear in your course"
"I know." Thengel's right hand rested on his left hand, fingering the twisted silver and gold ring – the sign of his royal lineage, the sign of his devout commitment to Rohan. "I know. There never has been a great love that has existed between my father and me. I cannot allow Rohan to fall for any reason – even my own father – and I will go against my father if the events come to that."
The steward nodded in acceptance and turned to face the window and the gray, cloudy day lingering outside. "I will support you. Though your years are few, I believe you possess more wisdom now than Fengel ever will. Gondor will stand behind Rohan if there is to be a new king."
"My thanks," Thengel bowed at the waist and approached the slightly stooped shoulders of the older man. "Now – as a friend – what burdens your thoughts so deeply, my friend?"
Turgon's smile was without humor as his lips compressed into a tight, thin line that paled drastically in contrast to his slightly tan skin. His tragic gaze refused to meet the steady blue one of Rohan's crown prince standing just next to him. Instead, he kept his eyes locked on the reddish glow emanating from the hills in the direction of Mordor. "I am close to fifty years your elder and still you name me your friend. This has always puzzled me – and gladdened my heart in the darkest of times."
Thengel drew closer to the man, daring to place a strong, callused hand on of the shoulders. "You have been a father when Fengel was a crass idiot. You are my friend and my mentor. Now, I seek as a caring son to ease your burdens. What hangs over you like a cloud?"
"This invasion – this ploy of Saruman – is not the end of the darkness. Mount Doom is alive and Sauron's breath smolders all green things and leaves my land desolate. A shadow has fallen over this whole realm and I fear we will never escape its darkness unless some drastic measures are taken. Gondor wanes under my rule," and the Steward of Gondor raised a hand to silence Thengel's protestation. "We need the true king to come forth and lead this country once again.
"They say that the elves protected the line throughout the ages but I have no knowledge of whether they have been successful. I plan to send a missive to Lord Elrond of Rivendell and request his assistance in this matter. If we are to defeat this evil, all free people of Middle-earth must unite under one banner as they did under the Last Alliance of Men and Elves." Turgon's mouth creased and his brown eyes were deep and solemn in their contemplation.
Pale yellow sunlight streaked from a break in the clouds and illuminated the plain beyond the White City. Thengel's eyes, however, were fixed on the black hills of Mordor and the glowing orange that was now a constant presence hanging over the ugly specter of Mount Doom.
"We will preserve, my lord," he said quietly, his hands braced on the stone window sill. "Even if there is only one courageous man standing at the end of all things, evil will not have triumphed."
To be continued…