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.

A/N includes some non con, bdsm and torture in a dream sequence. I did originally write it far more graphically and then decided to cut it instead. Such vile detail was not what I wanted in this fic. Just imagine your own very worst nightmare fantasy.


CHAPTER 20: LOVE OVER DEATH

ROWANNEN:

I have fed our horses and polished their harness in readiness, for they must at least ride forth in strength and pride, but before this next journey I have respects to pay. Legolas walks with me, quietly pays his own homage with his hand over his heart as we reach the tombs and I kneel before Theoden. The king is laid out in state, covered in royal green and gold banners. His face at rest, stony but peaceful. I reach and touch his icy cheek, remembering his valour, his humour, his steadfastness, the love he showed to Eowyn and Eomer. A fine King. Legolas is silent, respecting my allegiance to his passing and my memories of him as a man.

Eomer steps behind us, entering the chamber, reverence in his slow steps. He will let show none of the bitterness that may currently lie unresolved between us, not in the presence of an ancestor. His voice echoes in the silent space. “I will see to his burial in due time. If it be granted, we will bear him from this place and lay him to rest in the tombs of his forbears in Rohan, in glory and honour.” I hear in his tone much respect and grief for the man who was as a father to him as well as his king. A man who taught him much and whose memory he will cherish.

I turn, another question on my lips. “Snowmane?” I query. No less important are the funeral rites for his steed, who served him valiantly, despite falling to the enemy and crushing his body in the end. He would have it no different.

Eomer’s eyes soften as they look on me. “Even now it is being done, Rowannen. So great a steed will not be burnt alongside other rotten carcasses that lie on that bitter field, nor be left for carrion food. The Rohirrim have dug a grave barrow and will inter her body there in great honour. The final resting place of one of the Mearas will be marked.” I nod back at him with a grateful smile. Then we leave him alone to stand by the bier. I can see in the set of his wide shoulders that he is praying and my thoughts are that he is asking for whatever he needs bestowing upon him, in order to be as great and honourable a leader of Rohan as Theoden and others who have gone before. I pray for him too.

I have another goodbye to say before we leave. Legolas waits by the stables whetting his knives as I enter the Houses of Healing. To my joy Eowyn is awake, though weak and somewhat battered. Her voice is faint as she returns my exclamations of relief. “Yes, I am recovering.”

We talk a little about Theoden and his demise. I linger only briefly on that, for such shadow is in her eyes still. I assure her of the valour of the Rohirrim in the battle and of the great part she herself has played. She smiles weakly. “Rowannen, I knew such fear, warfare is terror, bravery feels an odd word to describe how it really is, but I found at the last much courage. Though it has drained me,” she admits to me.

I have to tell her now of the new plans and of my decision. She turns her head on the pillow at my words. “Will you not stay with me?” she entreats. I shake my head sadly. She stares back but understands. “Then I wish you courage too, whatever befalls. Go well, my friend.” I look long at her. This may be my last look. She lowers her lashes from my gaze. “Would that I died in bitter battle though, rather than here in despair.”

A tall man in a velvet robe rises from a windowseat nearby. I am amazed to see it is the Lord Faramir, Steward still of Gondor. I am glad to see him so well recovered, though I am sure beneath his garments his body has still much healing to do. He comes to stand beside us, looks down at Eowyn with a smile. His eyes are knowing and kind. “Speak not of despair. There is much healing to be found here. My heart tells me that darkness will not endure.”

It amazes me that so many of us have lost so much and face still the greatest peril, yet strength and hope rise upward. His eyes as they meet mine say it all. There is no other way, the alternative is the end. I rise to go and he nods at me, taking my place on the edge of her bed. Outside the horses are gathering and clattering downward over the cobbles. Legolas is waiting, the reins of Arod and Feannim threaded lightly through his fingers. He stands until I have fastened my cloak and swung into the saddle, then he mounts the grey in one fluid movement, adjusts his quiver straps and settles himself. His hand reaches out to mine and covers my fingers gently before withdrawing and we move off, down through the city to the plain and take our place in the company. Aragorn is overseeing those who ride, mindful that they must be fit, have resolve and come of free will. His eyes rest on me and widen in protest.

