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characters belong to JRR Tolkien. This fan fiction is for entertainment only; there is no profit involved. This is a work in progress by Randomrattle and contains adult themes. Please post feedback on my lj located at: Randomrattle's or email me at
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The Days of The King
I have remembered it all. The cold gray dawn. The banners unfurled to herald the King of Gondor. Gandalf, with his robes of alabaster and shadows. Gimli garbed with leather and buckle, the axe ever in one hand. The stone steps. The multitude watching. The crown so ancient and cold; full of mystery and the weight of years. It lay heavy and unfeeling, a shackle upon my brow. If ever a blow felled me, or a summons called me, it was this one. I could not dodge this, nor would I choose to. The trust had been given to me. I could not betray it. My days of freedom as a Ranger ended, though truth be told, they had ended when I swore my sword to protect Frodo. Then Arwen came, glittering as new dawn, and chased the shadows from my heart. Arwen, Arwen; the starlight of her race. The single star in my own heart. That very night, we said the words of binding in the great hall before many witnesses, for my desire was kindled after long months of fighting and death. The feast was plenteous and the wine flowed. Those who were wounded were tended to one side: a place of honor. The hobbits made merry and I was not sure which held whom in their grasp: the drink for the hobbits or the hobbits for the drink. In the end, it mattered not. Frodo alone was calm, thoughtful, the weight of the ring still upon him in some fashion. Though I spoke softly and blessed him, it seemed the healing hands of the King could not touch the darkness that had been graven upon him. Gandalf, with his great-fingered staff, put a hand on my shoulder and nodded to me. I knew I could not heal this hurt and I was not to blame. It was a small comfort. Nothing more. Arwen sang, her voice thrilling the great hall and ringing from the stones, transfixing us with the unique cadence of Elven song. A song of death and victory, wrought through suffering and sacrifice. I could hear nothing else but her beauty, as if she whispered inside my soul. My entire gaze was drawn into hers and she, mine. Until the very end, when I looked down the multitude and saw Legolas, the archer, sentinel at the far door, his eyes closed while listening. I loathed the distance that this crown set between us this day; he bound to duty to a king, myself bound to duty to the people. The night waxed on, full of drink and joy and laughter. There were hundreds of men eager to speak with me and I did not begrudge them. To every face, every voice, I gave my attention. My friends kept their distance, understanding the hunger of Gondor for her King. I was adrift in a sea of people, yet utterly alone; held apart by the winged crown on my brow. Many were the times I sought and found the eyes of my betrothed. I knew mine spoke only hunger and need. Hers spoke beauty and promise, soothing my eagerness, until the evening was late and I could tarry no more. The men of the hall nodded and grinned, fiends all of them to know my soul’s burning. Three women of the court came and drew Arwen away, to prepare the Queen for the coming of her King. Amidst friendly banter and comments, Gondor’s men let me go and I fled away to the uppermost court, to the inner keep, where I wandered, waiting to be calm. Ultimately I went to Gil’bredtha, the great bath in the keep. It was a place of silence and tranquility with great gray columns of stonework and gentle fountains. The founts were silent now, broken, their courses leaking away beneath the ground. It would take Dwarves’ hands to undo the damage wrought deep in the foundations. One corner of the room had tumbled to rubble in the struggle for Minas Tirith, but the water was clear and warm. I shed the crown, the great cloak, and the re-forged sword: everything of earth and pain and duty and stepped naked into the pool. I washed, then rested, floating, trying to ease the lingering pain of war-tired muscles and the haunting death of friends. Soft footfalls. Someone disturbed my peace. I righted myself in the waist deep water and my initial rebuke ceased before utterance. Legolas, clothed in gray and ivory, the woven circles of the silver crown upon his brow. In silence he came and in silence he was met. In one hand he held a wooden cage and when he set it upon the stone, the white bird within flitted from perch to floor and back again. One soft chirrup it uttered. In the other hand he held a tray, which he sat down as if it held precious gold. Moonlight shown silver in his eyes and he spoke not, nor smiled. He folded himself upon the top step and sat, watching me. I felt the distance that I had felt earlier and ached. We two; a Prince and King across the swath of water, separated now by a crown, an oath, and a pledge to men. Why do you come, my strong right arm? I wanted to speak, but I said nothing for there was in his visage a silence, a vigil. I did not understand and he did not offer and I held my tongue. I finished my bathing and stepped from the pool unashamed. This man had seen my entire journey and long nights, my moments of indecision, the cuts that needed mending and the bruises that made me flinch. We fought back to back in Helm’s Deep--I with righteous fury and sword, he with quicksilver speed and knife. If ever someone was kin to every private hurt, or want, this one was accounted the closest. The water streamed over my shoulders, whipped across my back when I planed my hair away. He stood then, all silver and silence, and stopped me with one hand placed on my chest. For a moment, he searched my eyes for something, though I knew not what. I could feel my own heart amidst the chill of night air and I stood beneath his fingers, this Elven kin of my betrothed, exposed and naked and open. He did not smile. Nor did he frown. He reached to the golden tray and took oil and poured it into his hands. Romanouth filled the air, sweet and opulent and heady. A scent of wines, flavors, and richness. Rare oil. Intoxicating. First my brow, then shoulders, then down my chest. He turned my right arm and touched my inner elbow, then my wrist. The hollow of my flank, then the tops of my feet, bending to his task soundlessly. He did not genuflect at the crowning, for he was still on the journey from Rivendell--but he would kneel here. He whom I had never witnessed bow. To any man. For any purpose. I closed my eyes in the mysterious anointing, humbled, as if it were myself and not he who knelt and blessed and poured the fragrance. I did not know when he stood, when he took up the second scent, this one of Areca: tart and pungent, a wildness, the might of a stag who guards the high places and fears nothing. His fingers were cool and strong; the oil summoned my senses through the weariness of the long day and overwrought emotions. A ring, then, silver cut and not fitted for my strong hands. The Queen’s ring. He slid it on the last finger of my right hand until it stopped just before the second joint. I did not look for it, caught up only in the mystery being done unto me. Then he took up the silvery links of the Evenstar and held it between us, glittering with moonlight. I stared at it, at what it represented, and felt my heart weep bitterly and cry for joy at the same time. For a moment, it hung perilous between us—a grievous weight, a gift, a silver dagger, and a tribute. I trembled. He waited, watching, his face impassive and filled with his own Elven beauty. To take the immortality of Arwen, the Evenstar of her people. To separate her eternally from all her heritage and doom her to die as a mortal. Was I enough? Was I worthy? I stared at Legolas, whose skin glowed from within as if holiness was written in his bones, flowed in his veins. A Prince. Kindled starlight, walking ... like Arwen, only fiercer. His eyes looked through mine as if he knew my thoughts. How could I be worthy? I turned my head, for the portent of the Evenstar was too much. Heavier than the winged crown beside the pool was this single pendant. How could anyone be worthy of one of the undying ones giving up their immortality? "Aragorn." A single word from Legolas. Not Estel, my secret name--the one that hid my heritage through my youth. Not Strider, the Ranger, fleeing from the curse of his blood. Not Elessar, the hope of Galadriel. And not the King of Gondor, the entitlement laid upon me by blood and war. Not any of the titles named by Faramir on the open plain before Minis Tirith that summoned me to lead and the people to follow. The simple name in between: the one shouted in battle, lifted in counsel, spoken to a friend--to raise and succor them. I doubted the blood in me, yet I had seen it through to this end. I doubted the shards of the sword, yet it lay whole. I doubted myself, but faced one man who doubted nothing in me. His eyes told me, unblinking and unwaveringly. He placed the Evenstar around my neck and I steadied beneath its cool touch. To give hope to men and keep nothing aside for myself. He picked up, then, an arrow hewn of ash and took my fingers in his left hand. The thin thread of pain caught me unawares, for his hand moved swiftly. My blood welled and he dipped a finger and placed it in the hollow of my throat, then clenched my fist within his to stem the crimson. A goblet of wine, full bodied and sweet, the promise of Arwen in one sip. He held it aloft as an old offering and then held it to my lips until it was drained. It went straight to my loins and my body awoke. Passion and urgency, the chaotic forces of mortal men’s nature surged to the fore. The two oils. The ring. The offering of Undomiel about my neck. A mark of pain. A draught of sweet elixer ... all benedictions and preparations. The six steps of Ascension. The altar of the King being fashioned upon me and within me. I shivered on my feet, waiting, helpless before this man who had come to make me ready. Legolas took up the great cloak of alabaster and placed it swirling about my shoulders. Every sense prickled to the soft touch of fur along my back and hip. He picked up the caged bird and handed it to my left hand, the yew arrow to my right—then he led me away. We crossed through the deserted halls silently and to my relief, quickly. The door of the bower was broad and heavy, hiding secrets and whispers. Legolas pushed it open without a knock and entered with me right on his heels. Arwen. Lúthien come to earth. My breath seized. Alabaster skin and ebony hair, moonlight eyes that drank in every light. Her breasts peeked beneath her ivory gown as it clung to her. On her right thumb she wore a great ring, shimmering starlight back in my eyes. The King’s ring. Legolas reached and she met his fingers with her own, twining them together, her eyes lingering and mysterious upon his face. He kissed them and looked upon her ... then took the yew shaft from me and placed her hand in mine. We stood together, we three. We who had fought, we who had loved, and Legolas placed his hands about ours, blessing us. His touch was cool amidst my burning, her burning. "Until the end of your days," he said, and it seemed as if I could feel her heart through my hand, as if the connection was more than flesh and bone and intent. Her desire, her faith, and her unquenchable love for me--my soul cried at my momentary faltering earlier. It was nothing about being worthy--it was all about surrender. She could make this great sacrifice if I could give her everything I was, unfettered and unhindered. I kissed her then, uncaring of the draught of passion in front of Legolas. His hands did not waver about ours, even when she clenched her grip upon we two and her other hand tangled at the back of my neck, demanding and urgent. The proud archer left us. The bed of the King was laid. Arwen’s desire was plain and in her eyes. My passion was written in body and mind. There was little that hindered us, much that pleased. All that was tender and sweet was here and I tasted gently, wooed quietly, until we lay content and the candles burned down. When the circle of the world burned with new sunlight, I sat by the window and watched her resting. Her hair crowned her more gloriously than any gilded gems and dawn fingered the room, dipping in the shelters of her body. The knock at the door was a summons and I answered quickly, clad only in smallclothes, my thoughts wary of more war and strife. Legolas. Splendor in the flesh at my door. His eyes drank in my sight, amused, for every writ of passion was upon me, from scratches on my back to a mark on my collarbone, bright as sunlight. New wounds, gladly received. “Legolas,” I chided, but he placed a finger across my lips and slipped through the doorway. Arwen, awakened and smiling at some inner secret, regarded him from our bed. She was barely wrapped and her shoulders were bare. I had left a mark on the column of her throat as well. For a moment, the quiet gaze of these two Elves filled the room and I disturbed it not. A secret communion passed, and I forbade it not. Arwen, unhoused and bereft from her kindred forever, would need this bright archer in the years ahead--as would I. I loved them both; each had found their own place within me. Legolas took up the forgotten yew arrow and snapped the shaft. The pieces fell and bounced. He stared at them on the floor an instant. Then he threw the windows of the King’s room wide and the morning was fresh, rolling in upon my bare feet. The imprisoned bird. He opened the cage and gazed at the dove within. She trilled and hopped out upon his fingers, walked across the back of his hand. He watched her, head tilted, and I smiled at the sight of his wonder; his silent harmony that I could never be part of. He lifted his hand and she whirred away through the open window, up into newborn sun until lost. Then he reached, took the circlet of silver from his brow and dropped it on the coverlet of the great bed. Unspeaking, he extended a hand to Arwen and she took it--my Queen, Elrond’s Princess, the light of her race. I watched the archer bend within his cloak, supple and pliant, melting in place, until he sank to a pool of honey and green colors beneath her regard. His hair fell over his face, obscuring him as he knelt. It was a gesture speaking such honor, and fealty, and devotion that my vision blurred. Arwen gazed at him, and then I, over the exposed curve of his neck. "Never again kneel, Legolas," she whispered. She tilted his face up, replaced the Mirkwood crown of the Prince, and then kissed him thrice. Once upon the twined silver of his station, once on the mouth, and once on the palm of his right hand. Respect--friendship--purpose. “Never.” She pulled at his hands, raising him. And so bidden, he drew her up from the bed, taking no thought or care of Arwen’s nudity. Elves are untroubled by such things. While my heart leapt to see her glory, I knew Legolas saw far beyond it, down through many years of living amongst his own kind. He was as unconcerned with her bareness as he was of his own eternal beauty. There was humor in his eyes, sprinting along the quirk of his lips; something in that silent glance they shared. He threw back the coverlet, exposing the crimson of her virtue and the stain of my possession. I was silent, uncomprehending, as Legolas stripped the linen from the bed and gathered it up in his arms. He strode past me without a word and was gone. Arwen pulled the forsaken coverlet free to wrap around her nakedness. "What is he doing?" I asked, puzzled. "Come, my Heart," Arwen said. Her voice was content. "Watch out the window." Gandalf on the steps below, his robes dazzling the eye. Arod cropping grass. Legolas flitted past the wizard and was astride with that same grace I had watched o’er the course of the last year. A plunge of the gray steed, one ringing stallion call, the two clattered away on cobblestone ... and the bloodstained sheet unfurled across the withers of Arod and streamed out behind them. Gandalf laughed in the dawn and behind it I could hear the cheer of people down the turning flank of Minas Tirith. "To prove that the Queen was pure," I said quietly, abruptly understanding. "Yes. The people did not expect an Elven Queen. Our peoples have long strayed from their alliances over the years. Their traditions must be honored as best I can, to comfort them." "They will love you even as I do." I smiled with my heart full, then teased. "And if the Queen were not pure?" "The dove would die to stain the sheets, though Legolas knew full well she would be trilling in her cage this morning." Laughter danced in my beloved’s eyes. "The arrow?" I asked more thoughtfully. "His watch o’er me has ended and yours has begun, my Heart." There was more there, behind her words, but I did not ask. Gandalf’s laughter, still musical, but fading as he stalked to the rampart. The long staff swung in his hand. The faraway sound of the city, rejoicing. I watched from the high window, Arwen beneath my arm, close to my heart, until we saw the thin thread of smoke rising up from the Pelennor plain when Legolas stopped and burned the sheet. Arod cantered circles about him playfully, a ring of ivory around fire. From the outermost edge of the rampart, Glandalf the White bowed to me, and I to him. Then I drew Arwen aside and back to our bed. The city could rejoice without my care and attention. I wanted only the arms of my beloved.
2. Shadowfax
Shadowfax was not known to have entered the city of Minas Tirith of his own volition save once, and Gandalf, who scarcely revealed anything to those who did not need the information, was the sole observer. The wizard found the stallion at his elbow early in the morning when the dew still sparkled on the cobblestone. For a moment, he smiled and patted the arched neck and then asked quietly: “What do you desire of me, Shadowfax? For you have spent your strength for my need and have borne me well across untidy domains. Your freedom you have been given and all the plains lie open to you, but is there something more? Anything in my power?”
The steed whiffled at the long cloak, searching for a treat and found the honeycake that Gandalf had secreted from supper the night before. From there the two walked, each so shrouded with glimmer white that it was hard to discern cloak from coat and beard from mane. Down the winding path of the second tier of Minas Tirith they journeyed and passed around the great curve of wall to the lower level. Gandalf did not lead as much as he followed, watching the swiveling ears of the stallion near him. Much could be discerned by simple observation—the bobble of a head that indicated a sore hoof, a prick of ears to a shadow that might be danger, a snort of kindling anger, the impatient stamp of a steed that knows the value of time. The wizard had learned to read them all through this trusted friend.
Shadowfax swung his muzzle through an open door at the end of a long building and looked into the gloom. Gandalf recognized it as one of many huge stables for the city.
“Whom do you seek, my old friend?” whispered the wizard, and he set his hand to the bar of the door and swung it open. They both entered the dim interior and though it smelled of many horses and their droppings, it was clean and the isle was filled with fresh hay. Contented mounts rested in every stall and those who had been harmed in the recent battle were at ease, their wounds tended and bound, their fears quelled.
Several stallions snorted loudly as they caught the scent of yet another competitor in the stable, but the few who brought their heads out lowered their challenge upon seeing that it was Shadowfax. Even Gondor’s horses recognized the authority of the Lord of the Rohirrim.
Only soft footfalls, and the rustle of hay at this early hour. No groomsmen were afoot yet. A nose or two the ivory stallion touched with his own before striding on. Gandalf let him lead and waited and watched. “Surely this creature knows what he is about,” he said to no one. He pulled his robe up and away from some odorous hay swept into a corner and concentrated on where he was stepping … until he bumped into Shadowfax’s haunch.
Here, at a common stall in the midst of the stable of four hundred, Shadowfax thrust his head through the window and whickered softly. Gandalf opened the door to peer in. Shalennah, Arwen’s mare, uncurled from her bed of hay and came to his fingers. She was not tall, but her limbs were clean and fine and the line of her back unflawed. Her tail swept the ground and her eyes dazzled, even in darkness. She was proud and regal, a descendant from the fine blood of Elven horses. A fitting steed for a Queen.
