To Resist both Wind and Tide

Chapter Two: Shallow Shelter

The day was quickly waning and Aragorn was mindful of the need to find shelter. Not only was he exhausted, wet, cold, and wounded but his unconscious companion was in the throes of a horrific struggle against the poison, alternately thrashing in frightful convulsions and gagging on vomit and more of the vile-looking dark fluid, then going deathly still and limp, a thin reedy keening issuing from his lips. The man could scarcely leave his side lest the elf suffocate while in the grip of one of these fits. Even though there was little hope his unknown saviour would defeat the poison, Aragorn could not leave him to endure it alone, whether the ellon knew he was there or not. The man would not like to be abandoned to meet such a gruesome death, bereft of kin and kindness in the wilds of some foreign place, and was certain he would know, deep in the core of his soul, if that was his fate, insensible or not.

If a mortal would know it, so much greater would be the grasp of an immortal, for whom death is a sacrilege.

They had made no more progress due to the archer's deteriorating condition as he could not remain on the horse even with Aragorn holding him. They were still many leagues from Fangorn where cover might be had amid the mighty trees, basically out in the open scrublands of the Wold where anyone might come upon them. Thus there was the possibility that orcs might be closing from across the Field of Celebrant to their north. The only good point about the location he could name was that the flatness of the land afforded him just as wide a view of the surrounds and anyone moving across it. What exactly he would do should he detect an approaching enemy was rather tenuous, for he was not going to be of much use in a serious fight, at least not for more than the first few minutes, after which he would surely be dead.

It was not a favourable situation.

The mare was quickest to recover from the ordeal of the chase and took to guarding the place where her master lay prostrate on the ground, marking out the perimeter a half-league round to the north and along the river bank, all while seeming to nibble the grass and leaves. Aragorn wasn't sure what exactly made him certain she was doing this, only that her ears were forever trained in those directions, her head came up rather more often than a grazing horse's normally would, and she tested the air with her flared nostrils just as frequently. He'd never seen anything like it. With that slender assurance of warning should they come under threat, he was able to gather what skimpy deadwood there was and make a fire. Keeping it going was another problem for which he was too tired to consider the solution at the moment. Who it might draw to their camp was an additional but unavoidable risk.

Let it be one of the clans of the Rohirrim.

The fire was for him and quickly he stripped out of his soaked garments and huddled close to the dancing flames. Everything was saturated: cloak, blanket, clothes, boots, way-bread, herbs and bandaging, everything. He knew he should spread it all out in the sun but couldn't find the energy to do it. Besides, it wouldn't have time to dry before sunset and it would all only become damp again in the dew come dawn. His shoulder was aching miserably and he groaned, raising and rotating the arm as much as he dared just to see what range of motion was left to him, which proved to be negligible as far as wielding a sword was concerned. He sincerely hoped the orcs of Dol Guldur had turned back.

Surely the Wraiths called them home for this important conclave with the Uruks.

Just what had the Wood Elf been doing, hanging about that blighted place alone? No sooner had he thought this and turned his eyes to track over the languishing form beside him than another of the convulsive seizures began. Aragorn moved closer and adjusted the shaft of an arrow he'd set between the elf's teeth to ensure he didn't bite through his tongue. Little more could he do than settle a comforting hand against the pounding heart and utter soothing assurances that he was not alone. The fit subsided and as before the struggle to evacuate the accumulating wastes from the poison began, the archer gurgling and heaving, twisting to his side and regurgitating the nasty stuff all over himself and the ground. The smell of it was the most putrid odour Aragorn had ever encountered and he had to struggle to keep his own gorge down. When it was done the depleted ellon moaned in that pathetic sounding way and fell limp.

The man did the best he could to clean up the mess but saw little point in going down to the river and gathering water for such a purpose. In minutes it would all start again and without actually taking off the stained clothes and scrubbing them in the flow there was no hope of actually cleansing away that stench. Aragorn had no energy to waste on that. He resettled the now deeply incised wooden dowel between the lax lips and was surprised to find weary blue eyes regarding him. Aragorn's brows rose as he smiled.

"You are awake," he announced. "I confess your resilience astounds me; most elves would already be dead. I have never known anyone to defeat poison of this nature without the aid of either a specific antidote or potent healing magic."

The elf blinked, inhaled a deep and frightfully noisy breath, fumbled the arrow from his mouth, and managed a hoarse whisper: "Nen, ha thelich." (Water, if you will it.)

