Chapter 20: The widening gyre
Pippin had just begun to tell them of Treebeard and the Entmoot when they were interrupted by Thoroniâr walking into the guard room, bowing hastily when he saw he had interrupted a meeting of sorts. "Thoroniâr, what is it?" Boromir asked, it did not need the tense posture and hurried stride to warn him, the expression in Thoroniâr's features spoke for itself, the same set jaw and not-quite frown usually appeared on his face when something unexpected happened at the most inappropriate times, be it a night raid over Anduin or a messenger from the Noble Houses insisting on seeing the Steward in the dead of night.
"A rider is approaching the City Gate, my Lord – the lookout spotted him. It's hard to tell in the moonlight, but they are sure he is Haradrim and astride a Nazgul steed; might be a messenger of sorts," Thoroniâr reported at once.
Boromir got to his feet. The Black Lands sometimes would parlay, usually to make demands and sometimes utter threats to back the demands up, but that did not mean they should shoot the messenger on sight. "Thoroniâr, have someone send for the Lord Aragorn, and ask him to come to the Gate. Merry, find Éomer and ask him to come down as well. And send a messenger to the Undercity and find Prince Kíli. This will concern all of us."
"Why would the Haradrim send a messenger?" Faramir asked as they hastened down towards the shattered Gate of the first wall. "You slew their King up on the second ring, but I doubt it is simply because they want his body back."
"Boromir killed the King of the Haradrim?" Aragorn had caught up to them, walking with them down the cleared road through the scorched first ring.
"He led the storm on the second ring," Boromir said simply. "We fought each other and he lost. But the Haradrim are not the Easterlings. If it was one of them, I'd expect either a challenge by Shakurán's twin or his sword…" his voice trailing off as they reached the smashed lower gate and he could see the rider that came slowly towards the city, Boromir's mind assessing at once what he was dealing with.
"Nay, he definitely is Haradrim," The Aragorn gazed past the ruined Gate towards the rider who approached the City on the Pelennor.
"How can you be sure?" Boromir narrowed his eyes, staring out into the darkness. The Moon stood high in the skies, glittering now and then on the man's armor, but Boromir saw hardly enough to judge, contrary to Aragorn, who had the keen eyes of a Ranger.
"Agreed, the helmet is definitely Haradrim," Faramir said calmly, "but the way he sits on the horse is all wrong. He did not learn to ride in their steppes."
"Could he be one of their sons that were brought to the Black Land as a child?" Aragorn asked in return..
"Then he'd be wearing the black Morgul Armor," Faramir said, pointing out towards the rider. "and there again… golden scale armor. Definitely a Haradrim."
Boromir shook his head, he could hardly see a flash of light glittering on the rider's helmet, but would be unable to tell any color or shape of the armor the stranger wore. "Is he armed?" he asked them still. Aragorn stood a pace beside him on a piece of the broken gate arch, using it as a vantage point, while Faramir had squatted down right beside it, with his sage-colored cloak he was hardly to be seen against the darkness. Boromir couldn't help but notice how both Rangers had at once fallen into familiar tactics – one being the obvious target, the other skulking in the shadows and the bad surprise for anyone stupid enough to take the bait. His brother had scarcely met Aragorn but they already worked together like they knew each other.
"No," it was Aragorn who answered the question, only moments before heavier steps behind them heralded the arrival of Éomer. "he has neither a lance, nor does he wear any blade on his back."
"A wounded survivor maybe?" Faramir suggested in a hush. "The way he leans forward and uses his hand to support himself – he's either exhausted or wounded, possibly both."
They probably could go on comfortably exchanged their observations about the rider, Boromir thought. He saw the wry glance Éomer cast to him, before the Rohirrim warrior gazed back out again. "The horse is tired," he said, "and he is not forcing it to run; he is careful with it. He also rides bareback."
When the rider was closer but still at a position that the archers on the walls could easily aim at him, Boromir called out: "Haradrim! What brings you to the Gates of this City?" He spoke in Westron and then repeated the words in their Haradic tongue. A messenger of the Black Lands would speak the tongue of the west, but Boromir had encountered Haradrim who did not speak anything but their own language and the Dark Tongue and Faramir's guess that this was no parley but a wounded survivor had some, if unlikely, merit.
The rider stopped the horse, gently nudging it to hold its walk. "Lord Boromir?" he asked. "Is that you, Captain?" With one fluid move, he removed his helmet and dismounted the huge black horse.
"Anarion?" Heedless for his own safety, Boromir left the broken Gate and approached the Man who stood beside the horse, one hand grasping the animals withers. Boromir noticed a strain in his posture, like he was trying to ease off on his left side. He could see the Haradrim armor and cloak, along with wounds and bruises, covering arms and hands; a gory gash near the throat, and a few more bruises there as well. The Man looked like he was ready to drop.
"Anarion… it is you." Boromir kept his voice down as he spoke; it was a force of habit. He was dealing with someone returning from the Shadowed lands, he might have someone tracking him, even bring direct danger with him. Sometimes a last warning could only be given in a whisper, moments before the meeting with a surviving friend turned into a deathly trap. Still Boromir walked up close to Anarion, knowing all too well how horrible the distrust of one's own comrades felt, when one had just escaped the shadowed lands. It was a trust he had in all his men, even if it had earned him deadly danger in the past and might again, he had sent them into the shadow and he would welcome those who made it back, danger or not. Are Frodo and Sam with you?" he asked, softly, barely above a whisper.
Anarion's gaze went past Boromir, like he was avoiding him before he averted his eyes, looking down. "No, my Lord. We had to split up after I was injured. I stayed behind to draw off the Orcs." Slowly he let go of his hold on the horse's back and went to one knee before Boromir, head bowed down. "I failed the mission you entrusted me with."
