Journal of Amarthindon, the assault on the vault of kings.
I have known young Rosco Sacksville-Baggins for his entire adult life. Some twenty years ago, Belvaren and I rescued him from a band of black orcs, we were sadly too late to save his family, he had already been forced to watch as the foul beasts torchered and devoured his sister, we arrived as they had begun to decide how best to prepare their second hobbit feast. Ever since that day, Rosco has been like a son to me, I had done my best to train him in the way of a Ranger as my father had trained me. In some ways, he has surpassed me, while he is not my equal in following an old trail or the finer points of strategy, he has a natural forager's instinct, able to find provisions in the most desolate of landscapes, and as a stalker he is the equal of any of the grey company. I wonder however if I have failed my young ward.
I sat by his pallet, working my craft to the utmost of my ability, but nothing would wake him from the concussion of Belvaren's spell. Had I been overzealous as I trained him to extract his pound of flesh, should I perhaps have encouraged him instead to remain in the camp of Aragorn, to finish his childhood before he was forced to become a warrior? Before the war, Hobbits were an innocent, happy people, the greatest crime of shadow is robbing them of that innocence. But was I also complicit in transforming this young halfling into a creature of war? Nevertheless, his presence in the field had saved both myself and Belvaren numerous times, and I consider myself fortunate to count him as my friend.
Rosco awoke late on the second day, his fierce appetite assured me that some things about the little people never change. As long as a Hobbit is asking after the next meal, some piece of the Shire lives on in them. It saddens me to think that I have more memory of the Shire as a happy and free place than Rosco, but such thoughts are for after the shadow has passed from Middle Earth.
We rested for one more night in the farmhouse, I finally observed the weir lights with my own eyes, the tales of my companions had not portrayed the unsettling wrongness of the phenomena. The mongrel had returned, in a pique of fit I declared the beasts name to be Hu, if for no other reason than to stop calling it the mongrel. Early the next morning we departed once again for the city, this time Hu stayed to watch our horses.
The city was no less unsettling on our second excursion, I felt as though the city was drawing us in, showing us free streets to encourage our delving deeper into it's secrets. Our first goal was the barracks on the fourth level, we passed by the place where we had battled the inhabitants, and observed that the cadavers still remained. I am not certain if this seeming piece of normality reassured me or confounded me, we had spotted no other trace of the citizens of Minas Tirith.
We were forced to ascend to the fifth level and descend the battlements on ropes to reach the barracks, some great missile had rendered the street entirely impassable. While in the guardhouse, Belvaren happened across the remains of a Sentinel, some trick of the climate had preserved the Numenorean's remains in a kind of fossilized state. However there is no wonder in this place without terror, the Guard began to rise from his repose, we shuttered the door quickly and moved on with our assignation.
The barracks were as desolate and empty as the rest of the city, but Rosco's keen eye spied shadows where none should linger, so we approached the building with well founded caution. We had finally found some trace of the despoilers of the city, orcish wraiths arose from the shadows and beset us. I imagine it is only the grace of the westerness blades we carried that we could drive these apparitions off, and unlike the earlier inhabitants Belvaren's spells seemed more effective than our blades. One foul phantom had latched onto me, it's cold touch seeming to sap my soul, but men of the North are made of sterner stuff. We gained the barracks, and in short order had uncovered the secret vault of the Sentinels. Within we found a veritable arsenal of Gondorian weapons, enough to outfit entire companies with the best of men's tools.
We resealed the vault, taking only a few tokens of the quality weapons, a later expedition would be necessary to fully loot the embarrassment of riches. We had to press on, the true treasure would be found in the Hall of the Stewards or the Vault of the Kings.
The city was seemingly content to have tested our strength at the Barracks, we were unmolested as we approached the highest reaches of the city. As we traversed the sixth level, Belvaren grew uneasy, he stared into the center of the city with a look of worrying concentration. Whatever foul evil lurked there took note of his gaze, and he fell screaming onto his knees, his fingers clawing at his eyes. Rosco and I restrained our friend from self harm, in a few moments the fit had passed, and he was unable to describe what evil he had perceived.
