WEST WIND OVER EDORAS

Disclaimer: The characters and places here are not mine, all but a few are Tolkein's genius. If it's in LOTR, Silmarillion, Hobbit or Unfinished tales it Tolkien' s. If not it's mine.
No profit in this but the fun of writing and getting to play in Middle earth for a while.

CHAPTER 15:

PATHWAYS

LEGOLAS:

My heart is troubled as we pass between lines of ancient stones. Here there are black trees, dark brooding pine, which even I cannot endure the feel of long. All of us are silent, thinking of the ordeal to come. Aragorn ahead with Elrohir, myself and Gimli followed by the rangers and Elladan guarding the rear. For myself it is not fear of what is to come, which worries me, but what has taken place. That a morning of troubled sadness should follow a night of such happiness and joy.

Elladan and Elrohir had talked softly earlier, in the dawn light, of many things with Aragorn, as I rekindled the fire. Of Elrond, of the history of Aragorn’s lineage, of the course he should take in this struggle against evil. And we must take that course with him. Our fates are bound with his and we are warriors and his closest, trusted friends. They spoke too of their sister Arwen. Told him that she refused to take the ship to Valinor, that she grows weak from the force of evil. He sat quietly, Estel, his eyes both sad and yet burning with a fire of hope and resolve. In that moment I saw him inwardly shrug off his concealing, inner cloak of secretive, exiled ranger. I saw the leader. I saw the King.

I feared as much, the lady Eowyn offering her allegiance and most importantly her love, has been rejected. Hard to see such pain in so proud a lady. Such great hope as she had, ground into the dust of Dunharrow. As we ride, Aragorn confides in me.

“I feel sorrow at what I had to do, Legolas,” he says softly, as if thinking aloud. “I would not have caused hurt if it could have been otherwise. Yet you, most of all my friends understand where my heart ever lies.” He sees me nod, continues. “Our time with the people of Rohan has had great significance. Eowyn is a fine and special lady and my meeting with her, I feel will have some importance in her life; but she is not my future Legolas. I see that clearly.”

“I trust your judgement without fail, Estel.” I reply, “Our journey through Rohan has indeed had great import. It has changed my future and I feel will change the futures of us all, both elves and men. Although my vision of how is hazy.” He glances at me, waiting to hear my thoughts, but my heart is too full. “Rowannen will lend comfort to Eowyn as I hope Eowyn will do for her also,” is all I can say. He nods and we spur the horses to a quicker pace.

Hardest of all was leaving Rowannen. So close have we already become, like one being. My mind strays to our recent lovemaking and pleasure and pain spear me like a knife. To tear ourselves apart was a torture, but she knows I have this to do. We have spoken as we rode through Rohan, of the quest, of the journey. I know she understands that I must follow this until the end. It was her terror that undermined her; her fear of the Paths of the Dead. How could I convince her to be brave when all her experience is telling her that she will never see me again and all is lost?

Elrohir is alongside me now. His lean form, easy and upright, as he matches his steeds pace to mine. He does not look at me and I see his chiselled profile as he stares at the path ahead, but I hear his voice in my mind.

'You are hurting, Las. Let me help.'

I let him in. I let him hear my thoughts

'It rips at me like a fresh wound, to leave Rowannen so, when I am all she needs for comfort and I must deny her that. She must understand, I have not rejected her. She must have faith. It is hard for her. The people of Rohan are not as close to the Valar as the elves, have no history with them, as the Eldar do. They do not talk to them in the same manner or hear them. Yes, the Rohhirrim honour Manwe,Tulkas and Orome, Elbereth and Nessa, but from a distance. They have woven their own legends, fashioned some of their own Gods. The Valar are as distant as those legends to them. It was almost impossible for her to trust me at that moment. It was almost impossible for me to leave. It cleaved me in half.'

My hand strays to the clasp she gave me, fastened over my heart; and my fingers stroke the soft feather, the silken hair.

‘But you have faith, Legolas. You must have faith enough for the both of you, until she is strong again.' Elrohir councils silently.