"Gladly," Aragorn answered and fetched his water skin, which he'd kept near to hand just in case the elf recovered. He raised the archer's head and was gratified to see him drink several swallows before seeking to turn from the fluid.

Settling beside his patient, he eased open the thoroughly revolting tunic and carefully removed the dressing, brow furrowing as he inspected the ugly gash. The stitching was holding but the suture oozed a pinkish, yellowish fluid and the flesh it joined was still hot and swollen. With a sigh he gathered the sodden gauze remaining in his pack and bound it back as tight as the elf could stand. He was still conscious and Aragorn met the pain-filled gaze again.

"It does not look good," he said gravely. "Do you know if you are healing or not?"

This question raised an expression of supreme, unmitigated disdain; a difficult feat to achieve when one is debilitated and helpless but the archer managed it.

"Wood Elf," he rasped indignantly and struggled to lift a hand and tap his chest, though not near the wound. "Healed before dawn." That exhausted his available strength for some minutes so he was unable to do more than scowl at the man's openly sceptical expression and the speech that followed.

"I hope you are correct for there is little more I can do. I believe it would be best to open the wound and drain it again; packing it might be a better option than stitching it shut."

The huge round eyes regarded him in consternation made Aragorn cease his assessment as the ellon's hand wandered cautiously to the bandage, palpating ever so slightly. This initiated a sharp spasm of pain and a gasp.

"Nay! Do not tamper with it, mellon; it is in a most delicate state just now," the man caught and removed the offending fingers. "I had to close it thus for you were bleeding profusely and I could not staunch the flow. The suture is holding, but barely and there is a discharge the look and smell of which I do not like. Now that there is fire, I can cauterise it with the heat of the flames and perhaps that would purify the tainted flesh as well," he mused, glancing behind at the struggling blaze.

When he turned back he found himself facing the lethal end of a very finely made dagger, the blade engraved beautifully in an elegant if obscure elvish script, the steel inlaid with mithril in a pattern so ancient he could not hope to identify its meaning. It looked like something from the First Age. Somehow his patient had raised himself up on an elbow and drawn this cunningly hidden dirk, so quickly and quietly that Aragorn was really impressed. He looked past the dagger into eyes shining with fury and unchecked terror.

"Ah. That is not necessary, mellon," he said cautiously, moving as little as possible even though the elf's arm was already shaking with the effort to hold the dagger ready to strike. "Please, conserve your strength for killing any enemies we may yet have to face down. I mean you no harm of any sort."

"Flames! Torture! You call that no harm?" demanded the archer, croaking out these words and sweating from the pain maintaining the menacing posture was costing him. To his utter shame both arm and elbow gave out and he crumpled up in a heap. His eyes squeezed shut and he groaned in dismal defeat. He could not believe after all this that the man would truly burn him.

"Nay, not torture; it is a means of healing well known among the elves of Imladris where it is used extensively. I was trained there, as I told you," Aragorn clarified and made no move to take the weapon away. That more than anything ought to convince the Wood Elf of his sincerity.

"Noldorin idea of healing," the patient growled in a mix of fear and aversion, "kills as often as it cures."

"I will not do it if the wound improves as you believe it will." Aragorn was surprised by this remark but more so by the panicked response his words had yielded. "Be at peace. It is not my intent to make you suffer."

There was only the archer's stilted and strained effort to respire for answer and Aragorn deemed he was safe from attack for the moment. He backed away, returning to the fireside to warm himself and check whether his blanket was going to be dry enough to use during the night. It wasn't and he grunted in high displeasure, shivering and running his hands up and down his arms. The fire was dying and he would have to do something about that soon; plus, he had not as yet arranged shelter against the chill of Ithil's hours. It was autumn still and thus not cold enough to produce even a mild frost, but in his condition he needed real sleep and not the uncomfortable tossing and shivering he would endure in the open. He sighed, the sound more a low moan, and heaved himself upright.

"I must gather more wood," he offered in case the elf was watching but a glance revealed he was unconscious, only this time the eyes were not sealed tight. It was true healing sleep, something the man had seen many times, and portended a full recovery. Aragorn paused in wonder. "Indestructible," he murmured and gave a quick shake of the head as he set out.

