Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings.

The Dark Tree

Chapter: 04

There was a violent clash that echoed upon the air like thunder while two rivers of steel, shining like lightning, slammed into each other with ferocious force. Shields were splintered and spears broke, and there was many a scream of animal and rider alike as the field became awash with red and silver.

Such was the way of war between men, no matter where they hailed from, Rohan, Gondor or Luin.

Eoryh narrowed her eyes as she gripped her sword, her nostrils flaring as she took deep, steady breaths to calm herself as her forces broke away and reformed, her blue eyes scanning the opposing forces, like metal beetles as they did likewise. Her horse pranced nervously, but she pulled the reigns and clucked at it, reminding the animal, Flight Foot, of his duty.

Glancing to her side, she saw a man wearing heavily padded leather over a bright blue, silken shirt. A shining steel sword, blazing with an eerie light of its own above a bronze hand guard – or what could be called a guard, as it swept up toward the blade like a thin, flat, but stylized cup that left little room for defense should a blade slide down. Eoryh wasn't worried however, as, despite her initial concerns about the weapon, the warrior who wielded it almost seemed to have little need for such protection.

After what felt like an eternity, she raised her sword and gave a great shout, and at once she and her forces charged once more, pressing against the Gondor forces before they could properly reorganize themselves.

They had been at this for days now, with little rest, chasing and crashing into the Gondor army over and over, pushing them further and further back toward the Gap of Rohan, right up to the border of the Watchwood, within which lay the Treegarth of Orthanc. Here it was that Gondor stubbornly refused to give ground and indeed went on the counter attack, whether it was because of old stories of the forest that now occupied the land once known as Isengard Eoryh didn't know. All that mattered was that here was her enemy – the enemy of the Mark – and she would have them out and gone from the lands of her forefathers…or see them all dead.

All rational thought briefly vanished as the two armies collided once more in a shock of sword and spear, and Eoryh felt her sword shiver and shatter under the violence of the battle. She continued on regardless, using the now half-sword to defend herself while hacking back with the now pointless tip, the edge still good enough for the time being. After another eternity, the two armies pulled back, ragged and bloodied. Gasping and tasting copper from having bitten the inside of her cheek, she spat blood to the side, hefting her broken weapon.

"I salute Gondor for producing such soldiers," spoke up the sky-clad warrior as his horse approached her, his sword gleaming the same azure light as his shirt. "There are many armies in the east that would have broken and fled by this point."

Eoryh turned to the man and gave a harsh, winter-swept smile. Beneath his horned helm, she saw an aged, kindly face with thin eyes and faint whispers of white creeping along his eyebrows. "I told you they would not be broken so easily," she said. "They fought the Dark Lord Sauron for centuries. Even at their weakest, they do not go down easily."

The man nodded grimly before turning his attention back to the shining knights as they remobilized. Raising his gleaming sword, he held it in front of him for a moment before sweeping it out toward the opposing army, offering them his respect for their valor in battle.

"The Seven Days, this shall be known as when I return to my lands to record this day," he said. "And there shall be many a song about it, and the golden-haired Queen who led her people against so worthy a foe."

His expression softened in sorrow as he tugged on the reigns of his horse. "It is a pity that the times have made the two of you such enemies. Even more of a pity that we should slay so many young and honorable men this day, who are only guilty of doing their duty to their lord."

Eoryh didn't respond to that. She couldn't. Inside she seethed and her fury writhed like a coiled serpent, eager to strike. There would be blood, and it would run hot upon the ground, payment to Gondor and all of Rohan's enemies. Raising her broken sword once more, she swung it around to rally her troops and gave a fearsome battle cry. There was a lowering of spears and a hefting of swords and axes.

Horns were blown, and the Rohirrim charged once more into the surviving spears of Gondor.

###

The battle didn't quite end at the setting of the seventh day, so there would be no songs to be had about it. Gondor survived once more, but they were pinned down with a river, a forest, and the whole northern spine of the Misty Mountains at their backs. At the very least, they used the Fords of Isen to their advantage, and the closer quarters of the mountains prevented adequate maneuvering.

Eoryh grimaced as she gazed at the map of their battlefield. The plan, once it became clear that Gondor wasn't simply going to slip through the Gap of Rohan and retreat from there, was to hit them hard and drive them into the mountains like a hammer against an anvil. As horse lords, they had vastly more experience than the mounted Gondor knights at cavalry warfare, yet they not only held their lines, they managed to temporarily stabilize their situation.

She turned up to her marshals and expressed as much.