I bow my head and ask for Grace and protection for her, from Nienna. Nienna, sister of Mandos, she who knows all grief, she who mourns for the suffering of Arda, who gives strength of endurance, gives hope. “Nienna, bring strength to her spirit, turn her sorrow to wisdom.” I must have been speaking out loud, for Gimli, wriggling in the saddle behind me, digs me in the ribs. For a fleeting instant, my antagonism towards dwarves arises again and I am about to turn and teach him some respect when I see we have come to the Dimholt, a hollow place opening into the deep glen at the mountains root. A great stone stands before us like a finger of doom and beyond in the gloom a sheer wall of rock. I can feel hearts quail all around me.

“My blood runs chill.” Gimli breaks the silence, his grumbly voice cracking with fear. The horses are stepping and blowing, they will not pass. We dismount and lead them around until we come to the Dark Door. Signs and figures carved high above it; too dark to read and the fear flowing from it like grey vapour.

“This is an evil door,” mutters Halbarad, “and my death lies beyond it. I will dare to pass it nonetheless; but no horse will enter.”

Aragorn steps forward leading a trembling Brego, who would follow him to the ends of the earth. That may be where we are bound, who can tell.

“We must go in and therefore the horses must go too.” Aragorn says. “For if we ever come through this darkness, many leagues lie beyond. And every hour that is lost will bring the triumph of Sauron nearer.”

Elrohir brandishes a torch, his other hand steady on the reins of his elven steed.
The Rangers follow, their horses are nervous but follow out of the great love they hold for their riders. Arod is shivering and sweating, pulling back, refusing me, his eyes dilated with a terror grievous to see. It would seem he is having problems trusting me too. For an instant I want to turn back; to retrace the mornings trail at a gallop, to put an end to this misery. I close my eyes, draw on my strength. Then I lay my hands over Arod’s eyes and sing soft words to him and he suffers me to lead him.

I take a deep breath, glance at Elladan. He stares back, centuries of a warrior’s knowledge in those grey eyes, far more than even mine. His lips are still but I hear him in my mind. ‘We come to it now Legolas, all of us together. My father fought with Isuldur, was with Isuldur when he kept the ring. Now we are here with Isuldur’s heir. Estel has the sword, Anduril, reforged from the shards of Narsil, which smote the ring from Sauron’s finger. This is destiny.’

I mindspeak back. ‘I know it Elladan. We will see this through.’

Behind me I hear Gimli in a panic. “Here is a thing unheard of.” He mutters to himself. “An elf will go underground when a dwarf may not!” I smile a little, am sorry that I cannot help him, Gloin’s son, who has walked unafraid before in many deep places of the world, but Arod needs all my attention to prevent him from bolting, and I know Gimli’s steadfastness and pride will carry him onward. Elladan brings up the rear with another torch and just before we step over the threshold into the mouth of night, a voice rings clear in my mind. Nienna. ‘Legolas, it is done’


ROWANNEN:

Merry lifts the flap of Eowyn’s tent. Looks at me tentatively and then follows me inside. She is standing in the centre, armour spread all around her. Her sword unsheathed, gleams amongst it. She turns to me and the tears are coursing down her cheeks. Tears of grief and anger and loss. I go to hold her. The dam has broken, all is in ruins, and the flood is washing us away. She shakes uncontrollably, all the hurt contained there through the years is rushing through her. Sobs rack her frame. The loss of her parents, of Theodred, Eomer’s banishment and her care of her Uncle, the King in his illness. All her sense of duty, which kept her from freedom, her hatred of Grima, her loneliness. It pours into the air. “I will never find love, Rowannen.” She says bitterly.

For all the desperation coursing through my mind, my heart bleeds for her. I may have been parted from him, but I have had a love that has filled my heart and soul in a way I had not known possible. I draw on that now. Legolas! These days of being with him, and what we have shared, are precious beyond compare. The pain of parting is a price I must and will pay, gladly and devotedly. A shudder of that pain runs through me now and I can almost hear voices in my mind.