She searched his robes the same way Shadowfax had, and the wizard muttered a chiding at the stallion. “If you’d come to court a lady, then you should have saved part of the treat!” He turned aside to the corner bins and there found a measure of fine barley and a cake of corn, which were promptly dispatched. Stallion and mare stood in twilight and their necks formed a perfect heart as they nosed one another. “I do not think Arwen will mind, but have a care to bring her back without injury, my old friend. No galloping through rocks and forest, mind you. This one carries the Princess of Elves—she is no battle stallion, bred and trained to face Orcs and their foul ilk.” He was amused to see the gaze leveled at him by Shalennah. It was if to say ‘little do you know’ in a glance. “So, so,” he chuckled. “Make haste before the Watch changes, or they shall give you a merry chase before my old feet can bid them calm.”
Gandalf settled the bar of the stable door behind them and gazed out over the plain. The final few stars lingered before dawn and the Anduin glimmered silver. Far away dwindled the thunder of hooves. A stallion call drifted back to his ears and the wizard smiled. “Quite right. I must tell Arwen her horse is gone.”
Shadowfax led Shalennah away at full gallop, though not so quickly that she fell behind. Fast fled away the scorched and torn earth. The last carcass of a Mumakil, beset by various carrion birds, loomed and was gone in a blink. They leaped, one after the other across a pile of helmets, and wove through the still burning heaps of bodies. The evil smell made Shadowfax snort. The mare whickered behind him and he put on more speed to escape the heinous ruin of the Pelennor plain.
Through a streambed dank with old blood. Up the long hill from whence the Riders of The Mark had descended, across the crest, and down the other side. The stallion struck a metal spear with a hoof and the pole jolted. The nimble mare leaped and cleared the shaft without a mark to mar her. With plenty of reserve strength to spare, their tails streaming like ribbons, they clattered across the dry shoals near the river and plunged in to swim.
They paused on the other side to shake and blow for a moment … then Shalennah nickered and tossed her head, wheeled on a haunch and sprang away. Shadowfax followed as if a pale stroke of the coming dawn. The echo of hooves threw itself against the cliffs and back again until at last the horses flashed through the outermost trees and vanished into the dimness of the woods. All sounds ceased. No birds called in alarm. They might not have been real, the ghostly steeds that blazed through the forest deep.
Forty days passed, swift as sunturn. Shadowfax hunted the woods for tender grasses and quiet pools. Shalennah was content to follow his lead and they roamed two hundred miles North, picking their way through misty meadows and open glades, stopping for long days near rushing streams. No men saw them, or heard their passing; though some reported hearing the shrill shriek of a stallion echo in the deep and a call answer it.
Shadowfax, free from every restraint save the summons of Gandalf, was accustomed to liberty, but the mare drank in the open wind and stood long on the hillocks, gazing away into distance. Her mane grew long and hung in her eyes. She caught a leaf in her forelock and it lingered for two days before being tossed off. Finally, when another score of days passed, her longing turned back to her mistress, Arwen the Fair, who brought her apples and sang. It was time to go home.
Shadowfax led her, though with a more sedate pace this return journey, and in due course they looked out across the plain to the ivory tower of Minas Tirith tucked into the curve of Mount Mindolluin. But while the mare headed straight for the city, Shadowfax held his ground and watched.
“He knows Gandalf is not here,” Legolas said to the men warding the wreckage of the Great Gate of the City. When the stallion turned away, the Elf held a hand out to halt the nearby rider ready to give pursuit. “You cannot seize him, for he is not willing. He answers only to Mithrandir. Look! See how he flies? No horse alive on the land can catch him on the wing.”
Thus Shalennah ran freely with the Lord of the Horses for three months and returned without harm. Arwen greeted her with laughter and apples and trimmed the long forelock from her eyes. Predictably, the stablemen determined Shalennah to be carrying a foal, though Arwen and Legolas disputed with them and said she carried twins. None of the men believed the Elves’ words, for no living creature could see into the womb of another to know.
All the same, Legolas tended the mare twice daily and Aragorn walked as often as he was free and placed his hands upon her. Arwen was afraid for her trusted companion, for Shadowfax was from the lineage of ancient mearas, brought to Middle-earth from the Undying Lands by Oromë, but Shalennah was the fine bone beauty of Elven stock. And though Aragorn comforted Arwen, they well knew the risks for this birth.
3. Leavetakings
“I will need help for this task. This, I tell you after these months of searching the city. The foundation is flooded and must be dug free of seven feet of mud. The natural flaws in the marble, though granite columns buttressed them, have loosened. Some, great alabaster slabs carved of ONE piece, have slid. Six of the towers are unusable and three more have been secured by braces—braces none to my liking as it is, but few were found better. It’s raining through the rooftops of the whole second tier and the third is leaking in twelve sections. The North wall groans in the wind and the South sifts small stones down atop the heads of the riders as they pass. That will not do! The gateposts have been torn out at every level from the fourth tier down and one of them is lodged on the rooftop of the First Hall. It is also a bad sign that the fountains in the upper levels have ceased—the water is wearing through the stone and seeking lower levels, destroying as it travels. Winter will freeze it into ice, wedging the rock even farther apart, and then spring will bring even more ruin as it thaws! Even with sixty Stonewrights, working in four shifts, it will take months to trace the water and seal the breaches! I can do none of this alone.”
“I am quite aware you will need help, Master Dwarve,” softly said Aragorn. He sat on the low wall of the upper court, which brought him face height to the companion who paced lost in thought before him. “What the men of Minas Tirith can give, know that we will. We have already worked at your bidding to make the city as safe as possible while you seek for the deep damage.”
“Men can’t do this work.” Gimli paused in his pensive irritation and looked sidelong. “Not to slight the strength of you mortals, but this is beyond your means.”
Aragorn chuckled and the sun glinted off the crown as he nodded. “I understand what you speak of, my stout friend. We have not the skill of the Dwarves, but surely our strength and numbers can be put to the use of your people?”
Gimli was long in thought before answering. “If they are hale and hearty, and lack surliness towards folk shorter than they, but wiser in craft—then they might be of service.”
“I can find men who are both willing and can take instruction.”
The Dwarve grunted, fingering his beard. Aragorn patiently waited, knowing Gimli’s mind raced far ahead of his, puzzling out the myriad tasks needing to be accomplished to set the city right once again.
“If we drain the foundation first…but, no, not if a dam of sorts is holding the pressure beneath the city. To breach it casually could bring the first tier down and then the second because the support gave way. Ai, such a ruin to the work of bright hammers!” Gimli fell silent, but then spoke aloud again, a running discourse of thought as if he had forgotten he stood in the presence of another. “We have to find the water cisterns first and cease their flows. Of a surety, they are piped in from nearby and even with the most skillful Piper; the grasses know the line of water and will show it. We might have waterfalls down the mountains beside the city before we are finished, but the water must be shut off. From there, we must check all the wells and tunnels in the heart of each tier, starting from the bottom up, repairing as we go…. We will need to quarry long and hard for granite and beryl to brace both wall and ceiling beneath before we dig—and a sorry lot of digging there shall be, my back laments to think on it already! Thence we can reveal the foundation and find the source of the groaning in the heart of the stone…” Gimli looked up and halted his pacing. “My pardon, Aragorn; I talk aloud and ignore you in the same breath.”
“Think little of it, Gimli,” Aragorn laughed. “Your eyes shine with eagerness to swing a hammer instead of an axe, though your eyes were always merry at hewing Orcs necks! The company of your kin will surely make you hale after these long months of travel and battle.”
Gimli laughed his booming laugh and slapped his chest. “Axe or hammer, pick or shovel, my arm is built to wield them all! And though I loathe resting my feet, I fear I must ride to cross the distance to bring the Dwarves of the Mountain, Silverdale and Erebor for this task. The city cannot wait for my feet, swift and steadfast though they be!”
“Then ride you shall, but not on such a steed as Legolas cherishes.”
“I shall not miss that stallion, though he served us well. His fiery eyes and stamping hooves told me often how tame he was without the Elf to guide him!”
“I shall find you a gentle and strong mount; one suited for a good pace without tiring, yet calm under an uneasy rider.”
“I am not uneasy! I am only careful,” grumbled Gimli. “It is a long way to the ground, though I am certain I would not be harmed even if I was cast from a cliff! Dwarves are made of sterner stuff than men!”
Aragorn chuckled behind a hand. “I am quite certain of that. Perhaps Legolas will accompany you?”
“Hrmph,” said the Dwarve. “I would take him if he is willing … but he is uneasy beneath the ground and it will be weeks, nay, months of leave-taking to carry the stone-working tools. Carts to build, provisions to pack, banquets to feast before the journey … the Elf will be tight as his own bowstring before he sees the light of day again.” Gimli looked thoughtful, and then crestfallen. “And I could not leave him above ground in strange country, alone, while we sing and are fey below. Mayhap for his own well being, I should be parted from him for a time.”
“You know if you ask, he will journey with you.”
“And argue with me over my calm and steady steed, or what trees grow on yonder hills, and just how many Orcs was the count betwixt us…” Gimli rolled his eyes beneath brushy brows. “Legolas has you for companionship. And Arwen, a kinswoman, in this place. The men of the city ply him with questions; beseech him for lessons both with bow and knives. He also waits and watches for the foals of Shadowfax, both with joy and concern. He hardly has an idle thought!” Then, more quietly and fondly: “Here in the free light of day, he will fare better than in the shadowy deeps of my home—though I will miss him more than I believed possible.”
“Then you must hurry on your journey that it may be accomplished quickly and you are come back to our keeping.” Aragorn rose from his low perch and sunfire glanced off the crown. For an instant, the line of his face and brow was rimmed gold against the sky, a radiant nimbus clinging to his features.
Gimli blinked and drew himself up proudly in the presence of such a King. “Come back to face the rock, and mud, and groaning walls of this high city!” the Dwarve reminded him.
“Nay, my solid friend,” Aragorn laughed and clapped a hand on Gimli’s shoulder. “Dwell your mind upon the ale and meat and fresh baked bread that shall await you and all your sturdy companions when you arrive! And every day, such a feast will be set for all of you, that your labors will be made with glad hearts. The toil shall be hard, but the kegs shall never be empty so long as a Dwarve sings with a hammer within the gates of Minas Tirith!”
Aragorn sought a steed for the Dwarve amongst the steady animals of the city. Small and wiry were the city dwellers horses compared to the tall and fiery Rohirrim stallions. He sang as he walked, in Elvish tongue, searching with his eyes, until a sturdy bay whickered at him from one stall in answer. Aragorn dutifully checked all of his hooves and ran his hands over the gelding’s coat. The groomsman pointed out that though the animal was sound, he was much too small to carry the King of Gondor.
“He is not for myself, but for a friend. One who rides only when he must and otherwise finds horses good for carrying blankets and cookware.” He looked deeply into the obsidian eyes and the horse gazed back, whiffling at his fingers and lipping a pocket of his coat. “I think you will do nicely.”
Gimli searched through two quarters of the sixth level before he spotted Legolas, perched high on the barrier wall. At a shout, the Elf dutifully swung down the barricade, holding the bow out from the stone to protect it.
“Gimli!”
“Think you to be some bird perched on the brink in sunlight, Legolas?” greeted the Dwarve. “While I mutter and discuss the city verily tumbling in ruin about our ears from the battle, you sit and watch clouds?”
Legolas leaned against the wall and smiled. This was an old argument. “While you murmur about the city’s ruin with your face in the muck, I watch over her from a distance, searching wind and mountain for anything that threatens. If all eyes are turned inward—then how will you know the hordes are at the broken gates until they drop a stone on your neck?”
“Bah! We have destroyed all the hordes; you and I and our strong King!” Gimli clapped a hand on his friend that would have staggered another.
“There is still some question about the Orc count, if I remember…”
“You have been in the sun too long, dear Elf. My count is true.”
Legolas laughed. “I fear the air is not so clear down where you are, dear Dwarve, for your thinking is muddled.”
“Hrmph,” returned Gimli, and then he remembered why he had come and the lines in his face changed. Even behind the bristling beard and craggy brows, Legolas saw it and his laughter quieted and ceased. He followed the shorter man down the length of the wall until it tumbled into ruined, jagged boulders from one of the catapult assaults. There they stood together as they had stood upon battlements before: in quiet contemplation and gathering of thought. It was Legolas who broke the silence.
“The city is grievously damaged.”
“Aye, Legolas. From top to bottom, there is ill at work in the rock. The spine of her seems stable, but that only because Sauron’s mad forces could not reach it and I cannot get beneath the mud to see the keystone to even know. Around that splinter of mountain, the white city trembles. There is water rushing in the heart of the stone and if we do not work quickly…”
“There will be more walls and towers broken,” finished Legolas, sitting on a boulder so he could face his friend. “And for every one that crumbles and falls; two or three more are loosened.”
“She was built of a whole—one great work by thousands of Dwarve hands and guided by one Master Builder who held the design in his thoughts, for those were before the days of writing plans. Truth be told, most Dwarves never write any plans. They are discussed at length over great feasts until every mind knows the pattern and holds it inside him. Thus does a whole city of Dwarves carve a mountain into a cathedral with no quarrel.”
Legolas said nothing, remembering the cavernous halls of Moria and the grandeur of the beams holding the mountain up. Though evil dwelled there now, none could mistake the remarkable work done by such men as stood beside him. This he could admit to himself without grudging: what wonders Elves built in sunlight, the Dwarves could match below in ebony earth. And on the heels of this thought, another swept in and he spoke it aloud. “You will need help for this task. Much more help, and of a kind only the Dwarves can give.”
“There, you have said it plain, my friend. I must go and fetch as many that our cities can spare to Gondor’s aid.”
“Will they come?”
“Hrmph!” muttered Gimli. “If they do not hark to the voice of Gimli, then they shall leap to the voice of Glóin, and he is one to use a mallet for incentive!” Then, in a softer voice, he added, “I will carry a writ from Aragorn as well, though I do not think it is needed.”
Legolas stood and looked down at the Dwarve. “When do we leave?”
Gimli merely considered his friend in silence, his expression both wistful and sad. Legolas sat back down. “You mean to go alone, without me?”
“I will not go alone the full distance, for surely Aragorn will send riders to accompany me across Rohan and the mountains, perhaps the woods beyond. They will not ride all the way to Erebor, for Minas Tirith needs her men.”
“There is no reason I see for not taking this journey with you, Gimli,” Legolas said thoughtfully. “…Unless there is a reason you do not wish me to go…”
Gimli sighed and tugged his beard irritably. “You journeyed through Moria with me—and I, that immense forest of Fangorn. Those were but a few days and handfuls of hours … but bringing the Stonekeepers of the Dwarves will take more time. Much more time, and most of it beneath the ground. Though you are brave and stalwart, my bright friend, you care not for our depths in the earth.”
Legolas spoke thoughtfully. “Truthfully, I do not, though I have come to see the beauty you see. I noticed that your fingers lingered overmuch on your axe the whole day through Fangorn, even though Gandalf the White led us.”
The Dwarve laughed his booming laugh and clapped another hand like a hammer on Legolas’s arm. “Such are we—hearty friends and completely in dispute as to the order of things! To live in the canopy of trees or below in the dark earth? A question we shall never agree upon!”
Legolas smiled, but the solemn look of his face did not change. “How long will it take to bring the Dwarves from beneath the hills?”
Slowly, but truthfully: “Months, perhaps more.”
Legolas was silent. He had been in dark places, but never for months. The weight of Moria had choked his senses even before Gandalf reminded them to be wary of danger. He was no coward, but neither a fool. He could not endure a single month underground, even if they lit every fire to bring brightness. There would be no birdsong, no whispering trees, no murmurs in the wind, no stars … as if his soul was cut off from the living world and buried alive in silence. Buried alive! His hand clenched on the Lothlórian bow without conscious thought. Gimli saw and put a hand over his.
“On the slopes of Caradhras, the snow felled the hobbits and myself, both. But you, my friend, you trod the top of the snow and gave us hope. This time it is I who must tread lightly and bring the hope, for this is beyond you. I will not take you this long way only to leave you abandoned atop the ground in wild mountains, nor will I force you below into darkness.” Gimli’s grip tightened over long Elven fingers. “Stay here with Aragorn, for you are the last familiar face in the fellowship and it will do his heart good.”
“I will miss you.” A simple statement. One that brought a firmer clench around his fingers. Legolas would have worried for the bow had he lacked any confidence in the skill of Lórien bow makers.
“Aye,” Gimli said. “And I shall hurry back, lest you find more fodder for arguments while I am away!”
“When will you leave?”
“Soon. There is Aragorn, now.”
So Gimli, son of Glóin, left Minas Tirith and with him went a small company of Gondorian men, along with Éomer, who desired to hear the whole tale of Galadriel so that his words would be set right concerning her. Gimli was altogether pleased to be his instructor in these matters and they rode side by side across the long Pelennor plain. But at the edge of the waters of Anduin, Gimli pulled up his calm bay and turned, looking, though he knew full well his eyesight would avail nothing. From here, the white city glimmered and nothing could be discerned except her beauty from afar. But Gimli knew of eyes that could see this great distance and that they surely watched, and he raised a hand from where he gripped the saddle and spread his fingers wide. Not the closed salute such as men give, but the open hand to bestow and accept that Dwarves give.