When next the elf awoke, Aragorn had no indication of it and thus remained oblivious to the fact that he was being carefully observed for many minutes. It had been some hours and the sun had set, leaving only the meagre light of the humble campfire to provide illumination until the rising of the moon. He had found little enough wood and was anticipating losing the comforting heat and light long before dawn. Thus, he was occupied creating a means to remain both hidden and warm.

Still naked, he was struggling to carve out a shallow bowl in the soft earth. It took a great deal of effort as all he had to use was in fact the Wood Elf's dagger and his hands. When he was satisfied with the little trench, which happened shortly after the elf awoke and began watching him, he flopped over on his back beside the slight depression, panting and voicing a truly vile curse up into the darkening sky. The effort had raised his temperature and set his shoulder to producing waves of stabbing agony all through his back and down his arm. Not only that, the perspiration coating him would soon have him shivering again. He wasn't sure but he might be feverish, too. It would be just ridiculous to have survived all the events previous only to perish in the night from exposure or a raging infection.

Or both, more likely.

"Kalrô, why are you naked?" asked the Wood Elf quietly and was amused to see the startled reaction his query produced. The man sat bolt upright and held the now dirt-caked dagger out before him. He exhaled and lowered the weapon and himself back to the ground with a pained grunt.

"Valar, you made my heart stop, mellon," Aragorn complained. "Are you always so silent?"

"It is my nature," said the archer.

Save for the man's heavy breathing, he gave no further explanation and while the elf was not content with this he realised his benefactor was not in the best condition. He waited patiently for several minutes and then wondered if the man had fallen asleep or lost consciousness. That would not do; he knew mortals were weak, subject to putrefaction even from small wounds, and had no desire for this one to die. A worthy fighter among the tribe of men was rare and this one was exceptional even among that small number. Tracking a band of Uruks alone was unheard of, but to then engage them in bloody warfare was absolutely insane.

And very brave, noble.

Other humans of which the elf knew would have hastily thrown in their lot with the advancing Uruks. Whether or not that would save them was irrelevant, they possessed no honour.

"Kalrô," he called urgently, "can you hear? Are you well?" He raised himself once more to elbow height to peer at the still form.

"I hear," answered Aragorn, "but I am not well. And you?"

"As I said, healed by the time Anor rises," reminded the woodland warrior. "What can I do?"

Aragorn exhaled a rather harsh laugh, coming up to sit beside the elf and evaluate his condition. The ellon's eyes were clear but it was plain he was still suffering deeply and weakened by the toxins coursing through his system. Tremors visibly ran over his frame in regular waves, rippling down his torso and legs, forcing him to clench his jaws to keep them from chattering. The notion, virtuous though its motive might be, that he would be able to tend to himself much less anyone else was ludicrous.

"I do not think it wise for you to exert yourself just yet, mellon. The poison recedes but still has you in its clasp. Stay still and let your body heal fully." He reached over and landed a companionable pat against his patient's shoulder, casually letting his fingers brush the white throat so to test the heat there. The skin was almost icy to touch.

"Kalrô, I am not…"

"What is that you keep calling me?" Aragorn cut him off. "I hope it is not something unpleasant like 'ugly dim-witted mortal' or such." The elf giggled, a bright soft sound almost child-like in its clear, ringing tones and the man smiled to hear it.

"Nay, it means a man, noble and brave. It means what you are." He propped himself up a little more so that he was almost sitting but then found he could not do better as a sharp stab of pain lanced through his chest. "Is there any more water?" he managed with difficulty.

"Aye," Aragorn brought it forth and again helped him drink, noticing he consumed nearly the entire contents of the skin this time. "That is a fine thing to call me, but I have a name and would hear you speak that instead. I am Aragorn, a Ranger of the lands about Eriador."

"Mae govannen, Aragorn of Eriador. I am Legolas," said the archer and raised his arm to clasp the man's, touching on the soft thin layer of hair on the bare skin. "Aragorn, why are you naked?"

"Because all my clothes are soaking wet and I am chilled and likely to become more chilled if something isn't done about it soon," Aragorn answered somewhat gruffly. "If my nakedness offends you, I am sorry, but humans do not have the defences against the natural elements which the First-born possess."

"I am not offended; I just didn't know," Legolas hastened to explain, embarrassed, and drew his hand back.