‘It is good you pay gladly Rowannen, there will be that price one day. But it is not this day. Be strong.’ I shake my head a little to clear my brain. It must be the grief at losing him tearing at me and causing aural hallucinations.

“You do not know that Eowyn.” I say and grip her shoulders. “You may one day find what you long for, along some as yet undiscovered path.”

“What path will you follow?” she asks of me. Her eyes are wide and anguished. She can see, I too, am bereft and floundering, we are rocking in the force of this tide. “I have not yet thought. How can I have?” I reply.

She pulls out of my arms. She ignores my tear washed eyes. She draws herself up and her expression is far away. Perhaps she is still thinking I brought this on myself for surrendering to an Elf. Will she ever realise it was not like that? Will she ever understand this love? She lifts her wet eyes then and I see a wildness there. Eowyn has no compassion left in her for others at this moment.

“I cannot return to Rohan.” She tells me. “I have no hope.” She begins to gather her hair into tight bands gripping it along its length into a long rope. Then she begins to sort through the armour and passes pieces to Merry. “Eomer tells me he does not doubt Merry’s courage, only the reach of his arm, but has forbidden him to ride to war. Well, I tell you now; Merry shall fight. We both have courage and I have now nothing to lose. Merry you will ride with me. We shall disguise ourselves with armour and helmets and ride to war tomorrow with the Rohirrim.”

Merry stirs behind me and kneels down amongst the leather and steel, hands busy and his face shining with excitement. I stand still, shocked and helpless for a moment at her words and actions. I know of her courage and determination and her skill, remember playing war games as children, running over the wold with her, at the summer grazing grounds, with our wooden swords, but I have never seen her so fierce as she appears now. Things are indeed changing. Eowyn looks up at me. “Will you go back to Edoras, will you help rule those of our people who are left behind?”

Strange whispers run through my mind again. It is then that I know that whatever the outcome, my world has indeed shifted beyond recognition. “I cannot go back Eowyn.” I tell her.

“Then, what will you do, Rowannen? You are rejecting our people. You spurned my brother, a finer man in my eyes than even Theodred. Should middle earth survive this war, you will never be Queen of Rohan now; and despite his pledge the Elf has left you. The war is near. Twould seem to me you need some plan. ”

Suddenly my strength and purpose returns and without knowing how, I somehow realise what I must do.
“I could not bear to reside again at Edoras, spending each day alike, with horrific imaginings of what may have come to pass. I will not ride with you either. I would not be on the field of this coming battle, but I will ride; and I will ride today. I shall go to Minas Tirith to reach the city, hopefully before war is upon it. I will find Gandalf. I must know more of the prophecy of which he spoke. My mind will not be at rest otherwise.”

“You cannot ride alone.” She hands Merry a small helmet and wheels around to face me again.

“Eowyn,” I reply quietly. “Without Legolas, I will always be alone.”

“I did not mean that. I meant the danger of riding through Rohan alone and at night in these times. Anything could befall you,” she tells me. Her gaze lowers and her voice falters. “You must stay with our company.”

I have to smile. “And you think that riding to battle with the host of the Rohirrim is less fraught with danger?” I ask.

Our eyes lock, and in that instant all our antagonism evaporates, she at least recognizes my love, if not understands it and I see her frustration and pain. We are again close as sisters. Our anger is simply an expression of the care we have of each other and we realize that we may never see each other again. She comes back to my arms and we hold each other close.

“Rowannen I am so sorry. I have tried to understand your love. One moment we were so close and united in grief over Theodred. Each day, yet another we spent together in a succession of days since our childhood and then with no warning you had fled from me, to an Elf. It seemed betrayal of all we had known.” She takes a deep breath. “I would not have us part at all, but if we must, then not in sorrow and anger.”

“Nor I. Yet I have no anger towards you, Eowyn. We must accept that the current is sweeping us into different streams. I have found a love that I could never have imagined in my very wildest dreams and I must be true to that. The only sorrow is not for myself, at friendships divergence, but for you. I wish that I will one day see you laugh again, and we can share as we once did.”

