Chapter 16: One captain leads defense, another an attack; the white king and a black rook castle
Ninnui-Gwaeron, T.A. 3017
A winter of watch and want began to wane and many moves began in earnest. Those who served the people and the One sought for a strategy and a perhaps a sign. Those who served the dark and her impatient Master gathered strength, discarded tools that could not be turned. Those who but served themselves readied a long planned move and weakened their victim from within.
~~~000~~~
"Age comes to us all, my King. Do not fret. This latest malady is but a passing thing. Give yourself time to heal and worry not. I will ensure that all carries on most smoothly."
Theoden-King sat his throne in Meduseld's high and storied hall, his blue eyes pale and veiled, face pinched, a picture of discomfort and irritation. He nodded uncertainly to his chief counsellor, hesitation dragging down his posture and his mind.
A pile of heavy furs lay across his lap. The hall had cleared. Folk has sought their beds against the lingering chill of the late's winter's eve. Only his most trusted councillor remained behind. Eager to pour encouragement and flattery in equal measure on his aging King.
"Grima so hard and long you toil for Rohan. What would I do without you?" The thin and quavering voice rose quietly, twining with lazy spirals of thin grey smoke wending upward from the fire that yet languished in the hearth. Fretful fingers plucked disconsolately at the furs. Even their softness was not a balm.
Tall and whippet thin, the son of Gálmód paused in the act of stirring a tonic into the king's own gilded cup. His unctous smile was firm encouragement embodied. "Sire, of course you would manage. No one man is ever indispensible. You have your son and nephew to help." The smooth high voice trailed off as thin lips pulled into a firmer line. "When they can be found, of course."
The pale, rheumy eyes grew anxious once again. When had Theoden seen his son the last? Yesterday? Today? He could not remember, nor what it was that Theodred had wanted. Something about the western fords? Trying to remember made his head ache all the more. Theoden shifted uncomfortably and shook his head. That was it. Of course Grima had explained it would only insult Orthanc. There was no need.
The goblet was passed to a trembling hand and with no delay the king drank it down. Unlike the medicines his sister-daughter brought this one was sweet and quite palatable.
A little dribbled down his chin to stain a snow white beard and rich red robe. Grima's neat and ever skillful hands had been ready with a napkin. The counsellor waited patiently, watching with a sympathic frown while the King dabbed ineffectually at his person.
"Surely Theodred did not go against my wishes?" The King of Rohan loved his only son, so alike in face and manner to his beautiful Elfhild sometimes his heart skipped a beat. It would pain him to hear again that they were at odds.
"The Prince is overmuch concerned with the western fords, my liege. One can only hope he gives as much attention to the safety of the Emnet, to its farmers and goodwives, as he does a certain lady and her daughter." Eyes as smooth and black as flint glittered for a moment. "I should hate to think that his counsel to you is based on the considered opinion of another, less thoughtful, organ."
High above the doleful scene there came a quickly stifled gasp. Eowyn crouched in the shadows of a long abandoned gallery, hands clasped in fury at the daring of the Wormtongue's words.
Yet another eve had come and once again she listened in dismay as the repulsive, fawning man, like an icicle warmed by the first rays of spring, steadily dripped suspicion into her uncle's ear. At first Grima had been so smooth, so plausible and earnest that none noticed the first hints of bile seep into his counsel.
Prince Theodred is gone again. Surely he would not neglect his duty? The Third Marshal wishes to enlarge his Eored. Does he not have men and reach enough?
It made Eowyn wanted to grit her teeth. As if her own brother would desire more than Aldburg, his cherished home.
Just as worrying were the words and acts that slithered uncomfortably underneath her skin. At first they were so innocent she had hardly noticed her unease began to blossom, to flower into doubt. A hand held too long. A lingering gaze. A sudden touch upon her arm. So skillful was the Worm she had hesitated to speak to even Eomer. Afraid that to say the words aloud would be to hear how thin and baseless they really were.
Instead she watched, kept skirts and arms and feelings close to herself, not realizing until too late just how heavy were the man's words and deeds. How very often she held her breath until at last she felt she must suffocate.
Uncertain of her reception she had hatched a plan. A simple one. Too simple she now realized. Present the Marshals with evidence of Grima's increasing ill influence and encourage them to act. Eomer she hoped would believe her words and Theodred positively loathed the man. Neither could go against their King without evidence of calumny on the Wormtongue's part.
And so, in the long evenings while others of the household retired to their beds, she sat in the dust and shadows hoping to see or hear something that could help.
She learned to her chagrin how very subtle and detailed where the lies hidden in Grima's counsel, how very deeply Theoden relied upon his powerful counsellor. It hurt. That her brave and glorious Uncle's world would shrink before her very eyes. Become but his bed and hall, never sun nor sky nor field and meadow. Each night she watched as Grima stirred something into Theoden's waiting cup. Each night she watched the veil cloud her Uncle's eyes, while a mist of icy doubt and dread began to seep into her heart.
That night, focused on the unfolding scene below, she did not hear a sound, did not notice she was not alone until a pair of rough, callused hands clasped hard against her mouth.
Bema she was caught!
Pinned fast in the darkened alcove, she struggled, fear coursing through her veins like fire. The strong hands held her fast as images of pale, roving hands flashed through her thoughts.
He could not be here! With her heart thudding wildly in her chest, she forced herself to still, to breathe again, not to struggle hard. The Worm could not be in the room. He could not be both behind her and below.
"Peace, cousin. It is I."
The whispered words of Sindarin were known only to a friendly few. Even as they reassured she caught a whiff of scent: honing oil and almond, the one Theodred used upon his blade.
"Forgive me, Eowyn. I was not certain in the dark it was you." Theodred's fingers squeezed her shoulder gently in apology as the hard hands relaxed and left her mouoth
She turned. Her cousin knelt behind her, braid clasps barely glinting in the dark, a look of worry upon his smooth and handsome face. Her Theo. With relief she slumped against the broad and welcoming chest. It had been her cousin not her Uncle who held her and wiped her tears as a little girl, put her back up on her horse when she jumped fences too hard and high. Cousin, brother, father, it mattered not. He was part of her foundation. Her surety that not all was faithless in the swiftly changing world.
