Captains, kings and knights: all now are pawns in a match set long years before
March 13.
.
The night was still and heavy. No breeze jostled the stiff arms of the great dark pines, no starlight pierced the veil of the Enemy. Only the soft muted jangling of hobbled harnesses, the voices of men speaking low as they passed around cold rations, stirred the deepening mirk for no fires would be lit.
The host of the Rohirrim lay camped warily for the night. Unused to a deep green canopy overhead, man and beast alike were unsettled in their skin. Now and again a Rider would pause, cock an ear and shake his head. The dense litter underfoot was dusty and thick as a feather bed, it absorbed their rustling, but not so much that it blocked the faint drumming from the wooded hills and low shoulders of the mountain-steps. It would throb like a startled heart in one spot and then swiftly fly to another peak, surrounding them like watchful eyes of a chaperone upon a courting pair. The mounts shifted and stamped nervously on the uncertain undergrowth, raising a musk of horse and sweat and earth into the air.
They may have lacked light but not mud and for this Dernhelm, for one, was thankful. 'He' was busy- bent down slathering fresh camoflage on Windfola's fetlocks. The scrub on the plains and underbrush of the forest had scraped off quite a bit of the horse's disguise and though the forest was dim as the shade behind the Deeping Wall (and disguise would perhaps not matter now) still the Eored's newest Rider bent, running the dark sticky muck over Windfola's trembling hide.
"Be easy brave heart." The quiet words were soothing. Both of them were a little careworn and nervous in this new space, unused to dark branches and darker shadows. They were jittery and on edge, anticipating the fight to come and fatigued after four days in the saddle. Eowyn used the opportunity to run her hands up and down Windfola's legs, across each hock and cannon, searching for signs of heat or strain. She had exercised the great grey as much as her duties had allowed but it could not replace the long endurance runs practised by the other's Rider's mounts.
She scratched lightly across Windfola's lighter blaze, mumuring praise for her friend. "You are a wonder, carrying two of us," she whispered, though in truth the little hobbit really was no great burden. Between them they made just her brother's weight in armor and Firefoot bore him untiring for days. The thought of Meriadoc made her feel a little guilty for she had not spoken to him for days. He must feel lonely and at a loss, caught up in the swirling mass of the Eored and understanding little of the tongue of the Mark. It was unfortunate but she dared not speak. Especially when the soft night air could carry sound to many ears. Her voice was low and throaty for a woman and she knew many of Elfhelm's Riders. They were the King's household; would surely know her voice. And Elfhelm at least, had spoken to the 'bag' that 'Derhelm' carried in the common tongue and she was grateful for his effort.
For Eowyn to be silent for so many days had been surprisingly not so hard. There was now no need to endlessly cajole her Uncle. No need to joust with the Worm in words, no need to be on edge every moment of the day, running excuses in her head to have ready when the oily creature appeared, obsequiously bowing at her elbow.
It was a relief to mind only her own thoughts, to let go of cares and duties she had worn so long they had dug welts into her soul.
Even if it was to perhaps give up the life she knew.
Eowyn shivered a little in the chilly air. Time to move. She wished to hear a little of her Uncle's councils and for that she needed an errand to get a little closer. Silently she led Windfola over to a stand of woody hawthorn and hobbled him. It was the perfect spot: behind Theoden's back but within earshot. It was dark enough in the dim that with her helm and hair tied up she had no fear of recognition. Plenty of the other Riders afterall were still dressed to ride.
Theoden's blessedly strong, deep voice carried easily, speaking of the scouts who had not returned and the host that camped near Amon Dîn. It was not good news. They had not the time to fight their way to the Forannest and already had been days upon the road.
Even as Eowyn stood and listened, heart in mouth, nervously plucking at the shrub's soft red bark, she heard another voice from beyond the dim torchlight.
'It is all dark, but it is not all night.'
Deep and guttural, the sound was a remnant from another time and stirred a half- forgotten memory: Eomund, smelling still of horse and sweat, handsome face lit by the fire's glow, telling her and Eomer tales before they sought their beds.
The Wild Men of the Wood were legends and fables come to life. It was the chief of the Drúedain who sat before Theoden now, black eyes sharp as obsidian, troubled by the Darkness that crept inexorably through the skies.
She listened, buoyed by his halting words. It seemed there was a long forgotten path, a wain track through Drúadan to Rimmon, forgotten by time but not by Wild Men. One that need not pass by the Enemy's blockade.