Legolas speaks, draws his stare. “Estel, this time she needs to be with me. I need to be with her. There is nothing to question here, we face this together, direct your concern elsewhere.” Aragorn’s eyes narrow momentarily, his thought flies far from this battlefield; so distant is his gaze that it could be searching another world entirely. Then he brings himself back to the present. Nods curtly, but with grace.

“Legolas, never have I been given cause to mistrust your judgement in any matter. I will not begin now. As you wish.” His eyes alight on me one more time with compassion and he resumes his duties.

LEGOLAS:

The journey begins easily enough. We leave the city well manned with the promise of yet more reinforcement from the south and sweep in great company down the road to the causeway, passing orchards and fertile sloping terraces and townlands, already sown with crops. Will they grow and bear fruit within Yavanna’s wish? I wonder for an instant and then leave it in her hands.

We cross the wide river to continue east by the long straight road to Minas Morgul, made in days gone by, to run from the tower of the sun to the tower of the moon. I exchange glances with Elladan and Elrohir. It is a strange, fateful feeling to be travelling this road that our ancestors also rode in ages past. Our task the same, as at that last great alliance between elves and men, to defeat evil at its source. Our thoughts mingle and we push away the fact that in this age we are the only elves amongst a small company of weary men, pitting ourselves against what may be the greatest force evil can command. Aragorn too is stern faced but resolute. We must keep spirits staunch. Aragorn has trumpets blown and issues a challenge as we traverse the crossroads. The very stones seem to be listening and the land is watchful, but no answer comes.

Rowannen is quiet. She has been the recipient of strange looks from the men. I have seen their glances of incredulity at her femininity here among this host of males. Males, who themselves quake at what is before us, men who have left their wives and children behind with sad parting words. When we halt to rest and water the horses I help her fasten the leather rohirric armour around her body. Her eyes meet mine and search them for a long time. I think she finds her answer. I will do all I can to stay with her. There are many here, maybe all, who will never see loved ones again. Their unspoken grief hangs like a pall. Rowannen and I ride close together legs brushing each other. Arod and Feannim matching strides. Our pace is slow on account of those on foot. When we reach the end of living land and cross into waste and desolation the horror creeps into many hearts. Smoke and fumes rise from the cracked earth, the stench of the ravaged land is nauseating and some cannot go on. Aragorn has pity on these young men to whom Mordor has been but a tale and now is manifest in true hideousness. He gives them other tasks to complete and would release them from this charge and in his mercy most find new courage and resolve. Estel would make a fine King. The twins again reach my mind. They are closer to him even than I in many ways and see his quality fully, wish to see him fulfil his heritage and rule. Can we hold fast to a spark of insane hope? Hold to the trust that there is yet some purpose in this last battle? Keep faith that all is not in vain?

High above, hidden from all sight but my own keen perception, fly the Nazgul. That the enemy knows we advance, despite launching no attack yet, is a fact that will serve no purpose divulged, so I keep the knowledge to myself. Instead I begin to sing as we ride. Songs of the beauty we have left behind, beauty we wish to endure. Of the lilies of Lebennin and the wind in the grass and of the glory of mountains, for those men amongst us. My thoughts stray to the greenwood and elven songs too I sing in my own language as a tribute to those of the firstborn still in Arda, for how long we know not. The twins join me, here and there singing a chorus. Elrohir’s voice much like to mine own in tone, clear and strong. Elladan’s a shade deeper yet still pure. The muted murmurings in the company are stilled as men listen and I hope if only for some time at least, that it has lessened the weight of cold dread in the pit of them. Rowannen watches me, her eyes follow my lips, smile at my eyes, her ears drink me in. “I remember hearing you sing the night you came to Edoras,” she says softly. “It was as beautiful as your songs now.” I smile gently, knowingly, her presence outside my door, which she had thought a secret, now open between us. She manages to stay strong in spirit as we ride ever further and I am proud of her, but I feel her quail as finally we draw to the black gate and face Sauron’s ambassador.