"Do you do this often?" She was pleased to find her voice was calm. Obviously he too was no stranger to the alcove.
"Do you?"
His grim smile lit the darkness with just the barest shine of whiter teeth. Theodred's fire lay banked but she could sense it, ready at his call. It thrummed through muscles coiled and ready, through every bated breath. He had learned. Long years of ever growing frustration had taught him to keep his temper in greater check.
"No…" Her hands still shook, putting the lie to the illusion they were not in any danger, were not commiting treason, spying on their king. Eowyn clasped her kirtle to stop them trembling, but as she gripped the cambric tightly a sudden thought appeared. Her glass! In her fright she had dropped her little spy glass, the miniature Captain's glass Eomer had gifted her so long ago. She had been using it to see more clearly the hall the below.
Quickly she bent down, felt with her hands and searched but in the dim she could not see it. There was no light to illuminate the brass. With a heavy heart she realized she would have to wait until the morning.
Theodred's look of puzzled concern went unanswered as more poisoned words drifted upward in the heated air.
"Sire you must not give credance to your nephew's words upon the matter. Eomer is over eager. Thinks only of glory and his name sung in future songs of battle. He is rash and all too proud just like his father was. Eomund's house may well trace it lineage to Brego, but royal blood does not always run quite true."
Eowyn stiffened. Theoden had asked again about the Fords. The snake. To insult her brother and their father's lineage in a single breath. In that moment she wanted nothing more than get her own hands upon the man, challenge him openly, not skulk around in the darkened eve.
'Peace.' Theodred's hand raised to brush lightly across her hair, gently stroking as he would a nervous filly or a colt. She tried to let the anger flow away like water, to turn her attention downward once again.
"Your son has not the temper for the thoughtful consideration a King must use. He lacks yet the shrewdness of his grandsire but has all his famous fire. An unhealthy combination. Only time and careful guidance from us all will show him the proper path."
Brows pressed like thunderclouds, the object of Grima's insults held quite still. Eowyn caught his dark grey gaze. He shook his head, he would not react though it seemed to her that Theodred's hand was now clenched so hard the fingernails must draw blood upon his palms. He moved a little farther forward, straining to see through the railing of the gallery, to see his father far below.
It was then that disaster struck.
The Prince had shifted but a step but by some ill chance his foot struck the little telescope. They froze, hearts in mouth, praying both alike to Bema as the spy glass rolled, the bronze glinting palely in the light of the gallery's edge. It rolled across the uneven planks and banged against the baluster. It rocked. Once, then twice, but finally came to rest and did not fall.
Grima's head whipped up at the sound. It had not been loud but came from a place he had not expected.
The sudden beat of heavy steps fell rapidly on the flagstones. Eowyn's stomach lurched. Oh she knew them, Grima's steps, hard and chill and loud. What were they to do? There was no time to descend the stair: he would come up and they would be found.
Grima needed no better excuse than this to have them banned, exiled from their home.
As quickly as the panic rose, a warm sure hand grasped hers and drew them both deeper into the shadows.
Theodred quickly pressed her down across a wooden chair and bent his body over hers. His cloak fell about them both and then all sight was blocked, as one large hand dragged a mouldy curtain down across the rail.
Seconds turned to minutes, Eowyn tried to hold her breath. She could feel Theo's heart hammering against her back, the quiver of his arm as he braced himself, bent over but straining not to crush her with his greater weight. The air was foul. The cloth was musty and with an effort she pressed her lips tightly closed. She must not cough, no matter the temptation.
Steps sounded on the stair. She shut her eyes more tightly and tried to count. How soon would Grima gain the floor? How long could Theodred hold that pose?
Suddenly she felt the press of cold steel against her arm. Theodred's dagger was drawn and waiting.
Ten, she counted ten, when a sudden wailing yelp rose up and a muffled curse was heard.
"Dofaþ catte."
A cat! One of the housekeeper's many brood must have hidden on the stair. The heavy steps descended once again but they both stayed still, heard with relief the next words that drifted up.
"It was nothing Sire. Simply Efrida's mangy creature stalking vermin in the loft."
The heavy footsteps stopped near the centre of the hall as Grima's voice resumed its fawning note. "My lord, you look quite fatigued. Would you like me to finish the tedius correspondance while you retire to your bed?"
"Thank you Grima." Theoden's tone of helpless graititude made Eowyn wince. "I am perhaps not a well as I had hoped."
The faint sound of a goblet being settled was heard and a quiet rustle as furs were raised. From her vantage point, Eowyn could not see her Uncle but the groan as he rose was unmistakeable and the halting steps were clear.
Slowly and steadily Grima escorted his master to the door to where the chamberlain would take him to his rest.
The door closed and they were at last alone.
Theodred took her hand and helped raise her to her feet, throwing off both the curtain and the cloak, brushing absently at the clumps of rotting linen that clung to skirt and arms.
His grip tightened on her arm. Her cousin knew her well, knew what was in her heart to think upon the scene. She could not meet his gaze, ashamed of the darkness in her thoughts.
The fury of it. To see and hear that..that Worm try to turn their Uncle against Eomer. To insult Theodred. His Prince. One who worked tirelessly for their safety. It made her ill to have her fears confirmed and yet she should not be surprised. Had she not seen Grima disagree with them all at the councils? Had she not heard him deny their opinions over and over until the Prince rose and stalked the outer halls in sheer frustration, dispelling in action the fury he must not show before his father?
Of course Theodred understood what hurt the most. He felt it too. "It is no dishonour to bear a sickness." Grey eyes were soft and full of pity. "To serve your king brings honour just as surely, no matter his health or fortitude. But to see him thus pains us all dear heart."
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
"Come…we should away. I want to check that cup before the revolting one returns." Theodred bent and untied and removed his boots. They needed to be quiet. She quickly did the same but even as Theodred tip-toed down the stairs she paused beside the rail.