Eowyn stilled, now more eager to catch his meaning, for the little man had turned and the words carried not so well. Only a few snatches could she make out.
'Tall_men came up out of the water," he said as if it had occurred just yesterday. Her vision swam. The Exiles from Numenor had arrived so long ago and for a moment all she saw was a fleet, cresting a river's wave.
She shook her head and now the Wild man had raised his nose to scent the breeze. "The Wind is changing.'
At once she looked up, past the high tree tops. The boughs were swaying gently and a few stars glimmered between the drifting haze. The sight of them made her shiver, as if they called to her. As if Vairë, the Weaver, had touched a thread on the tapestry of her life. Gondor and Numenor. The past nights she had been dreaming too. Of nebulous, jumbled images, half-glimpsed impressions that flitted like glowbugs in the dark. Of fire and heaviness. Of iron and a breath of wind, sharp with the salty tang of the sea.
Of strong bright words that caught on her tongue before they slipped away.
Her grandmother. Morwen, a daughter of Belfalas and Lossarnach both, had dreamed at times. They would sit together in the great carved bed and speak of how a true dream lingered bright and sharp, like crystal, so different from the muddied dreams caught in the nets of one's own imagining Her dreams these days were more mere snatches, pictures that tumbled and left her troubled. Made her think of Aragorn and how somewhere, south and west of them, the bravest man she knew was walking a mad and desperate path.
"Dernhelm."
At the sudden grip upon her arm she whipped around, dirk up.
'Peace, young stud." Elfhelm's gruff chuckle rumbled low. "I did not expect you to see me in this this devil's mirk,'
"I did not expect to feel anyone at my side," she chided quietly. The Marshal grinned. Unlike her, he had doffed his helm. A cloth was draped across his shoulder and the acrid scent of lye was mixed with herb. He had just come from his wash in the nearby stream. And just happened to walk back past the council space.
She huffed and slipped her blade back into her belt. "Do you know what the Wild Men have proposed?"
Elfhelm nodded toward the huddled group. Theoden sat straight-backed, listening intently to the Wild Men's chief while Eomer paced like a mountain lion, restlessly. beside. His sister recognized the prowl. It meant he was thinking hard.
"They have found a way to gain us precious time. Eomer has already sent word that we must set ourselves in readiness: orders may come for a sudden move."
Eowyn swallowed hard. It would be beyond all their hopes to reach Gondor before it fell but none of them fancied another night in the darkened wood.
"We take the trail?"
"Yes. Now things change. " Elfhelm turned, pressed a large hand upon her shoulder and gazed imploringly. "The Woses suffer Men at times. They might aid us. Might keep you safe if it were Theoden who asked."
How dare he? Eowyn stiffened, shrugged off the hand, insulted that he sought to break their bargain so. "You are grasping at straws, my friend."
"And should I not?" Elfhelm's protest was hoarse and low; the words that followed pleading still. "Should the thought of the King's neice cut down by black Orc swords not fill me with total dread?"
Not without remorse she saw the anguish that stained the dark blue gaze. Of course he should not be happy with what must be. Neither of them had suffered easily the long years of trial that led them to be standing, half hidden, eavesdropping on their King.
She sighed and softened the barest bit, forced an easiness she did not feel into her bones.
The seasoned warrior saw the change and pressed his luck again. "It is not too late to change your mind, my Lady. Stay back with the baggage horses at the very least."
She graced that plan with the derision it was due. "We have a deal. And I for one will honour it."
Elfhelm raised his hands as if to take her by the shoulders but then halted, dropped them once again, She was a woman and not some rider whom he wanted to shake sense into. He sighed and slowly shook his head.
"This is no game Eowyn. Our scouts and the Wild Men have reported that Mundburg is on fire. The lower levels are ablaze. The City is beseiged. We ride straight into the teeth of war."
The proud chin raised. ""I know and I am ready for it."
"Are you really?" The marshall pointed toward the east. Straight on, above the trees and the shoulder of Amon Din, there was a red glow, pulsing under the black vault of night.
It felt..sinister... and Eowyn could not help backing up a pace. Elfhelm searched her face.
She would not say it. Would not admit that she was afraid. It made him angry, impotent and she saw a muscle clench in his jaw.
"I stand here, irony souring in my gut that I would prefer yonder fire be from the accursed land and not the fair City that I once knew already fallen."
"You have been there?" she asked, surprised.