"Nay." Boromir grasped the younger Man's shoulders and pulled him up, he saw the wince when the movement was too fast, Anarion must be much more injured then he let on. "You did not fail. You went as far as you could, more was never asked of you." Even in the pale moonlight, that did not create much more but a semi-darkness, Boromir could see the traces on the younger man, cuts and bruises wherever the armor did not cover, a fingers-shaped bruise at the throat, that had to stem from a stranglehold, scratches of Orc-claws, and even the fact that he was wearing a Haradrim armor, bespoke a lot of what Anarion must have been through. But there was something else, something that went beyond the physical marks, it was the way Anarion tensed when touched, avoided looking up and the slight tremor in his arms and shoulders now that he was standing again – Boromir knew those signs, he had experienced each of them himself, after his own escape from the dungeons of Minas Morgul.
"I got them over the Mountains, Captain... I wish I could have brought them further," Anarion said, his voice still low. "But I could only buy them some more time, by keeping the Orcs chasing after me."
Again Boromir noticed how Anarion looked past him, avoiding his gaze... or... another thought came to him, one that he did pray was not true. He gently nudged Anarion to look up, even as their eyes nearly directly met, there was no recognition and no reaction, Boromir saw the moonlight reflected in unfocused greyish-green irises. "What did they do to you?" The last doubt that Anarion had been captured, was gone this moment. There was only one explanation for his shape, the injuries and the sightless eyes... and one Boromir hated to think of.
Anarion had stepped back, physically retreating towards the horse, creating a distance between himself and Boromir, like embarrassed, his shoulders hunched, though he did not fully turn away, his eyes going past Boromir, never truly meeting his gaze, and Boromir felt the hair on his arms and neck rise when he realized, that these eyes were now shrouded in darkness. "The usual, Captain: the dance in the Mountains of Shadow, a few rounds of Orc hospitality, and some fun when the Haradrim tried to pull rank on the Orcs. I got away in the chaos."
His voice was steady, and Boromir respected the younger soldier's wish to present a strong façade, to not break under what he had been through. How he had made it back here, in his shape, bespoke his strength. "Let's go back to the City, Anarion. There is no need to stay out here," he said.
"Of course, Captain." Anarion put his hand back on the back of the horse. "Tarkiz il menûr." His voice was soft and gentle as he commanded the large animal, which began to walk slowly towards the Gate, serving as a guide.
Boromir slowed his step to make it easier on the young soldier. Blinded… He had not noticed at first, but now had realized what must have happened to the Ranger. He knew it would be cruel to force Anarion to speak of this before all the other war leaders, so he made no direct mention of it. "How did you come by this steed?" Boromir asked, as they approached the waiting group.
"We met by the river, near Amen Ford," Anarion said, patting the beast affectionately, "and helped each other out. I would not have known I was near the ford had he not met me."
"You freed this horse?" Éomer had approached them, careful to not startle the mighty beast.
Anarion tilted his head slightly, listening to the new voice that had come from the left. He did not know the speaker but there was a strangely familiar lilt to the voice. "Freed would be saying too much," Anarion replied, trying to place the person that had spoken to him. He could hear heavy steps, armored boots on crumbly stone and the soft jingle of armor as the speaker came closer, a warrior he guessed. . "I removed saddle and bridle when we met and he seemed willing to carry me the rest of the way."
"'Tis no wonder he would chose you as a friend," Éomer said. "Years ago the Black Land stole horses from Rohan – some of our best and most noble horses were taken. He is one of them."
"You are from Rohan." Anarion knew he should have noticed the accent at once; the Rohirrim had a very distinct way of speaking Westron that came through their mother tongue. Hailing from Northern Gondor, Anarion knew the accent well, the strange emphasis on the vowels, the voice rising at the end of a question and the precise way all consonants were spoken, even clustered ones. It made for an interesting melody when applied to Westron. This one was more fluent in the western tongue than others Anarion had met, he had little in terms of the accent, though the foreign way he used intonation remained. "Then he should go back to you, returned to his home on the plains."
Éomer laughed. "I could not order him to, even if I wanted. He has chosen you, it seems."
While Éomer had paid attention to the horse, Boromir had stepped to Aragorn and Gandalf. The Wizard must have arrived after Boromir had left the gate to meet Anarion, and he still seemed to have a knack to appear where he had not been called to. "Anarion is the Ranger I send with Frodo and Sam," he said in a hushed voice.
"Then we will need to hear all he can say," Gandalf said firmly, "and hear it quick. I fear it is ill tidings he may bear."
Boromir silently agreed. They made their way back to the Citadel; Boromir was not surprised to see Faramir use the chance to speak a few words to Anarion while they walked. The Ranger had been one of his men and observant as he was, Faramir had picked up on the blindness of the Man faster than any other, save Aragorn maybe.
TRB
"We split up near the Khadach-zug-dhur, the path of ashen death." Seated with them in the guard room, Anarion gave his account of the events that had transpired since he and the Halflings had crossed the River. They had made it across the mountains through several small passes in the range leagues south of Minas Morgul, using an ancient pass-road across the mountains for the last leg of their journey, before they had run into several encounters with Orc troops that had led them to finally splitting up.
"So they were already on the eastern side of the mountains," Aragorn observed, studying the young man sitting opposite of him at the table. He had not failed to notice that Anarion had slightly relaxed when they had entered this room he was on familiar grounds, or at least at a place he deemed safe. It had taken Aragorn only one glance in the clear light of the room to notice the traces on Anarion's face. To the untrained eye they might not be visible, but the inflamed skin beside the eyes, the singed eyebrows and eyelashes and the unfocused gaze told the healer at once what had been done to the young Ranger. "Somewhere at the thorn of Nurn, the southern edge of Gorgoroth. The Enemy was unaware of them?" Aragorn continued the questions in a light, friendly tone; there was no need to put pressure on Anarion.
"As far as I can tell. They thought that an Elven Warrior was haunting their border," Anarion confirmed, he had begun to place the different voices in directions, mapping them to the room. Focusing on them and the room helped him to keep a distance between his memories and the answers he had to provide. "They kept asking about him. But they were waiting for someone else to come and take care of the full interrogation." He spoke of his captivity in detached words, keeping a distance between himself and the events.