"My gift…"
He paused and nodded, jerked his head toward the dais door. "Be swift. I will meet you on the terrace."
.
.
It seemed she had hardly had a moment to put her skirts to rights, sneak down the stairs precious glass in one hand and slippers in another, before her cousin was by her side again.
The corridors were quiet and only a lone sentry stood upon stone. Theodred took her arm and casually together they sauntered across the flagstones toward the lawn, looking for all the world as if they just needed a breath of air, heedless of the cold, wet snow beneath their feet.
Of course they were challenged before they made it very far.
"Who goes?"
"Hama." Theodred's voice was approving. "It is I and lady Eowyn. We wish to walk. The night air is fine."
"Min Leofric, my lady." Thank heaven it was a guard they knew. The man bowed and as he did his gaze fell to the dirk still in his Prince's hand. The barest flicker of understanding moved within the light blue eyes. He saluted and spread his arm and ushered them on their way.
Indeed the night air was fine. Earendil's star rose high and clear and as they strode away from the Golden Hall the moon lit the everlasting crown of snow upon proud Starkhorn. It glowed, constant and immutable as the stars that winked above. They walked in silence for many minutes, not down Meduseld's winding path but across the sloping grass. Always her cousin would choose the rougher path. He was a man who liked free spaces, eschewed the set. She followed. What matter if the damp soaked into her shoes. She was free, free of the gilded cage for a few precious moments.
The light sweet scent of symbelmine rose upon the night air. They had walked farther than she realized, silently but attuned, each worrying about the night and its revelations.
In the pale moonlight, the left hand barrows glowed eerily, a myriad tiny faces covering each King, Eorl to Helm, shining like a silver cloud. A breeze arose from in the west and the tiny flowers quivered, bringing as it did a memory of high snows and cirques. Eowyn shivered too, her dress and kirtle were far too thin.
Even as she felt it a cloak was laid around her shoulders. "Better than a rotting curtain, no?" Theodred's smile was hesitant.
"Oh yes. But still smells strongly. Almond oil or no." She tried to smile and Theodred snorted quietly. He prized the oil for its longer life, yet still she could not resist a little teasing. Godwyn's farm kept a single precious almond tree. He had told her how his daughter loved the blooms and their heady fragrance.
"What was in the cup?"
Theodred sighed and rubbed distractedly at his neck. "Nothing ill that is obvious to me. Although there is a leech I trust to look into it more." He did not say it, though they both knew. Someone beyond the Worm's long reach.
He paused and looked up toward the hall. "I would that you were away from here, little one."
He used her nickname. She knew it meant that he was worried, needed even in his words to comfort and protect her as he had always done. Theodred had already been a Rider, already posted to Erkenbrand's Eored, when she was born. And later, when she and Eomer had come to Edoras, bereft and grieving, the young Marshal had been only too happy to let a lonely coltish girl follow in his wake whenever he was home. Spar, and jest and act as if the world was unfolding as it should.
Eowyn realized with a start that he would have known young girls her age quite well. His own daughter, Malina, was but a little younger.
The wind whipped her cornsilk hair around her face. A large callused hand raised to brush it from her eyes. "I have asked. Theoden-King will not agree to send you thence to Aldburg. Eomer is now Third Marshal, he will be more away. " This words trailed off and there was hesitation in the blue-grey eyes. Unconsciously she braced for the words to come.
"The Worm has convinced Father to assign me permanently as Second."
Eowyn gasped. It seemed too loud in the quiet of the night though none was close to hear. Theodred placed a finger to her lips. His eyes were pained. They both knew the repercussion.
"But you are Crown Prince! It falls to you to be First if Uncle cannot ride!" Her protest was fierce but low, heart sinking all the while.
Permanently. Theodred would be miles away at Helm's Deep, Eomer in Aldburg and she would be here. Alone. Helpless against that hooded gaze. That…that thing dogging her every step.
"Why..?"
Theodred tried to grin wryly and pitched his voice into a higher tone. "It is an honour my brave Prince to defend the storied Hornburg."
Eowyn could not help herself. She giggled at the near perfect impersonation of Grima's fawning voice. Theodred had always been good acting, it was she realized a skill he used most oft these days, acquiescing with good grace to his Father's seemingly capricious commands.
The brief wry smile soon faded to a grimace. "And so, quite neatly, he has us both away. He is not stupid. Moves us all for his own ends, the puppet master to a game where some larger unseen hand moves all the pieces on the board." The blue-grey gaze became intent, turned to northward where these days all his worries flowed. "I am afraid I know which one and what his faithful servant has asked for his prize…."
Eowyn shivered, certain also of what he meant.
Saruman.
Theodred had long suspected that the wizard plotted against the kingdom, nursed a fierce and swelling ambition alone in his black tower of obsidian.
"Take this in earnest of my vow. If ever Grima touches a hair upon your head he will not live to see another sunrise." A sliver of cold steel was pressed into her palm.
The dirk shone silver-blue in the moon's faint, waning light. A perfect weight, the hilt was chased in gold, steeds and stags raced the wold across it. It was beautiful. She had seen it in the hall. A long ago gift from Theoden to his only son upon his naming day.
She hugged her cousin hard, a lump rising in her throat. "Thank you Theo. I know that you and Eomer both will be back here as often as you can." And between she must be brave.
His frown grew deeper. "Forgive me cousin to speak so bluntly. I find I am relieved. It unmans him, the scent of fear. He is as much a coward as I had hoped. I greatly worried it to be otherwise…"
She started. Eowyn was not a total innocent. Knew from the older ladies talk that some men liked a little pain to spice their pleasure. But to enjoy another's fear…. Her mouth went dry.
The blue-grey gaze dropped to his waist where her small, sure fingers rested in his own. "Father may not see what is in his gaze but we all do." He took a deeper breath. "Be strong., but do not fear. Look at Grima's neck when we meet upon the morrow. He wears a bandage and in time will bear a scar."
His eyes flicked to the knife now in her hand…She gasped. Surely they had not.