“I cannot see that, but who can tell what will befall. When do you ride?”

“I ride now, there is no time for delay.” And with a last look into her eyes I press her fingers tightly. I turn away to ready myself. Merry is standing there, half clad in leather armour already.
“Take this.” He holds out a package, vine wrapped and thrusts it into my hands. “Lembas bread. You will have no time for food.”

I thank him gratefully. “Take care in battle, may all forces of good protect you.” I tell them and I hug him and Eowyn one last time. I see tears begin to spring into her eyes again, but I turn and flee from the tent, to wrap my blanket, fasten my cloak, fill the waterskins from the spring and then am flying down the path to saddle a surprised Feannim. “We must make good speed my dragonfly,” I tell her as I urge her into a fast pace across the meadow.

Over the grassy meads we fly. The sun, although hidden behind massed cloud must be at its height. The great bulk of Starkhorn looms above us, draped in everlasting snow, blue shadowed. I leave the Westfold, keeping to the grasslands, letting Feannim’s hooves fly but keeping close under the mountains, still following the same course as the old North South road. My course is to the south and east but Merry told us last night that if we followed it far enough in the opposite direction to the north and west then we should reach the Shire. I wonder as I gallop if he will ever see his home again, if I will see Legolas again? I have forded the rushing tumbling Snowbourn, slowing my mare for a spell to preserve her strength but she is a horse of Rohan, though beautiful, bred for exceptional stamina and soon we are swallowing the miles. The brown and gold of winter grass peppered with new green, spring growth, disappearing in a blur beneath us. I would hope to reach the Mering Stream tonight. What may take a whole host three days to cover, even at speed, I aim to make in two, for I will travel still in the darkness if there are stars and moon enough to light my path.

On and on we travel through the day into the growing dusk, Feannim giving all I ask of her. I slow her to a walk as we reach the trees and give her some rest as we weave between them. As we walk, I take the time to nibble at the Lembas, Merry has given to me. I remember the taste of it from my day with Legolas on the mountain, when I released my hawk. It does indeed give me new strength and purpose and I am glad of it for as we thread through the trees the sky darkens and droplets of rain begin to fall heavily.

This is not what we need. The rain falls heavier and the shadows deepen and the wind begins to sing through the bare boughs, at first a melodic song and then rising into furious cacophony with its force. Feannim tosses her head as I try to reassure her. There is none of the sweet summer fullness of woodlands at this time, only the stark bareness of winter waiting for spring. No bats, no night birds, an absence of creatures. Just an eerie silence apart from the whistling of the wind. The loneliness creeps into my soul and I feel as though we are the only creatures left alive in Arda. I wonder for a moment why I did not agree to ride with my people. If I really have made the right choice. Then I remember Legolas’s words when he showed me the new life of buds swelling, his words as he took his leave of me, his wonderful loving, and as the branches whip and slash at our passing my resolve returns.

Feannim steps cautiously on between the trees. The darkness deepens. I must find the plains again, ride under the light to make speed. But when we do leave the trees and come out again into the emptiness of the Eastfold, there is little comfort, no lessening of my unease, for the stars are veiled and the moon is hidden for long periods by the jagged tatters of storm clouds. We canter again on the flat plain, racing the wind. Feannim senses my mood, but her great love for me drives her on.

The Wind is a Horse. We of the Rohirrim know that. Sometimes it runs like Snowmane, down from the heights over the wold, through the forest, bringing new life, a new season of promise, a spring wind, for she holds all the past and future within her, new hope for our people. Chill she is, but she melts when she reaches our lands and springs into being, when she meets Ganlerain.

Sometimes it gallops like Ganlerain, a warm summer wind, through the sea onto the shore, over the mountains, bringing news of strangeness of salt air and the promise of other lands. Strong but gentle, he is all powerful and gives us warmth, fruitfulness and completion. Up the rivers to spawn, like the salmon, over the mountains, to bestow his bounty on our land, whatever that may cost him.