Boromir understood why, hearing Anarion's voice, the painful detachment, the audible wall he built between himself and the memories was enough to reawaken some of Boromir's own echoes. There was no way to truly wall off the fear, the pain... the shame, that would claw at the mind form the darkness, no way to truly forget the degradation, other to wall it off and ignore this part of one's own mind as much as possible. Anarion tried to keep up a strong soldier's facade, to pretend that he was alright, and he was remarkably good at it, though he could not fool them. The blinding was only the most pronounced mark on him; some of the scars he received were not visible ones. Boromir knew all too well what sick games Orcs played with their captives. "You did well, you kept them off their tracks while they were busy chasing you, Anarion," he said.
"Did they get anything from you regarding Frodo or his errand?" Gandalf asked. "What did you tell them?"
Aragorn silenced the Wizard with a gesture of his hand. "Anarion," he spoke in much calmer, less aggressive tones, casting a warning glance at Gandalf. He understood that the old wizard was worried, that he feared the answer that might come, that the enemy would have learned of Frodo and the Ring, but putting the young soldier on the defensive would not help here. , "no one believes it a fault if you broke," Aragorn had no words to truly express this, no one could hold out under the tortures Mordor could device, and no one should be expected to. But it was easy enough to see that Anarion believed he had failed in some way. "And I am loath to make you recall all that happened… but we need to know what the Enemy knows."
Anarion's blinded gaze went to the Man whom he did not know, had never met, but who seemed to hold command now. He could not look at him but he it was clear from whence the voice had come. A part of him was insecure as to who this stranger was, but from what little he had been able to gather while being led here, he could only assume he was of even rank with Lord Boromir, if not outright in command here. It was confusing, but Anarion knew it was not his place to question. "I did not know their errand, my Lord," he responded politely, there was an unspoken authority in the stranger's voice that demanded respect. "I never knew Frodo's task, or his destination. He asked me to bring him across the Mountains of Shadow on a route as inconspicuous as possible, and this I did. The Orcs never asked about them either; they wanted the Elven warrior they believed to be running loose in their area."
Boromir saw the sharp glances Aragorn, Éomer and Gandalf cast him, Gandalf's gaze was stern, Aragorn's eyes widened slightly in disbelief while Éomer's was openly outraged. That he had sent someone to his death, to torture, not knowing why he had to face such horrors, did not sit well with them. It was the hardest part of leading men into this kind of war: a commander had to be willing to send them to their deaths, to send them into deadly traps fully knowing what would happen; he had to be willing to make those sacrifices to win the battles this war threw at the land. And while it had pained him each time had had been forced to make such a decision, he knew his men had understood and accepted the deadly risks. It was their opinion, their acceptance that mattered, not what others thought. "How did you escape, Anarion?" he returned to the conversation. The sooner they had heard all they needed to, the sooner Anarion would be able to rest.
"With the armies flooding back from the battlefield, chaos ensued. There were no orders from Minas Morgul, and the Orcs were speaking of Number One being killed." Anarion recounted the events that had led to his escape. "The last time I overheard some of them talk, there was word that Number Two, meaning the second Nazgûl Lord Khamûl, had taken command in Minas Morgul and that Idrákhan had been named Marshal of Udûn to whip the legions back into shape."
"That is not good," Aragorn said. "They are regrouping quickly. Boromir, what do you know on this new Captain?"
"Idrákhan?" Boromir rose from his chair, walking over to the fireplace. The name invoked the picture of an Easterling Warrior with wild dark hair and eyes that seemed to laugh when he was fighting, standing on the broken bridges near Pardos, still standing strong in spite of wounds and exhaustion. I was sent to punish the Haradrim for their reluctance in sending troops to Mordor, you are here to punish the Haradrim for sending troops against Ithilien, you defeated me, I will leave the Haradrim to you, Boromir. But when you punish them, you punish them for Mordor as well and that is crazy enough for of us to laugh.
Boromir leaned against the wall, his eyes surveying the table. Aragorn and Gandalf were seated side by side, Faramir had chosen the opposite side where Anarion still sat. Boromir did not want to see two 'sides' in this room, they were allies, they had to be, even as in this moment the unseen line signified those who knew the enemy, and those who did not. "Tough, capable, a strategist." He summed it up. "If Shakurán was the blunt club, he is the dancing blade; honorable, as far as that can be said of an Easterling. If we go up against him, expect cunning strategies, monsters and a few nasty surprises where you least need them." Boromir had fought that Man before, and he almost liked the intricate strategies Idrakhan used to employ, watching his plans unfold was like studying a masterpiece of art. "If he was raised Marshal of Udûn, he'll have to muster and order half of Gorogorth, which will take him at least a week…"
"And keeps the full might of Sauron's armies between Frodo and Mount Doom," Gandalf pointed out. "It will be his death."
"No." Aragorn stood up. "Frodo needs time and a chance to cross the Plains of Gorgoroth undetected. Coming from the edge of Nurn, he has a long way to go. We need to empty Mordor and draw out Sauron's army, keep his Eye fixed on us."
"He still fears us." Boromir looked to Aragorn who stood opposite of him, their eyes met and suddenly Boromir understood, there truly was only one way to keep the Eye occupied, to have Sauron busy with something else, and it meant playing towards his fears. Boromir had never assumed that Sauron truly had fears, but there was one fear that manifested in the very person of Thorongil, a fear they could use against the enemy. . "He fears you, he fears to see Men united under one banner. If we muster all the fighters we can and march on Dargorlad… we will play his fears, the things he remembers."
"March on the Black Gate?" Aragorn felt Boromir's gaze upon him, and he was not surprised any more to see that sparkle of light in the green eyes of the Lord Captain of Gondor. The very idea he had just voiced was crazy, desperate... and the very thing that just might work. It was exactly the kind of plan he had come to expect from Boromir, and he suddenly felt a wave of warmth, of confidence, together they could create an attack, a diversion so real and deadly that Sauron would have no chance but buying it. "He will believe we mean it – he will believe that we believe we can win."
"But we can't," Éomer said. "We cannot hope to gain victory through strength of arms. Not with double the armies we still have."
"It's a bait," Kili said to him, "make him think we are the main threat… that maybe even one of us"—he inclined his head towards Aragorn and Boromir—"might yet have the Ring. And for that prize he will pour down all his armies right upon us."