Theodred nodded as if he caught her thought. "Last night we made an oath, sealed in the barest trickle of his blood, in earnest of more to come. Hama, myself, Eomer and Elfhelm, all of us in turn pricked at his nape." He chuckled low. "I can scarce credit it but the man's face can become even whiter than it is now."
Eowyn closed her eyes a moment. Bema, that they should risk doing such a thing. "What did you promise?"
"To slay him outright should he so much as touch any part of you. Your hand, your arm, a single strand of your hair. You need not fear for your person. He is too much the coward to act when he knows all eyes will watch. Elfhelm and Hama and all the men. They know. He cannot hurt you even if Eomer and I are gone."
She swayed. The relief was so intense she felt for a moment that her knees might buckle underneath. "Thank you."
Strong hands held her steady as a smile and welcome words lifted up and raised the mask; the one she kept these days so tightly on her feelings.
"I know that you must wait and watch, Eowyn. Help father and worry for his health while the Worm wanders everywhere, shoring up his plots. To wait is hard on all of us, but I think, perhaps, you have the hardest watch."
"You can do something!" Eowyn cried suddenly. "What can I do? Nothing but tend the sick and mind the hall." And avoid the Worm's slavering gaze, she thought, though she did not say it loud.
"I would that things were different." Theodred's gaze grew wistfull as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She was nearly twenty and still her hair was unadorned, unbound. A maiden. No betrothal had come her way. Her Uncle had made it clear he would keep her by his side. "By now you should be thronged by suitors, planning a betrothal, looking to a life and hall all of your own. Do not despair my little one. Your time will come."
The proud blond head tossed, the glorious cornsilk hair whipped wildly in a gust of wind as pale grey eyes flashed. "I want but to serve." she cried. " As you and Eomer both do. With honour."
Gently, he bent and kissed her brow. Saw her spirit and her fire. Trusted that she would find her way somehow.
"You will, Eowyn. I have no doubt you will."
.
~~~000~~~
.
Aragorn came to full wakefulness with a start.
He had long cultivated the ability: to rise from the deepest sleep in but a heartbeat, to take note of his surroundings no matter how poor or sound the rest, the lumpy ground or the rudeness of shelter.
Above the dim fir trees the fading fire of Gil-Estel rode a twilight sky. It was near an hour before dawn. Aragorn sat and cocked an ear, anxious to divine the reason for his wakefullness. He had no horse, nor any companion now; Gandalf had at last forsaken their chase, despairing of their errand.
For many months, through the bite of winter, they had ranged down Wilderland, seeking Gollum himself or at least rumour of him. Unto the very teeth that girt the Land of Shadow they had come and listened long, certain the creature would be found.
After a fruitless hunt, the Wizard, pressed by an ever-growing sense of urgency, had left for Minas Tirith. Gandalf was certain that Isildur had not marched straight to Annuminas from Mordor, that the victorious King of Arnor would have gone instead to his dead brother's city, to comfort his nephew and plant a last scion of the White Tree in Minas Anor in memory of one who would not come again. Saruman claimed to have read it a scroll, penned by Isildur himself. Gandalf, grown more doubtful of his mentor's motives, very much wished to see the parchment for himself.
By purest chance it was but days after that Aragorn had at last found Gollum. Or more precisely had found the Orc patrol that dragged Gollum, chained and beaten, the marks of torture clear upon him, down through Morgul Vale.
Swiftly he made haste to follow, puzzled by their direction. For what purpose were the Enemy's minions taking their prize away from their dominion? The Ranger could not guess, but followed closely, patiently waiting for his own chance. While he felt a certain pity for Gollum's poor condition, a few fingers broken, one shoulder bruised and newly askew, he felt no compunction at the thought of becoming his next gaoler.
The creature had knowledge they needed desperately.
From farther down the slope he heard the restless shuffling of sleeping orcs, the muffled leaden footfalls of the two who stood sentry on the rest. The filth had camped for the night, safe in the assumption that these upper reaches of Ithilien were far from the river and Gondor's reach.
Unrolling himself from his cloak, Aragorn sat and tightened the laces of his boots, rose silently and padded to a nearby clear and icy spring. He cracked the morning rime, it tinkled like a bell, a most welcome sound after the brooding silence of Morgul Vale.
The Ranger had not dared to fill his skin for days, having trod the deadly flowers of that accursed space. He had stared fascinated yet repulsed at their painful, twisted stems; their succulent, glossy black petals drooping down, testament that all within was poisoned.
It was a relief to be back within the fragrant groves of Ithilien's eastern slope. Spring was still a month away but already the air felt kissed by a stronger sun. Icicles at the root-bound verge dripped steadily and animals had begun to stir.
Above, a bossy squirrel chittered furiously, an angry counterpoint to the rising chorus of dawn birds. It was time to move. Aragorn closesd the top and tied the skin back on his pack, slung it up and shifted his sword belt back to its welcome place.
From down the slope, a western wind that the trees did not buffer brought a sound he did not expect. He paused, still as stone, waiting for it to come again. In a moment the soft but clear high kip repeated from farther still, from beyond the slumbering camp.
A tern? What was a tern, a creature of the northern vales, doing here?
It was answered swiftly by its mate, a lower timbre, nearer on his right. A call. This had to be a call such as his own Dunadain sometimes used. Aragorn pulled his sword from its worn and weathered scabbard and cocked an ear again. Amidst the predawn song he caught more notes that should not be. Men: moving into position about the Orcs' encampment. They must be readying to attack. Gondor patrolled these woods, just as he himself had done so long ago.
Swiftly making a decision, he turned and climbed through the winter-dusted trees for higher ground. Though he longed to meet another friendly face, to hear the gentle, ancient speech of the Dúnedain not the harsh, throat-heavy words of Orcish, he was anxious to keep out of the affray. A Ranger of North, so far from home and possessed of one single goal, dared not explain to any Captain's satisfaction his secret errand.
He had not long to wait. As the first rays of the morning sun flowed down toward the valley floor, a great panicked cry arose. The dusky scent of pine litter and leaf mold, trampled to life by many feet, came to him and with it another note.