ROWANNEN:

The black gates loom before us. Aragorn having positioned our meagre army as proficiently as possible calls for Legolas to ride with him. “I will be but a little while, wait,” he instructs me. All are represented. Imrahil rides, Eomer for our people, Gandalf, Gimli and Pippin, Elladan and Elrohir. The harsh horns and clang of gates assaults our ears even at a distance and I cringe for Legolas, so much closer with his fine hearing. I wonder if there is some way he can filter unwanted noise and realise that there is yet so much I do not know of him, so many things yet to discover. We are still so new and sorrow fills me at the thought of it ending so soon.

Even from this further vantage my heart is sickened by the steed I see emerge from the gates. So far mutated from how a horse should be. Instead of the gentlest, soft, quivering muzzle, I see sharp nostrils as hard as blades. Instead of refined curves of bone, sheathed in dappled shades of smooth hair, I see harsh angles protruding against scaly hairless flesh. Instead of deep eyes filled with knowledge and willingness, framed by long lashes, there are scoured sockets in the skull from which no life projects, only a fearful fire and I understand Legolas’s feelings at how he felt he did orcs a service by relieving them of their lives. Were I skilled with a bow and within range I would be compelled to do likewise for this warped travesty of a noble equine. I shudder and feel Feannim shift uneasily beneath me. I cannot hear the voice of the rider but I know the master of such a beast must be twisted and fell. I see this Mouth of Sauron hold something aloft and the scorn in his demeanour flows from him across the divide. I watch intently, see Gandalf defy him, but little knowledge of the exchange is discernable from where I wait.

Legolas returns with Aragorn, all of the vanguard are grimfaced, almost broken. They say not what took place, make no mention of any terms for surrender offered, only. “It will be a hard fight.” Legolas leans from the saddle and kisses me lightly, a kiss lacking in desire, the first time this has been absent from his lips, but filled with friendship and love. “Stay close to me, meleth, I pray you will use all your skill and bravery.” His eyes capture mine for a long moment. “You are the most precious gift I have ever been entrusted with. Know that I love you above all.” Then he gathers Arod in readiness for battle and it is well, for forth from the gates and surrounding hills stream orcs and Easterlings. I keep his gaze as I draw my sword.

The sound of arrows whining and the sickening thud of axe blade on bone has become commonplace now to me. Inspired as I have been, by the skill of the elves fighting by my side and the frantic desperation and adrenaline of fighting for life, I am growing weary. My arms are heavy with sword wielding. This then is the bravery that Eowyn spoke of, a determination to go on even when it is futile. We are surrounded by a sea of darkness and evil. I can see Elrohir swirl through the dust on my left, hacking away at a foe, his black locks flying, steel in his eyes, strength knotted in his arms. Legolas close too, desperate fire in his features. His arrows are long spent, but untiring he whirls the blades held in his skilled fingers. I am aware that they are never far from me and are attempting to protect me. The sun is a deep red and the wings of the nazgul darken the sky over our heads, their screams chilling. Advancing around us across the mire come hill trolls. This then is the fear Eowyn spoke of when all there is left is to find courage.

I lift my blade with both hands, leaning from Feannim’s saddle to bring it down and sever the spine of an orc when an overwhelming flash of pain assails me. The back of my head is stricken by something beyond my comprehension. Red, more red, my arms stop working, the sword slides from my hands. I see the blade piercing the orc as it drops, the hilt arcing over. I lose control of my body and try as I might; I cannot find any nerves or muscles to stop myself from falling, slipping sideways I tumble from the saddle. Strange, I do not feel myself hit the ground but I know I must have for I see Feannim above me. Her neck is lathered with sweat but curved and proud as she steps across and stands over me to protect me as our steeds are taught to do for a fallen rider. I wonder if she will be able to guard me until rescue comes but then I realise what a vain thought this is. This is not a battle that supports the wounded. My mare bends her head, long mane sweeping to the earth and her muzzle blows tenderly into my out-thrown fingers. I want to lie motionless for a moment and then move to get up and praise her, as ever I did in training. I cannot. Does she know this time it is different? Will she wonder why I remain still? Will she be cut down herself as she stands and fall to crush me as Snowmane did the King? It would be a good way to die, with my faithful steed.