At the gates to the uppermost levels, we paused for a moment to capture our breath and contemplate how we would proceed with our assault. Rosco balked at the foot of the steep stairs, his indomitable courage failed him as he quaked before what he saw. The stairs were lined with the bones of men, examination revealed they were not only the defenders of the city but women and children as well, I gathered my young ward into my arms, he clung to me as a child may to their parent. I stroked his hair, tried to explain that these men had died giving the last full measure in defence of Minas Tirith, that each had sold their life dearly to protect the white city. In time the fit had passed, and he implored me to burn these bones, to wipe away this trace of a great evil that had been perpetrated. I balked, these were citizens of Gondor, the least respect I would pay them would be to inture their bones with the dignity that they deserved. At long last we ascended the stairs, the white bleached bones seemed as though they were reaching, grabbing for us, desiring to drag us down with them into an unholy slumber. Each step forward was a burden, as if heavy weights had been affixed to my limbs, the very innermost fiber of my being was crying out to me to turn back, to desist, to quit!
Once we had obtained the summit of the stairs we were all taken aback at what lay before us. The Stewards tower, the highest most reach of the city had fallen into the court, white stones scattered and broken before us. The despair of the city finally reached me, my heart broke at how this mighty city had so fallen. The palpable unease that had hung about us as we ascended the city finally overcame me, and for a time I broke. That mighty Minas Tirith had so descended into the shadow was more than my heart could bear, I fell to my knees and wept.
Rosco, beloved, blessed Rosco, stepped to my side, his stubby arm reaching about my shoulders, whispering into my ear that we still had a task to accomplish, that duty would not rest. My right hand found the garland of flowers I had gathered from Gandalf's grave, and shaking it rose to my nose. It was not the cold winds of the north that my mind recalled, but the sweet fields of the Shire that I smelled. There was hope, there was a future worth fighting for.
Belvaren had wondered a short distance off, while I fought my demons he had found the planter of the white tree of Gondor. I stood for a time, looking to the east, in my minds eye I spotted where the spire of Mt Doom had once risen, a simple hole on the geography that assured me that the will of free people could overcome the greatest of evil. That the fellowship had succeeded when the armies had failed, that we had failed to defend their homes as they sacrificed all to destroy the necromancer, my heart fell. I renewed my oath to free Westerness from the grip of shadow, to be willing to give no less than those mighty heroes.
At the urging of Belvaren I had potted one of the flowering plants, now I removed the sprout from my packet and placed it within the circle of stones where once stood the white tree of Gondor. As a lowly Ranger, I had never laid eyes on the white tree, the likes of my folks were not invited to confer with Stewards, and when the armies of the witch king had overtaken this place they must have despoiled the symbol of Gondor.
As the noon hour approached, we found the entrance to the vault of Kings, it stood before us like a yawing mouth waiting to devour us. Even in the dead of winter we should have been warm enough to cast aside our cloaks, but the noon sun did not warm our flesh.
I turned to my companions, reminding them that we were Mythgaulhon, the Brotherhood of the silver wolf, tasked by the rightful King of Gondor to battle the forces of shadow, now we faced our greatest challenge but we had never been found wanting, in time our names would be remembered with the great heroes of the free people.
In my youth, my mother crafted for me an Arroch horn, and later a Dwarven silversmith had inlaid the horn with silver scrolls inscribed with the lineage and deeds of my forefathers, In times of trouble the Horns of the Men of Gondor had sounded, calling free men to battle. I winded the horn now, three short blasts to call the rally, then a single long, sustained note to command the attack. We descended into the Vault.
We grew colder as we descended. The very air seemed to swallow the light of our torches, some malignant force was trying to deter us, to force us to turn back before we had gained the vault.
Before us lay the vault of the Kings, the last resting place of all the Kings of Gondor. In the center of the chamber was a stone platform with a great chair upon it. Upon it sat the form of a Numenorean noble, his fierce visage seemed to bore into our souls. He challenged us, demanding to know why we trespassed in this place. I stepped forward, declaring that we were agents of the armies of the Free People, tasked by the Captain of the South to find weapons to execute our war.
"Free People?" he declared. "The Free People are fallen, their armies broken, the greatest of them, my son, fell in the assault of mount doom, depart this place now!"
In the account of Merridoc, the only member of the fellowship to survive mount doom, only one man had accompanied the halflings in the quest to destroy the ring. Boromir the brave, the steadfast jewel of Minas Tirith, had held a crack against the pursuing orc harriers, selling his life dear to give Frodo and Sam time to reach the crack of doom. His sacrifice paid out, the ring, along with sauron and the nazgul, were destroyed.
It may be strange that we hold this one sacrifice so highly, when so many paid with their lives in the war of the ring, but without it the free people would have no hope.
