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 18: TO HOPES END


ROWANNEN:

The noise surrounds me, raucous and terrifying. In this atmosphere it is impossible to walk and I find myself running uphill. The sky is dark and yet when I raise my head at the sound of wings and a harsh scream, I see yet a deeper darkness sweeping over the walls. What is this? Some evil creation, neither beast nor bird and large as a dragon from myth and legend hurtling over the city. Mingled with the sound of panicked footsteps are the cries of children, uncomprehending of the events but attuned to the terror. The voices of women trying to reassure but their tones, overlaid with desperation and dread, stir into the mix. My heart aches for them. I hear horses whickering in distress and this gives my feet speed. I must reach Feannim and be with her. Despite my scant knowledge of the cities plan, my innate sense of direction serves me in good stead and soon I am entering the stable compound for the sixth level. Few horses remain, most noble beasts having been pressed into war.

Feannim’s slender dark head is straining over the half door. She visibly relaxes at the sight of me. I lower my head to her soft nose, smell the breath of hay in her wide nostrils, feel her fear at being confined when danger threatens. Her instinct is to fly far across open land, galloping madly. I whisper calming words to her. Some she will understand and the tone of them, but not all. “Feannim, you know you have my love and my allegiance as I have yours, be still, be calm. There is nowhere to run to. If the danger is too great then together we will face the end.” My hand soothes her. I entreat my mare one last time to trust me. There is nothing else to be done, if the outcome be grave, then we must perish in friendship and understanding, not in fear and doubt.

When her trembling ceases I walk out again and am almost swept from my feet by Shadowfax as he streams upward with Gandalf astride clutching Pippin. He almost appears to fly but that maybe because the sounds of his hoof beats are lost amongst the noise of war. I follow their path, needing to discover the cause of this urgency.

I have not been this high in the city before and halt in amazement as the highest level opens out before my eyes. A long wide space, fountains, carefully tended lawns, a strange contorted tree, silver barked and leafless outlined against a night sky. Walls of white stone stretching into the distance and against the mountain wall massive doors. These must be the chambers for the stewards and Kings. The very feel of them is high and regal.

As I pause, the doors are flung open and horror is unleashed as a burning figure of a man runs howling along the pathway. Flames leaping wildly from his cloak and hair. On he races until he reaches the very end of the walls where they draw together to a point and he hurls himself over the edge, flaming cloak flapping brightly as he falls to certain death. I am stunned for a moment then commotion follows as bearers with a stretcher appear and Gandalf walks with them his face grave.

“Madness,” he mutters to me as the man is carried past and the smell of wood smoke and oil wafts to my nostrils. “The steward loses his mind, has a pyre built in the tombs of the Kings and attempts to burn himself and his sole surviving son alive. Is there no end to the reach of this evil? It preys on the weakness of men indeed. Much skill will be needed to restore Faramir to health, both physical and within his heart. ”

“Can I help, Gandalf?” I ask. Something to occupy my self and take my mind from its own troubles would be welcome.

“He will be cared for in the Houses of Healing, among with many more before this is done,” Gandalf muses. “What skills have you?”

“Mainly nursing childhood fevers, horse medicine and the setting of broken bones.” I admit.

“All skills may be needed before the end,” he replies. “For now stay here and avoid danger if you can. There is war enough below and I must see to its command with Imrahil.”

I walk to the edge of the walls and lean over. Morbid curiosity makes me search for signs of the steward but all is confusion. Out on the plain great siege towers are catapulting massive boulders towards the city, masonry is crumbling. Far below balls of fire light up gigantic trolls and strange beasts who trundle toward the city entrance with flaming battering rams. How long can the city hold?

With pale dawn comes the knowledge that it will not be much longer. The first level is overrun and the second crumbling under the assault. I am still standing here frozen when Pippin approaches; his short steps bring him close to my side. His face is a mixture of fear, sadness, and resignation. He appears older than I previously judged him and very tired.

“You frightened me Rowannen. You looked as if you would leap and follow Denethor.” I put my hand on his shoulder glad of some contact. I do not admit that such were my thoughts. Better to leap than to be overrun and slaughtered at the hand of orc or taken captive to be used as a slave deep in the south lands. That is a fate no shieldmaiden could endure for long, not even with a dream of an elf to sustain her.