"Curious one, are you?" chuckled Aragorn. "Have you ever met a human before, Legolas?" This innocuous query produced a distinct change in the elf that perplexed and worried Aragorn, for Legolas grew quiet and suddenly turned away his face. He gave no answer at all and time spread between them into an uncomfortable gulf. The air around the archer was lit by a new intensity in his soft elvish glow and Aragorn had the impression his words had made Legolas both angry and frightened. Not sure how to handle this, he decided to change the subject when his companion at last spoke.

"I am wet and cold, also," Legolas complained softly. "If I could rise, I would show you where there is a peat bog close by. That would render fuel that would warm us well."

"A fine idea, but I fear neither of us is fit enough to cut peat for the fire," Aragorn replied. He did not doubt the ellon's claim, assuming he could probably smell the bog, but since he could not it must be farther than was plausible for them to journey, even with the horse to help. "If we can survive the night, then your fine mare will carry us to a better location on the morrow."

"I will survive it," assured Legolas, but then shuddered violently and abruptly rolled over and retched, bringing up the water and more of the horrid black fluid. He coughed and groaned and tried to drag himself away from the stinking smear of sticky gunk coating the ground beside him. At the same time he noticed it was all over him and in his hair. "Ai! Tawar nin beria."

"Be still," exhorted Aragorn, moving to help him. "Listen to me, Legolas. I have made a place for us to spend the night, a sort of burrow, there beside the fire pit. I will line it with willow fronds and fern from the bank and over it I will prop my blanket. Though it is still damp, as long as the fabric does not lie upon us it will not rob us of heat. If we share this space I believe our combined warmth will keep us hale through Ithil's hours. Yet for this to succeed, I cannot lie against your wet garments. You will need to be naked, too. Can you abide this?"

"I can abide it," Legolas answered without hesitation, though his voice was not quite so assured as the words proclaimed.

"Good. Then rest while I finish the burrow," said Aragorn and left him there, eager to be done and settled under the crude shelter before the fire died. He had rather the Wood Elf be unconscious, in a way, as he detected some strong conflict within him and suspected the rumours about the woodland folk must be true. It was said in Imladris, by his brothers no less, that they held human-kind responsible for negating the valiant sacrifice of so many of Greenwood's people at the Battle of the Last Alliance. Isildur's Folly, the man reflected, yet again proved his bane, too. Lying next to one of the Second-born in so vulnerable an estate, wounded and helpless to boot, was not going to be an easy thing for this ellon to do.

Nor for me. What if he does fall senseless and awakens suddenly in his pain and sickness? I may die this night by the hand of the one who saved me.

It was a sobering thought and the man wondered if there was any means to politely keep the dagger, which the elf had not demanded returned to him. Aragorn worked quickly despite his reservations for he was shaking now with cold and had need to stop and give his body rest. It seemed a monumental task to drive the branches meant to support the blanket into the pliant ground. That done, he settled the woollen cover over them and dragged himself back to the Wood Elf's side. All this time Legolas had remained still and silent and Aragorn hoped to find him submerged in healing slumber. Such was not the case.

"You do not look well," said Legolas, watching the man's staggering step as he neared and dropped heavily to his knees beside him.

"Nor do you," remarked Aragorn, displeased to see this was true. Legolas was shaking nearly as badly as he, skin pale and glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. He worried if there might be internal bleeding he had not adequately stopped and whether he was observing signs of shock. "What can you tell me about what is happening to you?"

"I am cold," Legolas shrugged one shoulder faintly. "The poison is still in me. I…I may still be fraught with the need to purge."

"If that is all then it is nothing we need worry over," assured Aragorn, hoping to ease the Wood Elf's mortification. It was so uncommon for one of the First-born to be ill that it was deemed a sign of weakness.

"It is vile," murmured Legolas with great disgust and was shocked to hear the man laugh.

"When last I checked, elves did not suffer ill-effects from the application of water and soap," he joked, "nor do humans. When we are rested and feeling better, we will simply have to wash in the river."

"You are not bothered by any of this?" Legolas gazed at him in mild dread, knowing what must come next for he had already tried to undress and failed. He was nearly as helpless as a babe.

"Is there reason to be?" asked Aragorn lightly, but then thought anew about the possibility of a struggle in the dark with his new friend. "You would not murder me by accident, would you, Legolas?"

"What?" Legolas pushed himself up on his elbow with difficulty and glared into the shadowy face regarding him. "That is an extremely insulting thing to say. If I was not ill, I would make you take it back."