"It might not matter as much if they can hold us off for much longer," Éowynd, her Chief Marshal said. "They have less than a thousand men left to fight with, and are exhausted. We have twice their number and have more on the way to reinforce us. They have as good as lost this battle."

"Still," Eoryh replied. "We can no longer outflank them and the terrain now hinders our movements. If they hold us here for too long, we won't be able to respond as quickly should Gondor set forth with another army. And they will, let us not make any mistake about that."

Éowynd shifted uneasily, his eyes flickering over to her and, behind her, seated in a corner with his arms over his chest, the man wearing blue silk. She could read the uncertainty in her eyes. Times were strange indeed for all of them; the queen of Rohan riding into battle among the men, and Éowynd, her aged uncle, by way of oath, had to stand by against all his instincts to let his niece fight unhindered and be involved with every battle. She was trained, yes – the women of Rohan learned the hard way that living by the sword was preferable to dying helplessly by them – and trained by her uncle himself, yet to him it was hard to see her in the role of warrior queen and not his niece. The young, gold-haired girl who chased her brothers – now all dead – and playing at swords with them.

The innocence of those days were so long ago, and long buried with her dead family; brothers, sisters, father and mother all.

"Let us withdraw to the Westfold then; give them an out," Éowynd said. "They are broken enough as it is and will likely fight to the last man by this point." He threaded a hand through his greying beard. "Cornered men are no different from any animal, and they will likely bloody us before the end. It's not the victory you want, but given the situation…"

"There's no shame in retreating to continue the fight or to save lives." Eoryh's fingers bit into her palms, remembering her lessons, glowering back down at the map before nodding reluctantly. She had hoped to send a message to Gondor; as blunt a message as possible with regards as to how welcome they were in the Riddermark. It seemed however that fortune conspired against her and this was the best she could do in the meantime. "Very well. How rested are the troops?"

"They have been fighting hard for the last few days," one of her marshals replied. "But they'll fight or ride wherever the queen wills it."

Eoryh closed her eyes for a moment and gave a heavy sigh. Her soldiers were no doubt as exhausted as the Gondor men, but she wanted this battle to end as quickly as possible.

"Get everyone ready to move out," she said. "And send to our reinforcements. They are to watch the enemy and inform me as to their movements, but not engage them unless they enter deeper into the Riddermark again. Let us hope that they learn their lesson and fall back to their homes."

Drawing back, she dismissed her council and they all filed out, save for Éowynd and the silk-clad man. Sensing that the two needed some privacy, the easterner got to his feet and wordlessly left the tent.

"I know what you're going to say," Eoryh said, pressing her knuckles onto the map. "You want me to get some rest. You want me to stand aside so you can handle the war from here."

"I am not so easy to read as that," Éowynd replied with a grim smile. "I fear for you during battle; war is men's work after all, but you have proven your place here. Nonetheless, in my eyes you are still my niece. The same girl who would dress her dolls up with sticks and bark and pretend they were knights before going off on some wild adventure." Approaching her, he lay a hand on her shoulder. "But you should rest. That is not advice to you because you are a woman or my niece. It is the advice I would give to anyone, and have had it for myself. King, queen, marshal or captain; if you are as busy fighting sleep as you are the enemy, you will make bad decisions."

"Is this a bad one then?" Eoryh asked, pulling away from her uncle. "We have reinforcements coming and we still outnumber the enemy. An enemy that is certain to send more soldiers in the future." She grimaced before dropping her face into one hand, shoulders shaking as she wept lightly. "I had not wanted my reign to be stained with such a bloodbath, but Gondor forced my hand when they took my family. Breakers of peace and betrayers of friendship I named them! They have become touched by the shadow and only the Luin stood by us in our hour of need!"

Éowynd's expression softened at her weary sorry. Taking up the blanket of her bedroll, he swept it about her.

"It will take some time to get the army ready to move out. Get what rest you can. I will wake you when it is time to go."

Patting his niece's shoulder, Éowynd turned and exited the tent, leaving Eoryh alone to grieve for old wounds and losses.

###

The word had gone out amongst the Morêg. There was to be an assembly for a deploying of forces in joint action with the Gondor soldiers. There were only thirty of them, so the force that would accompany them would be of similar size to act as guides and support.

Niol and Glyn arrived in short order, both of their eyes thoughtful. They hadn't had nearly as much time as they would have liked to pump the Gondor soldier they picked out for information, but they did get a bit of what they suspected their commander would tell them.

"Úan hunting," Glyn muttered into his beard, smoking at his pipe as their boots tromped on the stone floor of the fortress. "And for the one around these parts. They might as well be wasting their spears chasing fairy tales. I thought there was a war afoot."