Fear. The battle was joined.
Perhaps, just perhaps this was the chance he had waited for.
~~~000~~~
.
Sergeant Anborn was, to general consensus, the best sleight of hand in Ithilien's motley company. Many a man had watched his pennies scooped up, first puzzled then alarmed by how often the cards cut in the fair-haired soldier's favour. With time they quickly learned. Only the newest recruits now would take up his offer for a flutter, blissfully unaware of the steely prowess masked by his nonchalant and quiet air.
That same skill, a discerning eye for minute and hidden detail, also made him the best tracker of Mablung's troop. So it was, late on a winter morning, the young Nimrais man found himself searching in ever-widening circles for a vanished prisoner.
His young private followed close behind, managing to be eager and glum at once. Anborn could not tell whether it was more for the temper of the cold and soggy weather or the perceived slight of chasing phantoms instead of fighting. Will was young enough to feel the need to prove himself, to pine for the glory in the fight.
No longer a raw recruit, the young man's shooting was coming on and he showed some decent promise as a scout. Mablung had paired him with Anborn in the hopes that he would catch an interest in the chase. He was bright, uncommonly so, with a sharp memory that boded well for observation. Even so he had yet to settle truly to wild, to find his peace with its many and varied forms of discomfort and surprise.
Disconsolately, the young Ranger squelched through a remnant patch of snow and pulled his cloak a little tighter. "We've been round this patch before." The complaint was pitched low and only for Anborn's uncanny hearing.
"Nay. Not this exact patch you dolt." The sergeant gestured impatiently with one green-gloved hand. The lad needed to pay attention. "See there, that bit of leaf is new."
Will peered closely and found sure enough a few spear-like leaves of niphredil poked through a crusty rind of dirty snow. "It's a snowdrop, 'Born. That's a sign of spring." The young man smiled delightedly. Yavanna be praised. Sun and warmth would come and perhaps even his spare boots might dry out.
"I don't ruddy care if it's a mallorn sprout itself, it was not beside the other patch of snow we passed before. Now follow on." Anbron bent to his task again but carefully set his boot beyond the gay evidence of the Lady's bounty.
When the forward scouts had come back with news of an Orc band and their prisoner moving boldly out of the Morgul road, the company had moved fast. Captain Faramir had set the ambush for near dawn and by the time the first rays of pale winter sun had broached the teeth of Ephel Duath not an Orc still lived.
The men had searched the glade and found neither prisoner nor clear sign of one. It was passing odd. The scouts had been adamant. The poor wretch had been spied, bound and chained, the day before. Surely they had not gone far.
Anborn had been set to search to east and north. Only well beyond the camp's perimeter had he found evidence of something promising. Beside a clear pair of Orcish prints a slick of mud bore a narrow indented trail, just what a chain might make if it were dragged behind. Cautiously the two men followed, picking up the Orc's footprints and another mark or two. Smaller and barefoot. Too small for a man but too large for a child.
After that first flush of hope they had followed cautiously. Track but not engage were their orders. Most likely the Orc had simply bolted but they stayed on guard in case it doubled back.
Near a rotting log the paths diverged. The smaller prints had turned north and they had followed, hoping to quickly catch the prisoner up. After many minutes silent tracking Anborn shook his head. There was no sign. No sound. How could prisoner on a chain simpling vanish into thin air? Why would they try to hide once it was clear the Rangers had won the day?
As the pair wound their up through the trees the sounds of the skirmish and mopping up grew fainter. Will kept his eyes on the trees around and a ready hand upon his bow, watching Anborn's back while the older man used his skill. From the open plains of Lebennin, the young man did not like this thicker part of the forest. It still felt unnatural to have to walk constantly around the sentinels of wood, to remember to pass first one side and then the other, lest he veer off of his course. The sergent seemed to do it without thinking, moved easily and fast, so at home his feet seemed to barely touch the ground.
"This looks fresh!" Anborn's quiet exclamation broke Will from his reverie.
A deeper print, Orcish even to the young man's eye, was sunk into a patch of dead brown moss. "Should we draw off?" he asked anxiously, whispering as he scanned the ranks of trees. They were thin and the faennan had yet to sprout though the broom grew thick. Its myriad ever green, tiny leaves wink in the dappled sun.
Anborn shook his head but pulled out his own sword and pulled his hood farther off. He raised his oddly delicate nose and sniffed. "Orc blood." He frowned, testing the scent again. "And something else."
There was nothing for it but for Will to follow close, Anborn was off like a hound upon the scent.
They found the creature quick enough in a small stand of yew lying on its back. Dead. A gash across its chest and foul black blood oozing still. Anborn knelt and closed its splayed fingers about its leathered palm. They still moved, clearly it had been but a short time before it had last breathed.
"Did the prisoner kill it to escape?" Will asked, as he reached to be safe pulled a dagger out of its belt. Though its arm was flung wide it had no sword. Had the prisoner taken it? The young man shuddered, hearing again in his head the fireside tales of torment inflicted on those unfortunate to be taken by the brutal beasts.
Anborn did not answer. Head down, he was scanning the leaf litter once again. The faintest of prints lead away from the creature's body. "There was someone here."
Will looked up surprised. Another? The older Ranger pointed to the print.
"Heavier in front not the heel. Not an Orc. Nor the one we first sought. See the print is larger and in a boot or shoe." Anborn looked up, puzzled, turning this way and that, searching in the tree trunks for sign of something caught or a branch bent awkwardly. There was nothing. For a frightened prisoner fleeing a skirmish in full flight they were uncommonly neat moving through the bush.
The faintest rustle of sliding brittle needles sounded from his right . Anborn rubbed his brow and frowned. The fair hairs on the back of his large and callused hand had stood on end.
They were being watched.
"They're still here." He whispered, though he could not say exactly how he knew it to be true.
"Be careful." Will placed a warning hand upon his arm as the older man made to step. "They must be frightened." He too felt like there were eyes upon them both, though for once the forest did not feel malevolent.
