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 17: SILVER CITY, DARK NIGHT

ROWANNEN:

Twilight deepens as I round the last outcrop of Ered Nimrais and there gleaming in the sunset across the plain is the mass of Mount Mindolluin, built into its impressive side, Minas Tirith, incandescent as pearl. All I have heard of it does not adequately prepare me for the vision. It is beautiful, a city built to reach to the sky, the tower of Ecthelion rising at its pinnacle shines like a new spear. The clear call of a silver trumpet sounds from the ramparts as I approach and tall gates, carved with wondrous figures from history, swing open for my admittance.

“I seek Mithrandir. I have news of the muster of Rohan,” is all I can manage to tell the guards for I am weary, heart sore and amongst strangers. They usher me inward and a herald runs before me as I ride, round and on, ever upward, past imposing statues, up gentle inclines, through many embellished gateways. Feannim’s hooves, accustomed to turf and rough rock, slip and slide on the smooth zig zagging rideways of fine sloping flagstone. I ignore our exhaustion and guide her encouragingly forward when she would halt in uncertainty. I do not wish to dismount and lead her like a stable girl.

We traverse wide squares lined with decoratively carved buildings. It is only this time of strangeness and war that make the stares of the inhabitants less curious, less forbidding. They need help now and the sight of a shield maiden from Rohan is mayhap more welcome than before in their fine streets. I am aware of the eyes of beautifully dressed women, men, who could pass equally for schooled warriors, scribes or healers and curious children too as I pass onward, holding my head high despite my bedraggled appearance and blood spattered clothing. This is not a time for them to look down on me. I can see a veiled hope in their glances, there should be some shame also, for they need Rohan’s assistance now, but did not ride to our aid when we were in need. It was their rightful King, the wizard and elven aid kept my people from annihilation, strong enough, honourable enough to commit to another battle. I hold this thought as we climb through the city.

It is not until I reach the sixth level that a white-cloaked figure comes forward to meet me. Piercing eyes beneath silver brows as he leans on his staff.

“Rowannen! How come you here alone? Are you bearing news?” Gandalf asks, his voice kindly but uneasy as he lifts me down and looks for assistance. My legs are shaking more than I realise and I falter as I stand. “Pippin!” he calls as he steadies me. So it is that I find myself with the wizard and another bright eyed hobbit Hobbit, dressed surprisingly in the livery of the White Tree, who chatters as he guides me into a courtyard lined on three sides by stables and helps me find room for Feannim.

“They will come then? I knew your people would not fail. It was I lit the beacon. Did you know that? Is Merry still safe at Edoras? I miss him,” the words spill from him as the water spills from the bucket he brings for my steed, his arms straining with the weight. A Gondorian, who introduces himself as Beregond, from the house of the Steward, takes the saddle and bridle from my own aching arms to stow them at the rear of the stall. Feannim drops to the deep straw and rolls. The first laughter I have heard for many a day ripples into the air as we step away from her upturned hooves. I press a kiss to her nose and rub beneath her mane when she stands again to pull eagerly at the hay net.

“Pippin is indeed finding his courage.” Gandalf remarks as we leave the stable and walk toward a chamber that is being made ready for me. I smile at the halfling. “You did well then. My people did not ignore the beacons. The muster at Dunharrow was preparing to leave the day following my flight. The army will come if nothing prevents them. Not as many as Theoden hoped, maybe others from the Eastfold will swell their ranks along the way. Such a host armoured for battle cannot travel as swift and light as I, and they must ensure the horses are still fit for battle at journey’s end. It may be two more daybreaks before their arrival.”

“What of Aragorn?” Gandalf’s question is weighted and urgent.

“He took the Paths of the Dead. With the Dunedain that rode with him from the North, the elven twins, Legolas and Gimli.” The wizard’s eyes narrow at my answer and see my own eyes downcast.

“It was needed. We can only hope he has triumphed in his task.” He sighs quietly. “You have not yet answered me on the reason for your flight here alone.”