"It is an honest concern, nothing more," insisted Aragorn. "What will you do if you waken beside me in the grip of pain and sickness, mistaking me as the cause?"

"That will not happen," spat Legolas, furious.

"How can you be sure?" demanded Aragorn. "I mean no offence to your sense of honour, for you have saved my life. Having done so, I hope to make certain you do not reverse the gift by mistake."

"I would never confuse you for the cause of my injuries," huffed Legolas, "no matter how deep in the grip of this poison I fall. Know you so little of the First-born? I thought you said you were a trained healer."

"I am but this is not a subject that has ever come up. I told you, most of the elves I know would already be dead by now."

"You must not know any Wood Elves."

"Until today, I did not."

They fell silent then, regarding one another in the flickering shadows cast by the wavering tongues of the subsiding fire. Legolas peered intently into the man's eyes, struggling to see in the gloom whether there was anything to counter what his instincts told him. From the first moment he'd come upon Aragorn fighting so valiantly against such impossible odds, he'd sensed that here was a worthy man who should not be permitted to die such a meaningless death. Hearing his voice gave further evidence of a mind and spirit filled with wisdom and compassion. He did not believe this was a person prone to speaking falsehoods. If this was so, then he truly did not understand. Legolas sighed and gave a quick nod to himself.

"I have already accepted you," he said. "We share a bond of life over death, even as you said. I know your scent and the very rhythm of your heartbeat. This is something I am not able to forget, no matter my health. It is something that happens inside the soul, not the mind, and overrides all. I could never raise my hand against you much less kill you. It would be like kin-slaying."

"Truly?" Aragorn was amazed, never having heard of this before. "Is this the way for all the woodland folk?"

"To my knowledge."

"Then I have no reservations," announced Aragorn, "other than fear of causing you distress or worsening your injury."

"You also are wounded and have had no help tending the cut. What should I do if your worsen in the night?"

"There is little you could do, I fear, in your present state. We will have to trust the Powers this night. Tomorrow, if your strength returns, then perhaps you can take a look for me. Have you any skill in the healing arts?"

"Only the most rudimentary knowledge," Legolas shook his head, "but I can clean and dress a wound as well as any and stitch it if need demands."

"Then that is what you will do, but tomorrow. I am beyond weary, Legolas, and have need to get into the warmth of that burrow. With your permission, I would help you remove those wet garments before we move into the den."

"Aye," sighed Legolas unhappily. He submitted to Aragorn's careful manipulation, aiding as much as possible to turn or lift when needed. The tunic and shirt were not particularly daunting though the removal was painful and left him gasping, grateful the man waited until he recovered somewhat before continuing. Peeling off the leather leggings was humiliating but not overly uncomfortable.

"There," announced Aragorn cheerfully. "Now I feel less awkward."

"You did not seem anxious before," said Legolas, bewildered.

"Well, it is not the custom of my kind to parade around unclothed before strangers," he shrugged. "Now that we are both bare as new-born babes, you will be too self-conscious to be staring."

"I have not been staring," Legolas was appalled and again was shocked by the deep, rolling laughter that issued from the man.

"Ai Elbereth, Legolas, I am but joking to lessen the discomfort of this situation. Do the woodland folk not make jests with one another?"

"Yes, of course, I just didn't realise you weren't being serious."

"So, you have memorised my heartbeat and could track me by scent, but my personality remains a mystery to you. How odd," mused Aragorn.

"Why is it odd?," demanded Legolas, very uncomfortable to be lying beneath this person's candid and intense inspection. "I just met you today." He shifted and tried to shield his genitals without making it appear that's what he was doing, which is of course impossible, and that just made it all the more embarrassing. He flushed in mortified anger. "And you are the one staring as though you've never seen a naked elf before. Again I question your claim to knowledge of the healing arts."

"Forgive me, I am sorry," Aragorn blushed himself to realise he truly had been staring. "I confess I have never beheld a naked Wood Elf and your form is different enough from what I have seen to be interesting. Now I know you are as cold as I so enough of this. Let us crawl to that warm burrow before I freeze. Are you ready?"

"Aye, but you will have to help. I cannot stand on my own."

"I don't think either of us can stand right now. When I said crawl, Legolas, I was being serious."

"Oh."