Aragorn walked to the map of Mordor at the wall, pointing out the direction the enemy armies would move towards the Black gate. "While Frodo can approach Orodruin unnoticed." His hand lightly traced over the plains of Gorgoroth, emphasizing the plan they had just sketched out. With all the armies of Mordor sent to Morannon, the plains would be empty. There was only one detail left... one thing they needed to do – to convince Sauron the Ring was in their hands. Aragorn's pulse raced, he had despised himself for Isildur's weakness for most of his life – and Sauron, like everyone else believed in that weakness, he would believe what befitted his preconceptions. Turning around Aragorn found that Boromir had joined him at the map. . "Boromir, you said the Palantír of this City was still in existence? Can you lead me there?"
"What are you planning, Aragorn?" Gandalf asked, his sidelong glance shrewdly assessing Aragorn keenly.
"Give Sauron a bait he can't refuse to take," Aragorn told him. "Boromir, bring me there – I will have need of you. Faramir and Éomer need to see to it that the armies will be ready to march by morning. It is a three days march to the Black Gates." He looked at the group assembled. "Kili?"
The dwarven prince had risen as well, his eyes casting an approving glance at Boromir and Aragorn, and a grim smile curled his lips. "I'll have my people ready to march as well."
TRB
Opening the door to the King's tower again, Boromir could not help but feel a sense of dread rise inside him. "I'd prefer to face half of Idrákhan's hordes alone and only with my sword in hand, instead of using that thing," he grumbled, pushing the door open.
"You prefer the battle, with your sword drawn in the sunlight," Aragorn replied, "but some battles can't be won that way. You do respect this Easterling Captain, don't you?"
"Aye," Boromir confirmed. "He is tough – brutal, even – cunning and a strategist like there are few these days. He keeps his word when he gives it and when he is not forced to to otherwise. I like to think he hates it when forced to break it by those who rule the Black Lands."
"You have a strange way of speaking of the Enemy." Aragorn noticed. He had observed this before, but not as strongly, he also was aware that Boromir had seen to it that the Enemy field commander – Shakurán – had been buried on a lone height before the walls. An odd gesture of respect, that Aragorn had yet to understand.
Boromir shrugged. "Twenty years of war, Thorongil – twenty years of fighting along that accursed border, twenty years of learning that the enemy you face can be a monster or just as much a man as you are. And Men like Shakurán or Idrákhan… their loyalty and duty is no less than that of our people: they fight for their land, their oaths, their people, honoring the vows and allegiances of their fathers, living their lives far from the land of their birth. I wonder what their path would have been had the Shadow not claimed them…" He stopped, turning to Aragorn. "And I will fight them, and kill them and show as little mercy as they'd give me, but I will still respect them for the warriors they are."
"Thorongil… you keep calling me by that name," Aragorn said, steering away from the topic. He did not know how Boromir found it in his heart to respect the most hardened, most dangerous men under the Shadow's command, but he would admit that there were some parallels between both sides – Boromir, too, had been hardened and shaped by a war that stretched on for too long. "Why? You know it was a name I assumed."
"Maybe I do because it is the name I first knew you under; maybe because it is the name of a Man, of a great warrior, I heard stories about for most of my life; a great warrior that was rumored to be the heir to the throne. Maybe I still call you Thorongil because it is the name of the Man that I hoped would return and aid us, when I was still young enough to not know any better."
They ducked under the archway of the door and entered the circular room atop the tower. Again it lay in shadow, with only the pale moonlight illuminating the dark windows overlooking the silent city. The room and the stone table with the covered Palantîr were; unchanged from the time Boromir had last seen it, yet the shade of his father seemed to linger over the place. Why was it that he could nearly feel the presence of the old man in this hall? "Are you sure you want to do this, Aragorn?" he asked, worried what it might do to the Man.
Aragorn shook his head, bemused. "A complex riddle you are, Boromir of Gondor. You despise me, because you feel I let your people down in the long years of their war, yet you would protect me from danger at the same instant." He straightened up, drawing himself to his full height. "It needs to be done, Boromir. When I speak the words 'Leithio nin,' you will smash the Palantír."
"Destroy it? Why?" Boromir asked.
"To make the Enemy believe I wield a power too great for the Stone to endure," Aragorn said. "I trust you with my life, Boromir. I know you will do as I ask and only when I tell you to, no matter what you will see before."
Wordlessly, Boromir took Truefire, confident that the mighty weapon would break even the Palantîr and stood at the other side of the stone table when Aragorn removed the cloth from the Palantír.
The midnight blue orb shone in an unearthly light when Aragorn's hand touched it's side, the fire radiance filling the silent chamber. Boromir saw Aragorn's eyes become unfocused, and a frown, the frown of painful concentration creasing his brows. The light become more intense and Boromir could hear a whisper, like a voice or many voices echo through the hall, he could not make out the words, but he knew that voice, it was the same, deep seductive voice that he had always heard when the Ring called for him.
"Long have you hunted me, long have I eluded you," Aragorn's voice was strained, beads of sweat glistening on his brow and temples. "it ends now..."
The words startled Boromir, he had no doubt they were true, maybe they were a more open and unguarded statement about his own person than he had ever heard before from Aragorn. So Sauron had come after the line of Kings – it should not be a surprise, the whole reign of the Witch King had been aimed at destroying Arnor. But... but why had Aragorn not sought shelter with those who would have protected him? Why had he eluded Sauron alone, instead of coming home?
Because he does not trust you. To him Men are weak – like you are. He would have had his elf-friend here, if he'd not fear for exposing him to the orb.
The whisper was so clear and pronounced it seemed to creep right into Boromir's bones. At another time, mere months before the thought of Aragorn – of any Man really – preferring an elf-friend with him instead of a fellow Man would have enraged Boromir, but now it only found understanding in him. Much like Boromir would feel better if he knew Kíli had his back, Aragorn would prefer his Woodlands friend here, only that Legolas was such a spiritual being that the closeness to the orb might harm him. And like Boromir had learned to respect the strength and honor of other nations, Aragorn might one day see the strength in the world of Men. It was a different strength than the eerie grace and power of the elves, or the stubborn sturdy strength of the dwarves – the strength of Men spread over generations, in continuing where others had to leave off, in standing in the place where their comrades had already perished.