“I hardly know myself. All I can say is that my place is no longer with my people, my path has changed and I come here both fleeing from the prison of the past and seeking answers.”

“What of Merry? What of Merry? Is he safe?” Pippin’s voice is urgent.

I hesitate, but can tell none but the truth. “He and Eowyn plan to ride with the Rohirrim against her Uncle’s wishes. They are determined. I fear they will be in the thick of the battlefield before the end.” I explain. Pippin’s eyes widen. He is silenced, an uncommon occurrence I deduce from Gandalf’s raised eyebrows as he places a hand on the Hobbits shoulder. “We all ride to war, none escape it,” he mutters softly.

Beregond, ahead of us now, grasps the handle of an arched doorway and indicates that I should enter, with his words. “Take some rest. Fresh garments, food and drink will be provided.”

I pause on the threshold. “The prophecy, Gandalf? Where will I find it written?”
His eyes are gentle, he knows I am grasping for love and hope in the darkness.

“Tomorrow Rowannen, is time enough. I will show you the libraries then.”

They turn and leave. I step into the interior. A girl is standing at a table before a window. She turns the lantern flame high as I enter and a golden glow bathes the pale walls. She smiles and opens her palms in different directions. One hand indicates a small urn and a dish by the lamp and the other points to garments and a towel spread across a wide bed.

“I am Inara. Is there anything else I can bring for your comfort?” I look around and see no basin for washing.

“I would like to bathe. May I have water?”

She steps to a low doorway and lifts the latch. I follow her to what I assume is a closet for clothing and stare uncomprehending. Smooth alabaster walls curve to a central circle above our heads. The stone floor slopes to a hole surrounded by a carved spiral. She assesses my blank gaze. It is to her credit that she does not sound patronising toward me, but glad to teach and explain.

“You are not familiar with a rain chamber? It is easy to use.” She reaches to a polished handle in the wall, pulls it downward, a slight rasping noise grates above our heads and instantly a shower of warm water droplets cascade from the marble ring above. Inara smiles, her hazel eyes gleam as she steps back away from the spray. Her hand stretches to its full extent, she lifts the handle and the water ceases.

“An advantage to our high city is that the water which spills from the mountain can be collected and heated. Channelling the main flow as it falls gives every level many rain chambers. Use it as often as you wish.” She indicates vials of soap in a niche in the wall.

“Thank you. Helm’s Deep has a similar system for bathing in pools, but this is a refinement.” I manage a smile.

She nods at me, hesitates at the door. “Do eat. I will call again in the morning.” Then she slips outside and I am alone.

I undress quickly and confess I spend a long, long time standing beneath the spray. To wash under a fall of warm rain, indoors, in private, is comforting and I try to think of nothing at all but sensation as the water falls over me. When I emerge I wrap myself in a towel and ladle soup from the urn into the bowl. It is still hot and rich, chicken with cream and spices. I had not realised the extent of my hunger until it was assuaged. Exhaustion overwhelms me, but my hair is so thoroughly dampened that I sit before the window until it dries at least a little, and then rework the braids as he showed me. Each flick and twist of my fingers brings memory of Legolas to my mind. I cannot tell whether I wish to smile or cry and as the stars wink through dark clouds I fall onto the bed, pull the cover over my nakedness and giving in at last, sleep for many dreamless hours.

I awake to a tentative knocking, glance at the window and see dull light. “Please enter.” I call, realising with a shock that I have forgotten to bolt the door. How could I have been so foolish? This is not Edoras, where everyone is known and trusted. It is a strange city in wartime. My heart calms it’s fluttering as Inara’s head peeps round the threshold. She enters, hands me a plate of flat round pancakes, each pair holding a layer of preserve pressed between them. I pull the sheet around me and accept them.

“I have come to take your clothes for washing and to help you dress. It is appointed to me to assist you, ” she says. I listen to her voice. Even in the common speech I can hear the way she stresses different vowels, lays inflection on her phrases in a manner unlike my own.