"Yes, as a young man I made the journey with the Prince. And to Osgiliath." A pained look creased the Marshal's wrinkled brow. It occurred to Eowyn that she was not the only one mourning Theodred. Silently. Bitterly. Elfhem had served him from his first commission, been with him when he fell. He too was angry for the lack of ceremony to speed his Prince on the final ride to Namo's Halls.
"The Prince and I journeyed to Mundburg before the accursed wizard moved so openly. He had used his magic to give a Eorling's face and body to an Orc who attacked the Steward's younger son."
Eowyn gasped. The thought of such a spell used upon a man made her own stomach turn.
"You never met the Prince's swordbrother..Alfgrim?" Eowyn shook her head. No she had not. Alfgrim had died when she was still a little girl. Scarcely a year later her parents were gone and her own world had turned upside down. In her new home at Edoras she saw Alfgrim's widow and his dearest friend seek solace in each other's arms.
"Alfgrim's countenance that was stolen for the spell." Elfhelm explained. "The Prince tried to find evidence, a token to incriminate the wizard. But back then he hid his tracks too well."
With a pang she realized that Godwyn had now lost Theodred too- another husband of a sort. What point could there be to love she wondered hopelessly? Requited or spurned, it seemed to bring only pain and suffering.
Elfhelm was continuing. "Thank Bema for us all, the crafty one became too bold in time. It is mete that hubris brought Saruman down. He forgot to not rile his neighbours." The older man snorted and shook his head. "Ents. Who would have imagined that?" The thought brought a small smile to the craggy face, as if walking trees were more fantastical than placing a man's face on a filthy Orc.
"Did you like it? The City?" Eowyn asked, feeling a little ridiculous, but wondering what they would find at their journey's end. Her Uncle and Grandmother spoke of Minas Tirith as if it were the most beautiful place in Middle-Earth, but they had been raised in Gondor and would of course think so. She was her Father's daughter. She preferred the wold and stream and the songs of her people.
"It was impressive, " Elfhelm replied, distracted, looking across her shoulder to the council. "Loud and large. White and heavy everywhere. I felt hemmed in, to be honest. Towered over by so much stone.'
"Just like this forest. Give me open skies and room to run."
Eowyn waited while the Marshal nodded absently, watching the sudden flurry of movement at the little council. She held her breath, picked up Windfola's reins and waited while farewells were spoken and Eomer strode quickly back toward the men.
It was time.
When Elfhelm turned back his large blue eyes looked on her long and steadily. His mouth set in a flat and hard line and she waited until a rough oath and a last few words ground out.
"We will have that upon the Pelennor."
.
~~~000~~~
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"Every scion of a noble family learns, at an early age, of Dagorlad and Celebrant, Nirnaeth Arnoediad and the Gladden Fields. And when one is tutored in the great battles of the Ages, assembled lore speaks of terrain and tactic, bravery and steadfast line, of glorious effort expended in the hope of attaining something greater still. It rarely speaks of retreat except to consider a clean and orderly affair, one essayed for tactical advantage. Where the goal is to pull back and lick ones wounds; to preserve the force to face another day.
Faramir paused, chest heaving, fingers cramped onto Mithros' reins, and surveyed the scene of tumult all around. The latest press of Haradrim had pulled back again and for a moment he could almost catch his breath.
A wildly bitter bark of mirth escaped.
No, no indeed this was not what he'd been taught.
He could still recall the gravelly voice of Ivanduil, his old tutor, explaining with sincere exactitude the points he wished retained.
One must always attack first. Throw back and confuse the enemy. Then retreat post-haste to build in needed time while the enemy re-establishes orderly command. Send back the weakest units first-the walking wounded, then the infantry. Saving the cavalry for the rear. At all costs avoid contact with the enemy. A fighting retreat soon becomes a rout.-drains time and resource and loses too many men.
Oh gods. If only they had had any say in how this awful day progressed.
At the outset they did everything that they should. Under cover of the night Mithrandir had left with the ox-wains of injured men; the few guards that they could spare followed along beside. Every man who could hold a rein had been put upon a horse and at least the order of retreat was right. The walking wounded had marched out first, and then the infantry and last of the all their mounted force.
After the night-long sounds of tumbling stone from ransacked Osgiliath there had been a grim satisfaction in making a large noise of their own. They could not break the causeway but they could block the way-the twin towers of the Forts had been built to last but also to defend and that morn to defend meant to destroy. Terrell was the one who had knowledge of the dwarvish powder and after the hasty, heady blast the rubble and caltrops and metal spikes had been strewn upon the road.