"Leithio nin," Aragorn's voice was hoarse, his chest heaving, his face shining with a sheen of sweat, and his shoulders were shaking.
Look at him – so weak, so pathetic. Unable to control the orb that your brother mastered in one fleeting touch. And you think he is a King? He is nothing compared to you...
Closing both hands around Truefire's cold shaft, Boromir blocked out the whispers, he had once listened to them, nearly heeded them, he would never do it again. With one fell stroke he brought down the axe on the orb, the silversteel blade made to cut steel and stone cutting into the ancient artifact like it was made of wood. The Palantîr cracked with a painful, sickening sound, Boromir felt the shaft of the axe shake in his hands moments before the orb came apart in a glistening light, a wave of light pushing him of his feet and swiping Aragorn against the wall as well. Then darkness claimed the tower again.
TRB
Éowyn was seated on a stone bench in one of the yards of the Houses of Healing. Her strength was returning since she had been called back from the brink of darkness by Lord Aragorn. Still, she found no sleep once night fell, her heart restless. The night was warm, warmer than she felt a spring night should be and a number of injured soldiers had come to the courtyard to enjoy the nightly air ladden with the smells from the herb gardens. Not far away sat a whole cluster of riders talking softly amongst themselves as to not wake those who slept under the columns of the yard.
A movement near the arched gateway caught her attention and she saw her brother quickly entering the courtyard – not to speak to her but to shortly address Ingvar, who had stood a silent guard leaning against a column of the court. Éowyn watched her brother speak to the soldier of the first éored; she was nearly sure that Gimward had not survived the battle. Making the band would be Ingvar's task.
Only after a few more words, her brother left and Ingvar walked to the riders sitting together, his words rose them and they in turn began to wake the sleepers in the court and adjacent rooms – everyone who was able to stand and walk, it seemed. The healers came to protest but she could see him cut them off with a few curt words. "Ingvar!" Éowyn's short call was enough to bring the tall rider to her side.
He bowed. "My Lady?"
"What is happening?" Éowyn asked. "My brother brought orders, didn't he?"
"That is true, my Lady. The army is to assemble – we ride at dawn. Everyone who is able to ride and wield a weapon is to go."
So the brief respite they had been given was over, Éowyn thought grimly. She extended a hand towards the rider. "Help me up."
"My Lady, you are too- "
"Too weak?" Éowyn shook her head. "I am better off than some of those your Men are waking. Now help me up." She grabbed his offered arm and pulled herself to her feet, inhaling deeply. "You see, I can stand," she said with a smile for the embarrassed éored leader. "Now, where did they store our weapons and armor?"
"My Lady," two voices called out, as Aelfhild and Brithonin came from one of the other halls into the yard; both were young girls that had been mustered to fight at Helm's Deep with any other boy or girl able to wield a weapon reasonably well. But even when the slaughter of Helm's Deep was over and the riders from the other ranges of Rohan could reach them, the numbers of their army had been too small to let any warrior go and those who had survived the bloodbath of Helm's Deep had proven to be capable enough. Eówyn's entire troop consisted of such youths. . "They say that we shall ride to the Black Gate itself," Aelfhild went on, her voice clearly frightened. "They send us to fight the Black Lord. My Lady, how…"
Éowyn could easily see the fear in the girls' eyes; she well understood what they felt and she silenced her with a glance before she could embarrass herself further. "Then we ride on the Black Gate and call judgment on the Evil Lord who brought so much suffering on the world of Men." When she spoke her voice rang out like a clarion. "Stand tall, Aelfhild – you are a soldier of Rohan, not a frightened peasant."
The girl took heart, as did her companion, albeit Brithonin, Erkenbrand's daughter, was less prone to show her fears; she had been raised to stronger examples. "Aelfhild, go and wake the others – have them assemble in the main yard outside these halls," Éowyn said, taking charge of the chaos. "Ingvar, find out where our weapons and armor are stored and what Gondor's armory can spare in replacements. We shall not befoul these halls by arming here, so have them brought to the main yard. Brithonin, come with me. The army of Rohan rides at dawn."
TRB
The dawn of the next morning saw the armies march out of the White City. The riders of Rohan, all Men Gondor could muster, the Dwarves; it was a long column that marched under the King's banner. Even with an army not expecting much of a return, there were a number of supply carts, camp followers and healers, following with the wagons. The first day they crossed the Pelennor and marched north, along the river banks towards Cair Andos. Moving the entire army across the River at Cair Andos was an undertaking that was going the entire day, but they did not try to speed it. Sauron should see them coming – they were marching openly.
The supply caravan was still assembled on the southern riverbank, while the troops and horses were brought across the rushing river. Ferrying all people across the river had been estimated to take a whole day, but after twelve hours only half of the army was across and the exhaustion of boatmen and ferryfolk slowed the transport additionally. Work was busy in this camp: armorers were hastily working at repairs on armor damaged during the last battle; others were making arrow-tips; and the healers were working on whatever preparations could be made for the day the wounded would come streaming in. The supply caravan was naturally the group that would be moved across last, when all the troops were already on the other side.
Anarion sat on the ground in the shadow of one of the wains, working on a bundle of arrows. The work was familiar: the Rangers needed so many arrows that most of them learned to make their own. His hands were well acquainted with the task and even when still able to see he had rarely needed to. Around him he heard the noises of the camp, two armorers were working beside the next wain, their hammers ringing out into the warm afternoon sun, their fire smelling stronger and of coal than the smoke from the campfire that carried the sweet smell of burning wood. Carefully, he checked the feathers he had just cut for the arrow, one diagonal cut to shape them ideally for an archer to aim over long distance. Putting the arrow with the finished bundles, he took the next and began the task anew.
"You are truly skilled with these."
Anarion tilted his head. The voice was familiar, a deep baritone, pleasant to hear but with a timbre that seemed to resonate more deeply than the voices of Men. "Kili," he greeted the Dwarf. "Your people are not yet across the river?"