I know them both. I wish this wind were as they are, as we race across the grass trying to outrun this rain in vain. But these stinging gusts are from the West. They bring change. Howling down through the gap of Rohan they come, and as we ride the rain turns to hail. A great, terrible concentrated force, like Nahar, the stallion of Orome the hunter and I am afraid again. Never have I been out in the wild with the west wind as fierce as this. Nahar is in the west wind, the stallion of the great hunter; silver, like the snow and hail, with great golden thundering hooves. I am mortal, I am not an Elf. I hold the Valar in great awe and terror. Nahar the stallion, who carried the mighty Orome. He who took the firstborn back to Valinor before the race of men was even begun. I fear him. For me he is not a deity to trust, but a source of dread. I spur Feannim on as the wind races at my back, forcing me to greater speed, urging me onward to the limits of my endurance.

I hear the hooves hammering against the sky; the force overtaking me, sweeping me on and then I know I cannot escape. Nahar is faster than Feannim. The hard frozen hail is stinging us like spearpoints. The moon is obscured, our vision is lessened and I know we must stop and rest. I seek shelter under an overhang of rock behind bushes, away from the force of the storm. Feannim shivers a little as I try to dry her flanks with my already sodden cloak. I drink from the waterskin, scatter some oats for my mare and shrink under the rock away from the hail. It seems as though a dark shadow is creeping over the sky from the east, darker even than the cloud, and the wind does battle with it. I am glad to have halted for a while. I think of Legolas, maybe trapped in the darkness of the mountain and shudder, and then again I hear a voice on the wind as it roars clamorously around my refuge. ‘Do not fear, respect and honour only.’ I wonder if I am going mad and eat some more Lembas in case the lack of food is causing my mind to wander, but it is a strong voice, not an evil one and instead of feeling terror at this strangeness a strange calm overtakes me and I gentle and calm my mare, my face in her damp mane as we await the lessening of the tempest and the moon to light our way.


LEGOLAS:

Despite the flickering torches the dark creeps around us like everlasting night. I can feel the blood of the rangers run chill. When we reach the heart of the mountain and the rock walls fall away around us like endless platforms and stairways to dread, then even Elladan, Elrohir and I, who do not fear death, still feel the menace pressing in upon us. Suddenly like a rush of cold air we are encircled, a great host of souls rushing up from the deeps and one amongst them rises up, materialises in our path, terrible and cold. The horses are quaking with fear.
A voice rings out echoing loudly against the stone cavern. “ The way is shut. The dead do not suffer the living to pass.”

Aragorn swings round. “You will suffer me!” he commands.

“ None but the King of Gondor commands here. The dead keep it, until the time comes,” Comes the icy reply.

He hefts the sword aloft and a hush descends. “ The time has come. I am Isuldur’s heir. Fight for me. I will lift the curse. I will hold your oaths fulfilled. I summon you to the stone of Erech.” His voice rings into the stale dead air. “What say you?”

A great hissing and scuffling surrounds us but no answer comes, only a whispering and murmuring in no discernable language. Yet the threat diminishes and a way is opened. Behind us a great clattering as if the skulls and bones of all the dead were tumbling together over rock. We pass onwards, our steps ringing and echoing, the torch flaring and shuddering and then a sudden silence and the torches are extinguished. Elven eyes are needed now in the dark and the others grope their way behind me, hands on the rock to steady themselves. At last we pass through a cleft and gain the open air. The horses prancing and rearing at the end of their reins, eager to flee this place. Gimli staggers out onto the mountainside; relief and wildness mixed in his eyes and comes to stand beside me, drawing great gulps of evening air into his lungs. Aragorn kneels and drinks from the rill tumbling down the hillside and stays kneeling.

“Have I failed?” he asks desperately and angrily. “How can I take on this mantle if I have not the authority to do so?” He grips the hilt of his sword as if clinging to its strength.