My vision is clouding when I am moved, Feannim steps sideways, someone must have commanded her and hands must be lifting me, for my perspective shifts. He is here. Those azure eyes, a blue fire of anger and love, gazing at me, bringing me closer. I want to stay with him so much, but I am like a new-hatched fish being swept into a flood. I cannot swim against the tide. I am floating away, far away but as I go I feel a faint smile on my lips and my last thought is that I will die in his arms. I am where I need to be.

LEGOLAS:

I sense her fall, see from the corner of my eye, bright hair tumbling and her body lose control. Wheeling around, my knives hack mercilessly through the scales of troll hide. The hammer the troll wielded falls from his grasp. The creature is swaying and to all purpose is dead, when Elrohir whips round and plunges his sword deep into its belly and it finally collapses with a grunt.

I kneel. Feannim is standing over her and will not shift. One of the Rohirrim behind us, in a lull of the action takes in the situation and issues an order in his own language. The mare steps carefully sideways and I gather Rowannen into my arms. The fear that was hinted at, at Pellenor, threatens to overwhelm me and I force it away. I am battling a new foe here. She is limp as I lift her, but her eyes flicker and her lips form a slight bow of a smile before clouds dim her vision and her eyelids close. “NO!” I do not shout out loud, but Elladan and Elrohir hear my shout in their minds as loud as the lonely mountain erupting with dragon fire, reverberating as Numenor’s fall into the sea.

I trust them to fight on and they do, yet other noises begin to take the place of battle cries, the wing beats of eagles, an imploding sigh, the toppling of masonry, the fleeing feet of foes. Welcome sounds, but as not as welcome as her voice would be. I stand with her in my arms and watch the fall of Sauron, see his empire crumple, his minion’s retreat, robbed of their power. So it is done. It is done. The improbable, what we hoped in vain for, is achieved and Frodo has triumphed. The ring unmade. I am dimly aware of Gandalf soaring aloft on the back of the windlord, aware of great relief, of incredulity and elation and a movement to make for home and take possession of our victory, but horror freezes within me. How can it be? That after all, now when unexpected triumph is given, she has been hewn down, robbed of her vitality moments before the complete change in our fortunes. My mind is howling. Mandos, No! Do not claim her. This cannot be my sacrifice. What could be your purpose in this? Even as I protest, I regain some calm and peace. It is no use asking questions such as these of the Valar. The workings of their will at the end of things are beyond any understanding, maybe even their own. Only Iluvatar has power here and the Valar do his will as they are bid unfailingly. So will I do what I can.

Companies gather together. Wounded are tended. Aragorn, Imrahil, Eomer, Ingold, and other captains rally and issue commands, pulling together the armies, giving form and purpose to the sweep of incredulous emotion, bringing order. I whistle Arod to me and Feannim responds also. Ro is near, his arms trembling still with exertion of battle, he offers himself and I let him hold her while I mount Arod. Then he carefully passes her into my arms and I settle her gently in front of me resting on the saddle and leaning against me as if she was but a sleeping child. I reach for Feannim’s reins and begin to lead her with us. She walks close to my side as if wishing to be near her mistress. The twins ride before and behind me, shielding me with their silent strength.

I hold Rowannen firmly as we ride, calling on my elvish nature to banish terror for I feel her body growing colder. She rocks against me in time with Arod’s motion but of her own life there is little sign. I pray mile after mile. Deep shafts of gold pierce downward from massed grey clouds shot with red. It is a portent of life’s fire, life’s golden promise springing from the dark and bloodshed to bless the land with light untainted again. ‘Promise me Iluvatar, promise me, do not let her end here, not now.’

The earth grows green again and the sweet lands of Ithilien are about us once more. We halt to camp at the field of Cormallen, for all are too weary to travel further. The walking wounded need rest, as do we all who have battled so fiercely. Elrohir holds her steady as I slide from Arod and then he relinquishes her back to my arms.