Far away, from atop the fifth tier wall, Legolas raised a hand in return, fingers open, and watched until his friend crossed the river and was lost from view. He lingered on the wall alone before retiring at dusk to the sparse room he had chosen for his dwelling in the city. When the sun rose, he went amongst his customary tasks: seeing to the horses, providing lessons with the bow and knife to those who asked, and watching the far horizon for any dangers.
But Gondor’s men, though friendly enough, were strangers to him. And he, an Elf out of place, was foreign to them. They were wary of his silent approach, the dance with blades that left him unscathed while they nursed minor cuts, the way he listened to something they could not discern and then would watch for the bird in flight before it arrived. Respect he had from them, but not friendship. Not such as he knew with Gimli, friendship having been forged by daunting tasks and battles together. And not friendship such as he felt with Aragorn, whom he loved and trusted before he had come to be King.
Aragorn, however, was much sought for counsel and his days were bound up with duty; establishing rules, redistributing lands, settling disputes … all the tasks that Kings are burdened with, only these twice more, for Denethor had been lax in his latter years, smitten in his mind by the corrupted palantir.
When Aragorn was free, he longed for and found the arms of his Queen, finding peace in her to mend his weariness and labor. He needed all her comfort to face the same tasks all again the following day. And she watched and waited for him, knowing his weariness, and drew him away into her solace as oft as she could and taking no thought to her own loneliness: an Elf amongst mortals.
Thus with Gimli gone and Aragorn besought from all sides, Legolas was more alone than ever, keeping vigil over the wounded city in the long months.
4. Arwen
Arwen noticed him from her balcony, but this was not unusual. The people could look and find him daily, at sunrise and sunset, perched high on a wall. They became accustomed to seeing him there, watching plain and mountain and city. It became the warning mothers gave their children, “The Elf is on the wall and you had best be good, for his bright eyes miss nothing!” For most of them, Legolas was just a glint of blonde and green. Those closer could oft hear him singing, his voice blending and drifting with wind. It was a comfort in days filled with toil as they sought to wrest the beauty of Minas Tirith back out from the ravages of battle.
But today, Arwen fastened her eyes upon him and was filled with longing; for many months had passed since she was wedded to her beloved Aragorn. And in that span of time, she had not seen Legolas face to face once. She placed her goblet aside and drew near the stone railing, but was careful to not lean on it. Perilous were all the outer stone works of the city.
For many moments she studied his distant figure, listening to the scrape of iron below at a smithy, shouts of men encouraging a team of horses dragging stones, and the sundry noise of the city. Dark and intent were her eyes. The breeze stirred the lace of her gown and fingered her hair. A bird lit on the railing, hopped, and took to wing again. Arwen paid no heed, for all her will was focused on the figure of the archer.
Finally, one hundred feet down, he turned, shading his eyes and searching upwards through the multitude of carved doorways. From Arwen’s vantage, he was a slim wand smitten by the Westward failing sun. She felt his gaze find hers and settle like the sliding of a hand, familiar and light. For another moment, separated by air, they regarded one another … then she extended her palm, a gesture unmistakable to any eye that saw.
Come to me.
She watched him swing down from the wall, finding toeholds and finger grips where others would find none, and drop the last twenty feet. She turned and picked up her goblet. In a span of minutes, he was outside the chamber, but no hand settled on the door. She could sense him there, waiting, until she pulled and swung it wide.
Dark eyes, all ebony to the core, met blue ones. They were of the same height, though he was harder, all sharps and edges and she rounder, curves and softness beneath the gown of silverblue. She reached for the fingers of his bow hand and he let her take them as the door swung on its hinges and settled.
  “You have been lonely,” she said. He did not deny this. It was folly to deceive her, for she would see and know. He met her gaze without guile, without blinking, but admitted nothing. “I have missed you,” she said next. “You have not,” he corrected. “I have always been here. You cannot miss what has not been parted from you.” The barest ghost of a smile crossed her face. “This is true. Alas for you, my heart is turned to Aragorn, and his to mine, and thus we have spent the days without regard to anyone else save ourselves. But this is also truth, that as I see your face now, I know my soul has missed yours, though it has failed to speak until today.” “And why this day did it choose to speak?” he asked quietly. “I do not know.” Then perceptively, “Did yours lift a lament upon the wind, today?” He was silent. She sighed, pricked. “Gimli is gone away and we have neglected you. And though you are too proud to admit it, your soul grieves for the barrenness in friendship.” “You are busy.” His voice was chiding, though whether for him or for her, she could not say. “Aragorn, to the settling of a kingdom with a new King. You, to the duties of a Queen where they have had none for as far as their memories can see.” That he did not acknowledge or deny a lamentation was as telling as any admission. “And what are we that we should abandon friend and kindred when we know in surety that we love and need you?” Her words were for herself, acrimonious. “What friend and kindred am I to not understand your desire?” he countered. “For you are newly lovers and such things are expected.” Then gentler, and with a squeeze of her fingers in his hand: “I am an Elf and patient.” “Except with Gimli.” She smiled when she said it. His eyes flashed. “He is a Dwarve. He longs for the quarrel.” “And, now, so do you.” It was his turn to smile, but he said nothing. They stood a moment in silence. “I have a request of you, Legolas.” “Name it, for you know if it is in my power, it shall be granted.” Why so formal in my presence, Legolas? Have I drifted so far from you? She took a half step, felt his breath against her face. “Every day, I want you to come and see me. It is easier for you to find me, than I you. For twenty women come scurrying to do my bidding though I bid them not, and they watch over me and beset me foolishly at every turn.” His face was serious. “And what will they think when I walk with you daily, for they are but mortals and prone to misunderstandings?” Her gaze darkened, no longer the eyes of a friend, but those of a Queen. “You and I are beyond reproach. They may think what they like, and whisper as they will. But they shall find no joy if I request that they no longer serve the Queen because they tittle-tattle like sparrows. I want you to darken my doorway every sunturn.” He was still. Bright bird eyes searched through hers. “Is this a request of the Queen?” he asked softly. “You know that it is not.” Another quiet pause, this one without a breath until he sighed. She felt it across her brow, carrying longing and isolation. He looked away over her shoulder and she knew he saw the mountains, far away and settling into darkness. “I will come and see you every day.” He raised a hand and stroked along her jaw line with the back of his fingers, an ancient gesture that kindled memories of peace and companionship. A rapport between Elves that seemed so far from her that she could not remember the last one that had touched her thusly. She closed her eyes in a pang of abrupt, unexpected grief. She felt his fingers drift, take her elbow, pull, until she felt his strength against her and his breath brushed her temple. “Peace, Arwen,” he whispered. “You have filled your days with the care of everyone else and have not remembered your own loneliness for your kind.” She did not deny. It would be folly to try to deceive him, for he would see and know. There could be little deceit between Elves. He whispered to her hair, “We will walk together, that our souls do not grow weary. For Aragorn depends on our strength as he struggles to set his feet.” She closed the door behind him as he left, then watched out the window. Presently, she spotted him climbing the sixth wall. He walked to its highest level and then stood, gazing into the distance as the long shadows of night stretched from plain to mountains. Then the door swung again and she turned with gladness, for Aragorn adjourned at dusk, and she ran to meet him and fell in his arms with joy. It was not yet morning when she saw the archer next, for she drew from her dreams in the third hour at some elusive impression. She sat up and studied the room. Moonlight flooded the floor and shown brilliant along the crosspiece of Andúril, The Great Sword, in its stand beside the bed. Aragorn slumbered the sleep of exhaustion beside her. There. The balcony. There was no mistaking the lithe figure, or the turn of his head when he felt her gaze fall on him. She drew a robe about herself almost as afterthought, remembering the chill of the night up high in Minas Tirith and took his extended hand. Thus they stood together, one who cast the silver moon from his hair, and one who drank the moon into her own.
5. Balcony
It was laughter that woke me.
Not any laughter, but Arwen’s … my beloved’s. Her laugh was enchantment, whether at something simple such as watching a bird finally come to the bowl of water she put upon our balcony. Or at something finer: her happiness with some shared memory of our own or the creating of new ones.
Her laugh, as I drifted in sleep, would usually turn my slumber to pleasant dreaming—this one roused me from exhaustion to waking, for it was the gladness of an Arwen I did not know. An Arwen who was younger. One new and fresh, one without the cares of centuries resting on her. I could hear it in her voice, in the thrill of that sound, and my eyes opened.
Moonlight sifted the darkness into bands of alabaster. It was deep night. My body told me with its weariness. Yet I knew I could not turn back into sleep, not yet. Arwen was not beside me in the wide bed. She stood silhouetted on the balcony, standing close with another. At first I was alarmed, but then realized it was only Legolas, my friend. No one else had that stance through his shoulders, nor that curve of bow extending over his head. And no one else could have made their way into this room without notice.
I donned a robe and went to them, pulling the balcony doors wide. They turned the same instant, having forgotten the silent feet a Ranger possessed, and I smiled to see them: Arwen, with her hair unbound in a cascade down her breasts and Legolas, with his braided neatly in place. Moonlight painted the tops of their heads and illuminated their joined hands.
I had seen those joined hands before, on the day of our Vows, and I reached by instinct to add mine to theirs. Arwen turned one of hers palm up to meet me, smiling. Though my weariness spoke hauntingly somewhere in the back of my head, it was good to see them. Good to see both of them at the same time, here in the sanctuary of the King’s room. The only two Elves in the kingdom, beauty incarnate in my sight.
“We did not mean to wake you, my Heart,” Arwen said. I could see the moon reflected in her eyes.
“You laughed!” softly accused Legolas. His voice was breathy, as if he tasted mirth over something I could not discern. My gaze lingered first on one face, then the other.
Arwen shot a look back at him and amusement was written upon her features. “You are to blame.”
“An Elf who lies?” he said, perplexed. “How can this be?”
His expression of innocence was as humorous as Arwen’s expression of vexation. And all of it was sham, for I saw the cheer in the gaze of Legolas and the high spirits coasting across Arwen’s features. I smiled, for the laughter of Elves is like a thousand summers of peace in a troubled kingdom. I stood amidst it a willing captive, as a man who has been in winter wars too long.
And something more lingered there behind it all, shining through their bright eyes and slipping through my senses. I felt it through their hands, which had turned to include mine with theirs as if I had long stood amongst them here. Peace and unity, a soft harmony of souls. An eddy that caught the edges of my beleaguered spirit and stole inside with calm and light, a radiance that scattered shadows.
Somewhere, the dregs of worry and duty loosed their hold and my fingers closed tighter upon these two, my beloved and my friend. I drew Arwen close, drank in her scent, drugged, but then caught the trace of Legolas who was definable only by the fact that I knew him not to be Arwen. When I turned my head, his eyes were vivid and his face open, humored that I had momentarily misplaced his presence. I slid my hand and wrapped it across the top of his shoulder, feeling the light framework of bone and the strength like a coiled whip.
“I am glad you are here, Legolas. I have been caught up with the nobles and their negotiations and requests,” I said quietly. “Laws to mend, the storehouses to set right … but all of these are trifles. I work towards one great task: reminding them that they are to serve this city, even as I. Of what use is a people that cannot self-govern in the small matters and thereby save the large ones for the King? I will divide the city between the Lords, that they may discharge their own rule to help oversee these people. They will answer for their choices if there are complaints, but I will not be the discharge of all authority, be it over where the groundhens may roam or what tenth of spoils needs be paid to Rohan for her help in our time of trouble.”
Then I added what I needed to speak, what had troubled me the last hours of the day after a conversation with Arwen. “I fear I may have tarried too long at coddling them while you have walked alone amongst unfamiliar faces … and for that, I am the sole blame. Gimli spoke of being unwilling to leave you bereft upon the Misty Mountains, and here I have left you just as bereft in my own city. I have failed to discharge his wishes.”
His face became less open, almost a puzzled frown. His eyes drifted to my left. “You have been talking to Arwen.”
“It is an unwise King who refuses to hear the counsel of his Queen.” I gripped his lean shoulder a little harder, felt him straighten imperceptibly beneath it and shift his attention again. “Especially when she speaks the truth. And I would be an even more unwise King to not act upon her insight.”
“Nay, you have not failed, Aragorn, Son of Arathorn,” he returned. “It takes time to woo a city to your vision, and I, an outsider, would have been perceived as a threat to stand too near you, usurping their voices and counsel. They crave ownership of you alone and you have given yourself to them all these many months. They will accept duty now as a privilege they have earned, a trust that they have been found worthy to hold, and not as a task set by a King unwilling to serve himself.” He smiled, the true smile of a friend. I felt his fingers dig into my elbow. “And I am a patient Elf. I have kept busy. There are seventy archers who can strike a target at two hundred steps, and a hundred men with blade skill in both hands that now dwell within the walls of the White City.”
Arwen warned me that he would not admit his isolation, that he would couch it in every way but hurtful truth. But he surprised us both when he said very softly; “I have missed your company these months, though. The days have been long and it seems years since I have heard the burr of Gimli, Son of Glóin.”
My grip pinched, for his words wounded me. I was silent and sad. Then the archer moved slightly and I drew from my thoughts and loosed my hold.
“I have not missed sword practice with you, however,” he added. Amusement quicksilvered through his moonlit eyes and Arwen bit back a soft laugh.
“Not missed sword practice?” I feigned shock.
“My shoulders ache for a fortnight after a round with you … both of them.”
“Only a fortnight? I must be losing my strength.”
A glint of something else flitted through his gaze, something sly and humored. Arwen’s laugh was breathy, as his was earlier, though neither of them shared their thoughts and I did not ask. I wanted companionship forged between these two. It was in my power to grant and I would give it.
Arwen had spoken of her request to see Legolas daily when we lay lax and tangled together after lovemaking. I forbade her nothing concerning him, for her joy was mine. Her countenance, standing here with this kinsman, reminded me. The Elves of Middle Earth would slowly leave the land, but she would remain, the last remnant of a race passing into the West. And though I would not ask, almost could not hope, I secretly wondered if this archer would linger past our days, waiting for us, before he set his heart free upon the waves and sailed.
Will you tarry to see us die and bear it yourself—to be the last, to see us all the way to the end? Can any of us lay this burden upon you? I cannot. I could not ask you to be torn so.
“I am glad you have awakened and joined us, Aragorn, for I would speak with you,” Legolas said more seriously.
I immediately focused on his face, wondering. “Speak, then. I will always listen to your counsel.”
“I have no counsel for you, only what I perceive. The trees of Minas Tirith, though it is summer, drop their leaves. What few gardens remain are failing. Even the grasses wither, though water is plentiful.”
I frowned, picking my way through this news, trying to decipher the cause. “Only in the city?”
“Only in the city. Outside on the plain, the trees drink deep and the grasses give their seed. Even beneath battle scars, the green springs back. And there is more,” he said softly. “Daily, the birds grow fewer and fewer. None that are new to my eyes cross the walls. Those that fledge, fly, and never return. I have found twenty abandoned nests, with eggs unhatched.”
“I have no reports of the groundhens having problems hatching…” I said almost to myself.
“They are groundhens.”
Legolas said it as a statement of fact and I smiled my agreement. Three counsel days had been spent over the matter of the hens on the sixth tier, until I amicably suggested that all peafowl of every kind be slaughtered and forbidden in the city. The Nobles knew it would be but two sunturns before the bugs overtook us all.
I looked to Arwen, but she nodded at Legolas. In this, his skill was sharpest. “What do you think of this, my friend? You read the living things … what do they speak?”
“The trees within the walls are planted alone and dwell in solitude. They are too few to have voice, though I have tried to rouse them. The Eldest of Trees, newly planted in the High Court, has not delved deeply enough to speak of anything. The birds are wary of people and will not let me call them.” His gaze found Arwen’s. “All growing things upon the city falter and shrivel, save the One White Tree. It is though they perceive a danger that we do not. And I have not the skill to read stone. Gimli could tell if the earth betrays the trust, but he is not here to listen.”
“Surely he would have told us if it was unsafe to remain,” reminded Arwen. “He searched through every dwelling, every tunnel. But if forces still work against the city, lingering past the battle…”
“Gimli said the foundation was flooded and the water rushed through the heart of the stone.” I searched Legolas’ face and saw the tightness about his eyes. When he spoke, it was measured in his memory, reciting.
“He said, ‘the spine of her seems stable, but that only because Sauron’s mad forces could not reach it and I cannot get beneath the mud to see the keystone to even know. Around that splinter of mountain, the white city trembles.’”
I paused to consider all that had been said, searching my own instincts roused with apprehension. Coldness crept through my marrow. “Do you think we are in danger within the walls?” I asked.
“I cannot counsel you, Aragorn, for I have no answers. I can only report what I see, what I feel. And that is unsettled as well, for the city is altogether stone and dirt. She is hard to read for such as I, a creature of woodland and meadow. Alas, that Gimli is not here to help us in this matter.”
It was enough to see his unease. From any other man, I might have dismissed his disquiet. But coupled with my own, there could be no doubt. This was not a battle like Helm’s Deep, where we fought overwhelming odds because we must. This time, we had a choice, though it was only one choice. “We must abandon the city. We will shelter on the fields between Osgiliath and the Great Gate.” I took Arwen’s hand. “We will start at the top and withdraw each tier on the way down, that it may be orderly. You will be first, my Heart. Take only what is necessary, to give them example.”