I go and rest my hand on his shoulder. “You have the authority of the King, I have seen it Aragorn. Do not speak of failure. Instead keep to the path. We cannot linger here. We must move on with as much speed as we can.”

He rises and stands with me and when the horses have drunk the company mounts. Gimli clings tight to my back as we make our between sheer knife edged cliffs where the deep dusk settles and out through the mouth of the ravine, crossing by a narrow bridge the black waters of the Morthond river as it tumbles its way over the uplands and down to Dol Amroth. I can still feel Gimli’s fear and I turn in the saddle to look back at him and then to Elladan. I see his elf eyes glitter and there, behind him, a great host.

“The Dead are following, Aragorn.” I call ahead to him. “I see shapes of men and of horses, and pale banners like shreds of cloud, and spears like winter thickets on a misty night. The Dead are following.”

“They ride behind. They have been summoned.” Elladan confirms.

We ride now like hunters, faster with purpose. The darkening clouds are streaming overhead, the rain starts to grow heavier and the wind at our backs increases. As we pass settlements, doors are shut against our coming, lanterns dimmed. The sense of fear is palpable. Bells of warning ring out into the gathering night. We press on and as we reach the stone of Erech the rain becomes hail, globes of frosted ice assailing us, chill and dire but fitting. We halt at the unearthly stone, rumoured to have been brought from Numenor and Elrohir hands Estel a silver horn, which he blows upon and we feel the Dead gather again.

“Oath breakers, why have you come?” Aragorn calls. “To fulfil our oath and have peace.” Comes the answer.
“The hour has come at last. When this land is clean of the servants of Sauron, you shall have peace and depart forever. For I am Elessar.” Aragorn thunders back, his voice rising above the tumult of the weather.
No longer is there any doubt in his stance, his countenance, his manner. Though he is dirty and travel worn and weary with toil, truly, now before us stands the King. The rangers around him kneel on the ground. The great host of the Dead settle and silence, but the storm rages still. “We will rest here until dawn.” Aragorn counsels. “We can not make good speed in this tempest. Rest will better serve us now.”

There is little shelter to be found but as best we may, we tether the horses, eat and drink of our sparse provisions and gather our cloaks around us to stave off the worst of the onslaught. Gimli sinks into a deep slumber at once, all the better to repair him from his ordeal, but rest eludes me. The ground is hard beneath me but that is not what keeps me from sleep. My mind is in turmoil and I cannot find peace.

“What troubles you, Legolas? Lle tyava quel?” Elrohir asks as he draws near to my side. I take a deep breath. “I can feel her, Elrohir. Rowannen is not safe with her people. I can sense she is alone. She is in this storm as we are. Only the sheer sides of this mountain separate us. This is my doing. I am drawing her into danger. I did not wish that.”

Elladan also joins us and sits on my other side. “It may be your doing Las, but it is meant. These are strange times, all you can do, is what is given you to do and as always Legolas, you do it well. Do not trouble your heart so sorely.”

“Im penorren, Im ring.” I admit. “These recent events are weighing heavily upon me.”

They draw our elven cloaks over us to foil the wind and hold me between them, lending me their comfort and warmth and strength as ever they used to, physically and as a comfort to my soul and spirit. The wind howls over us but no longer is a threat.

Elladan's voice comes into my mind. ‘Suil Ennui, erio thul lin I faer hen. Eili velui, gornon. Quel kaima, ernil nin.”

I am glad of them and send my thoughts to Rowannen in the hope that she may feel less alone also.


Lle tyava quel? (( Do you feel well?)

Im penorren, Im ring. (( I am tired. I am cold.)) .

Suil Ennui, erio thul lin I faer hen. Eili velui, gornon. Quel kaima, ernil nin. ((May western winds lift this spirit. Sweet dreams valiant one. Sleep well my prince.))

A/N nothing slashy takes place between twins and Las here, simply a close hug. If something slashy had happened, I would have taken great delight in describing it in detail. No explicit slash in this fic, sorry girls. :)