“Elladan will find blankets, will you not Gwador?” Ro asks. His twin nods and shortly there is a soft nest for me to lay my precious burden down. Elrohir unharnesses all our mounts and tethers them in reach of the stream and fresh grass. Elladan sits close and reaches a hand toward Rowannen a question in his eyes. I nod giving him leave and his fingers touch her, searching her injury. Practised fingers sliding through her hair, over the bruised flesh at the base of her skull.

“The bones are not shattered, Las. By some miracle the hammer has glanced sideways and caused no crushing and splintering. Were that the case, no hope would she have. We can but wait and hope she awakes.” He opens his pouch and lifts out a vial. The vivid green of its contents visible through the pale glass. Our most common elven potion for pain, distilled from leaves common to many realms. “Should she wake, you will need this for her very mind will be consumed with hurt.” Dan passes it into my fingers and I slip it into a small compartment of my quiver, a space kept for collecting feathers in.

I watch throughout the evening. She lies as still as stone. There is no change. The coldness of her flesh makes me shiver. I fold the blankets over her and wrap my own limbs about her chilled form. Elrohir has collected wood, good dry beech branches and soon a fire is blazing nearby. Makeshift canvas shelters and larger pavilions are being erected, but I wish to stay here by the flames. Unless rain falls then we will stay outdoors. I struggle one handed to release the fastenings, manage somehow with dextrous fingers to pull away the leather armour from her shoulders and torso, she needs it no longer and twas not any help for her in the event. I flex my fingers, remembering the time not so long past when I fastened it, praying for protection. I take a deep breath.

Eomer strides by and halts and stares at us both. Elladan walks a little way off with him, hoping perhaps that I will be out of earshot of their exchange. It is in vain, he forgets that a woodelf has sharper hearing than those of Imladris heritage.

“I swore Legolas would answer to my sword if he hurt her.” Eomer’s voice shakes. “She lies now in mortal danger. If she dies…..” he takes a breath in and cannot go on.

“I believe Legolas would welcome your sword eagerly Eomer, if that is the outcome” Elladan murmurs, his tone low. “Think you, he wishes to endure eternity with the knowledge that his acceptance of her presence was the cause of her loss. He had his own reasons for allowing her to ride with him. He is suffering the consequence now. Leave him with that, Eomer. Use your energy elsewhere.”

The Horselord strides away, fists clenched.
Elladan returns. “You must sleep, Las,” he counsels.

“Then if I sleep. I will sleep here.” I reply. My voice is beyond weariness.

He packs a soft cloak beneath my shoulders, puts his hand on my shoulder, leans me backward gently with my love cradled still against my chest. He knows why I cannot let her go. Knows that I am clinging onto her in the hope that she will cling to me from wherever she is and if she cannot, then I want her to be in my arms at her end.

Elrohir sits with his brother and unlaces his tunic. I had noted the bloodstain and watch now as Elladan cleanses the wound on his arm and binds it.

“’Tis but a scratch and not poisoned.” He assures me watching the direction of my gaze. He sees also the strain in my own eyes. “Be assured Las, we are here. Do not fight sleep; between us I give you a promise that someone will be awake and listening, taking care. Let us help you now.”

I do sleep, yet pockets of awareness punctuate the brief oblivion, One dark twin rises to replenish the logs on the fire, another shifts my legs and hers when they feel my muscles begin to cramp from lack of natural motion. Strong fingers assisting in whatever way they can to bear us onward through the night. The dawn breeze comes and lifts her hair, blows delicate strands across her face, stirring it into a life that she seemingly has no longer. My finger traces a cold cheek. Her skin is white and not even the rising sun can infuse it with the gold and blush that should reside there, fuelled naturally from within. I feel her breath drift faintly and slowly over my fingers as I move to gently touch her lips. ‘Do not leave me, meleth nin, do not go.’


ROWANNEN:

It is dark, so dark. I like black as a colour. My mare is black, her mane and tail sweep like soft darkness. I love the night sky in winter; deep black you could follow into the universe, all the better to offset the sparkle of pure starlight. The borders of our designs are often worked in black for emphasis, impact, contrast and strength. The pupils of eyes are black, a window into the soul, the best black.