"Dwalin had them over an hour ago; Boromir bade me stay until the riders go," Kili replied and Anarion could hear the slight jingle of armor along with the creaking of leather to the right of himself, the slight shuffle in the air indicated the dwarf had either sat down or squatted down beside him. "He won't make the crossing himself before nightfall, I guess. I was surprised to see you here, though. They would have sent you to the Houses of Healing."
Anarion barked a laugh. "Most of my injuries are cuts and bruises, a few burns… the traces of Orc affection. And my eyes no healer can fix. So why take up their time? I'd rather do something useful." He affixed the feathers at the next shaft and cut them with a deft hand. "I can't fight anymore, Kili, I know that well enough. But I still can make arrows, and the Rangers will need a myriad of them when the battle begins."
"I agree, though Men to sharpen blades and knives are in even shorter supply, with most of the blacksmiths fixing chainmail shirts and hammering out dents in shields."
"That's why you are here, I guess?" Anarion asked, remembering the Dwarf's incredible skill with his hands. "To help until the crossing can be made?"
"That too. If you want, I can show you."
Anarion arched an eyebrow, a gesture that hurt more than just in the physical way when it tensed the sore skin around his eyes. He felt a small jab each time he did this, but he would not allow himself to be a coward and shy away from anything that had to do with his eyes. "That would be a waste of time; the caravan master has already decreed me unfit to travel on with the rest." he could not suppress the anger in his voice entirely.
"And there won't be blades to sharpen in Cair Andos and Minas Tirith when we fail to return?" Kili asked. He lightly put a hand on Anarion's arm, offering guidance if the younger Man was willing to take it.
Even as the dwarf meant for the touch to be light, the strong hand alone would have Anarion told that he was speaking to one of the dwarves. Accepting the help Anarion got to his feet and walked with Kíli towards the next wagon. He had memorized his surroundings best that he could and was not afraid to move through the camp. Kili guided him to sit down with the sharpening stone. They began with a dagger, Kili's hands guiding Anarion's work, showing him how it was done. Time and again, Anarion was amazed how the Dwarf knew how to guide him, how to teach him. The next dagger he had to do alone, with corrections; then a sword followed, and he began to find the feeling for the sort of skill the sharpening wheel needed, for the pressure he needed to apply, for the sound of the blade on the stone that told him if he was too strong or weak on it, even the smell of the sparks and heating metal became quickly familiar. When Kili handed him an axe next for examination, Anarion was surprised, but used his hands to examine the weapon's shape. Only twice he felt Kili's gentle grip, correcting him in his work. "How do you… how do you know…?" He was not quite sure what he wanted to ask, why Kili was helping him, or how the Dwarf knew exactly what help he may need.
"The dwarrow who taught me the beginnings of the art when I was still a wee lad was named Narvi," the Dwarf told him. "He was an old bladesmith, about the age of Thrain. When our people fled the Mountain, he was injured, blinded by the Dragon's fire. He never let it wear him down; when I met him, he was still a great bladesmith and survivor. It is not that you were blinded, Anarion – it is what you allow it to do to you that counts. You came here to help, knowing what it will mean when we are defeated. You knew and came anyway, accepting what lies ahead."
"I'd rather go down fighting, helping those who fight, and make my stand where they find me than run and hide," Anarion said fiercely. "Death… death hunts all of us, Kili, and he is the hunter that never fails."
He felt the Dwarf lightly clap his shoulder, a wordless agreement, before Kili called out to someone else. "Beris, over here!" The heavy steps coming close heralded another dwarf, Anarion had already noticed that dwarves walked differently from men when he had first met Kíli but by now he noticed that their feet seemed to make the harder impact with the ground, their natural step heavier and firmer than that of Men.
"Anarion, this is Beris son of Bofur; he is our supply master. Beris, Anarion can go with our people."
Anarion heard the jingle of armor and leather as the new Dwarf squatted down. "An arrow maker Kili, gladly. I'll be happy to have him."
Touched by the Dwarves' will to allow him to stay, Anarion reached for Kili's shoulder. He could say where the Dwarf was, there were so many small details that were telling, the breathing, the soft rustle of a cloak and the creaking of leather belonging to the armor, and the very soft rustle of long hair scraping over the leather of a hood at his shoulders. "What about the caravan master?"
Beris chuckled. "He can report it to his king, if he wants to. We are allies here, Anarion, not liege men. Come, I'll show you to our camp – and bring that menacing horse of yours along. It already knows where we are going."
TRB
Éowyn led Stormrunner on the swaying barge, gently speaking to the stallion, which was nervous at being forced to enter the barge. It was already dawn and the setting sun graced the river with her fiery light. "That would be the last, my Lady," Brithonin reported, leading two horses on the barge. One was Aeledher, her own grey gelding, and a white horse that Éowyn did not know. It was not one of the Rohirric horses, being not quite as tall, but still of a very noble built. She noticed at once the small head adorned with a silver bridle and fine ankles – this horse was a breed from Gondor, a race of horses that descended from Numenór's legendary mares.
"Good, it's already late and the supply caravan needs to ship as well," she said. "Whose horse is that, Brithonin?"
"I do not know, my Lady, but it has stood by the landing for hours now. I think the soldier it belongs to long shipped over and he should miss his horse."
"Then we better bring the noble steed back to the lazy master." Éowyn laughed softly. "And Brithonin, it is Dernhelm from now on. No my Lady, or titles. Just Dernhelm."
Brithonin answered with a quick salute, acknowledging the orders given, when a man in leather armor, wearing the sage-green cloak of a ranger walked on the barge moments before it could push off the landing. "Mayhap the lazy soldier had to take care of too many things," he said with a good-natured smile, as he gently stroked the white horse's flank. "and his horse found a valiant defender."
"Lord Faramir." Éowyn was surprised that the Captain of the Rangers was not yet across the River.
"Only Faramir now," the Ranger replied. "This is not a time for lofty titles…" His eyes held hers and there was a great sadness in them. "How many of your people, of your women and girls, have come to fight for us?"