Arwen nodded, already thinking, planning. “I will see to it that the palantir is taken.”
I turned to Legolas. “You have swift feet, my friend. Run and rouse the Lords. Say that they are summoned to counsel and I will expect them quickly. By the time I see your face return to the Sixth Hall, they must be assembled before me.”
Quick and agile, the Elf descended the wall of the balcony and darted away. It was the swiftest way to the tier below, as the seventh level was the King’s. Though I was unperturbed, long accustomed to seeing Legolas defy odds, Arwen leaned over the railing and remarked, “I hate him doing that.”
“You do?” I was surprised.
She turned into my arms, all softness and delight. My senses thrummed in her presence.
“He takes risks when they are not needed.”
“He is an Elf.”
She paused only an instant and then brushed her fingers down my face. “Of course. And if I scrambled down this balcony, clinging to rock and air, you would shrug and say, ‘she is an Elf’?”
That gave me pause. A long pause.
And then she laughed, the familiar ripple of delight that my ears thirsted for, and kissed me. Kisses with promise and joy, power and longing, a sweet offering that plunged through me like loosened waters. She had to push me through the door of our Greatroom to keep me from being late to my own counsel.
6. Counsel
The hall was filled and the murmurs ceased when I took my place. I glanced at the nobles of the city, picked out Rôthatur, Kelsâi, and Ignilr. They were strongest of the houses represented and men I knew were worthy of leadership. Though they were clad poorly and below their station, having been drawn straight from slumber, they sat as if they were in their gilded robes and cloaks. Proud men, but fair. I liked them. They would govern sections of Minas Tirith well.
And Legolas came, slipping through the far door and lingering in shadow. I frowned and blinked. A pang shot through my chest. I have sat counsel these months and not once have I sent for Legolas to give me his mind, though I would trade seven of these mortals opinion for his. Then I smiled to myself. He would rather be anywhere else than cloistered in this room listening to the debates of men. There were days when I wished I were somewhere else.
They were waiting and I placed my goblet of water on the table.
“We must abandon the city, for she is injured beyond ability and steadily it worsens. Every day, while we toil atop her brow, we bring her ruin down. While the Dwarves march to mend her, we shall camp on the field. The Queen readies to leave at dawn. We will proceed through each tier downward; taking only what is needed until the city is empty. Mayhap, if her burden is lifted, she can endure until the Stonewrights comfort her.
As expected, there was the pause of pure shock and then the avalanche of words. I let them speak, all of them together. Like a mare startled, I had to let them run before they drew up and calmed, ready to listen. From across the room, I met the eyes of the archer and smiled. His expression softened, finding its course as an extension of mine.
Gradually, the room took order and formed around predictable voices.
“Your friend, the Dwarve, examined the city. He did not counsel us to abandon it.”
“Minas Tirith holds ten thousand souls of men, and even more women and small ones. How shall we manage this? It cannot be done.”
“Take only what is needed? But we have worked our lives here. Shall we abandon all our labor?”
“The people will be exposed on the open field and without means of defense, perhaps for months. Vast is this land and great the forces newly overthrown in dark Mordor. Do we know if there are any evils lurking in mountain or dell?”
This last voice held integrity, and I hearkened to it. The rest I ignored. They would examine their words soon enough and find the flaws in them. “It is true that we shall be naked on the plain. What means do we have to strengthen us?”
Another pause, then more voices. Some had apt counsel and some still lingered in argument.
“We know little of any danger abroad,” lifted the sure tongue of Kelsâi. “Though Faramir holds strong the Causeway Forts, we have ceased watch for any perils past the swift Anduin. We have rested since the great battle and cared for our own, turning our vision inward. To leave the Citadel without knowledge is to risk all the people herein.”
Legolas disengaged from his shadows and stepped forth. I lifted my hand, open palmed, and every man turned to see him. Silence fell as heavy as yarron curtains.
“I have watched and find no threat upon plain or river,” he offered. “I cannot see into the gloom of Druahdan forest, nor the Mountains of Shadow where Minas Morgul dwells in darkness, but if evil lurks there, it has lingered many months to strike and fell beasts do not endure waiting.”
“But though your eyes are keen, Legolas of the Elves, they can be deceived. A glance away, a supper taken, a charm with a girl, and some lurker could escape your notice along the river or wall,” spoke Arfal of the Weavers. “Unless you have watched every moment, what you speak cannot be true.”
Legolas stilled as if he had been slapped. “I would know it because I would sense it in the trees of Osgiliath. They keep a grove there for this very reason; that an Elf upon the walls of Minas Tirith would know their whispering and raise warning. The trees speak no harm, so none is there.”
In a stroke, every man was silent, appraising him, finding him strange.
“But you cannot sense the far woods or mountains,” calmly interjected Rôthatur. His eyes measured Legolas like grain. “You cannot know of dark tidings resting there, waiting. And our King would have us recline on the plain, without defense?”
Quickly kindled the anger of the Elf. “You will go where your King requests regardless of safety. It was not in safety that he trod evil paths to bring you the tranquility you now enjoy—”
“Peace, Legolas,” I interjected, holding up a hand. Ever a bright dagger to my defense. He can accept the distrust of men who do not understand his skills, but a slight against me, he cannot leave lie. A few men murmured on, but my friend slipped into silence with no objection. “The concern of Rôthatur is valid, for he speaks to our vulnerability and his heart is true to Gondor. And so is the report of Legolas of Mirkwood, for his sight is unmatched and his discernment keen.” I met a few faces along the wide table. “It would seem that a hunt of the mountain and beyond is reasonable. A searcher must be sent and his speed put to test, for we will not tarry the abandonment of the White City in wait for his return.”
“All the riders of Gondor are stationed with Faramir, save those who ward the gaps of the lower tier,” said Ignilr. “Would that Rohan had lingered to lend their sword arms, but who could have foreseen that the Guarded City would fall?”
“While she stands, there is hope,” I offered quietly.
“I will scout for the White City, for I am rested and ready and my bow is in hand,” said Legolas.
“Then you shall go,” I answered. “I will send summons to Faramir for a company of swift riders to join you.”
“Nay, I will go alone,” he answered and murmurs rose around him like wind.
I motioned them to silence. “I would not set you to this task unaided even though your senses are keen, my friend. The realm is great and the mountains treacherous. You will be hard pressed if you come upon hostile eyes and spend all your arrows in a flight.” I did not insult him; neither did I let him escape my concern. “Safety will be hours away by birdwing.”
He considered my words, but I saw rejection at the end. When he spoke, it was in quiet assurance and certainty. “There is no man within the sound of my voice that has Elvin sight and sense, feet that leave no trace. And few are the mortals that can keep pace day and night such as you and I have before. If I take a company, my vigil will be divided, for I will have care for their safety and endurance. This task is one of fleetness and full intent; and in this I have no match … save one.” His eyes held mine. “And you must bide and guide the people.”
To ride. To run. To set my feet upon the shale landslides and fight to the top of the mountains. To search glade and dell in shadowed forest and plunge knee deep through chill waters. Ever onward, upward… A great longing surged through me and I knew his eyes saw it, read it true. The crown upon my brow felt heaviest when my heart craved the wildness. I sighed heavily, unable to utterly quiet my yearning.
“Another day, Aragorn,” the archer dropped into my hearing. “You shall not always be locked up in the Guarded City. You are a free King, but for a little time you must remain, for your people need your strong hand and easy smile.”
“And if you find danger, Legolas?” I spoke to him alone though we stood amongst many. “Can you stay your hand and turn? Or will you cast your strength against many, with scarce thought to the outcome?”
He weighed my request thoughtfully. Sixty sets of eyes watched him until he nodded assent. “I will turn, King Elessar, for you have bid it. I will fly to the city to warn you.”
“Legolas shall scout for the city, and he will go alone,” I said to the hall, then softer, as comrades one to another: “Take any horse in the kingdom you wish, to speed you on this journey.”
His eyes changed and though he looked right at me, I knew he did not see. “I will take Arod if he is still willing to bear me.”
“You fear he is not agreeable?” This was puzzlement, for the fiery stallion searched every face for that of the Elf when men came into the stables.
“He has traveled long upon this land and braved battles that few with a lesser heart would face. And though his spirit is willing, he tires of men and war and the cry of things dying. Soon he will ask for his freedom of me, to run with Shadowfax, his chief, until the end.”
The azure eyes focused and measured the silence of the men sitting mystified around him. But I, who had dwelled amongst Elves, found no mystery in his words. While men spent the lives of animals, thinking them to be mere beasts, I knew of what Legolas spoke. “He has always been yours to free, since Théoden, King of the Mark granted him to you.” Then I smiled, for he and I both knew that steeds such as these were not bartered. Arod was willing because he chose the archer as well, to labor together in common cause. “Free him when you will, Legolas.”
“Soon,” he said simply. “I think he will take this last run with me, then I will ask no more.”
So Legolas left the hall filled with men debating how to camp in order on the wide fields of the Pelennor. None watched him go, save myself, wishing my feet trod with his beneath the wheel of sun. When dawn bathed the topmost spire of Minas Tirith, I looked for them. Arod was already across the Anduin—a gray arrow shot from a bow—galloping down the shoal leading toward the mountains.
“Fleet and sure,” I said to the messenger wind. “Bring each other back.”
7. The Silent City
The withdrawal from the Guarded City was not done in haste. For two days, it was not done at all, but the word passed down the tiers and the people swarmed in apprehension. It was as if a beehive had been jabbed. Aragorn walked amongst the Great Rings soothing concerns, answering questions, and otherwise lending his composure. This was to be done in order, and none would leave the Citadel until they were amenable and calm.
Seven steeds and riders were summoned to the foot of the Great Gate. The shadow of the Tower of Echthelion, the white spire, stood straight out upon the field before them. To each rider was given a bag dripping dye water. To each rider was given a mark in the far distance to gallop to—thus they spirited away, fanning out like the rays of the sun until they reached their mark and wheeled, stallions blowing.
“These are the lines of the corridors we shall leave open. For ten horses width, let no one encamp upon the lines of red. There must be lanes for people and goods to move easily. Many months shall we dwell in a great company together.” The people murmured at the good judgment of King Elessar, but he spoke only that Ignilr had given his wisdom and it was a small thing to command it.
The people considered his humility.
Queen Arwen was the first to descend from the High Court and she wore a gown of pale green and the crown sat fair upon her brow. She carried a single box, carved marvelously and inlaid with silver. The King met her and took her hand near the Fifth Gate, the final one still intact, and they descended the city together. Regal was the Queen’s bearing and King Elessar strode with his head high, the crown summoning sunrays. Such was their beauty that old and young, stately and humble, the people lined the streets and looked out windows to see them pass.
They walked far out onto the Pelennor and stopped beside the center crimson line. The King doffed his robe and spread it on the grass and the Queen knelt there and put a hand to the inlaid box. From it, the King drew the sceptre of Annúminas and the glinting Elfstone of the house of Elendil, which threw jade lightning into all eyes. Both of these he kissed and then placed them beside the Queen on the indigo robe. The crown of Queen Arwen he gently removed, as well as his own, and placed them atop the glittering box.
“Here is where the King shall dwell. Not near the city, as if to flee into it. Not near the river, for to drink its coolness. Not on the hillock, to look down upon men. But here in the heart of the plain, in the center of the people … for there is neither rich, nor poor, nor holy, nor base amongst us. We share the same burden and the same cause and we shall labor together to see it done.” He looked about him a long moment. “Let the White City be emptied of her burden and we shall sit about her feet together and wait for the Hands of Hope. For from the hammers of Dwarves was the Citadel birthed, and from them shall she find wholeness again.”
Thus did King Elessar begin to prepare the people of Gondor to welcome the Dwarves, and thus did he send optimism into their troubled spirits. He spoke to their hearts and their love for the city with its tall spires and silver trumpets, and he only a newcomer to her wonders.
When next the people saw the King and Queen, they were amazed. Aragorn had shed his royal garments and was clad simply, save for the Great Blade upon his hip. And Arwen, the Elven Queen, had removed her gown and wore a working shift of linen. But though they were unshorn from the attire of their rank, none could speak that they were diminished, for radiance dwelled upon their faces.
Lords from every trade occupied the sixth level of Minas Tirith, but Aragorn paused only a moment there to give cheer. “The Noble Born have servants and can command them to help, but the lowly have only themselves. I will descend the mount and set my hands to aide those who have few, for their fortune must be saved as well.”
And so he did, and the people marveled at his charity.
The Lady Arwen did not tarry above either, for she was found on the fifth level gathering blankets. When the children of the tier were assembled, they were distraught, for leaving their homes and many of their treasures was too heavy a grief for them. Arwen handed each a blanket, took a child on one hip, and began to sing a lilting Elven song. It was meant to make the heart glad and all who heard it inexplicably felt its call. The children were not proof to the temptation and soon their long line of procession wound down the cobblestone streets, all of them leaping and twirling and dancing, for the Queen led the way and was the most joyous of all. And though a few murmured that she kicked a bit high, no heart was hardened for the children were safely down from the Fifth Road and their tears ended.
The people considered their Queen, who charmed the fear from their little ones.
The young spread themselves upon the field, chasing in play, and each child put their blankets out to mark the place of their temporary home. From the city walls, the Pelennor became a patchwork of color and the King laughed from high in the city to see it. Thus the Great and Lesser houses were mixed and no one raised protest, for the delight of the children was infectious in a difficult day.
When Rôthatur, Keeper of the Storehouses, began setting his family in order on the field, he found Aragorn helping the women with a cart near the Weavers Quarters. When next he chanced to see him, Aragorn was carrying down the eldest man of the household, for he was infirm and nearly blind. By the time Rôthatur’s tent was complete and orderly, Aragorn was leading a mare by the forelock, whispering words to keep her calm in the midst of a roiled city street, and upon her back rode the young wife of Dathir, for her time neared to bear his first child. Once on the Pelennor, the King himself lifted her down and his arms were strong and gentle. He brought a dipper of water and a shade cloth and tarried to see her comfortable before striding back to the city.
Word spread amongst the High Lords concerning the labor of their Ruler. They made haste to finish their households, for it became plain that the treasure of Minas Tirith lay not in her gold, silver, or precious clothes—it lay in her people, of which they were only a small part. Thus did the Nobles bring every hand of their houses to help the next tier move and King Elessar smiled to see their understanding. His benediction was worth any measure of mithril and no one shirked the difficult duties.
Word spread to the Fourth tier that the city fell quiet in the Quarter above and the children gathered in the Great Hall, for they had watched enviously as the Lady of Imladris took the youngsters above down to the plain. When she found them all waiting, each with a blanket in arms, her smile was answered by two hundred. A happy throng they were, snaking down the streets.
The King saw them and strode to join his Queen and danced with her. And though the sword bumped and made him stumble thrice, none could mistake the light in their eyes, the delight in their kiss, the pleasure in their embrace. The people looked up from their packing and loading, hooting encouragement, for no city in Gondor was blessed with so fine a pair as they.
Then the afternoon heat smote the city full in the face and the dust choked the streets. A small company formed amongst the women and they carried buckets of water to those who strained with boxes and heavy canvass. A youth fell, overcome by summer sun. They put him aside in the shade until he recovered and rejoined the men.
Aragorn shed his shirt in the heavy labor and many admired in secret, for the King was broad and formidable through the chest. The scattering of scars, shifting atop muscle, had each been earned with a blood price. The silver token of the Queen glittered and swung around his neck and his hand drifted to it unconsciously. All knew he wore her mark upon him with pleasure. He toiled through the afternoon, but still moved with the free grace of a Ranger despite the sweat making trails down his back. Men, noble and lowly alike, proudly worked beside him for he was handsome and fit.
Arwen saw her beloved from a house roof where she rolled flax up into sheets, and she called an Elven word down that made Aragorn jerk his head up in surprise. She laughed at his grimy face and wagged a finger at him. When she poured a tub of washwater down, Aragorn stood beneath the torrent and then shook his long hair out, refreshed.
“I shall put on my shirt,” he said to her, abashed.
“Nay, my Heart,” called Arwen from above. Her eyes danced. “You are my husband and I your wife, but I do not own the sight of you.”
So the King resumed his work and those listening considered the Queen’s unjealous heart.
Aragorn did not say that he did not own the sight of his Queen, for he was certain she was aware of the eyes that followed her comely form. Even unadorned and streaked with dirt, the loveliness of Arwen was undaunted. He could barely keep his gaze from her when she chanced into view.
Something bit his finger and he nearly dropped his burden, for he was carrying a caged swan that hissed and flapped to a wagon.
“There now, proud bow neck, here is your mate! I thank you to not nip me so hard when I take you from this pen!” he scolded, putting the frightened bird next to another.
The groundhens were scattered and full of fear. Arwen called away the boys and dogs that were trying to herd them and then hummed very quietly until the birds settled. She scattered a bit of bread and walked slowly. It was amusing to see the drove follow the Queen, as had the children hours before. The people regarded her quiet manner and grace and found it lovely. When they saw King Elessar staring fondly after her, they smiled at his love for her, shining so radiantly in his face that even weariness was dispelled.
Late in the same day, Aragorn stepped through the doorway of an unoccupied room and regarded it. There was no adornment on any walls and all the windows were thrown wide. “This is the dwelling of Legolas,” he said. “None may touch anything, save myself or our Elven Queen.”