This dark is not the same black that I know as a colour. This is black beyond all things, a total absence of all light, even any memory of light. Complete void. I am too shocked to be terrified. I curl my body into a ball, maybe if I am round, I can roll away through this space into somewhere else, but I cannot move, I do not move. Here there is nothing, no life, no movement. Void.

I am naked. More than that, as I feel a sense of myself in this place, I recognise that my hair is gone. None of it left to wrap around me, to give me beauty, or comfort, or warmth or hide me. I have none. I am bald, even my eyebrows and lashes are no longer there. Nothing of my old self from the world, nothing but naked vulnerable flesh. I screw my eyes shut, bend my skull toward soft breasts, still blackness, just void, no comforting flashes of light. I am bare too between my legs, no soft curls rustling together as I curl my knees closer to my body, just naked exposed flesh, so vulnerable.

LEGOLAS:

The smell of food cooking assures me that the life of the camp is continuing.
“Hannon lle.” I lift my head to accept the proffered morsel from Gimli’s hand as he comes to join us for breakfast. For a time he speaks of the fortunes and battle, recounts incidences, but at his mention of a troll he sees my face tighten and halts his conversation.

“Legolas, I can fashion a stretcher from stout branches and canvas,” he says gruffly instead, deciding to address the situation at hand and offer practicality. “It could be slung between two horses, Arod and another of like stature to him, as you ride. Rowannen could be secured with straps and make a comfortable journey I am sure, back to Minas Tirith.”

I shake my head. “I appreciate your offer, but no Gimli. I will hold her. She will share my horse.” The dwarf nods back at me, lowers his eyes in sympathy and resumes his repast.

Twilight is falling as we reach the city. News has reached the citizens and above the stones, flushed pale yellow and sparkling in the last rays of the sun, coloured banners stream out gaily into the spring breeze. All the way I have ridden one hand beneath her tunic, my fingers pressed to her heartbeat. It is faint but steady. Arod guided by my voice and Feannim following instinctively. The Houses of Healing are crowded, there is space only to lay her on a pallet on the floor. Though all in the city are delighted, with hearts now happy and hopeful, Eowyn and the girl Inara are brought to tears when they see me with her in my arms. I cannot tarry to explain and leave Gimli who has returned with Pippin to visit Merry to tell the tale.

“Bring her to the highest level, Legolas.” Aragorn advises as he assesses the situation. He makes available large chambers for us, a suite of spacious rooms. Somehow I must try and trickle fresh water down her throat for it is long since she had fluid. I find a clean rag and soak it in the drinking pitcher, gently squeezing and letting liquid seep between her lips, stroking her neck, willing her to swallow, but she does not.

Aragorn’s eyes appraise us honestly. “Las, I fear that now such time has passed that she will not regain consciousness alone. Left without medical attention she will waste and fade away. There is only Athelas. It is the best chance of bringing her back but I cannot gauge the effect it will have.”

“Explain what you mean, Estel,” I urge him. Many herbs and potions are used by the woodelves for healing but Athelas is one that does not grow in our forest and as such has seen use purely in the lands of men and Imladris. “Tell me of its properties.”

“It is most effective for inner trauma where no open wound is present and in instances where the damage is caused by the weapons of dark evil, but it is not without dangers and we use it only when it is all that will suffice. Merry, Eowyn, Faramir, many others have recovered with its use, true,” he hesitates. “It takes a toll sometimes on the body and mind. In what manner it cannot be judged beforehand.”

I search his eyes; follow the trains of his thought. “Merry is subdued. I have noticed much of his bright spark and humour has abated. Are you saying that he is permanently altered and will regain none of his former personality? The lady Eowyn too has lost her fire. You wish to warn me, that Rowannen, should she recover with Athelas, will be changed.”