Then the sound of a horn. So familiar, with a tone unequalled. Helm’s horn, and along the rise of the western hillock stream out a line of horses. Horses unrivalled and the banner flies. Our White Horse rippling in the wind. We stare. Pippin open mouthed, I through my tears, as company after company hurtle downward and into battle with a rage and fierceness unsurpassed. Pippin is beside himself. “Is Merry there? Do you think? I must find Gandalf.” He races off again fuelled by energy, excitement and fear for his friend. Difficult to pick out individuals from this distance and height and if Eowyn rides in disguise she will have chosen another mount than her own bay stallion. I am transfixed, partly wishing I too could be engaged in battle, proud of my people and yet fearful of the odds they face, but they come with surprise upon an army that is weary from fighting through the night and complacent in the sure knowledge that their foe was almost beaten. This is unexpected and the Rohhirrim press the advantage, cutting them down as a reapers scythe a field of barley. The city rings with shouts. They are regrouping for a final time when Inara comes running across the grass to me.

“Rowannen! I didn’t expect to find you here, though I searched everywhere. These are the stewards gardens this level is private.” I suppress a smile. How can she still worry about rules at a time like this. She grips my fingers. “You were right they came, your people and they fight as well as the tales written in history.”

“Of course. I told you they would be here. My relief is that it was not too late.” Her eyes are shining. I can see Rohan rise high as the sky in her estimation, as it should. From slightly less than equal I have achieved near Goddess status in her current euphoria and she clings to me, as we watch the Rohhirrim ride to victory. Our elation is short-lived, another horn with a harsh deep bray rings into air and across the plain come men from Harad, riding beasts which I thought the stuff only of fairytales. High as a hall with legs wider than Elm trunks and sweeping tusks. The Rohirrim turn to form again into an opposing army and charge. I can only imagine the thoughts in their minds now faced with this threat. My relief and pride turns to horror. I wish I was blind rather than see those fine horses swept aside, tossed screaming skyward to fall broken. Yet my people persist, riding through the stomping legs, slashing swords and even from here I can hear their battle roar. It is then I recognise Eomer and his steed Firefoot amongst the melee. Plumed helmet and hair streaking into the wind. Firefoot’s mane and tail streaming as he rears and Eomer launches his spear with such strength and precision that the rider of the Mumakil topples and Eomer streaks free beneath the legs of the now unsteered beast.

Tears are running down my cheeks. Inara has no words, but I do. I know what songs my people have sung as they journeyed here. I know the battle cries they have chanted. As I watch them die I start to sing. My voice strong and clear, carrying over the walls, unheard by those I love but no matter. That is not the point.

“Out of doubt, out of dark to the days rising
I came singing in the sun, sword unsheathing.
To hope’s end I rode and to heart’s breaking:
Now for wrath, now for ruin and a red nightfall.”

Inara is crying too as she clings to me. It is surely nearing the end. If not enough overwhelming destruction has been unleashed against the force for good then now confirmation of it reaches our understanding. Black sails are flowing up the river, crowding behind each other on the wind and set to moor at the landings at Harlond. My fingers close around the arrow at my breast. I wish I could have been with him one last time. Wish that I could die in his arms and not alone. We lift our eyes as the first ship docks and Inara gasps. Unfurled in the distance is a standard. Not that of Umbar but a white tree, flowering with seven stars about it and a high crown that gleams in sudden sunlight. Then embarking from the ships not corsairs, but an ethereal army of insubstantial spectres, fell and fearful, unheeding of any mortal concern. They sweep toward the city destroying every enemy in their path. The dead are here, summoned from the mountain. Did Aragorn and Legolas and the company command and survive? The shadow host sound like the rushing of strange winds as they sweep through the battlefields and reach the city. Inara sets off downward and I follow her into the circles of streets and down steep flights of steps.

As we reach the highermost street of the second level she peels away from me and cries out as she kneels before someone fallen and sprawled against the stone. She seems not to feel my hand on her shoulder. I can offer her no comfort yet, so press on until I am halted by the eerie chill and wisps of pale substance, like smoke but formed as tattered garments and bones. Whispers float all around and form into words. “The oath fulfilled, find peace at last,” then disappear into the air as do the ghostly forms. Gone as if they had never been here at all making me doubt my senses.

Out through the lowest gate I run, my way no longer impeded by such unnatural ghouls. Needing to hold my long skirt high as I must leap over the fallen, weave a path through corpses of horses and orc and around the towering bodies of the mumakil. My heart aches at the sight of Forlong, Grimbold and others of the command of the mark I recognise. Their valiant steeds lying lifeless alongside. Then I come upon a sight I wish I had not. The silver tail of Snowmane lain on the mud, great pale haunches blood spattered and no breath left in her frame. Lightfoot’s foal and as I lower my head in grief, I remember all those before too, those of the mearas whose pedigrees I learnt well, stretching back to Felarof the first of them all to be tamed. I kiss my fingers and press them to her forehead as I step onward, dreading what I expect to find. It is, as I feared. Theoden slain. Through a haze of sorrow I note Eomer approach, incomprehension in his eyes to see me here. He strides nearer and cries out in grief and anger as he reaches us, but that is nought to the howl of anguish that escapes his throat as close by, first his eyes then mine, alight on a warrior slighter than others with a longer fall of golden hair and a face ashen. It is Eowyn. I kneel at her side as Eomer holds her head. Screaming out his grief and also his fury that she defied all counsel to come to this. A tall warrior stands near drawn by his outpouring of pain.