Arwen circled in the small quarters until she found the Mirkwood Crown sitting alone and took it up and regarded it solemnly. Aragorn ran one finger across the ellipses of silver as if lingering on some old memory, and then the Queen placed the circlet safely aside and began to take up pots of green oil that the archer used to waterproof fletches.
Aragorn took the sole blanket and laid every quill and strand carefully upon it, even the tiniest pieces. Throughout the room were needles and rawhide thread and sections of hides. The Elf had been mending quivers. He also was carving a bow from the heart of a Summerwart tree. The King first admired the skill and then wrapped it carefully.
“Did he take all his arrows?” he asked. The men waiting near the doorway could not answer.
“Beneath the bed,” suggested Arwen. “They are safe from being trod upon and are close at hand.” Four rows of fine tipped arrows were beneath the frame, along with twenty more newly carved, yet not fletched or tipped. “It would be deadly to try to take on the archer. Even in these close quarters, where he could not draw bow, nor turn,” she surmised.
“He would be deadly unarmed and clad in smallclothes,” said Faramir from the doorway. He wiped a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “I have clenched with him on the practice sand and had to cover my limp for days, lest I be tormented.”
“I just limp, for it is no offense to be bested by an Elf,” laughed Aragorn.
“And it gains sympathy,” mused Arwen. Her look was sly and Faramir laughed.
“Such does Éowyn give me, my Liege. You must save some strength for your tent this day or be accused of conjuring pity!”
Aragorn laughed and clapped a hand in good nature upon Gondor’s Steward, then gathered the archer’s belongings up and laid them carefully in a wagon. “Put him beside the King’s tent, for he is my friend and I would have him close when he returns.”
The men strode to the next household, but Arwen lingered, looking out the window at the bleak mountains. Aragorn noticed her abrupt absence, returned, and found her there whispering into the wind.
“You worry for him.”
“Nay, I worry not. I only remind myself to speak blessing upon his hunt, for we are diligent with other tasks and think not of him.”
Aragorn did not deny her truth. He took a slender leather thong and tied it around one wrist. The whip of the ends against his bare skin reminded him to consider the man missing. Others working with him asked of this new token and he was free with his answer. Thus did many other eyes look off towards barren Mordor and prayed such prayers as men do. All for the sake of the King’s friend, who had gone into uncertainty alone and willing. And he was not their kind and not of Gondor and this was a mystery.
They considered the love that must dwell between the King and this Elf, and wished for his safe return.
Slowly, slowly the city was gathered, ring-by-ring and wagon-by-wagon. It took long days, one after the other, which extended far into the nights by torches. Children were found sleeping wherever they fell; men were found dozing amongst half unloaded wagons. Faramir, Steward of Gondor, ordered some to sleep while others worked. Once a company of twenty worked in silence around Aragorn, who had curled himself amongst a roll of ropes in a moment of exhaustion. He slept only a finger length of sunshadow before rising again.
Arwen Evenstar alone never seemed to flag, although they found her with her feet in a pail of water to cool them a few times. The people considered her toil, her cheer, the kindness in her gaze … and loved her deeper than they thought possible for a creature not of their race.
Flocks were moved. Grains sacked and loaded. Pickets of horses were set. Tubs for washing children and clothes were filled from the Anduin. The armory was emptied and helmets stacked. The King and his Elven Queen strode amongst every portion of the encampment and endured many nights until nearly dawn. Thus was Minas Tirith drained until the white roads fell utterly silent.
King Elessar walked once more, alone, to the High Court and the Place of the Fountain where the newly planted White Tree lifted leaves to the wind. But though he put his hand out, she would not loose her grip in the soil. On the mountaintop, he lifted her free easily and carried her to the Fountain, but she would not be sundered twice. He could not take her.
For long moments, Aragorn sat beside The Eldest of Trees, the symbol of the King and the White City. “Abide then,” he said softly. “For the Dwarves come with all their skill to redeem what Sauron has injured. Hold her strong and in grace.” Then he walked the cobblestone streets to the bottom and the people were silent before him. He bid them peace and rest and would say no more.
8. Returning
I had no dreams in the night. None. I was exhausted and my limbs lead. But when Arwen jerked upright with a start, I roused quickly, wrapping my hand on the hilt of the Great Sword and my eyes seeking the source of alarm with immediacy.
But our tent was absent of malice and the white curtains hung without disturbance. The shadows were just shadows in the dance of the fire. There had been left a space between our dwelling and those of the people, as decorum dictated, but I could usually hear everything of people moving, talking, and loving nearby. My ears were keen, the ears of a Dúnadain. There was nothing but silence across the lay of camp.
“What is it, my Beloved?” I questioned, for her eyes stared at the confines of our dwelling and her breast heaved.
“Legolas.”
Fear smote me; such as I had not known since the dark of Moria. “Tell me all,” I said, though did not command. I did not command my Queen. I could see her plainly. Saw her consider her words, her eyes great by flames.
“A cry … but not one of pain. Not of fear.” She looked at me and I saw her truth, though I did not need to see it to know it. Not with Arwen, my beloved. “Only surprise.”
“Surprise.” I considered this long, but did not ask how she had heard him. It was a thing of Elves and I knew without needing to ask.
“He is near.”
This I considered not long. “It would take nearly thrice the weeks to cover the circle of woods and range…”
“All the same,” she said. “He is near, nigh upon us, else I would not sense that cry.”
I let go the hilt of Andúril and drew her close upon my shoulder and held her, for there was nothing more to be said. I felt her heart, the softness of skin against mine. Her beauty and scent settled around me like magic, soothing despite concern. We had loved before retiring; long and sweet, conjuring a wealth of words that I was unable to contain, spilling out like waters held long behind a barrier. I knew families encamped around us perhaps heard me, but I did not care then and did not care now. Boundaries had been set aside betwixt Gondor’s people and myself, and between households that once used status like walls. The minutes passed, stretched, lingered. We sat together in silence, breathing the same breaths, waiting.
At last! A call without. The bobble of torchlight up the center lane, moving quickly. The sentries of the outer boundary came at a trot, an escort. I threw wide the tent flap and they were startled to see me prepared, the Sword of the King throwing firelight back in their faces. And there was Legolas, pale as death’s hand, and his eyes drove like spears into mine.
“Nothing upon the flanks of the river. The Mountains of Shadow are lifeless, silent and foul. The waters are evil and murmuring and the trees grieve, but there are no footsteps, nor mark of any passage. The forest East lies lax and at ease. There is nothing lurking in their gloom and the leaves whisper to themselves: peace, peace. Across the plains and nigh to the kneeled hills of Rohan, nothing lingers harboring darkness. From shale cliff to shale cliff, no danger bent upon the White City dwells. This I have seen and sensed and swear.”
He entered silence with the same plunge as had his words began. I nodded my comprehension while focusing on his face. His hair was wet and beads dripped methodically from the braids. The green tunic was sodden and drawn. Though he shivered naught, I could sense his chill and it became my own. And behind it, exhaustion dwelled heavy as an anvil, for even an Elf is not proof against prolonged exertion … something I learned in Lothlórien, when Legolas waded the Nimrodel because his feet were weary.
I dismissed the guards back to their posts as Arwen reached and drew him within our dwelling. It was troubling to see him move without his customary grace, the way he sat stiffly and guarded and too near the banked fire—as if his desire was to step in the embers themselves. This one had seemed so unfettered after the Helm that we thought him unharmed until Gimli discovered a terrible slash down his shoulder and back. When it was sewn, he bore it without a sound—without needing to be restrained by anyone. Though I counted myself strong, even I bit full on a knife scabbard to endure such.
But I was a man and not Elf-kind. I did not think poorly of myself for such a thing.
The White Knives were in place, the quiver was full, the great bow strung; I saw no sign of any fight. Nothing but his severity and chill, the rill of water dripping from jerkin and vambraces. I reached, slipped the harness off his shoulders and helped him put the quiver aside, but when I set to his wet lacings, he resisted. Not in word or with gesture, but all the same I felt him refuse and Arwen stayed my hands.
“Wait. He is tense and knotted, his alertness too keen.” She turned away, busied, and then held a goblet out to Legolas. “Drink this. It will soothe your cold and disquiet.” He made as if to disagree, but she held up a hand in dismissal. “Lift not your voice to quarrel with your Queen. Only obey.”
This last I pondered, surprised. Never had I witnessed Arwen command any living soul in Gondor, and that she set her word to Legolas was most curious of all. He blinked as well; thoughtful and silent, then drained the goblet. His face twisted slightly at the end as if bitterness lay hidden.
I stirred the fire and added more wood until I felt it simmer across my skin. With a long stick, I opened the smoke flap wider. Waves of heat swirled in the room and I was grateful for the soft linen breeches that I customarily wore at nightfall. Arwen slipped from her silken night shift into something else. I was unsurprised that Legolas paid no heed. For a span of time, I waited, watching for the wine to pierce though his cold and taut demeanor.
“You completed the entire circle in a week and fortnight?” I finally spoke. “This task should have taken nigh three…” I looked at him, compelling an answer. “Arwen heard you cry out and brought me from slumber.”
He looked at her where she sat near us. “Arod stumbled in the Anduin. He trod in a hole at full gallop and threw me, though he fought to prevent it.” He swung his head to me. “He is unharmed, though I was not sure at first, for the fall was dire. He limps, but is sound. The Horsemaster took him and will have a care for him.” A blink. A stare. The crystal eyes went far ranging, looking beyond me, through me. “What is in the wine, Lady Fair?” he whispered.
“A draught of Bitterroot, though you knew this with the last swallow, for it lingers.” She considered him at length. “I must admit that this wine was pressed by Mithrandir before he left us.”
Legolas measured her words. “You shall have a drunken Elf in your tent, for Gandalf the White brews dregs strong enough to fall a Troll,” he said solemnly.
I was humored by his words. Now I understood why my beloved pressed him into drinking. Bitterroot is an effective remedy for discomfort, but none take it with willingness. Neirede is just as distasteful, if not worse—a potent herb for injuries unseen and deep. I was dosed with it as a boy after I tried to ride a stallion not meant for me and was thrown harshly. I was never that foolish again and partly because of the sinister taste. And one of these Elven herbs was awhirl with Gandalf’s powerful elixir. I looked in the face of Legolas and picked up the wideness in his gaze, open and unfocused. Hard upon him trod the spirits of the wizard.
“Are you violent when drunken?” Arwen asked. A flicker smile took shape in her face.
“I am not,” the archer answered, though he did not respond to her smile.
“Are you belligerent?”
“I am not.”
“Are you argumentative?”
This he considered and I finally saw a brush of humor through his expression. “No more than usual.”
“Then I am unconcern over a drunken Elf in our tent, for the arm of Aragorn is mighty and can dispel any troubles.” Her gaze tempered to seriousness. “Are you hungry, Legolas?”
“Very,” he answered, and it brought a chill to my heart.
“What is your need?” Arwen asked, and her eyes unfastened every means of escape, though Legolas made no move to escape.
“Something hot,” he said, his eyes on the fire. “And salty.”
“Salty?”
She looked at me, though she needed not. I knew what salty meant. The First-born are of the sea; the archer had been injured and lost blood. I set my fingers to his laces again and this time, he did not resist. The vambraces took the most effort, but I was patient until they were unfastened. Methodically I stripped him to smallclothes and tossed the sodden garments aside. Firelight hued his ashen skin, illuminating a silver medallion that hung on his chest. I glanced at it, curious, but then moved on. His right hand caught my notice first, especially his fingers … I reached and took them, felt the shimmer of hurt ghost through.
“There is pain here,” I said. “Through his tendons…”
“That is his bow hand,” my Queen added.
I turned the fingers in my own, witnessed the pinch of his face and knew it; knew that expression and its cause. “You rode the journey with your bow half-drawn?”
“Nay,” he denied.
I considered my words for fault. “When you rode you held the bow, and when you ran, you also held the bow?” This he did not admit or deny and I finished the rest without needing any guidance. “You galloped through the straights and when Arod could not go on, you took to your feet—never resting, never stopping, always vigilant, and the Bow of the Galadhrim notched and ready,” I said softly. “Thus do you come back with good tidings early. This I see, for your body sings its punishment through your silence.”
“You needed to know the mystery of the lands and you needed it quickly,” he said and I sighed, remembering my own words.
“His bow hand, the thumb of his left, and his back will be the worst,” Arwen said. She considered him, face to face, and he raised his eyes enough to see her. “Drink and eat, then we shall seek out your pain.”
“It will pass,” he murmured. “A bowl of something to eat and I shall withdraw. I need little.”
I ignored him and searched, my fingers finding stress and soreness harbored amongst tendons and muscles. Down near his right flank I found it, a puncture wound that oozed sluggishly. Though it appeared clean, I knew a plunge in the swift Anduin could erase much that would give my eyes truth. “What made this, my friend?” He did not move when I touched, but I felt the give of flesh where it should not and knew it was deep. A jagged stab that surely felled him somewhere along the way.
“A cliff face slid. Arod kept his footing and avoided the edge, but a branch caught me. The Birch meant no harm and was grieved. It bled a fortnight, no longer.” He lapsed to silence and I felt his bones give way, leaning, as the spirits of Gandalf worked in. “It will mend and I will be well.” He blinked. Slowly. The set of his jaws loosened.
“My hands are not just for the healing of mortals, Legolas,” I chided back to him. “And much Elven lore did Elrond, Lord of Rivendell teach me ‘ere I left his house. Let us tend you as we may and your sleep will be restful.”
Arwen brought meat in a broth, salted heavy, and bread for dipping. Legolas left the bread and ate only the bowl of salted meat, and that unsteadily, for his hand gripped poorly. Neither she nor I assisted; for it would be too much insult to bear, but when the bowl was empty, I drew him away to lie across the wide bed and put my hands on him.
He did not speak, did not move, even when Arwen unplaited the braids to let them dry and her voice fell soft and full into his ears. Meditations and healing she spoke and tranquility rested in her voice. I felt it through my palms when he gave himself over to our willingness to restore him.
I knew he did not sleep amidst the tremors I conjured from him, deep spasms from overwrought limbs. I crushed Lemmoth and Kingsfoil into a cup of heated water and sat the vapors near his face, breathing the fragrance deeply myself before dipping my fingers. I felt the oils seep in wherever I touched and bent my will after distress that darted ahead of me elusively. Only once did he speak, and that so softly that I barely heard the sadness in him.
“Arod wishes to be free. When he has rested, I will loose him. And though he has many years and miles left in his life, it pains me to think of his end, when he is frail and faint. That he should lay unlooked for upon plain or forest until he is gone from the land…”
“Such is the way of all living things, Laegolas,” Arwen said, slipping into Sindarian. She was grinding Fendril and Hamot in a small dish, adding enough water to make a paste.
He whispered his protest. “I do not have to like it.”
“No,” I agreed. “You do not have to like it.”
Between fire and wine, the murmur of Arwen and my skill, we settled our friend. He gradually turned warm, then limp, with only a deeper sigh when I pressed the Fendril and Hamot into his wound and bound it. His hands finally opened and Arwen took them in her own, fingers matching. His gaze faded from restless sharpness to half open, glimmering, drifting in Elven dreams as his kind does. I sobered at the evidence of his profound exhaustion; that he faded from us while we spoke. The token around his neck caught when we turned him; Arwen pulled it free and laid it upon his chest. When her fingers rested a moment atop it, he opened his eyes.
“Arwen.” Friendship, affinity, almost affection in his voice.
“I am here.” Certainly affection there. A connection between kindred souls.
His head turned and found me. His eyes looked very old. “I cannot watch. I need sleep.”
“You shall have it.” I took his fingers, curled and then opened them and found nothing. I searched his face, the line of his belly where pain twisted earlier and found simple fatigue. “This pavilion is well warded and there is naught to fear.”
“Put me on the floor. I will not sleep in the King’s bed.”
“Come now,” I chided. “You are lax and warm and we have bent our will to the matter. Rest anon. We have other places to retire.”
“Nay, I will not sleep in the King’s bed,” he repeated, shifting to rise.
Arwen held a hand stop my words. “Lay a place for him, for he shall be stubborn now and undo all our efforts.”
“I am not stubborn.” His words slurred very faintly.
“Nay, not stubborn,” she returned, tossing pillows and another blanket to me. “Merely convinced you are correct.” I chuckled at her words, and was even more amused when the archer suggested that my Queen ‘argued muchly.’
“Because she crosses words with an exhausted Elf who does not take her good counsel? I think not,” I laughed softly into his face.
“An exhausted Elf upon which she forced a strong draught mixed with…” His words diminished and became lost, slipping out of his grip somewhere between waking and sleeping. He did not struggle to find them, nor resist when I pulled him almost bodily to the floor.
Arwen settled a heavy quilt across him. He turned beneath, freeing his left arm and sought for the great bow by habit. I reached for one White Knife and was humored when he found it and was content. He was always prepared, even when not on the watch. A true warrior soul. Much like mine, with the sword of Elendil never far from my fingertips.
Arwen leaned and pulled his hair over his exposed ear and I looked at her curiously.
“Elves do not like their ears to get cold when they sleep,” she said.
“I’ve never seen you do that.” I took her chin in my hands and kissed her, felt the heat of the room gather between us. The archer was already far away I knew, wandering in his mind.