"They may very well have their reasons," Niol said, breathing into his hands to warm them up. "Monsters still live in the world after all."

"We have monsters aplenty, I'm not disputing that," Glyn grumbled, drawing a particularly deep breath on his pipe before letting out a smoke ring. With a flick of his fingers, he set it scurrying on ahead through the air, eventually finding a home over the head of a young man as he passed by. Niol chuckled dryly, trying not to draw attention to it. It looked far too much like the paintings he saw of late that came from the west; images of heavenly beings with halos of golden light over their heads. "All I'm saying is, this is an odd one to chase after. Cirith Gorgor has resisted every attempt at clearing out shadow spawn for centuries, and that's just for starters!"

He turned a glowering eye up at Niol. "We are hemmed in by Úan, and the White Tower seeks to fight a sparrow in a pit of snakes. We can take care of it ourselves if we thought it a large enough problem."

"Have I ever said that you have such a brilliant way of describing your thoughts on others?" Niol said as they neared the assembly hall.

"Many times," Glyn replied. "Though never as though it were to be admired."

"Only because walls and ice have ears," Niol returned, passing through the gates into the assembly hall. It was a large room, easily the largest in the fortress next to the mess hall, with a curved, white ceiling held up by long pillars of white, cold-looking, roughly hewn rock. Glancing to the side, he saw a man from Gondor, bearded with long hair tied back into a horse-tail, looking as though he didn't like what he saw. He couldn't blame him. The stories he heard of Gondor and from empires before it spoke of castles of great beauty of shining stone and polished marble. Silver and gold as far as the eye could see. Minus Amath had none of these things, and only the older fortresses that had once belonged to Sauron's empire looked more dreary.

Everything about Calebar spoke of the past corruption of Mordor

At least we aren't like those poor souls in the north, manning those haunted fortresses… He shuddered, thinking especially about those men stationed at the Battle Plains and the Dead Marshes to ward the lands against the sleeping dead and their flickering candles.

From the tell of it, whenever winter came and made the dead rise from their graves, it was the only time that Orcs, Elves and Men fought together as one, such was the state of their being in that dreadful land.

"Well," Glyn continued. "I care not if the walls and ice have ears. I still say hunting this particular Úan is a waste of our time."

From out of the corner of his eye, Niol saw the Gondor soldier behind them scowl. Pushing away from the wall he was leaning on, he made his way over to them. Gesturing to his companion, Niol turned to greet the newcomer.

"Hail," Niol greeted stiffly with a nod of his head before glancing at Glyn, who simply frowned at the other man, puffing out a smoke ring.

"Hail," the dwarf said gruffly. "How might you be?"

"Well enough, for a first time visiting your land," the man replied. "Although you would do well to head your companion's advice, for the wall did indeed have ears, and they were mine."

"Is that a fact?" Glyn puffed. "In that case, I'll get right to it. I wasn't aware that it was a crime to discuss one's opinions on matters of our doings within our own land."

"It is the king's command," the man replied evenly, "that this thing be done, regardless of whether we think it to be worth our time and our sweat."

"He said no such thing about not doing his part," Niol interceded, hoping to calm the situation. This man… He had a certain bearing about him that spoke of authority. The captain of Gondor? He wasn't sure. "Forgive my companion. He often speaks his mind without concern, and we allow him that liberty."

The Gondor man frowned at Niol. He was a full foot taller, as was expected of men of such stature, and carried himself proudly. Niol felt as though he were looking at a man from out of song and tale of old Númenor, as such things often spoke of towering men who held power in every gesture and word. It occurred to him that this man was someone used to wielding power.

Yet, looking into his dark eyes, he saw a buried frustration; an old fire caged in some hidden dungeon from very long ago.

"Take care of your companion and who he speaks his mind around," he said finally, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword. Niol's gaze followed it and his eyes widened at the sight of a silver ring with twin serpents, one devouring while the other supported a crown of golden flours.

Even as far as Calebar, the Ring of Barahir was well known. This man was a prince of Gondor.

"Whispers of shadow destroy just as much as the armies of Gondor's enemies," the man continued, stepping away. "We must all take care to support Gondor in its hour of need."

"Quite the cheery fellow," Glyn grumbled as the man returned to the wall, earning him a sharp glare.

"His is a wall with sharp ears," Niol warned, placing a hand around his comrade and steering him away. "Things must be serious indeed if one of the three princes of Gondor is here. Perhaps there is more to our minor Úan than we know of."

Before Glyn could reply, a gong was sounded, Theor's signal to all entering to hurry up and be silent. The briefing was about to start.

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