“I am Imrahil. Prince of Dol Amroth. Your warriors fought as no other I ever have seen, and this warrior maid wrought great deeds likewise, twas she who hewed the head from yonder nazgul and slayed the Witch King, he whom it was rumoured no man could kill. She deserves great honour.”

Eomer looks up into the Prince’s eyes. “My King and kinsman lies slaughtered behind me. I am Eomer, now King of Rohan. Our maidens learn skill in self defence but we do not take them to war. She is my sister. I knew her bravery but too harsh a price is taken here.”

“We will see that they are brought in state to the city.” Imrahil bows to Eomer.

I am aware of tears falling from my eyes as I hear a familiar voice.
“Eomer.” I raise my head and Aragorn is before us. He too kneels and takes Eowyn’s hand. “There is life here yet. Maybe some hope can be salvaged from this grief.” He turns then and sees me. “Rowannen!” At the same moment a hand grasps my arm gently and pulls me to my feet, turns me toward him and stares.

“Legolas.” My tears cease. He holds me still and there is a strange frozen expression in his eyes, before he manages to reply.

“I did not think it you at a distance, dressed so in the fashion of Gondor. How come you here? To war with Eowyn?”

I shake my head, is he angry? “I rode with the wind when you left and arrived at the city after Osgiliath had fallen but before this battle, Legolas.” He is still staring at me intently.

“When I was on the mountain I knew you were alone and in danger.” He says, sees me trembling, takes my hand. “You are unharmed?” when I nod he continues. Come back to the city. Eowyn will be carried there.”

I recall little of the journey back across the plain, images of horror and feelings of great loss vying with relief and wonder that he is here. He mentions briefly the taking of the ships and how they came with as much speed as possible by oar and wind a hint of regret in his voice maybe that it was not sooner. When we reach the Houses of Healing Elladan and Elrohir are there giving assistance and smile at me, surprise but also pleasure in their eyes. “Merry’s arm is broken and tainted with the evil of the enemy but he will recover now it is set.” Elrohir explains. Pippin is sitting with him staring diligently at his friend. “He will heal no faster for your eyes upon him.” Elrohir jests gently with the Hobbit.

“I know that, but I thought never to see him again and now I am not going anywhere that is not by his side.” Pippin smiles. I look at Legolas as we hear his words and returning my stare he knows that was exactly how I felt also. He presses my fingers tightly. “I am here,” he says softly.


LEGOLAS:

The shock of finding Rowannen on the battlefield has abated a little. I am unaccustomed to fear. It is something that rarely troubles me. It is irrelevant. There is no cause to fear things before they happen. That is a waste of energy and a lack of trust, as was confirmed for me at Helm’s Deep. It is useless to fear them whilst dealing with them. Strength and resolve are needed then. I know this from my warrior training and it fails me never. It is madness to fear them after the event, for then it has passed and other attributes are required. So why then did my heart scream in anguish when I found her. Why was my logic scattered in the wind? I must admit it to myself even though I will push the thought away again soon. I was terrified at the thought of her here in this battle, and of her bearing yet more grief. I wish to save her from it and I fear losing her. I fear it like nothing else before in my life. I have good knowledge of the past, more than most, with my lifelong love of history. I have a sense of an unending future too, if all runs true, and still despite this or maybe because of it, I live in the present. So why was I struck by fear at events that had already happened or events that are not yet come to pass? It is because Rowannen causes me to lose that sense at times. She gives me such an injection of emotion it rocks me to the core. The past and the future mean something different when I am with her. They take on another aura. She, more than any other, ignites my protective instincts and brings them to the fore. That is fine when I can be focused and protect her in the present. I am able in that regard, but I suspect that my love for her is causing me to wonder what will become of us in the future, what it may be to lose her. I will push that thought away. I am here. She is here. I must focus.

“That is all that matters, Legolas.” The air shimmers and Yavanna’s voice swirls through my mind. “Concentrate on what grows now, all will be revealed in its time and season.”

Eowyn is carried in attended by Aragorn. Her face is still deathly white and the lines of fatigue and worry show at the corners of Estel’s eyes. “I have dispatched healers to gather what herbs we need, for now Bergil has found some of the same kind just not fresh,” he tells the twins. They lose no speed in taking the leaves from the lad and set them to swirl in bowls of steaming water so that a pungent clean fragrance permeates the air.