“Name the time you have found me sleeping and you awake, my Heart?” she chided, fingering down my chest.
We took to our bed again, for the night had not even reached its peak. I turned against her back with a sigh, listening to the flicker-tongue of flames gnawing wood. Weariness, the effort of lending my healing touch to another, stole across me and I slept. Arwen dropped a hand off the bed and settled her fingers into golden hair before shifting into her own dreams.
9. And So Spent the days…
The word spread at dawn through the patchwork shelters of Pelennor fields; the Great Surround was devoid of threat. The Elf had brought the word and the people put their trust in it. Great was their joy and they celebrated, making merry in dance, in drink, in foods. The children ran with ribbons like flocks of bright birds. The Guards of the boundaries were reduced and one hundred and fifty men rejoined their families, kissing wives and swinging children in their arms. Even the sun seemed brighter, though all knew it was not. It was only their relief.
The only sorrow upon the day was Legolas, who took Arod to the edge of the Great River and stood. Aragorn went with him, and Arwen, who also knew the love of a steed. Arod limped not, nor seemed weary from his journey and he nudged the archer’s clothes for treats. Legolas hooked his fingers in his nose and pinched his muzzle, playing. The gray nibbled the edge of his cloak and shook it threateningly. They all stood together a moment, then the archer patted the curve of the stallion’s throat and let him go. The steed tarried … then spun away, galloped across the shoals, and swam. Legolas watched until he reached the tree line and turned away, saddened.
“Lift your soul,” Arwen said. “For the fruit of Shadowfax ripens and they will both be sons. One shall be Aragorn’s and one shall be yours, but the colts must choose their companion so the friendship is sure.”
The King was reluctant though, and spoke his words aloud. “One shall be for you, Arwen, for Shalennah is your mare. She has run well with the Lord of Stallions and will use all her strength to bring her young.”
“Nay, my Heart.” Arwen’s eyes were clear and certain. “I have a horse already, though she is big as a ox these days.”
“Do not say that in her hearing, lest she carelessly lean upon you,” Legolas laughed and they were both pleased to see his sorrow lessened.
Aragorn was amused by the revelry of the displaced city and wandered through the fields to view it, sipping soups and tasting treats and ales offered to him, pausing to speak with men, and enduring the questions of bright children. He ranged far with his long stride and the people were pleased to see him.
When he finally returned to his own pavilion, with many detours along the way, he heard the sound of laughter and found Legolas and Arwen inside. A bowl, a goblet of wine, and an assortment of trinkets were scattered on linen between them. Legolas looked up as he entered and quickly grew solemn.
“I will leave you,” he said, scooping up a few items from beside him.
Aragorn waved a hand to stay him. “No, you need not go. The night is yet young.” He unfastened the scabbard and placed the Great Sword in the stand.
“You have been away all day.” Legolas darted a glance to where Arwen sat. “And you likely wish to spend time with your beloved.”
“Legolas,” Aragorn chided very softly as he tossed his cloak aside on a chest. “You are my friend and your company pleasant. Tarry a while with us and then I can see you both.”
“Besides, we haven’t finished the game,” added Arwen, rattling tokens in her hand.
“A game? You are playing a game?” said Aragorn. He sat close, took Arwen’s fingers to kiss them in greeting, and then regarded the objects scattered on the linen. Bits of cloth, bone beads, arrowheads, several trinkets that looked like silver, some small feathers, and two stones were jumbled in a pile. “Is there skill to this game?”
“None,” said Legolas. His eyes were bright by torchlight. “Your Kingly rank will not serve you here, I fear. And your wife has Elbereth’s own luck tonight.”
“She does, does she?” laughed Aragorn.
“Legolas loses poorly.” Arwen’s eyes were mischievous.
“Legolas loses poorly to Gimli, I’ve noticed ... but to you as well? That is a concern.”
“You have not seen poorly until you see Arwen lose,” countered Legolas.
“Oh, really?” said Aragorn, humored. He leaned conspiratorially towards Legolas. “Do her eyes flash?”
“Indeed. And you must play well after that, for she pursues you with vengeance!”
Arwen smiled, but said nothing in her defense and both men laughed harder.
The Elves showed Aragorn how to play and guided his fumbling first attempts. The goblet of wine was refilled and shared between the three of them, a simple intimacy fitting comfortably within the camaraderie of friendship. Aragorn lost, and lost, and lost again before finally winning. He whooped delightedly and nearly upset the playing bowl.
“Sit, you tipsy King,” laughed Arwen.
“I am NOT tipsy—just triumphant.”
“Short lived, I’ll wager,” interjected Legolas. He gathered an arrowhead, two buttons, and one feather for his turn.
“Uh-oh,” said Aragorn, but his expression was anything but concerned.
They played until the camp fell into evening quietness. Sometimes there were long pauses to talk before resuming. Legolas told some old stories and Arwen told some older still; ones passed down from Eärendil, Elrond’s sire, and thence to her. Aragorn listened with his eyes closed at one point as both Legolas and Arwen told a story together; the low voice of the Queen speaking the beloved’s part and Legolas speaking the lover’s part. It was sweet and powerful, tragic and grieving and he heard it echoed in their voices.
The mood lingered when it was finished, for it was a long tale, until Legolas sang a child’s ditty ... one that involved a cup, a pony, two trees, and one blade of Whipgrass. They had to wipe their eyes and refill the wine after that one.
By the time the hour was late, Arwen had won almost every toss. Aragorn was paying her in kisses, which Legolas found amusing for she was then so distracted that he won all his arrowheads back and she failed to notice. Both of them saw her eyes flash when she made the discovery, but they did not start another game. Legolas retired to his shelter and Aragorn saw him off with a clasp of arms at the door.
Dawn ... and singing.
Arwen turned and laid her head on Aragorn’s shoulder with a thoughtful sigh. “I love that.”
“What does he sing?” Aragorn rumbled beneath her ear, for Legolas sang in an unfamiliar tongue.
“A very old song in Quenia, to greet the sun.” She brushed her fingers through his chest hair, and then drifted down. “He sings it every morning.”
“I never noticed—” His breath caught, then resumed. “Before.”
“Usually he is on the tower walls,” she whispered, peering into his eyes. “Not right outside our bedroom.”
“He will hear us...” trailed off Aragorn, but her kisses did not stop, nor did her hands cease roaming.
“He is an Elf. He does not care.” Her eyes laughed from above him, rained joy down upon him. “Only mortals have such embarrassments over love and the giving of love.”
Love. And giving love. The morning never seemed to end and ended too quickly.
So the days spent themselves. Aragorn was content, waiting with his hope in a far away people and every day he saw Legolas, whose companionship he missed since his day of Vows. The archer dwelled close, for thus the King had commanded when they departed the White City and nearly always there was laughter, and gaming, sometimes stories and songs—and always, always, the fellowship between the Elves. It was a comfort and Legolas smiled more than he was solemn and Aragorn was happy, for he kept his word to Gimli.
Once, late in the evening, Aragorn requested Arwen and Legolas to sing together for him and Arwen laughed, amused, but Legolas was quiet. The King wondered if he had asked foolishly.
“Nay, my Heart,” she replied and stroked a hand across the back of his. “Only that Elven songs sung by just one man and woman are all love songs—and though they are splendid to hear, they are sung with all of the heart.” She smiled. “You will think we flirt and be troubled, for they are intimate.”
Aragorn was curious, for most Elven songs told tales about lovers, but none were from the lovers themselves. “I am unconcerned and would still like to hear them if Legolas is willing.”
So the Elves sang, and the songs were different, for desire ran graceful as currents through them. And their faces grew alight and their eyes lived in each other’s and the melody and words came from passion lying in the tenderest places. Their fingers touched, moved in the air, rising and falling together as their voices blended. Worship and yearning, ardor for an intimacy far, far deeper than flesh. The pure sacrifice and bonding of lovers. And when they finished, Aragorn felt the loss and nearly groped a hand after it helplessly, spellbound.
But Arwen reached and took the archers face, and only then did the King notice the tears upon his friend and he wondered.
“You should have stopped before it hurt, Legolas,” she said. “For no one here wishes you sorrow.”
He did not answer, but left the dwelling of the King. Aragorn stood to go after him, concerned, but Arwen stayed his course. “Let him depart. He does not wish to see anyone.”
For not the first time, Aragorn wondered why the archer was alone, for never had he found as much joy as he found in the arms of Arwen Evenstar, his delight and his Beloved. By the dawn, Legolas looked exactly as he always did and Aragorn said nothing of the songs of lovers.
The King spent most of the days moving amongst the people. His laugh was easy and he spoke with both poor and the rich, leveling the regard of all the houses. Duathir’s wife gave birth to a son after hard labor and Aragorn lingered with the new father until she was delivered. He was so moved by their joy that tears glittered in his eyes ... and the people loved him even more and they prayed for the Queen’s womb to open for their King. Aragorn found himself the target of various charms to strengthen his loins and some made him blush.
The Evenstar regarded them all with humor, but Aragorn found her hanging them across the entrance of their pavilion. Though Arwen put no faith in such things, it delighted the people who had given them. Their Queen was wise, though they had arrived at this some time earlier.
“Where is Legolas?” he asked. “I did not find him on the practice ground, nor by the river. His shelter is empty.”
“Somewhere high,” replied Arwen and she looked away West. “There, on the cliff near the Citadel, where he can see over the miles.”
Aragorn shaded his eyes. The archer was a dot of green topped with gold. “He watches for the Dwarves.”
“Yes.” She looked at him. “I do not think you can reach him there. He scaled the cliff face and it took him an hour without ropes.”
Aragorn snorted, amused. “I think not. But I bet you could reach him.” He looked into her eyes, saw the knowledge there. “Climb and join him if you will, that his sentry is not so lonely.”
So Arwen changed from her gown and donned travel garments and took to the mountain. Aragorn watched her go with a smile, for he saw the delight in her quick stride and her eyes settle on the cliff with anticipation. He did not watch her ascent, though. It was too much to bear. He went abroad and found Faramir rolling dice and joined the men gaming and drinking ale. A fine time they had, though Aragorn thought he lost overmuch.
The shale was hot and stacked in layers. No plants grew here, not even the determined Hornwart, which seemed to carve its life out of every terrain. Stones shifted, slid, fell. She picked her way carefully; eyes up and clinging by strong Elven fingers over desperate falls. Legolas did nothing to aid her, nor spoke a word to break her concentration. She only remembered him at the last, when his hand hove into view at the final yard. She took it and met his bright gaze; let his strength hoist her to the top.
They stared eye to eye without speaking. And then she put her back against him and put her hand into his, felt his fingers along the backs of her own, perfectly matched. He curled hers within his, wrapped their joined arms about her waist and thus they stood together, gazing across the distance to the haze of mountains touching sky, forest touching river. His breath was warm. Warmer still was the front of his tunic after hours of sunlight beating upon it. And beneath, Elven strength and solidity, the sureness of his mind. Like her father, like her brothers, like her grandfather Celeborn, the Strength of the Golden Woods.
She sighed within the aura of companionship and felt him shift against her, whisper peace against her hair. They watched the ribbon of river; the circle of five hawks kiting a thousand feet up, a timid hare near the empty city, and a puff of milk pod down drifting with wind. And through the hours of piercing vision, always the power dwelling within them, between them; a harmony through blood and of mind and soul.
10. Swordsong
Another day. Another sunrise. Ears through the center path listened for the archer’s song and were not disappointed.
Aragorn went to the practice sands this day and tested his skill against various men from the Causeway Forts. He had to bid each one to give his full effort, however, for they were wary of injuring their beloved King. All save Faramir, who set his strength behind his blade strongly enough that Aragorn finally raised a sweat and laughed, delighted. They scrimmaged across the black sand and though Aragorn’s strength was greater, the sword heavier, Faramir held speed like a winged falcon and loosed it when least expected. When they finally ceased, they sat on the hot sand to catch their wind and tipped a bucket of water to cool off. It was a fine contest and the men were proud both of their Steward and their King.
Legolas, then. A slim flame of danger. Aragorn groaned to see him and received a crook of an eyebrow as answer.
“Give him a sword,” called Aragorn. “That will slow him enough that I shall have a chance.”
“What?” returned the Elf. “I can’t use the White Knives?”
“Nay, Legolas, for you would cut ribbons of my clothes before I brought Andúril to bear,” chuckled the King. He shifted the hilt of the Great Sword hand to hand and watched the sky eyes follow it, already focused.
“Perhaps you are tired from your exertions already...” Legolas suggested. A smile flickered through.
“Ha!” said Aragorn. “You will surely outlast me, but I can make you step quickly until I fail!”
And so they fought and it was marvelous to see, for Aragorn brought all of his skill as a Ranger to bear, shifting through attack patterns that made the Sword of Elendil whistle when it passed. He dug up the sand, harnessing all his effort and speed, for against an Elf he could throw all of his intensity without fear. The ferocity glittered in his gaze. He was bold and sharp and the power through his shoulders failed not. The blades shivered sunlight and rang. The Sword of the King hit sand once and split it in a cascade before whipping around like lightning to meet the Elf again. And though each had elm guards on the edges of their blades, the breath went out of them when a stroke fell, for each put might behind it.
The archer fought in silence, elegant and flowing and fearful to watch; perfectly poised even when he took to the sand, came up inside Aragorn’s guard and knocked him down with an arm coiled like a spring. And when Aragorn kicked him away, he rolled to his feet and was harrying the King’s left side before he could swing the sword around. A blow of the hilt only made Legolas duck along the guard, fasten a hand on a wrist, and pitch Aragorn tumbling across his shoulder.
The King twisted as he fell, landed on one foot and a knee, braced for the next blow and felt it clear down to his shoulders. He leaned into the scissor of swords and head butted Legolas across the crown of his forehead and they saw stars, staggered, caught their breath and lunged at each other the same instant. Aragorn curved the slenderer man with pure strength, but there was a limit to that bend and he encountered the force of will that he’d seen on battlefields—knew it was moments before the archer whipped back and laid him out on the sand.
He sidestepped, boxed Legolas in the face with a fist, then executed a severe flat-bladed blow across the Elf’s forearm and saw the sword drop from his nerveless fingers. A shift of his weight and he kicked him hard enough to hear the grunt of air explode. It dropped the Elf to his knees and Legolas crabbed away to avoid the next sword stroke.
The crowd cheered. Aragorn grimaced and grinned at the same time. Disarming the Elf was a small thing, for now Legolas came with both hands free, slipping like wind inside the arc of sword and rendering all its power naught. Strong Elven hands became his blades and Aragorn felt the first one strike the tendon along his neck hard enough to make his left arm go numb. The next took him just below the ribs and doubled him over. The third he avoided, but that barely and only because the sword caught the archer by the cloak and he darted free of it—then came straight back inside the circle of the sword like a Werecat, only quieter.
Aragorn closed his arms and clenched with Legolas, felt him shifting his feet and knew he had only seconds … head butted him again with a sickening smack. They both staggered again, still grappling for leverage, but the Ranger recovered an instant faster. He dug the crosspiece of the sword hilt like a spike and felt the archer twist to evade the pain, sinking in his arms. He let him down to hip level and dropped him into a knee that canted the Elf’s head back with a snap.
Aragorn had one glimpse of his eyes, their clarity changing into a fade of agony, and then found himself airborne facing sand—Legolas had fastened both hands in his tunic and kicked him over as he collapsed. He landed crazily and off balance, staggered with his arms deadened, and barely avoided his own sword when he went down the second time.
It was too much effort to rise. He turned on his back with a groan and listened to the whoop of men a moment.
“My shoulders hurt,” he said to the sky.
“My head hurts,” said another voice. Legolas was sitting, but made no effort to rise.
“That’s what happens when you get inside my reach.”
“I am duly warned.” The Elf rose and drug Aragorn to his feet. “A fine contest, but I am certain you are done now.”
“I don’t think there is a man here your full match, Legolas,” chuckled Aragorn. “Thus am I grateful you are on our side, for I would hate to face you across a battle line.”
“Only another Elf could test me true...” He trailed off and suddenly turned his head, for Arwen had come to the field and stood watching. Aragorn, close enough to touch, saw the thoughtful look—then saw the source. “How long has it been since you practiced with a First-born, Lady Fair?” called the archer across the sand.
“No, Legolas.” Aragorn’s voice was louder than he intended. “You’ll not spar with Arwen.”
The archer looked at him curiously, blinked thoughtfully. “Why not?”
“Because she does not need to fight.” He spoke softly, but knew his stress could be heard in his words. “She need never fight again.”
“Did you not tell them?” said Legolas, bewildered. “You told them you were a Ranger, raised by the Elves, the Son of Arathorn. You told them she was the Princess of Rivendell, Lord Celeborn’s granddaughter—yet not once did you tell them that their Queen was trained to a sword; taught by some of Elrond’s finest?”
“It is unimportant, because she will never need to fight, Legolas.” Aragorn’s voice grew softer, yet lost none of its hardness. “I have sworn my skill to defend her. Minas Tirith shall defend her.”
Legolas regarded him quietly. “May we never see the day that the Great Gate is breached again. May we never see her streets overrun and the Guardianship fail. May we never hear the Citadel groan and her towers fall—but if ever it happens, when the Dark Ones break into the King’s Greatchamber, I want the sword of the Queen at their necks.” He blinked and tilted his head. “I do not know why you would have her lose her ability—I could never lay down my bow or my knives.”