“I need no help in dressing.” I smile at her to soften my words. I do not wish to rebuff her, for as yet she is the only female I have encountered here. She looks a little abashed.

“I think maybe you do.” She gestures towards my unruly tresses flowing around me, wisping across the coverlet, springing back even when I brush them from my eyes.
“Here in Minas Tirith, it is not done for women to walk around with their hair uncovered, unbound.” Her cheeks flush even brighter. “Only a certain type of female would do so here in order to advertise her wares.” She looks frankly at me then. “Do you understand my meaning?”

I shake my head as I swallow the pancakes, the filling is sweet. What can she mean? What profession would require unbound hair? I see her weighing me in her mind. Then she draws herself up a little stiffly.

“Women who sell their bodies, who give sexual favours and fulfil fantasies for money. Those women flaunt it with unbound hair.”

For a long moment we stare at each other. Is this what she thinks of me and my people? My eyes flash and I toss my hair around my shoulders in embarrassment and defiance.

“Then it is unsurprising that I am unaware of your custom, because we have no prostitution in Rohan.” It is her turn to look surprised. “No, there is no need for it. Our men without exception would be horrified at the thought of lying with a female who did not return their desire wholly and wished for payment in return for pretence! Nor would our women think to use such a gift they have to share in such an improper manner,” I continue. “Such thoughts are abhorrent to me and I resent that I would be looked down upon for the style of my hair because of your customs.”

Inara has taken a step away from me. I am boiling inside and I forget how fierce maidens of Rohan can sometimes appear. I soften my voice. “Do you yourself not resent such a curtailment of your freedom? Are you not proud of your hair?” I ask. For the first time I study her closely. Wound around her head are twisted bands of blue and white cloth twined with tendrils of dark hair. I recall my ride through the streets here and how the women often had veils or headdresses covering at least part of their hair even if a braid or a twist was revealed to fall free, though I was in no state to pay much attention nor dwell on such detail.

She looks shamefaced now and sits on the edge of the bed. “I have never questioned it before. I am sorry, I did not mean to offend you, but I implore you, so that you do not offend likewise will you let me show you?”

I am sure I am probably still glaring at her in indignation but we come to an understanding.

“Yes, though it angers me, I will of course comply with your customs whilst here in the city.”

She turns away as I put down the plate and slip from the bed to pull the plain white undershift over my head followed by the dark blue dress which is heavier than it feels. So different to the fine soft spun wool, the cool linens, supple cured leathers and light furs of Rohan, is this garment. I wind around my waist the coiled strands of silk for a belt and then sit back on the bed.

“It fits well,” she remarks, anxious to re establish some rapport. I nod.

“Yes, thank you. Blue is a colour I have never worn and it feels strange to be clad so, but I am grateful.”

She hands me a brush and I sweep it on and on down the tangled length, until my hair falls again in smooth waves. Inara steps toward me with narrow strips of silver and pale grey material. “Do not touch or alter my braids,” I warn and defensively bring my fingers to cover the plaits that snake back from either temple and join at the crown. “They have meaning too.”

She does not dare ask and I do not care to volunteer the information. My heart and mind still in such turmoil, that should I put it into words my tears will soon follow.

“I will twist a band for you,” she offers and winds the silver and grey together, until a thick plait of fabric is in her hands. She lifts the heavy length of my hair, curls it into a coil, fastens it with pins and then secures the band around it all, in a circle about my head. Only a single tail of hair falls from the centre to brush my shoulder. She lifts a mirror from the table and holds it for me. I look very different. It is not wholly to my liking but she seems satisfied and even pleased.

“Do you sometimes dress your own hair like this?” I am merely making conversation as I pull on my boots. She shakes her head, hesitates and then unwinds her headband. My eyes widen in surprise as she shakes her hair free. The dark curls are dusky, unlike the gloss of the elven twins and they fall to frame her face in soft curls. I am surprised because I have never seen hair as short before, except on the youngest of children. In Rohan all grow their hair long, women and men alike, the dwarf and elves too of the male sex. Aragorn and some of the Dunedain have the shortest hair of an adult I have ever encountered and here she stands before me with locks far shorter even than they.