Rowannen bends, her hand grips Eowyn’s tightly. I can hear Merry moaning softly in pain. Pippin pulls the blanket around him solicitously, reassured that he will be fine with time and days of care. Elladan ruffles his hair as he passes and gives him a wink. I smile. Such gestures have as much value in healing as the traditional medicinal knowledge gained from Elrond. Both Elladan and Elrohir possess this elusive quality, which enriches their gift. I am glad to be close to them.

“Do not despair,” Aragorn’s voice is gentle and firm. “If fresh Athelas can be found then she will recover. Kingsfoil is what is needed to counteract this shadowfever wrought of evil. I pray it be in the will of the Valar. She has wrought a great deed in this battle and the history of men.” Rowannen raises her head. She is trembling like a leaf in a windstorm and her voice shakes.

“I do not wish her to be yet another legend, however great her deed. As our heroes of old and now Theodred and Theoden will be. A name sung in the hall when the nights are dark and the fires bright. A heroine to be learnt in tales at a mother’s knee. I do not wish to remember her, I wish her to be my friend, to be real, to laugh with me, to cry with me, to love and grow and see the world anew each day.”

“We echo your hope and pray it will be so. For now she is safe as can be.” I tell her as I watch Aragorn squeeze a wet cloth and wipe it over Eowyn’s forehead, cleansing, cooling. “Come away with me now a while. Is there food to be found in the city?” I ask gently to distract her. There is nothing to be gained by prolonging our weariness and sorrow. She nods vaguely. I tilt my head to Elrohir and he steps forward. “Ro, will you join us. Maybe you can bring sustenance back here for Estel and Dan.”

“My pleasure, Las.” He walks with us through the streets, telling Rowannen a little of our adventures as we go, but leaving out the sorrow he felt in me and our crushing fatigue, and skimming over the details of the Paths of the Dead. As we round a corner a tavern door opens. A silver bell is painted on the swinging sign and a familiar roar reaches us from within.

“Well if it becomes too great a strain to feed heartily all this influx of your redeeming warriors, I suggest hacking those mumakils into slices. You never know, they might taste just fine and there’s enough on one of them to feed an army.”

“Gimli.” I state, as we step over the threshold and surprise him in the act of haranguing the servant. “Do you think of nothing but filling your belly?” The dwarf laughs as I sit beside him and raises his tankard to his lips. “It has been empty too long. Join me in filling yours too, elf.” Then he notices Rowannen, who slides next to me on the bench. The warmth of her touching all along my body is so welcome. “Ah, but I see your lady is here already to greet you. Maybe you will be thinking of filling other things tonight.” I smile and ignore his remark.

“Food will be most welcome.” I reply. Rowannen glances at me then and I see some worry and sadness as she searches my countenance. She fears I am angry, that I no longer love her and she has suffered much. Nothing could be further than the truth. I touch her face. “Meleth, let us eat with friends. Strength has been sapped and we need time for renewal. Then we will talk.” She nods and touches my leg lightly. I cover her hand with mine and pour some wine into goblets for us both.

We are brought plates of roasted vegetables which we share and a platter of cold meat, most of which we offer to Gimli though Elrohir wraps some in a cloth along with bread to take back with him. How Gimli manages to eat and talk so much at the same time never ceases to amaze me. “You should have seen the elf lassie!” he tells Rowannen between mouthfuls. “Climbing up those arrows, swinging around on the harness like he was a squirrel leaping from tree to tree and sliding down its trunk as it fell.”

“Yes, a successful mission,” I agree. “Aided by luck.”

“Luck does not feature in war.” Elrohir interjects. “Legolas, twas your skill and judgement only that aided you.” Rowannen stops eating and looks at Elrohir and Gimli questioningly. Elrohir sets down his wine. “He only brought a mumakil and all its occupants to grief single-handedly,” the dark twin explains for her. She looks at me, a mixture of disbelief and pride in her eyes. “Very well then,” I concede. “It was a good way to use my skill.”

Elrohir stands and makes his farewells. ‘I wish you skill of a different kind, Las, for tonight.’ He sends the thought to my mind and presses my shoulder as he takes leave of the table and returns to the healers. I finish my wine. “Gimli, moderate your intake of ale if you can and rest before you fall over. Tomorrow we should all meet with Mithrandir and those leaders who are left amongst our allies.” He grunts back goodnaturedly as I take Rowannen’s hand and leave, already motioning for some of the Dunedain to join him in our vacated places.

It is quiet and cool in the street and she turns upward. “I have a room Legolas, we can go there.” She halts before a door and reaches to open it. I smile and she smiles back at last. She is calmer now. “This time is for us. Just us, meleth nin.” I tell her. She nods as I follow her inside. “Yes, Legolas.”