"All that passed muster," Éowyn told him, "but this is no reason to look at us with pity. When your people gave Eorl the Young permission to dwell on the plains of Rohan, he swore an oath to come to Gondor's aid whenever called. Now the need is dire and we stand to fulfill the oath of our people. Would you have us do any less?"
"Nay," Faramir replied, "and yet it pains me to see the price your people are paying to fulfill their obligation. Your people are proud, Dernhelm," he followed her wish to be called by her warrior name, not by any title or rank, "and lucky to have so many like you."
She smiled at him, leaning against the side of the barge as the ship moved slowly along the ropes that held it on course. "If this war is lost, there will be no safety anywhere, Faramir. There is no miracle to safe us, no Elven High King from legend coming at the head of his army to save us, no ships to come from the west carrying a host like the world has never seen to defeat the darkness. It is up to Men to show their quality, to show we can protect this world. This is a burden and a noble obligation, and we are lucky to have the Men of Numenór to lead us in it."
"You put great trust in my people," Faramir observed, surprised at her words. "Men have failed against the Shadow before."
Éowyn turned to him, her hands resting on the side of the boat still. "What choice do we have, Faramir? The Elves send two hundred archers to support us in Helm's Deep, they died to a man. The dwarves fighting for you are brave but few in number as well – if we do not stand, who will?"
There was a strength in her that Faramir admired, her people were unburdened by the lore of the past, and unburdened by the doubts and shadows of old, they would stand and fight, they could still believe. It was a comforting thought. Silently they stood together as the boat approached the landing, none of the many soldiers knew if they'd come back, or if they were crossing this river for the last time. And here and now, standing with Dernhelm peering ahead across the waters, Faramir found himself at peace with that. They'd stand together to the end.
TRB
The next day, the army followed the very same road the Haradrim had taken to the Black Gates, riding the long road through Ithilien north towards Morannon. By nightfall they had reached the broken lands before the gates of Mordor. From afar, they could already see the Black Gate's looming towers. They made camp there that night, knowing the next day they would reach their destination.
Boromir walked among the campfires, the Elven cloak allowing him to pass without arousing attention wherever he came. The morale was tense; few would sleep this night, not with the fires of Mordor blazing at the dark horizon. At some fires the atmosphere was grim, determined with warriors sitting together, ready to ride and die. He knew these Men – Men who had all their life fought at these borders and who knew that each time a man walked into the shadow of these mountains could be the very last. They expected nothing short of death and would make the Enemy work hard for that success. Around other fires, the mood was more subdued, Boromir could see fear in the eyes of many a Man there – hope was failing them rapidly. More than once he stopped at such fires; sometimes a few words could help rebuild morale. He spotted Éomer doing much of the same. The Rohirrim had the much harder task: many of his riders were no soldiers, many were too young, and having come out of Helm's Deep to ride to war, they did not have the same grim demeanor of the veterans and were much more subdued, fear nagging at them.
Boromir saw Éomer stop between two fires to talk to one such young warrior. There was some familiarity between them; someone he knew obviously. What they spoke of he could not tell, but he saw Éomer clap the younger Man's shoulder, gesturing to follow him as he continued his walk.
Continuing on through the camp, he saw the Dwarves, their part of the camp was between the Rohirrim camp and the Rangers camping at the hillside. Kili and Dwalin too walking among them. The spirit was better here: now and then the tune of a song rose from one of the fires. Dwalin and Kili had stopped with a group by a large fire, where a corpulent Dwarf was handing out food. He asked them something and rich laughter along with a few jokes about sage rang out into the night. When the rolling laughter calmed down, Dwalin nudged Kili slightly, the way the bald warrior looked towards Boromir, he must have spotted his approach swiftly. The younger Dwarf nodded, leaving the fire, but not without asking another one of the group for something. When Kili walked towards Boromir, a song rose behind them – a sad, dark tune, like so many of their songs.
Old grey stone down by the roadside
high above, a hawk you hear.
Autumn's cold greets the new year,
the way back home runs far and wide,
running along the rivers side
abandoned in the empty years
it neither voice nor traveler hears.
When will the Moon change our tide?
The raven's wings so black, dear heart,
no curse will turn them white.
The road will be so long, dear heart
we won't be home tonight.
Dark dank ruin on the mountain,
swift falcons high above
broken walls and empty fountain.
The way back home runs far and wide,
following the mountain's side,
but it is never spoken of.
Do you know a place to hide?
The raven's wings so black, dear heart,
no curse will turn them white.
The road will be so long, dear heart
we won't be home tonight.
"I'd have asked them for a different song, but we'd have ended with the one of the willow tree," Kili said as he reached Boromir.
Boromir had listened to the Dwarven song echoing out into the night behind them. Knowing the true story of the Willow Tree song, he would not have minded it half as much, but this song held a different fascination. "It is about the lone lands, is it?" He could easily hear the life of wandering, of being alone and without a home in the words, in the sad tune.
"Aye." Kíli's voice softened when he spoke and his eyes warmed as they strayed back to the campfires. "We have been wandering those lands for many years… You have seen them for yourself, Boromir. They inspire songs of that kind."
They walked a bit further and passed a small fire where Éomer and Haleth had sat down. Éomer motioned them over to join them and they followed the invitation. "Your people seem cheerful," the younger of the two Rohirrim said after a moment of silence.
"They are a hard people," Kili replied. "Tough, fierce, loyal… They laugh and sing, because in the lives they lived, each day could have been the last. They are a wild kind, a special kind… and I couldn't wish for better friends or fighters by my side to face the end."
"Have your people fought many wars?" Éomer asked. "I know little of your kind, except those who would cross Rohan as travelling workers, smiths and tinkers."
Kili smiled slightly. "I've done that too a few times. We had some great battles in the last two hundred years and we have always had our share of trouble with the Orcs – there's no shortage of them in the lone lands."
Boromir could see that answer was not what Éomer had expected. Two hundred years was his great-grandfather's time and too far away for the Rohirrim to even care and he had never seen the wilds of the North- Boromir too would not have believed how hard and cold the lone lands were, had he not crossed them together with Kíli. It made him think of something he had wished to ask Kíli without ever getting the chance so far. "During our travels, I have heard bits and pieces of the story how your people reclaimed the Lonely Mountain, Kili," he said. "You, Bofur, Dwalin… you were with those who did it. But I never heard the full tale."