Anborn paced slowly, sword point down and left hand open, toward the sound. "Sîdh" he called quietly. Peace. In Westron and Sindarin he called but no answer came. The uncanny feeling did not leave.
Anxious not to lose the man, the sergeant pushed gingerly through a thicker patch of willow and swallowed a muffled curse, it was denser than it looked. "Bloody hell, these little effiing bushes, they'll rip yer boots off."
They did more than grab his boots, they masked a hole. With a quiet cry of outraged surprise, the Ranger's leg went through. Will reached to grab a flailing arm but not before the older man fell and twisted hard.
Once he had his partner back on solid ground it was clear that the manoeuver had not done the sergeant good. Anborn was hopping awkwardly, gingerly walking but grimacing each time his foot set down upon the turf.
His devoted partner snorted derisively. "That'll teach you to keep sight of what's under your feet not just what's before your pretty nose."
"Aye and I love you too." Anborn reached down and massaged the offending foot. Fine time for this to happen. Right when he was getting close.
Will stilled his grin. "Come, see if you can walk it off. They must be near. Sooner we find them, sooner we get you home."
They set off slowly but in the end did not find what they sought and that was the greater puzzle.
An hour later Anborn reported, late and limping, to his most surprised Lieutenant.
"Daft bugger twisted his ankle on a root." Will announced loudly, to all and sundry, when Renil and Mablung hustled over.
Faramir looked up from where he stood listening to the other scouts' reports. With a practiced eye he quickly assessed Anborn's look of pain. It held a healthy dose of acute embarrassment with the not-too-serious physical distress. Thank the Valar. Thirty Orcs wiped out and no injury more serious than a few cuts to stitch.
Renil lead Anborn to a stump, sat him down and carefully unlaced just the top of his heavy boot. The sergeant hissed in pain as the dark-haired healer rotated his ankle carefully side to side. He could move it, that was good, but the healer dared not take the boot off now, or they'd never get it on again.
"We were sure we found someone Sir" Anborn explained, as Mablung stood, hands on hips, frowning at the swelling quite evident about the bruised and battered ankle. "They vanished. Straight into the trees."
"Well, if they are friend not foe they'll like as not be back. Once the shock has gone." Mablung caught Faramir's eye as the Captain joined their little group. Anborn was the last scout to report. Neither of them liked that they had not found the prisoner. This time of year there was little forage in the forest unless one knew where to look. Would not like to see a man starve so close to succor.
Anborn looked from one man to the other with a puzzled frown, stoically ignoring Renil's further prodding. "Captain, it was the oddest thing. First set of prints were small, almost like a child's, but the last, beside the Orc, were large. Bigger than my own. That's two."
"Nice counting." His partner quipped. At Mablung's glare Will bent and began to methodically tie the older man's pack onto his own.
Faramir's clear grey eyes narrowed thoughtfully and he nodded. "Maric saw them also, smallish prints farther on. A youth separated from an adult?" He shared a worried look with Mablung. It would not be the first time patrols encountered younglings, slaves from Mordor. No surprise they were too traumatized to trust.
"I like it not." The craggy lieutenant rumbled. "The scouts said only one."
"We used all the signals, Sir. T'was not one of ours. Perhaps an elf?"
"I do not know." Slowly Faramir shook his head. "I like to think one of the Eldar would respond when you used their word for peace."
Brows furrowed, the Captain looked up toward the higher slopes. There was the faintest prickling of something at the very edge of his awareness, something he had not felt before. Carefully he cast out his gift, searching, hoping to gauge what type of person wandered there, to brush their thoughts, but nothing came. The forest felt smooth and blank.
Faramir turned his attention back and raised an eyebrow. "Renil?"
The healer had finished his examination and now bound a length of bandage securely about his patient's ankle. "Not broken Captain. Just a sprain. But mind it's a long way back." Renil took Anborn by the elbow and carefully helped him up. The sergeant tried a step or two but was clearly in some pain.
"Will!"
At the Captain's call the young Ranger's head snapped up. "You can organize the litter detail. Use their spears for poles." As the private trotted off, a quickly raised hand stopped Anborn's instant protest. "Just because you can walk does not mean you should. And we will move much faster without you hopping. Renil has willow bark tea alrady on the boil. You should avail yourself of that. "
Anborn sighed. He could smell it, a woodsy top note above the stench of Orc. With ill-concealed frustration, the fair man sat down again and resigned himself to his fate.
Faramir and Mablung turned to go but the sergeant twisted hurriedly in his seat and winced. "Sir, one more thing."
Expecting further protest, Faramir kept his gaze carefully stern and set.
"I forgot to say. You asked us to report any odd or fey-acting creatures. We saw the strangest thing. A largish squirrel or perchance a possum. Up in a tree. Nasty temper like a wolverine, that hissed as we went past. Pale, with great big eyes, but hairless. I have never seen its like."
"Thank you Anborn. Nor have I. Perhaps it will come round again."
The Captain of Ithilien's Rangers did not know how prophetic his words would prove to be.
But one year on the creature did return again. Dragging this time not a broken chain but the twisted strands of fate it tangled on the Weaver's loom.
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~~~000~~~
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Gollum had moved but a ways up the slope, up a tree, to hide while the full light of the 'nasty face', fair Anor, lit the glades. Once the darkness again crept down the slopes to hide the deep fir trees the creature would set off.
Aragorn too had picked up the marks of soft and small feet beside a muddy creek and tracked them to this slope. He heard the hasty calls and smiled. It was ironic indeed that one Ranger was tracking yet another. It had been fifty years since he himself ranged these slopes. Ecthelion had insisted all his captains learn something of each unit in the host. To range fair Ithilien had been a boon for a young Captain homesick for his northern vales. Pine and tamarack and cardinals trilling in the dappled slopes were a welcome sight after years of oak and fescue and meadowlark.