Toric lead the foot out first, marching proudly in tight formation, hearts restored after the horrific booming thunder of the early morn. Cheers and jeers had greeted the first few bold orcs who dared to climb the causeway before Mablung and his archers taught them the folly of their ways. Faramir cheered along with his men though to him it felt like lying. They made scarce a score of hits and there was no time get more than one volley out.
They were scrambling. The Rammas had been breached too soon.
The morning hours went almost as well as they could hope. They retreated and they fought. Were pressed almost from the first by an Enemy that threatened to overwhelm their tiny force from every side. Each time Faramir and the men threw the vile wave back. Each time they turned and caught their breath again before forcing their tired mounts to charge, flanks heaving, into the thick acrid air.
At times they seemed to make some headway. The cavalry would, exultantly, surprise a regrouping file of Orcs, bring the fight to the line and scatter it, before feinting and galloping swiftly back. Little by little they made time and space for the foot to retreat farther and a little faster, always covered by mounted archers spread along the flanks.
The Orc companies had learned to rue their flying hooves and moved a little slower.
Ever and anon there was a thunderous flash and heavy rumbling shook the road. The filth worked quickly, clearing the wreck of the Causeway Forts and widening the breaches. Too soon they heard a shrieking evil cheer go up and the first Haradrim won through the empty gate.
The futility of a few hastily dug ditches became all too clear not many minutes later. The ground still shook with the strength of their pounding charge.
There was a weird, dance-like repetition to those fraught early hours: hew and thrust, turn and ride bare half a league, turn again. By sheer dint of iron will Faramir and the men created a space for the tightly marching guards and Rangers, but they were hopelessly outnumbered. They could only pick at the Enemy and slow them down, throw back the assault and hope that behind them the men were drawing closer to their goal.
In the precious moments when he reined in Mithros Faramir grabbed a mouthful of tepid water and wiped futilely at the sweat that trickled beneath the blasted helm. As ever when pressed by the impossible his ridiculous sense of the absurd came to the fore. There was an eerie beauty in the lights of the trailing torches, a rough music in the happy cries of the men as they passed points they recognized. After one scattered sortie sent them hiding amidst the orchards and deserted steads he briefly sheltered beneath a tree that, with a start, he recognized. It was a great oak that he had once climbed, inexpertly, at all of eight summers old. Boromir had sat patiently for hours in its deep welcome shade, whittling and waiting for his stubborn younger self to admit he needed help.
Another memory that might be swiftly swept away. He pressed a hand to the rough bark and prayed to Yavanna that the old sentinel might survive. Surely something of the world he knew might be the same. Afterward. If.
Resolutely he thrust the thought away.
Hour by excruciating hour they picked their slow and tortuous way toward to the city gates. By mid-day Mablung's archers had no arrows left but still made their mark- scavenging the black-fletched darts of the Enemy as they could. Damrod with his company and Toric's foot now stretched too far ahead to hear his orders amidst the noise.
There was no time to process who had fallen and how, no time think how many were left behind. Faramir had, by purest luck, stayed in hailing distance of Madril and kept an amused and wary eye on his erstwhile lieutenant. Madril still looked less than comfortable on a horse: the veteran Ranger hated them and the dislike was quite mutual. And though his bay gelding stamped and tossed its head when yanked inexpertly on its mouth, the pair fought with a ferocity he could only marvel at.
One thing else he did espy: Renil, carrying a wounded man across his saddlebow. The blasted, stubborn idiot had not gone with wains after all or else had doubled back. There would be words, or at least he hoped there would be words, later on that score.
At first they all dared to hope that the Enemy's wariness was in some way their own work. Lines of flame from many points converged upon the causeway road, but the Orcs, a flowing wave of black, still pressed lightly at the exhausted rank of men. The charges of mounted Haradrim became more frequent yet strangely held back the final killing strokes. They were harried, toyed with, but never in great force, always just enough to stop them reaching succor. And each time a few desperate men would break ranks and fly erratically for the City's walls.
The mirk of the day had turned to even darker twilight. They were past the abandoned farms and out on the wider plain, tantalizingly close enough to make out the men upon the City wall when a horrible realization dawned.