“I always fashion it thus,” she answers and begins to twist the thick band around her head again, catching each curl and fastening it securely as she goes. I cannot help staring, it makes her look so young and I reach my fingers to touch. She steps back a little and the curl slides from my grasp. “Not as interesting as your own maybe but it suits me well enough,” then it is her turn to smile to soften her words. “What would you do this day?” she questions me.

“Mithrandir promised to show me the library. There is some knowledge I wish to pursue.”

“There is no need to trouble the wizard. He went in search of the steward. I can take you there,” she assures me.

It is when we descend to the third level that the streets become congested, women, children and sad eyed men stand lining the way. A party of grim, resigned warriors ride solemnly through their midst. Flowers are scattered before their feet. Inara having no flower casts down her eyes.

“It is as we feared. Denethor overcomes his grief with anger and foolish pride. He sends his youngest son Faramir, Captain of the guard, on an attempt to recover Osgiliath. We know from the tale of battle recounted that it is a lost cause.” She takes a deep breath. “Our city is doomed, I wait in dread for what will become of us.”

I feel her shudder as I place a hand on her shoulder. “Inara, my people will come.” I whisper, hoping to give us a little comfort. She leads me into the library. Shelves line the walls to the ceiling and all are full of books and scrolls. Ladders rest against the wall to aid in reaching the higher levels.

“Where would works of prophecy be situated?” I ask, overwhelmed as I stare upward.

“I do not know. That would depend on the nature of it.” Inara replies. She gestures to certain stacks. “There you will find, geographical works. Here are legends and tales for children and on this side historical volumes.” She pauses. “Rowannen, would you mind if I leave you now without help, for I would dearly like to spend time with my family?”

I see the fear in her eyes. The knowledge that little time may be left. I remember the fear in the caves at Helm’s Deep and how people clung together.

“No, of course not, please do,” I answer. She is gone so fast that the air stirs around her exit. I walk to the wall wondering how to choose, thinking wryly that if the end is soon, then all I will have is books for company. I turn the lamps high; carry one with me as I search the shelves. I collect volumes and spread them on the wide table. For many hours I read of treaties signed over land boundaries, scan down lists of Kings and Stewards from Elendil to Mardil Voronwe to Denethor until my eyes ache and dates become jumbled. I try to remember where each leather bound tome belongs and replace those that yield no interest to me at this time. There are texts on dragons and how to defeat them which make me smile, myriad scrolls which seem to record trade agreements. I begin to search religious works. Some are personal journals such as Barahir’s thoughts on a watchful peace, or Ecthelion’s praise at the gift of strength to rebuild the tower. Others are texts of morality and rules and points of law argued through the ages before being set as absolute. I am so engrossed that I do not hear his footfall. Gandalf startles me with his touch on my arm. He has brought me a pitcher of water and fruit.

“Rowannen, I cannot stay, Denethor is not in fit mind to command. Faramir is returned gravely wounded and there is much grief over all those lost. Suaron’s minions will attack the city. Lord Imrahil is come from Dol Amroth I must speak with him and make plans. Is your search productive?”

I shake my head. “I have found nothing.”

Gandalf moves toward the shelves, runs his hand over the spines of books. “Look in this section Rowannen, I was searching for information on the one ring and it’s making in the distant past. It will be here somewhere.” Cries and murmurs filter through the open door. “ When you are done make for the higher levels,” he commands and is gone, closing it behind him.