“She isn’t you—a warrior. She is my Queen.” The King was silent a moment, thinking. “I know your speed and skill, your ability. I will not have her subject to such and you will relent of this course.”
The archer’s expression softened as if he understood. His hand reached and rested on Aragorn’s tense shoulder. “You are my friend and King, and dear to me. I am biddable to you and thus I relent.” But then the blue eyes went sharp. “But do you bid your Queen? And will you not ask her will in this?”
Silence. Aragorn stared at him, fear and truth at war within. Great was the struggle and it flowed on his face.
"The Elves know," Legolas added softly. “How a company was overwhelmed with Orcs in Redhorn Pass and though they fought with skill, the males were destroyed to the last. But the final Elf, a woman, turned in a cleft of the Drindinan Mountains and put her back to the stone. There she made her stand and slew her enemies three score and seven, until her arms flowed with blood and the rocks screamed the deaths. Then the Orcs marshaled their power. They sent a poisoned shaft into her from afar and cast boulders and stones until finally—they took her. Their tortures were grievous … her agonies fierce..." Each word was weighted. Pain unendurable, but borne. "But none of them forgot during her captivity that her hands could kill.” His sapphire eyes did not blink at all. “Do you know of whom I speak, Aragorn, King of the West?"
"I know not," admitted Aragorn. He felt the swift impression of doom descend.
Legolas’ gaze held the King's relentlessly. "The Elven woman was Celebrían, beloved of Elrond, who swore his skill to defend her—Mother of Arwen the Fair."
Aragorn looked across the distance to Arwen. She stood with her eyes closed and nothing was written upon her face to read. He considered her, considered the archers’ words and understood precisely why Arwen was trained to wield a sword. It shook him, moved him, yet did his anxiety remain.
"Will you pit your skill against Legolas?" he asked across the distance.
She opened her eyes, tranquil. "I will do as the King bids."
"I do not bid you in this. You are free to choose."
She considered Aragorn, then Legolas. "I will practice with Legolas, for it has been years since I trained formally ... but not today, for I am not prepared. Tomorrow. At sunrise."
Legolas nodded fractionally and turned away, gathering up the sword and removing the edge guards. But the King knew apprehension, fierce and unkind and relentless, and later, before dusk, did he seek him out to speak. For the first time, he looked upon the Elf and did not see his comfort and care so clearly. The memory of the practice field was fresh and his muscles ached. He felt only his fear and uncertainty; knew only the daunting skill of the archer, understood only the tumult of love in his heart for his wife.
"I do not want you to injure my beloved."
Legolas regarded him without blinking. "I do not seek to harm her, Aragorn. You know my soul is turned towards her."
"But I know your strength," he said. "I have met your speed and skill on the sands. I know the bruises and aches, the tremble of strained limbs, the cuts that sting despite the safeguards on the swords. I will not have this laid upon Arwen."
Silent regard, almost confusion. “What is it that you desire of me, Aragorn?”
"That you withhold your might and the swiftness of your blade, thereby leaving her unscathed."
The clear eyes went sharp and thoughtful. "Do you know what you ask?" he whispered.
"I will not have her harmed," pressed Aragorn, for his fear loomed in his heart. “And you must swear it to me.”
Another quiet pause and the archer nodded, his eyes acquiescent and calm. "I swear to hold my strength and skill, King Elessar. No harm shall befall your beloved at my hands."
Aragorn took comfort with the words, but slept poorly. In restlessness came the dawn.
The Queen wore doeskin and a cloak. In her right hand, she held Hadhafang, the Throng-cleaver, sword of the Elven Princess Idril. The runes of Sindarin written upon the blade caught the dawn just as they had when Elrond wielded it in the Last Alliance, three thousand years before. She picked amongst the edge guards before finding ones that fit to her liking and when she turned, Legolas was waiting. They met in the center of the dark sand and stood close. The air was hushed and calm. Pale and dark haired, they met left palms in some gesture before lifting sword points at ready.
They fought and the witnesses marveled, for the Queen moved adeptly and met the archer without shirking, though they noted that he did not challenge her. She brought the fight and he merely defended, though it was a busy defense that he mustered to protect himself. The blades clashed, rang, sheered sparks. The edge guards reflected the punishment of Elven strength and the dark hair of the Queen flew like a flag. Slippery as otters, the cloaks whipping, they strove and neither took their eyes off the other. So keen was their skill that nary a blow fell without being answered by the other blade. A graceful dance and riveting and the King stood silent with the rest.
But a ripple touched Arwen's brows now and then, for she watched the archer’s swordwork closely. The struggle left little pause to contemplate, but still her mind was filled with consternation. A riposte, followed by a repartee, then a combination of thrusts and parries—she saw an opening and took it. Swift was her blade, singing. Legolas met it with his block, exactly as expected, but failed the counter—one that would have changed the entire pattern that came after. The next move lay open, inviting. She engaged it without reflection, switching the sword hand-to-hand and took him across the chest—a vicious strike that dropped the archer on one knee.
She stared, frozen. The men watching were astonished and none more so than the King. Then Arwen reached abruptly while Legolas hung over the blow and seized the braid behind his left ear.
"No!" he gasped, but the hair parted before the bare edge near the hilt and he dropped into silence.
The Queen of Gondor stood tall and straight and though her face was calm, her eyes were dangerous. She threw the shorn lock near the King's feet and it landed in sand and dirt. "This is yours," she said, her voice soft despite her eyes. "For I see that Legolas does not meet me with his full intent, for never would I have made my way through his defenses had he brought his skill to bear." Her gaze was piercing and full and there was no shield against it. "There is only one who the has power to command Legolas to stay his hands in contest. You have sworn him to no harm."
"To spare you, and to answer my fear for you," returned the King. He strode to meet her, to keep their words private.
"You will not have my blood and thus you choose to have his?” she said. “This I shall swear as well: for every strike that finds its way through his defense, I shall cut another lock until he is shorn naked as a sheep—or you relent and free him from this foolish vow. It is a grave thing to permit the contest of Elf against Elf and then bind one because of your uncertainty." She put a hand to his chest, felt the bound of his pulse through his shirt—knew his anxiety. “He will not injure me. It is beyond him to do so and you must trust this.”
The King considered. It was many moments before he found words, but they were sure when they came. "Legolas, I release you from your oath." He gazed at his beloved. "Meet the Queen with your full strength."
"I am released," said Legolas, still on one knee in the sand.
"You know my fear," added Aragorn sidelong.
"I do not forget."
Arwen stripped off her cloak and let it fall, stabbed her sword into the sand. Her eyes were still dark and unsettled. "He will need your care, Aragorn, for I have broken his ribs and perhaps pierced the lung. Even a guard upon the blade will not stay the strength of a landed Elven blow."
"My lung is intact," said Legolas.
"You need tending or else you would be on your feet by now," she retorted. Her glare silenced him.
So multiplied the King's concern. He took Legolas aside and removed the tunic. The score across his ribs was not severe. The bleeding slowed and duly ceased, testament to Elven recuperative powers. But two ribs were displaced and a third broken. The archer made no sound when Aragorn reset the bones, but pain silenced any more words between them. Legolas drank a dipper of water, refused the second, and let himself be steered away from the practice sands. They were inside the King's tent when Aragorn faced him fully.
"Why did you not tell me, Legolas?"
The archer moved to reply, but the curtain parted with a snap and Arwen entered the pavilion. She cast her eyes upon them both and they felt the weight.
"I did not know," said the King.
"And you did not tell him," said the Queen. She aimed it at Legolas and her tone held rebuke. Here, in private, would she give her anger voice.
"He would not have believed me," offered Legolas. "Though unpracticed, your skill is still very high."
She regarded him stonily. "He demanded without thought and you acquiesced without argument. You, who will argue with Gimli until you are both gray, and with me, until I am ready to cut your tongue out? And then you both kept this foolishness to yourselves instead of talking to me?" She sighed, vexed. "Thus is proved that all men are woolheads and you two are their chieftains."
Aragorn chuckled, amused. Legolas merely smiled, for his ribs grieved.
"Peace, Arwen," offered the Elf.
"I should box your ears!" she retorted. "And though injured, I will wager that you will want to take to the sand again with me at sunrise."
Aragorn looked perplexed, but Legolas chuckled softly despite his pain.
"Legolas pit his skill against my father's once," Arwen explained. Her eyes glittered, remembering. "They fought over practice ground and through trees, across glades and streams. We grew tired of watching and drifted—but all heard his cry shiver the air and came running. Elrond had shattered his bow arm in an onslaught, though unintentionally. Glorfindal and the Eldars spent their skill to set the bones and bound it so he would heal and thus, his pain was lessened." A wry smile twisted across her face. "The morning found Elrond and Legolas back in practice and their knives flashed fire in the rising sun. The arm of the archer was tied to his waist." She frowned at Legolas. "He wanted to know how his art needed to be altered if he was wounded—so my father engaged him again at first light!"
"I learned a great deal from that contest," said Legolas, thoughtfully.
"I thought you mad. You both should have been switched with Swordgrass until you came to sensibilities."
"That would have been difficult to accomplish, I think."
"I was not alone in that assessment," she returned coolly. "I would have had help."
To this, Legolas did not reply, but he put an arm around her when she crept close and laid her head against his shoulder. He looked at Aragorn; saw the consent in his gaze. He could feel her trembling and knew the cause.
"I could have slain you, had I not pulled Hadhafang to the side at the last instant."
"Nay, Arwen," he said to her hair. "You would not have slain me, for you are just as swift to withdraw a blow as to land one. You would have turned in time, even as you did today. And beyond that, I would not have let you slay me. A thousand Orcs in two wars could not slay me, so I am confident that I can escape one Elf."
"There is no comparison between a thousand Orcs and me," she muttered from somewhere beneath his chin. "It was terrible, nonetheless."
"Terrible," he agreed, and then added with a grimace, "You cut my hair!"
"I was furious with you and I made my point. Besides, it was only the last few inches.” She sat back and a glimmer entered her eyes. “I'll cut the other side shorter and then you'll match."
"You will not!" he protested. "It will grow out."
"This is true." She looked at him, searched his eyes. "Neirede or Bitterroot to soothe the pain?"
He scowled. "You will have me choose? I will keep my discomfort, for no Elf willingly wants either of those herbs."
"Pish, you are a child! As are all men dosed for their own good." She turned amidst their laughter and mixed an infusion of Bitterroot—and put in an extra pinch just for justice. Legolas' face after drinking the potion was satisfying to see.
They practiced daily starting in the morning and Aragorn's anxieties gradually calmed. He saw the care of the archer always turned upon Arwen, and his hands were quick to look for hurts. Often they paused and went over sword moves at half speed, perfecting their form, and Legolas called each step aloud. Men along the boundary of sand practiced ones that were new to them, but found most impractical for their heavy swords. The quick Elven blades darted as if weightless. And the sight of the Queen and her silver sword was staggering.
Aragorn was humored to see Arwen lose her temper once, after hours of footwork and Legolas' attention to detail.
"It must be done right every time. Once you learn it perfectly, your body will remember and draw it up even in dire battle," called the archer. He had been attempting to teach her a new feint and point attack and they were on their seventeenth attempt.
"I know, I know."
"Then do!"
She scowled at him and sifted a hand through her hair. "You cannot teach me all of your skill, Legolas. I haven't the time, nor the urgency beneath which you were taught. You are trying to pour all of the new things you have learned in the last six hundred years into my head and now expect me to keep track of it?" He blocked a stroke that she threw abruptly and she circled the point of Hadhafang at him. "How did you know I was there?"
"Because you are leading before you move the blade, Arwen. I can read it like parchment," he said curtly.
"Truly?" She stepped close to him, sword down. "So how do you keep your eyes from betraying the next move when you know you must think of it before acting upon it?" But before he could answer, she leaned swiftly and kissed him across the mouth and he jerked, startled. His expression grew even graver when he felt Hadhafang press against his stomach—a perfect angle to disembowel him. "You didn't read THAT one very well," she said, and her eyes sparkled.
Aragorn hooted from the perimeter, greatly amused.
"I did not," dryly replied Legolas. "I did not see it, nor expect it. You are not suppose to kiss your enemies while you're trying to kill them."
"Only argumentative fellow Elves," she agreed cheerfully. "But now I'll never be able to use that one on you again."
"True!" laughed Legolas. "But you could use it on the King and he would falter each time!"
This only made Aragorn laugh harder.
"I am never going to be your equal, so quit trying to make me your equal, Legolas." She eyed him up and down. "Though, just once, I would like to best you and pitch sand in your face."
It was Legolas' turn to laugh, but then Aragorn detached himself from the sideline and strode onto their practice square.
"I cannot best him, and you cannot best him ... but if we both make the attempt, perhaps we shall," said the King.
Legolas eyed them amused and shook his head. "Even with both of my knives, I think I will lose this day."
By the time he retrieved the twin Elven blades and set guards along their edges, Aragorn was prepared and Andúril was in his hand. Arwen stood waiting and Hadhafang shown white fire. Legolas looked upon them a moment.
"Never has there been a kingdom blessed with so fine a man and woman as these two," he called aloud. "For Elessar bears the wisdom and strength; slow with anger and swift with forgiveness. Valor dwells in his bones and healing in his palms. All men are blessed within his realm, abiding beneath the blood of a True King. And Arwen Evenstar, fairest in the land, who holds her power not as a thing to be grasped, but a thing to be given up. An alter she has laid and the offering is herself, to her Beloved and for his people. Beautiful are all of her works, for in her soul is absolute clarity."
Aragorn stood quietly, a light burning in his eyes, but Arwen spoke across the distance to Legolas in Sindarian; a quick flow of words like music. The archer nodded, agreeing.
"This will not save you from being pitched in the sand, Legolas," she said next.
"I did not seek to avoid the sand, Arwen." His expression was sincere. "And all of my words are true." His eyes were proud and swung to Aragorn's. "And a Queen who can fight! While all believe the wealth of the Minas Tirith is the city itself, you and I know the treasure is her Queen."
"Yes," said Aragorn. "She's the only jewel I have ever longed for."
"As it should be." Legolas turned the knives, holding one before him and one behind him, and set his feet. "Ready?"
They fought and the people cheered the sport and called encouragement across the practice sand. Aragorn and Arwen both engaged, pressing Legolas hard and finding proper timing between them. They backed him around the sand: never letting him set his feet and never letting him get an instant of breathing.
The swords keened.
The cloaks whipped.
The knives were lightning.
And so was the archer, who fought overwhelming odds against powerful and intelligent fighters. For the first time, the sword of the King got through his guard and hammered him sidelong. The sword of the Queen was right behind, whistling, and took his right leg out from under him. When he spun away, they went after him like dark wolves and he, the golden stag.
The end was predicted true, though to give Legolas credit, it took many minutes. They brought him down with concerted effort and followed it with a gout of sand. Arwen tossed another handful on him for good measure when he came up spitting and laughed in triumph. The King complained that he was just as sandy for having won and this was just as humorous. They bathed, tended bruises, and sipped wine until late in the night, as was their wont.
By and by, the Elves and their practice times grew shorter. Arwen took the guards off Hadhafang to get its true heft and did not rebuke Legolas for leaving his edge guards on. Aragorn watched; they respected his fears. The King rubbed herbs into cuts that she opened, though there were few.
A meditative quality entered the endings of their hours. Sometimes they stood close, whispering, nearly hidden by the cloak of their hair. Other times, their hands hovered inches apart and they spoke a litany together, chanting. Legolas brought cold tea in an urn and they bathed their hands, and then poured it onto the sand between them. “She is nearly at the limit of her previous skill,” the archer explained, but would say nothing further and Aragorn did not press him.
They took to the lowest level of the White City for three days and Aragorn could hear them running, the song of swords meeting along empty streets and echoing from walls. Only once did they see them and that only a glimpse. Arwen took to a high wall, running up it sidelong as if gravity held no hand upon her, and when Legolas popped into same view, they both lunged and the swords flashed. They fell out of sight and a whoop was heard—Arwen laughing.
"She is finished," said the archer at nightfall and offered nothing more.