Settling his ragged pack down against a half-hollow trunk, Aragorn lay back and resigned himself to wait and watch. He must not lose the creature and so dared not move farther from the men. Pulling his face deeper into the shade and green of the Ranger's hood, he wound his cloak tighter about his knees and lay his sword in the leaves beside, hidden but near to hand. It would not do to give himself away to either the creature or the men.
After many minutes, alert for the slightest rustle from Gollum's tree his keen hearing picked up the muffled yelp. It came from down below, of certainty where the Ranger calls had been. He sat and cocked an ear, touched the comforting roughness of the sword's worn leather grip. Straining to catch words or sounds of more distress, he wondered fleetingly if another Orc could be loose? The one who followed was gone, dispatched quietly and swiftly as he could. And there had been no other sign of trouble.
The Dunadan rose carefully, stepped lightly down the slope, avoiding the noisy deeper litter in favour of the rocks. It would be careless to declare himself however much he wished to understand what went on. Drawing nearer to the source of the sudden cry Aragorn hesitated, crouching behind the thicker bracken and peering through though it went against every instinct learned in Imladris Healer's fingers fairly itched to stop and see what had gone awry What if the man was injured? And worse, alone?
He listened for more minutes. The clash and ring of battle had long since faded and in the clean crisp air the rustling and shuffling of two men rose clearly, heading along the slope and farther south, away from Gollum's tree. Two men and no other creature.
All should be well.
Relieved at what he heard, the Ranger turned to ascend again. From out of the corner of his vision there came a white flash against soft ruddy brown. A green gloved hand reached down and plucked from the loam a white and perfect sprig of niphredil, pressed into the mud by one of Gollum's hasty prints.
What was such a fair and delicate flower doing here? So early. High on cool and shrouded slopes, long chilled by growing Shadow.
…..As if the very land resists….
Lightened in his heart, Aragorn settled again into the hollow of his post. Up above, the dark shape of his quarry was just visible against the reddish-brown and flaking bark. He would give the creature a little more time to settle, to fall into an uneasy but desperately needed sleep before he pounced.
Idly the Ranger twirled the delicate harbinger of spring in dirt-stained and roughened fingers. Niphredil, small and sweet, was the flower that bloomed first to greet fair Luthien. It also bloomed, a gossamer ribbon of white and green, on Cerin Amroth.
Where he and his own Luthien, his Undomiel, had plighted their troth and crushed them underfoot.
He smiled. Perhaps it was a sign.
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~~~000~~~
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It is precious to me though I buy it with great pain…
His heart misgave him to depart the City without taking proper leave of its Lord and Steward but the import of the words, just a faded smudge of cerulean blue on yellow parchment, was far too great. Isildur long ago had uttered them even as his prize burned upon his finger and set a torment in his flesh and his mind.
Precious….
Gandalf shuddered. He had heard another use that adjective about a band of gold. Not in a City built for war but in a green and gentle far off land that had no inkling of its peril
For that reason he was in desperate hurry now.
It had taken all his considerable will, bending and twisting words like rings of smoke, to hide his true intent. To stop the Gondor's noble Steward from gleaning what drove him to the Archive. The errand that had driven him to forsake his friend above the cursed Morgul Vale and come in search of an answer at long last.
Denethor, his energy focused towards the gathering dark, cared little at the wizard's stated goal. 'What matters Mithrandir the early history of the city, its ancient days and its fair beginning? They are far less dark than what is to come."
True perhaps but only in the earliest records of the the city from King Meneldil's time could he find a scroll penned by his uncle, Isildur. As so the wizard had searched, and searched, and searched again. Lighting candles and his own glows as the early dark of winter's night descended. Hoping against hope that this time his search would prove more fruitful.
Saruman had seen the scroll. That he knew without a doubt.
It was where the eldest of their order, in truer times, had learned the nature of Isildur's fateful weregild and all its fellows:
The nine, the seven and the three each had their proper gem, my friend: ruby and adamant, sapphire and pearl, citrine and emerald. Many designs of surpassing fairness did Celebrimbor make. But not so the One. Sauron himself made it. Unlike the Elven smiths he cared not for beauty or delight within this world, left it plain and unadorned. It is by this that we should know it were it not in Ulmo's keeping now.
Many years and many journeys later Gandalf had learned by hard experience not to trust all that came from Saruman's polished tongue. The need to know, to be certain, had fueled his errand. The need to be certain of his memory now drove his errand north.
Already the writing upon it, which at first was as clear as red flame, fadeth and is now only barely to be read…. maybe were the gold made hot again, the writing would be refreshed….
So now he dearly hoped. That by these words he would learn the truth of Bilbo's ring.
Carefully but in haste Gandlaf set the stirrups up and checked his horse's girth. He would ride like Manwe's strongest wind was upon his tail, breaking only when she could not go on. Ellin, a fine bay roan with heart to spare, caught something of his excitement and fear. She sidled sideways. Patting her withers soothingly, he murmured gentle words to settle the skittish horse. Forgive me brave one but we must away.
A sudden clatter of hooves upon cobblestone told him another was readying to leave. The large grey charger that appeared was a magnificent mount, bred for war and shod in sharper iron. His rider, head bent to confer with the shorter groom, spoke quietly Gandalf looked up sharply. It was a voice he knew. Boromir..Denethor's eldest son.
With the ease of long practise the Captain-General tossed a stirrup over his saddle seat to check the girth. It was a little loose. "Breigun, you rogue.." he laughed, quickly thumping the war horse on his barrel. Surprised, the stallion exhaled the extra air he had hastily drawn in and Boromir quickly tightened the girth another notch.
Ellin shook her head as if abashed, her dark mane tossing and bit jangling in the quiet of the court. The sudden noise made Boromir look up…
"Mithrandir! Father had not told me you were here…" The stirrups were dropped back as the big man took up the reins and extended a hand in greeting. "Well met!"
"Well met indeed my Lord." Gandalf shook the proffered hand, set a smile he did not feel on his weathered face. Any delay felt like a burden.
"Whither are you bound?" asked Boromir, a smile of surprise and pleasure on his handsome face. Behind him Breigun stamped impatiently. A sparrow hopped about the horse's feet, pecking at the stray chaff upon the stone.