I take his advice as I am flipping through a book of universal faith on Arda, one which encompasses the beliefs of dwarves and their veneration of Aule their maker, elves who venerate Manwe, Elbereth and Yavanna, hunters who call on Orome, warriors on Tulkas, mariners who worship Ulmo, that I finally come upon Lorien, who is the master of dreams and visions. This section is written in verse, some about the Silmarills, much I do not understand from ages past. I scan down the page, my search having been unfruitful for so long, I almost pass over it. Only when I reach the final familiar words does my heart miss a beat, my eyes widen and my breath halt. Described in a careful neat script of pale faded blue, with every letter uniform in height, yet with odd flourishes at the beginning and end of each word is this:

“When mountains kneel to the valley and rivers not drown in the sea,
Woodlands will open to grassland, and all races shall be free.

A cleansing fire will melt all wrong, new life arise again,
Trees will bend in homage. Winds dance across the plain.

Many realms in love are bound, Ocean, Forest and Field.
Yet those who wish to gain the most, must the greatest yield.

They may hear dire warnings, yet still harken to the song
Those who follow their hearts wish, surely will not be wrong.

So when Mithril and Redgold are melded let the fourth age of splendour ensue.
The curve of his lips writes new history and her pledge brings forth promise anew.”

It seems so strange to have those words which Gandalf spoke before my eyes here, confirmed on a page. The meaning is little clearer than before but it gives me hope. I spread my fingers flat on the parchment; let the words flow into me as I read again to commit them to memory. I must have stayed this way for a long time, thinking, for the lamp is burning dim when I finally stand. Slowly I walk to the door and from stillness and peace step into mayhem and panic.



LEGOLAS:

We are weary. This ride past the mouth of the river Gilrain and along the high coastal road of Lebennin with little pause has sapped the strength of the living and the passage of time blurs as the darkness of Mordor advances over us. I have turned my gaze from the only light out on the glimmering ocean to the path ahead. We halt at last on the dock at Pelargir, summoning our strength. It takes but a few arrows, mine own and the twins, to alert the Captains and crew of the Umbar fleet to our assault. Fell and dangerous is the first impression of these pirates but the ghouls behind us make a fine army also. As we prepare to board, the host of the dead sweep with us, overtake us. Rather than repel our advances, many of the crew fling themselves overboard in terror and those who stand and fight are quickly overpowered. Most are hurled into the deep, a few taken prisoner to assist in the working of these vessels.

So it is we find ourselves here in the darkness, masters of ships. The Dunedain and the Lord of Lamendon, have taken command of a ship, Elladan, Elrohir and Halbarad another. I stand on the deck of a third and watch as lanterns are lit and sails unfurled all along the riverbank. Slaves, who are freed, commit themselves to our cause and there are many amongst this dread army who once were sailors and they are not in need of rest or sustenance. Now they have a task and purpose, their efforts are manifold. I can see pale, tattered shapes hauling the anchor ropes. The twisted hemp is wound creaking aboard, thick as a warriors arm, trailing strands of wet seaweed across the deck, before being secured firmly. The sibilance of their movement as they clamber high into the rigging is louder than the breeze in the unfurling linen. Many have gone below to the hold and will man the oars should the winds fail us and a tall form stands at the wheel, his skeletal hands glowing like the phosphorescence that catches my eye in the water. As I stare at the moving veils of light below, I hear a more substantial footfall behind me.

“I have heard the glow is made by minute sea creatures. Together in shoals they emit radiance.” Aragorn stands beside me at the rail, following the direction of my eyes.

I smile. “It is good to see something alive and beautiful that is untroubled by this present evil.”

He puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Are you well, Las?” he asks, and his eyes searching mine seem like the sea, storm washed, grey green on the surface, with unknowable depths for those not close to his heart.

He can sense my fascination with the pull of the ocean, is sorrowful that my road with him has been its cause. I had not expected to feel so strongly. Here I stand, aboard a vessel capable of carrying me to Valinor into peaceful eternity unbroken, beyond the confines of this world. Instead I shall sail inland, toward black evil and maybe my death. It is not like me to have a divided mind or fall prey to temptation. I am used to being sure and controlled. I collect my thought again, hold safe to my pledge with Rowannen, recall my vow at Helm’s Deep to always trust the Valar. I hear again Yavanna’s words to me before the magical forest. “I have plans for you and your sacrifice, Legolas.”