We faced the wraith of Denethor II, last steward of Gondor. He stood, clutching his sword and a black sphere. "Who are you to challenge me so?"
"I am Amathindon, ranger of the north and captain of Aragorn's army."
"Should I bow then to a vagabond of the north? If you will not depart then I will eject you!"
And the battle was joined. He was not fully immune to our blades, but he seemed to be fueled by the very despair of this city of the dead. He hurled the orb at Belvaren, when our Elven friend tried to capture the sphere eldritch flames danced from the sphere onto his arm.
"Do you think you can capture a Palantir?" the wraith taunted.
He was powered by despair, swords were no weapon to defeat him. I caught up the Thindon Horn, and winded the long, piercing note of victory. The wraith recoiled, then cast forth his power, staggering our fellowship.
"Perish in Agony as my son did!" The horn fell from my nerveless hand. Belvaren stepped up and caught my horn, the note he sounded was not the strident note of a war cry, from his lips the note was sweeter than any I had ever produced. I imagine it was the sound of the first light that birthed the world.
Without sword or Horn, i reached into my bag and produced the garland of white flowers. I thrust them into Denethor's face.
"Your son lives!" I held firm, armed against the greatest challenge I had ever faced with a bunch of flowers. "Faramir fights on, your blood still resists the shadow!" I grew desperate, if I could not reach the good man within this evil spirit then all was lost. My hope rested on his remembering who he truly was.
Calm passed over the wraith's visage. I beheld an old man, brought low by the burden of his long war with shadow. No other man in the previous age had held out longer against sauron than the steward of Gondor.
I observed a stream of smoke proceeding from a crack in Denethor's armor to the Palantir. I swept the garland through the smoke, gathering the mist into my hand.
"Finish it! Do it before the shadow overtakes me again!" I thrust the garland into the crack over Denethor's heart.
Belvaren sounded the horn again, a mournful note that recalled to me the fall of Numenoria. For a mere moment I saw the visage of Denethor smiling down on me, restored by this blessed magic to the man he had been. He exploded outward in a shower of light. HIs armor, empty, fell onto the pith.
Rosco cheered, I could find no joy in my heart. Denethor had been a great man, even if he fell to despair in the end, Gondor could have asked for no better protector. How long would any of us been able to resist?
With Denethor's spirit finally laid to rest, the curse of the city had broken. The birds were the first to return. A whippoorwill serenaded me as I planted the white flowers. It was my hope that whatever magic clung to them would protect the city until the armies could reclaim it. Rosco and I catalogued the relics and tributes we found within the Vault of Kings, we loaded the horses with as much of the treasure as we could. If Faramir's army was unable to mount a mission, we would not leave these artifacts unguarded. Belvaren had taken to meditating in the circle of flowers.
I went to seek out Belvaren on the third day, our packing was completed, we would depart in the morn for Faramir's camp. Belvaren told me that he had a vision, a white spectre had told him to take the Palantir to hope. We puzzled for a time what the spectre ment, from behind us Rosco spoke up.
"Isn't one of Aragorn's names Hope?" he opined. "I mean Estel, but that means hope, right?" I clasped the youngest member of our company on the shoulder, where mystery had befuddled the wise, the clarity of youth had seen the truth.
We are prepared. I have cleansed Denethor's armor to the best of my meager ability, we have removed the true treasures of the vault, and we have recovered from our wounds. In the morning we depart for the camp of Faramir. I will speak to Lord Faramir of his father, and then we will depart for the north to report to Aragorn. The greatest of the treasures we bear is Denethor's Palantir, perhaps we can begin to form a strategy to cast down the shadow and free Middle Earth.
I examined Belvaren's hand tonight, the fire had already claimed the two least fingers of his left hand, I was forced to amputate his two remaining fingers and part of his thumb to halt the spread of gangrenous infection. Rosco has already dubbed him 'Belvaren One Hand'. Our Elven friend seems pleased with the monicker. I am worried he will lose the remaining portions of his hand to infection by the time we reach Faramir's camp. One member of my old company had suffered a similar dismemberment, Arnor Frostbite had learned to use a bow with four fingers amputated, if I save a much of Belvaren's palm as I can he may be similarly be able to retain some use of his hand, to be able to still use a bow. But in extremis I will cut away his hand to spare his life. His hand has already begun to show the angry red of growing infection, the next few days will tell.
Valar Protects,
Amathindon