The walls that were now but a league away held an audience. How better to prepare for a siege than to break the hearts of those who manned the walls? How better to demoralize the City than to let them think the troops might survive, only to crush them in sight of salvation?
Faramir could feel the moment the troops knew it too.
All that was left of the rear guard turned and faced, again and again, their harassers just as before, but now the men and mounts were spent. Dispirited, exhausted, they went down to strokes that would not have killed scare hours earlier. Their Captain-General's increasingly quiet bugle calls could not hold them all. For the foot at least the outer walls and safety were seemingly in reach. Toric did not need an order to march the men still in formation double time. The winged shadows of the Nazgul swept down with a piercing shrieks, stooping to the kill so swiftly men who had stoutly, beneath those cries, walked the ramp to the Forts the day before, now threw themselves down terror, broken open by the strain.
The retreat became a rout.
"Gondor to me! The gates are nigh!" Voice almost gone, Faramir tried to rally the men once more. They were but two furlongs back, though for some poor souls crippled by the fear it might just as well be ten.
Bent low in the saddle, pleading inside for Mithros to keep his feet, Faramir swung around again.
The fire was now all afore: a foul breath heated by Orc's torches and the burning steads. It beat as a hot wind against his face yet it was still oddly pleasant at his back. He wished longingly for the cool white stone of the City beneath his hands not a hot, sweaty grip, slick with sweat and grime and black putrid blood.
His world had become ever smaller until it began and ended with the ten feet around Mithros' bloodied hooves. All was arm and gleaming sword, fingers numb upon the reins and the light extinguished from his foes' eyes. Again and again his sword rose and fell, cut at another red-clad, hollering Southron. It was mad and desperate, kill or be killed, but in awkward moments of lucidity he would catch a dark smudge of beard below a black keffiyah and wonder: what of Najir? What had happened to his friend? Was he dead upon the sands as the chieftain had expected, overrun by dark, craven men who had kissed the Serpent's feet? Had he somehow escaped? Was he even now hiding in some desert cave, hoping to free his emprisoned people? It seemed impossible. The wicked Southron swords were far too thirsty…
Then, once again, there no time to think. His vision was suddenly filled with a mass of black serpents upon red. A new company had swept up; a fresh one, dressed a little differently; there were flashes of blue beneath the red and gold, and with a sinking heart he noted their bright-eyed mounts were not lathered to the withers. They had clearly not fought hours on end, yelled exultantly with voices not yet ragged from the strain.
Faramir felt another surge of fury run through his veins. This was too cruel. They were so close. The Enemy must not be allowed to overrun the men.
He dug his heels into Mithros' flanks. The stallion charged, bugled his defiance: raised up and challenged another caparisoned in red and blue and gold. Faramir felt the shock, the crush as two mighty, heaving bodies collided. "Gondor!" he cried, raising a trembling arm to strike, holding firm at the sparking slide of steel and on steel.
Then suddenly, above the screams of horses and embattled men, the silver peel of trumpets sounded high and clear. Valar be praised. It was his Uncle's note. The sortie had been released.
The knowledge ran like liquid fire through his limbs. He steadied, heart soaring with hope, and looked up defiantly into his opponent's face.
Felt every nerve freeze in sudden shock.
Red-ochre whorls, the hennaed markings of a Qahtani chief, were splashed below his opponent's gaze.
.
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First I'd like to give a big thank you to all those who are reading…I am totally thrilled and shocked to find a T-rated angsty fic about a minor character (yes I admit this-grin) has had 20,000 views. I know you guys are out there and I appreciate it. Hugs and huge kudos to Cnunn who followed and fav'd this month and monster thanks go especially to those of you who took the time to comment. Reviews really keep me going.
Borys, military consultant of ME, very kindly helped me with investigating proper conduct of a retreat and any and all applause on that score is owed to him.
I know I shifted the time of Gandalf taking the wains back to Minas Tirith but it made more sense to me. Given the Rammas was breached near dawn why would they wait til mid-day to have them lumbering barely ahead of the column? I think they would have set out under cover of darkness. For a glimpse of Gandalf with the men wounded from Osgiliath, including Anborn's young tracker Will, see my drabble collection-'transporation'. For another view of Renil's exploits on this day (and sadly a vision of Damrod's fate) see "Surgery is battle not poetry".
Huge hugs and thanks for comments, encouragement and beta'ing where possible go to Annafan, Wheelrider, Thanwen and Artura. Eternal thanks for battling my purple prose with a sharp sword.