Never had such a short distance seemed so immense. While the pair did not really have to slither on their bellies like snakes, the best they could manage was a painfully slow knee-walk through the grass, each one gripping onto the other, Legolas' arm wrapped round Aragorn's waist since his shoulder was injured, Aragorn's arm secured round the Wood Elf's shoulder to prevent accidentally jostling the chest wound. Before they made it to the covered den, Legolas doubled over and vomited again. After recovering from that, the two crossed the last remaining bit of ground to reach the shelter and there halted.

"How," Legolas began to ask but had no breath to spare, struggling to inhale against the raging agony assailing his lungs. He thought the stitches had likely pulled loose but had no wish nor the energy to report this to Aragorn. He leaned limply against the man, arm falling away from its death grip.

"Hey!" Aragorn cried, suddenly feeling the elf collapse. Without thinking he raised his hand and slapped the pale cheek lolling against his shoulder. "Awaken, Legolas, for just a few moments more, mellon."

"Ai!" Legolas shook his head to clear it. "You…you struck me!"

"Only to make you alert, not to hurt you," insisted the man. "You may hit me back if you wish."

"I will, too," mumbled Legolas but hadn't the strength to do it. "Hurts to breathe," he admitted faintly.

"Aye, this is more exertion than the wound can support. Now listen to me, Legolas. I am going in first for my weight is too much for your body to bear resting atop it. Then I will help pull you in and…"

"Nay, an elf is much stronger than a man. I should go first and then you climb in after that."

Aragorn gazed at the slight elf and did not doubt Legolas was indeed the stronger of the two, but that had nothing to do with the troubles they faced. Deciding his companion was too near collapse to waste time arguing, Aragorn set him gently down and crawled under the wool covering and into the shallow hole. Reaching up, he grasped Legolas' arms and heaved him in, grunting when the lithe body flopped gracelessly atop him.

Legolas cried out sharply and thrashed against the sudden explosion of pain, unconsciously clinging to Aragorn as he tried to master the assault of anguish. He was drifting into oblivion and knew it, welcomed it. The last thing he thought was that this was a very good heart beneath his ear; rather furry, but trustworthy and strong.

Aragorn smiled and settled a hand on the head pillowed against his chest, knowing Legolas had no idea he had just spoken those thoughts aloud. He found he felt the same, save that Legolas was completely hairless. Despite the harrowing day, he considered the meeting a good thing and was glad for it. He ran his hand down the slight body, thankful for the second time the Wood Elf's density was so light. It was like a living swath of cashmere draped over his aching bones and posed no burden at all.

Warmth began quickly soothing Aragorn's weary muscles and he smiled, deciding this was an unusual but not an unwelcome sort of blanket. The fiery spirit of the First-born made them naturally hotter compared to humans and Legolas was no exception. The elf felt so cold because he was radiating away so much of this internal fire. Confined in the insulating earth, pressed against another body, the loss should subside and Legolas should likewise begin to respond.

They would both be helpless through the night with only the stalwart little mare standing guard somewhere out in the open prairie. Even so, Aragorn felt safe and hopeful, peaceful and content. He prayed to all the Powers on high to shield them from enemies and protect them from the elements. He added extra supplications to Estë to keep Legolas from bleeding to death and him from succumbing to infection. More than this he was too weary to manage and he soon joined Legolas in dreamless sleep.


TBC

Some Important Dates to Keep in Mind:
taken from Encyclopaedia of Arda (http://www.glyphweb.com/ARDA/)

2930

Birth of Denethor in Minas Tirith, later to become Steward Denethor II.

2931

1 March Birth of Aragorn II Elessar.


2941

Expulsion of the Necromancer from Dol Guldur by the White Council.

October The Battle of Five Armies.

2948

Birth of Théoden, later King of Rohan.

2951


The Nazgûl are sent to reclaim Dol Guldur.

2953

Death of Steward Turgon. He is succeeded by his son, Ecthelion II.

Death of King Fengel of Rohan. He is succeeded by his son Thengel.

2957

Aragorn enters the service of Thengel of Rohan, under the alias of Thorongil.


2980

Death of King Thengel of Rohan. He is succeeded by his son Théoden.

'Thorongil' (Aragorn) leaves the service of Gondor and travels into the east.

Disclaimer: Main characters and settings originally created by JRR Tolkien. Just for fun, no money earned. OC's and story are erobey's. The title is taken from "What fates impose, that men must needs abide; It boots not to resist both wind and tide." which is from from Shakespeare's Henry VI, part 3, Act IV, Scene III