Caution held the wizard's tongue. Saruman's spies could be anywhere… "Wandering, as always is my wont." Gandalf replied. "Yourself?"
"To Osgiliath. Back to my men. Will you join me across the Pelennor? Tis a fine day for a ride."
Gandalf hesitated. And a fine day to make some speed. But perhaps it would be wisest to not been seen to be in haste. "With pleasure. I will join you to the Great West road."
Soon enough packs were tied onto saddles and the two men made their way down through the City's streets and out the great main gate. They kept a steady trot, past cots and farms, the smallholders taking advantage of the clear, fine weather to mend fences before the calves and kids arrived. Waves and happy greetings followed the Captain-General all along.
"What brought you to the City?" Boromir asked companionably when they had left the last of worked fields behind. Before them lay only wide grass and hard packed earth and in the middle distance the imposing darker stone of the Causeway Forts, the sentinenel at the Pelennor's eastern gate.
"Lore, the earliest archives of the City's founding."
Boromir, but half in jest, pulled a sour face. "Better you than me, my Lord. Although Faramir would have enjoyed the ancient dust upon his sleeve. It is all of a piece for him. Histor, lands and languages. All the things that put me right to sleep."
Gandalf returned his grin. He would not speak openly of his errand to Boromir or anyone. Denethor most of all must not know what he had sought or that he had found it. The Steward had long ago studied the lore of Gondor with Saruman, enough to know that something had been taken from the Enemy's black hand. He wondered what, if anything, the Lord of Gondor had told his sons.
"I am sorry to have missed your brother on this trip. He is well?"
Boromir shrugged expressively. 'As he can be. He and Father have been arguing again about the state of needs in Ithilien."
The wizard searched carefully the young man's face. That very morn he had noted the heavy lines of care about Denethor's brow and mouth, the thinness of his face, the greater streaks of grey within his hair. Something of that tension was reflected in his son: a certain set to his shoulders, a tighter grip on the rein than was strictly necessary. There was, he thought, something more to this than just the challenge of supplying a forward base.
"Your father has ever held Faramir tightly to account. That theatre becomes more fraught." Gandalf glanced sidelong as the younger man, gauging the reaction. Perhaps it would be a relief for him to speak. "The strain and worry I expect make Denethor more short. With everyone."
Boromir, bluff and straightforward as he was, knew when he was being plied. He laughed and ruefully shook his head. "I should never expect to hide from you Mithrandir. Father is a little agrieved with me, not just my brother." He sighed. "My cousin Elphir has just sired a large and healthy boy, a new heir for Dol Amroth, the next link in the succession. He is, as Father pointed out, younger than both Faramir and I."
Despite the lightness of his words Gandalf could see the discomfort in the man. It had long been a point of consternation. For proud and duty-bound Denethor the continuation of the House of Hurin was paramount. "How he expects Faramir to settle down, cooped up most of the year in one Refuge or another, I will never understand. For myself, I have no wish to marry a woman I do not love. I cannot compel my heart, no matter the censure of my Father."
"Just so, my Lord. A capricious organ but once given, a constant one. You are wise to wait." It was then that Gandalf noticed the band of black cloth on Boromir's saddle bow, the colour of his shirt. Leylin. The house of Dol Amroth was still in official mourning for its Princess, succumbed last harvest-time to a wasting sickness. "I had not heard the happy news. Let us hope it lifts all spirits."
After that both men were forced to concentrate, straying from a section of the path washed out by heavy winter rains. Come spring rebuilding of the roads and the Rammas Echor would proceed apace.
Gandalf gave Eilinn a looser rein, letting her pick her way carefully through the loose rock and mud where a steep bank had been cut. Ahead Boromir's mount moved steadily, with his longer legs easily traversing the higher slope on the far side of the channel.
As the stallion gained the road, by chance the pale winter sun caught the boss of Boromir's round shield and flashed. Almost at once a cold hard finger of sudden doubt snaked along the wizard's spine. The Captain-General turned in the saddle but he could not hear his words…
A bright summer day filled with flashing light as armored men, so many skittles in a children's game, tumble into darkly churning water. Cries of man and beast alike rend the heavy air.
Startled, Gandalf shook his head but the image, the vision, would not clear. Lorien grant me grace. What have I seen?
Ahead in the distance lay the shining ribbon of fair Anduin, blue and placid, seemingly untroubled by any vision of greater woe.
"Is all well?" Boromir asked again, a puzzled frown creasing his fair face.
Finally, Eilinn made the lip and pulled beside, quivering from nose to tail. Fret not dear heart, he thought, this worry is not for you. With an effort Gandalf kept his voice calm as if they were just two travelers keeping easy company.
"Boromir do you swim?" If the son of Gondor was nonplussed by the unexpected question he did not show it.
"Of course.."
"And your brother?" He had to ask. Need was a troll that sat upon his chest, pounding at his breath.
"Yes. We played often in Anduin as children, both by the shore and in little boats." A wistful smile softened the lines of strain about slate grey eyes. "I remember my mother playing with Faramir in the sea, teaching him to be easy with the waves."
The pounding eased but the cries of frightened men echoed still, specters in the sunlit air. A kestrel, beloved of Eonwe, his master's herald, hovered on the steady wind, hunting in the grass for the first meadow voles awakened by the warmth.
"That is good."
He knew it to be so, although he had no words for why.
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A/N: Thank you so much to WithThisBirdAndThisSong, Certh, celifanfic, claudeman27 and crazyfanfic who favorited or followed this past month. And thank you to Anon99 for their guest review. It is so very, very much appreciated.
Grateful thanks go out to Annafan, Gwynnyd, Thanwen, Artura, and Gythja for their comments/critters on this latest chapter. Particular thanks as always to Wheelrider for her amazing beta skills in the midst of busy life.
Note that I am not quite sure when the next chapter will appear. I am off to the wilds again and won't be online. I aim to be back at it in August but hope it might be worth the wait...the next chapter is 'The Vision of Rivendell'. Happy Summer everyone