Aragorn’s eyes stay on mine as he shrugs slightly. “With Merry, I wager that the effect is realised anyway from his experiences on this quest as well as the drug. He will rise to happiness again, but never without a taint. The lady Eowyn, she seems gentler and quieter now because her fire sprang from anger. Anger at grief and injustice. She has lost that anger and gained acceptance. I doubt that is purely Athelas’ doing though it will have affected her somehow. Rowannen’s fire is not born of anger. I feel her fire is her own true spirit born of who and what she is. She will not lose it Las, no, but it may be tempered. My fears stem from the fact that it is her head that is injured. Athelas may bring her back but it may play on her mind, induce hallucination and uncover memory best buried. How she will react when she awakes I have no way of predicting. I know only that it accentuates in the mind the causes of hurts even as it heals them physically. ”

“I thank you for warning me, but there is no choice, Aragorn. None. Her breathing is lighter by the hour. I do not wish to suffer longer in indecision, waiting for it to still. I bid you bring it immediately and help me administer it.” He hears the desperation underlying my calm resolve and rises. I listen to his footfalls and he wastes no time crossing the room. I lay her on the fresh linen and begin to ease her clothes from her body. So strange to see her lie wounded so badly and yet to have no mark on her flesh. All her skin is as white as her face. I run my finger along the line of a faint blue vein, willing the blood to flow, and her heart to beat stronger. My hand reaches her neck and straightens the narrow leather thong, centres the arrow between her breasts and automatically runs along the fletching, tidying the heron feather, aligning the quills as if it were needed for flight. Fly again for me, my butterfly, my bird, spread your wings.

I cover her gently with the sheet before Aragorn returns. Elladan accompanies him carrying steaming water which he pours onto fresh Athelas and sets near to the bed, the infusion spreads clean, pungent fumes throughout the air. Aragorn holds a small cup with a silver spoon, its handle long and slender as a stem, its bowl as small as a curved flower petal. He catches my eye, apprehension yes in his countenance, but also the knowledge of a healer, that he must do all he can do to preserve life.

“Hold her, Las. Lift her.” He tells me.

“I will adminster it,” I answer as I see him prepare to fill the small spoon and press it to her lips.

“You will not,” his voice is stern. “You will hold her only. Believe me, it is better that I am the agent. Give her your love, that is what she needs.”

Slowly as I tilt her head toward him he manages to slip the spoon between her lips and slowly like melting lava the Athelas infusion slips into her mouth and he grips her throat with his fingers in a strange motion and forces it to open. For a moment her breath ceases and I fight a frisson of panic. The liquid empties into her body and as his fingers relinquish their pressure, she begins again the shallow breathing so characteristic since her fall.


ROWANNEN:

I am beyond afraid. This is something beyond all imagination, a place where anything can happen or nothing. Nothingness seems most dreadful, but then as I am curled, around me in all directions come shapes, visions of orcs, rotting teeth and gums slavering, leering at me, their intentions to suck and bite at my flesh, enjoy the taste of me. Terror rushes through me as they advance. Haradrim too, tall and evil, kohl rimmed eyes framing hard intent. Their large muscles ready to wield whips and they do. Stinging against my thighs and buttocks and back, stripes of flame and ice drawing blood. Raining down derision and hatred upon me. “Slave, whore, you are nothing but a piece of scum for our pleasure and use. Feel the pain you deserve.”

My body uncurls against my will, How have they made me do that? Saliva is dripping onto me as they make contact, sharp knives carve slices into my breasts around my nipples, vile laughter rings out echoing into infinity through the void.

I screw my eyes tight to banish these images but they persist. Here in this place, open eyes are not a requisite for sight. Likewise smell comes to me, the scent of blood from wounds, the aroma of tears and fear, the scent of sexuality, seeping from them and so aborrhent, seeping from me, even in my denial and pain, as the enemy ravage my body and they do in all ways possible. The taste of their filth fills my mouth but I am unable to vomit it out.

Let me die please; show me the way to your halls Mandos. I cannot bear this. Please, please let me die. Let me die.

Then they leave me. Dropped into blackness again. No longer even worthy of their hatred. I am finished and grief overtakes me. All the loss of my life paraded in a pageant before my awareness. My parents screaming in pain, torn from a lonely child. My hearts friend, lost beneath the ice of the lake that winter. My first love, Theodred, ripped from me in scenes of most brutal war. My brother, my King. Have you done with me yet? What more you will take? All? If that is so, then take me now instead. Let me die. Please let me die.