"It is a long story," Kili pointed out.
"It is a long night," Éomer responded, settling down comfortably by the fire. "And a good story would shorten it."
Sitting down as well, Kili looked at the fire, the flames burning brighter, leaning towards him, some of the flickering flames touching his arm, for a moment lost in thought Kíli allowed the flames to dance on his wrist. By now Boromir knew it was not a trick of the light, but it seemed Kíli drew some comfort from the fire's closeness. When he began to speak he told them of the Kingdom under the Mountain and how the Dragon came to destroy it. How Thorin Oakenshield escaped and wandered the world with his people and how he finally called for those willing to risk the journey back. Kili's words took them along on the journey: to the Shire where they met the burglar, their Hobbit, and how they set out on the road. Boromir already knew the story about the trolls, but he did not mind hearing it a second time and learning what happened after, how they had been hunted by Warg riders right to the gates of Rivendell. For the journey across the mountains and the misadventure in Goblin-town, Kili did not speak of pain or fear – instead, he gave a colorful description of the Goblin King and his fear of Orcrist the Goblin-cleaver. A harrowing flight from the mountain followed, and a further attack by Azog and his Warg riders – a fight where one small Hobbit saved the life of Thorin Oakenshield. His words carried them away to the house of Beorn and the deeps of Mirkwood, to the dungeons of the Elves and to a barrel ride after their Hobbit had rescued them from the cells. They found themselves laughing heartily at these parts, before the journey went on to Lake-town, and finally the desolation of Smaug.
When Kili spoke of the Dragon's gold and the curse that had befallen Thorin, Boromir remembered vividly what the Dwarf had said to him on Amon Hen. Spellbound, he listened to the tale of the Battle of Five Armies and of Thorin's heroic last stand against Azog the Defiler.
"They buried Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, and his nephew Fili in a stone grave under the pines on the heights that so long ago had blazed in Smaug's terrible fire." Kíli's voice had sunken to a whisper at these words, the first grey light of dawn already rose beyond the clouds.
"Your great King died, giving his people back their home," Haleth said softly. "Is this what will happen here too? Our King dying to give us a chance?"
Kili looked at the youth. "No," he said. "We fight to buy more time. Deep in Mordor, Bilbo's nephew is trying to finish his mission, and when he succeeds, the Enemy will be finished. He will do it – I know he will. Our Hobbit always came through for us, even when things looked bleakest. And Frodo will too. But we need more time, Haleth. We fight so the world still has a chance."
TRB
On the other side of the Black Gates, the night was just as restless. Troops were amassing in the shadow of the towers, legions were made ready, and Orcs were shouting in their shrieking voices. The Man striding up the rampart of the gate had a watchful eye on the proceedings, even while he hurried. Idrakhán was an Easterling, a warrior in his prime; he had served the Dark Lord for longer a life than his face might show and while the news of the defeat before Minas Tirith still rankled, he was all the more itching to get to the field. The dark banner was flying again, and they would march to take the world come morning.
The wall was nearly empty, except for a single dark figure, standing motionless in the middle of the mighty battlements. Idrakhán approached until he was ten steps away and dropped to one knee, eyes down, waiting to be acknowledged.
Rise.
The voice echoed in his mind like a searing whip. Like others who had long served in the Old City, he was well used to this and did not flinch. He had walked through the magic rites of Minas Morgul without so much as a groan, the black seal engraved on his very bones. Communicating with a Nazgûl was nearly comfortable in comparison.
Report.
"Fifteen legions have arrived from Gorogorth, along with nine Fists of Olog-hai and a number of trolls – not as many as I would like, but those units are slow moving. We have picked up any surviving Haradrim and swept then into one legion; they will make serviceable auxiliaries still. The Varigians and Eastern troops that could reach us are here, and we are still getting more Orc troops from Gorgoroth. I've sent Black and Red Fist back to whip on the stragglers." His mind went over the list as he spoke, to ensure he did not forget any of the hastily reestablished units.. "We do not have Drakár to support us this time, your Highness."
The last was an address the Easterlings would only give one Nazgul: the very one standing here. Khamûl had been a sorcerer and their greatest king; serving him was the greatest honor that could still be bestowed upon any Easterling house, no matter how high or low.
You are concerned about this? the mind-voice asked. They do not have our numbers.
"Numbers don't win battles, your Highness. And they have to have something up their sleeve, some surprise we don't see, or they would not be here. I'd prefer to have monsters or creatures to give them a surprise when needed." Idrakhán's eyes went down over the battlement, where he could see the nightly camp of the enemy, arranged in one main line and four to each side. The campfires formed the white tree of Minas Tirith. Boromir, he thought. That was his style: give the enemy something to see and worry about, tell them I am here and I am ready for you. The Captain of Gondor was a bold and brave Man. If this was by his design then he had a plan and that plan worried Idrakhán.
A gesture from the armored figure before him pointed him to come closer. He followed the invitation and the invisible hand in the dark gauntlet let two pale keys drop into his palm. Have these sent to your best beast commander to unleash the pale drakes they hold. Two cold drakes, the last of their kind – they will be all that is needed.
Surprised but glad, Idrakhán bowed deeply. That was the weapon to break even the most cunning plan the Captain of Gondor could device. "It shall be done immediately, your Highness," he said, intending to leave, but another gesture of the gloved hand held him back.
Kneel.
Idrakhán followed the command, kneeling at the feet of the great Nazgul: Khamûl King and Lord of the Easterling Empire. The gloved hand touched his bare head and he felt a searing pain rush through his bones. He needed all his control to not scream out. It was no harm that came to him, but a spell, a seal of power and protection like only the former sorcerer and now Lord of the Nazgul could grant.
In the battle you shall find their leader. You will slay him for me. And you will bring that which he carries to me. To me. To none else.
"As you ordered it shall be done, my Lord." Idrakhán had his instructions; the day to come would see the fall of Gondor once and for all. He rose and strode off the main ramparts; he had a battle to prepare.