So it begins. Or maybe it has always been planned this way and if so, who am I, to question the will of Iluvatar? I lift my hand to cover Aragorn’s own, his skin rough and calloused beneath my touch. A mortal hand. I feel a sense his own sorrow also at a fleeting thought of Arwen, perhaps far away on those waves on her journey to Valinor, lost to him. I squeeze his fingers, to reassure him that whatever befalls I will not let him down, nor fight less skilfully than I am able.

“Aye I am fine, Estel, and ready for what fate has in store for us now.”

He nods, satisfied. A brief acknowledgment, yet his eyes as they meet mine show understanding, show grief.

“We sail at the turning of the tide. The wind will come from the sea and the incoming waves speed through the islands at the mouth of the Anduin to carry us up river,” he informs me. He hesitates, “Where is Gimli?” he questions, looking around.

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Down in the galley, I believe it is named. He was grumbling at not having felt his belly full since we departed Edoras. He has found stores enough to feed many dwarves and men below. Salted pork, pickled eggs and oranges are on his menu.”

“Oranges?” Aragorn queries, mystified.

“A thick skinned fruit from the South I believe, beyond the desert of Harad. These seafaring ports had good trade until this darkness descended. I tried one Estel. It was very refreshing and full of flavour.” He smiles distractedly. He will not bend, but I can see the exhaustion in every line of his countenance. “Estel, go below. I will see to whatever needs to be done here. You must eat and rest yourself.” He returns the pressure on my fingers and nods. I watch as he makes his way down the steps.

*****

Dawn, if such a deep red leaking from the east like blood from a wounded sky, can be named as such; finds me high on the mast. When we swept from the harbour and rode the tide upriver, I climbed high. Barefooted up the web of ropes and outstretched spars I clambered, until I had gained the height I craved.

Now I sit, my arms above my head threaded through ropes that hold the sail, legs dangling free. Behind, the ocean, the islands and the gulls that circled us screaming. Hard to banish those insistent calls, which still ring in my mind though, they are distant now. Ahead the wide river, swollen with the incoming rush of the tide. The motion of the ship reminds me of the breeze in the trees. I am glad to find comparison. Shutting my eyes I imagine myself back in the Greenwood, atop the highest Beech as it sways. The sail’s fluttering is akin to the rustle of leaves. For a brief moment I am a child again. Naneth calling me down, afraid I have reached too high. Ada riding into the clearing and laughing, his deep voice reassuring her and calling up to me in pride. The smell of the river brings me back to the present. The difference being, in my forest home the trees are stable and stand fast as the gusts pass through them onto their destination. Firm and true like my people, who have knowledge of the winds of change, but remain anchored to our past, our traditions and our homeland. Here on the river the anchor is raised, the wind carries us, a force for renewal, sweeping us into the future, rather than passing through and leaving us as we once were. Mud and salt, not earth and leaves. I will never be the same. I think of my father and the tales and knowledge I must impart to him if I should see him again.

The wind holds and the sails are full. As I revel in the sensation of height and movement, I hear anguished groaning. I look down to see a comrade who feels very differently from myself. Gimli is staggering to the side of the ship. As the deck pitches against the swell, his stout legs wander from side to side like a drunkard who has imbibed far more than his capacity. He clutches the rail tightly and leans over; no doubt regretting his earlier indulgence, for his salted pork, pickled eggs and oranges are ejected forcibly and will now be a feast for fish. I unlace my fingers and climb nimbly down to go to his aid. He is shuddering and his countenance green tinged as I lead him to sit against a coiled rope.

“Next time someone is needed to represent the dwarves at an important elvish council, remind me to stay at home,” he mutters. I cannot help but smile.

“You will recover presently Gimli when the tide turns again and the river stills. And you must, Emyn Arnen looms ahead to the east and beyond that I see plumes of smoke.”

“Osgiliath.” Aragorn’s voice sounds beside us as he steps forward and gazes ahead. “I only hope we are not too late.”