11. Fathers, Daughters, Loves of Old
 I was not alarmed that they were together. Not concerned that they were alone, silhouetted by midday sunglow through the walls of the King's pavilion. Nor that she was in his arms ... that he held her gathered against him, shoulder to hip. They were Elves and my trust failed not, my faith faltered not. But Arwen wept, she who was strongest of all. She who had seen through my self-doubt to the sword shining whole in my hands. The crown above my eyes in her dreams. Strong in faith, in hope, in love, in everything. I felt her suffering in this place … it more powerful than any dagger set in me. I crossed the room in five strides and concern rested heavy across my back. Legolas glanced at me and his eyes spoke greeting, but he did not release her. I did not seek to pull her from him either, though I raised a hand, open, as if to take pain to myself. The archer's eyes warned me away, though kindly, and I touched them not. I stood close, unable and unwilling to leave. Arwen seemed not to notice amongst her silent tears and I ached, watching them. A slow slide—like mothers over children who are born without breath, old scarred warriors who find a young son on the battlefield instead of their own body. Grief deep and unuttered, inexpressible in word. Or thought. Or any prayer offered. "Peace, Arwen," whispered Legolas. I could feel his will behind the words, through his breath. "How shall I find peace?" she said softly. "I fail and he slips from me; he is gone from sight and presence—he whom I have never been without in all my years." She seemed to sag in his arms, but Legolas did not stir, as if he anticipated her burden. "We have said our goodbyes, in bitterness and grief. He will come here no more. And now I see that I will not even know when he is gone." "I can hear him, for my Elven blood fails not. I will know when he is gone. But you must choose what I reveal," quietly said Legolas. He tilted her chin until she looked in his face. "Will you dwell in simple hope and be content, believing him there all your days, like flowers who trust for rain? Or will you choose the truth, though sharp is the blade and bitter the freshet of blood?" When he is gone. My breath caught and hurt. And though I knew this must someday be faced, I did not expect it today. Not this hour. Not for years to come. Was the Lord of Rivendell sailing for the Havens—as I knew he would, as I knew he must? A kindred pain bloomed in me, for Elrond was my father as well, caring for me as if I was his own. A fostered son, last of the line of Kings. But not today would I struggle with my own farewells, for Arwen's sorrow was deep and heavy and I called my strength to steady myself. Her eyes were dark, the light of her spirit extinguished. Her fingers rested upon the archer's chest, spread as if warding him away … or seeking his flawlessness and strength. I recalled past times when I had drawn stability out of him as well; moments when I would wrestle in solitude and find Legolas alongside; the Path of The Dead when he strode at my heels or just off my elbow. Legolas looked into her face as if he reached within her, answering some summons I could not hear. And I wished it so. Wished for that call and an answer, a comfort beyond words, beyond touch. Something to step through her shadows and bring her into sunlight. And though I longed to gather her up, I did nothing to disturb this desperate connection that stretched between them. "Grievous are my sorrows," she whispered and closed her eyes. I knew she trembled only by the lock of her hair falling dark across her temple. "Alas, I have chosen this course and I will bear it, Legolas. Listen for my father ... and tell me when he sails, though my heart will be torn beyond mending. A wound that bleeds through my years; that never kills me, but neither heals." Legolas reached his fingers beneath the curtain of her hair and framed her face within. "Turn," he breathed. "Turn your soul from the dark and look upon me. Hear my voice, for you know me." "Laegolas..." So faint, so far away, as if she fell. "Turn. Turn, Daughter of the Evening." He put his brow against hers; close enough to drink her breath. "Lay grief aside. Turn from this alter and hearken to me." He kissed her, gentle and sure, shifted his thumbs across her cheekbones. From darkness, beckoning her to light. She opened her eyes; saw him as if from a great distance. "Listen to my voice—mine alone. Let it sink into your grief, waiting like a lover for the touch to wake you from this powerful spell. "I will hearken to Elrond’s course and come to you with certainty, but you shall not rest in lamentation. For I will stand with you. I will hold your soul and your King, whom you love beyond life, shall hold your heart. Our strength is sure, our will unswayed, our love unending. You will not fall, nor will darkness take you.
"And I shall remind you of what sudden grief has misplaced. Your father has waited all the years of your days, watched your beauty and lived in its light. His love is stronger than the mountains, deep as the founts of Lothlórien, endless as the light of stars. He has given you everything in him and held nothing back. Great is his strength! Priceless is his favor! Glorious is his sacrifice! For who could have seen that you would turn from Eternity and choose to be mortal? And what force is there in the world that can open the hands of Elrond, Elf-lord of Rivendell, to let you go—you whom has lit his heart all these thousands of years? Bitter, bitter, strong and in death, is this draught that he takes grip of. And no man brings this cup to his hand, for none has any power which can stand against this mighty of First-born, but he alone reaches for it—to free you, to let you go. His treasure, his price … fairest upon the world." I could not stop my own tears anymore than Arwen could contain the single sob that escaped her. Dark, dark were the wings of grief. I knew, and had not comprehended fully. I had looked in Elrond's face and had not sipped the dreg that I asked him to sip. In the joy of my binding day, I did not look for, nor hear his agony. I know my face reflected the knowledge. Arwen looked stricken. "But you forget, Beloved Daughter," whispered Legolas. His thumbs stroked her jaw. "You forget that Elrond looks across the sea forever. That he has waited for you to find your love, while his heart has wept bitterly for his." "Celebrían," Awen said, abruptly aware. The fingers that had lain open flexed, gripped his tunic. "And he has remained in this realm, faithful. A shepherd and guide and a strong fortress. Watched you enter Aragorn's love with joy, meet the dawn with gladness. He lingers to be sure, even though he knows you are sure. But his days are accomplished. His great task is finished. Nothing more bids him stay, he who has cried for her these hundred, hundred years. And he will sail to the Undying Lands to seek again his joy as you have finally found yours, for his soul grieves and is uncomforted; sad and lonely and enduring the turn of ages. "Can you not see him?” his voice whispered, turning shivery in pain and truth. A looking ahead to the invisible—smitten with it, felled in it, and we, too, caught up in the tremble of his voice. His fingers along her face, willing her sight to align with his own. “Can you see his ship strike sand? Do you see his feet stride through the water to the shore and then run? Can you hear the shout that he has harbored all these years and do you not hear an answer? Finally, finally—the answer! The face he has seen in dreams and glades, the eyes he has longed to look into, the touch upon skin that haunts him. Her heart with his, as they have always been. Her soul blended into his and he into her—until there is nothing of Elrond and nothing of Celebrían—only One. Again, One! And she will weep, for you do not come, and Elrond will weep again, slain and in torment anew … but then they shall cling and find their places in each other. Old, old lovers who have endured and finally awaken from dreaming, in each others arms again." His voice caught, broken, struggling to finish, and it was his hair that trembled now, so great was his emotion. "You see only that he is lost to you and forget that he is found. Found, found, by she who has watched across the waves, waiting in hope and longing." "Laegolas." She reached a hand for his tears, kissed them from her fingertips, held his face as he held hers. A sharing of grief between them. She looked pale and sad, watching him, searching his eyes. "I have pricked you in my sorrows, forgetting … forgetting wisdom and vision, and seeing only my own pain. Alas, I have drawn you into suffering with me, you who should have only sunfall in your soul and song in your heart." "Tears for their joy," he said softly. "On the day he sails, I will remind you … though, for a time, your weeping will be merciless." He put his forehead against hers, shared a breath and another. "Peace, Arwen. Peace until the day. Peace for the ending of the Journey of Celebrían and Elrond.” I saw his hand move, felt it fumble blind for me and I circled them at last, each with an arm. Legolas felt as he always did, strength and open air, but Arwen felt heavy, sluggish with hurt that shifted within her. I did not know whom I clenched more fiercely—my wife, to seek and mend her broken spirit, or my friend, to convey my thanks, rest my own grief against his surety. "Here now," said the archer. "Here is your beloved, who has lingered beside us without words all these minutes. And he has his own sorrows, but I think he will not know the full of it until he holds his own daughter in his arms and sees her eyes looking back into his—then he shall know the entire measure of the might of Elrond, who gave his daughter to death ... all for love." I knew he felt my trembling, for it ran clear through me. I nearly staggered, felled with this last blow. His hand across my back settled with more strength and he looked at me. "Take her," he said. "Take her from this place and from the Pelennor. Take her away to a quiet glade and lay her in your love. For you are her delight and can comfort her beyond words and lift her free from pain." Arwen turned her face to mine. She was beautiful as always, but sorrow lingered about her eyes, touched the corners of her mouth where I loved to kiss. Legolas threw a blanket across my shoulders and I led her from our shelter, caught the first horse I saw by the bridle and swung her up before me. Down the wide lane of the field we rode and behind, I heard Legolas calling away those who thought to accompany the King. "Leave them, for they ride to joy and for each other. Let them go." Away, away, anon we flew and the sod turned beneath our steed. True was he, and steadfast his gait and he led us to the brambles and pierced through to the meadow, lying sweet and open and willing. And there I laid her and took her clothes and my own, naked and vulnerable and unashamed. My heart sung to her beauty, though she was silent, still in grief not far removed. And I laid her across my lap, circled her breasts with my hands, willing, wooing... Everything of her in worship; her face, her neck, the curve of shoulder, the swell near her navel, the fire of her thighs, the spread of her toes ... I laid myself across her need, reaching, answering. And she met me, my beloved. Warming beneath my hands, stirring restlessly below kisses. Turning from grief and silence. I sought her, found her, rolled her in my love. Not a thing to be possessed, but a thing to be possessed by. And always, always, her delight before mine, for she was of the First-born and their desire was a tsunami, and I husbanded my strength and meted it out carefully so I would outlast her. Glorious, glorious, was her summit. Glad was my cry to bring her there. "Melt into me," she whispered. “For I am yours and given with great price.” Her words reached through me, undid me, and I entered passion chaotically, as a man sprawling amidst beauty and weeping. She held me until it was over and we lay quietly and without words for a time. And then we loved again, this time without sorrows and seeking only joy. It was late when we returned and the Pelennor was lit with campfires. The things in our pavilion had been rearranged in our absence and I knew it was Legolas, erasing the memory of suffering in this place. Even the stones of the fire had been moved. Arwen took to our blankets and I sat with her, unwilling to retire just yet. She looked up by lamplight and sent me away to find him, for she knew my quiet thoughts. I searched the darkness of the riverbank for four hundred yards, listening. It was useless to track this one, despite my skill as a Ranger. I would only unearth him if he chose to be found. A shadow moved, became the glint of pale hair. “What brings you, Aragorn, for the hour is late?” asked Legolas. “I could not sleep,” I answered. “Arwen told me you might be down at the river.” “The far cliff echoes the water. I can hear a single stone slide that should not.” He looked in my eyes, questioning. “She is well?” “She is well and resting. She also is cheered to see our bed faces the morning light, instead of the shadows of the West. My thanks.” He nodded as much to himself as to me, then sat back down on the bank and drew his arms around his knees. I sat beside him, heavily, the full weight of this day coming abruptly. A comfortable silence fell between us and I listened to the water echo from the cliff. His voice was quiet when it finally rose. “It was a sudden thing. A stone that loosens innocently and brings down a rockslide. I said something of her father and she searched herself for his lingering essence and felt it not. She did not often search, for it brought sadness. She would call, ‘Ada,’ and he would answer, ‘Arwen,’ but nothing more, for his grief was great and there were no words left. But she did not realize that their connection had ebbed away. She is becoming mortal.” He glanced at me. “She did not know what else would be lost along the way with her turning from Twilight.” “I’m glad you were there. I was down at the corrals with the mare.” “You still felt something amiss, or you would not have returned so early to your dwelling. I was certain you would come and glad you remained. I usurped some of your vitality to strengthen my own.” I looked at him; saw the light of his face as he watched dark water slide past. “You cannot usurp what is always yours to borrow, Legolas.” He nodded. The trees leaned to the water as if calling and stars looked upon us. The peace of the night spread languor through my muscles and I lay back on the bank, stretched arms above my head. The long hours of passion had unknit all of my power. I sighed softly, but still he heard. Heard and chuckled. “You are weary, my friend,” he said. I did not need to look to know he smiled. “Very weary.” “I fear there is no Elven art or medicine that shall aid the kind of weariness from which you suffer, Aragorn. You will just have to endure.” I chuckled at his remark, felt his laughter circle freely. “Great was my distress in her distress, Legolas, but fine is her love. The ardor of a true companion is greater to be obtained than the wealth of the world.” He said nothing to this and I regarded him thoughtfully. “I have often wondered why you are alone, my Elven friend.” “Alone?” He frowned slightly, puzzled. “I am not alone.” “Not that kind of alone,” I corrected. “You have no beloved, no wife? In all the years I have known you, I have never heard that you have taken a lover. How is it that there is no one with you or waiting for you?” He looked directly at me, but his words were long in coming. “Not every Elf chooses to take a mate, Aragorn. Fewer still bring children. Our days are long on the land and there has been much woe until this time. We do not seek for love when war is pressed to our heels.” “You have not always been in war, my friend,” I said. “And though my journeys roamed the wild lands, still I found love and it is the greatest thing I have ever known. You know of what I speak, for you see it in Elrond and speak it true—the softness and fire of a woman’s love. The longing and the delight of finding, of sharing.” I shook my head at him. “It is hard to believe that you are alone.” He looked mystified. “Why is that hard to believe?” “Are you unaware of what even the married women know?” I chided gently. “You are tall and noble to look upon, skilled in nearly everything you attempt. You make war on the practice sands as if it is a dance, yet your heart is kind. Even the surely beasts who plow come and nose your fingers for a scratch and kind word. And you are the Prince of Mirkwood, Legolas, and beautiful beyond words.” I snorted beneath my breath. “I would think the Elf-maidens vie for your favor all day.” The archer was greatly humored. “Vie for my favor all day? Now that is a cheery thought, indeed!” He put his forehead atop his knees and laughed musically. “You think I deceive you?” I sat up. “Nay, Aragorn, I do not think you deceive.” “Yet the mystery remains—you are alone and I do not understand why.” He lifted his face, viewed the chattering waters a moment. When he spoke again, it was soft and serious, full of distance. I leaned to hear him. “I was not always alone … I was betrothed, once. I was young, but you would say I was not young, for there were many years upon me. Still, I know of what you speak, what you feel, how it was with a hand in mine…” He fell silent and I wondered, frowning, then remembered his talk of war pressing upon the Elves and felt sad. “Something happened to her, some tragedy in the struggle with Sauron’s Evil?” He turned his head to me. The darkness in his gaze lifted as he drew from old memory to reply. “Nay, nothing happened to her. It was … just not to be. I let her go.” He stared away at the river again and I felt his reluctance. “It was a long time ago. My love is for my bow and the quick knives. A lover that could find their way through them does not live on this land.” “Do not speak so,” I returned. “Someone will find you, though you do not seek, for thus is the mystery of life.” He was silent and I did not pry at him, not willing to thrust him into an old pain that I had stumbled upon. And I remembered his tears when singing of lovers with Arwen, and understood them better. We sat shoulder-to-shoulder watching water. I felt his shiver and then the laugh behind it. “Elf-maidens vying for my favor all day?” he chuckled. “That shall humor me for years to come. If you tell that to Arwen, she will laugh until she must sip wine to get self control again!” “She will not laugh,” I said. “She will look far away and conjure you into her mind and agree, for she loves you and delights in your company.” I looked at him and added, “As do I, for you have been my friend for most of my life.” He was quiet and did not argue. “She is isolated from kin. It rests upon us sometimes, the longing for the sound of Elvish voices. You are kind to let us walk together and ease the silence. The fellowship between us, between you and I, is a comfort and peace. And when Gimli arrives, I will not forget you two. We are blended by time and war and now, finally, peace.” I reclined back upon the bank and let silence take us. The water murmured and my eyes grew heavy. I contemplated the long walk back to my dwelling unfavorably. “Arwen’s mare nears her day,” said Legolas. “I know. The Horsemaster sleeps near her pen. She does not eat well anymore. She is restless and turns, heavy and uncomfortable.” “We should be closer to her. Especially Arwen, whom she trusts.” “Do you think to move her nearer? There is little room…” I said, forcing my weariness away and sitting up again. “Next to my tent,” he offered. “I think Shalennah will trade the space of her makeshift corral for the nearness of her Mistress. And we should move her tonight, for her body loosens to bear and the foals struggle in their confines.” “I will bring the straw and you fetch the mare,” I said, rising. “Nay, Aragorn,” he laughed and took my elbow. “I will bring the straw, for you are tired and I can bring a bale in each hand by the strings!” “Braggart,” I jested, though he was seldom that, and we set on the task.
12. The Sons of The Mearas
Arwen was amused to see her mare just outside the King’s pavilion when she awakened. It was early. Both sun and Aragorn were still abed. Legolas was coming down the center lane with two bales of straw, singing very quietly to himself. He brightened when he saw her and quickened his step.
“I thought I heard you two out here talking in the darkness,” she said softly. “It was the second hour and I did not brave the cool wind.”
“The work was already accomplished, Arwen,” he replied. He put the bales down, reached for her fingers and drew her close. “You have slept and dreamed and awaken to a new day. And perhaps this day, the foals of the Lord of Horses will breath the air.”
“I hope so, for she is restless with burden, wishing to be her true self again.”
“And you? Are you your true self again, or does the weight of sorrows still press you?” he questioned. A hand coasted beneath her jaw, knuckles up, greeting and benediction in one gesture.
“I am well and rested, believing and hoping in what I cannot see. And when I think upon the loss ahead; I remember your words and am comforted.”
“Then I have served well.”
“You usually serve well,” she whispered, then slipped her hand from his and bent to the straw.
The summer sun was hot this day, scorching those foolish enough to walk barefoot. Men stacked rocks in the Anduin to form a slow pool behind them for the children to play in. The river could be treacherous, but they toiled hard, splashed much, and made it safe. Aragorn reminded them that a company of Dwarves was also on the way and another place in the river to bathe in would be needed, so they dutifully channeled another quiet pool in the shallows. The King was not quite certain who was having the most fun; the children splashing like fishes or the men, jostling and dunking one another.
By afternoon, the field was quiet. The people took to their tents to escape the simmering sunlight. Even the animals were given shelter and dogs rested next to groundhens without quarrel. The horses were loosed from their rope corrals so they could seek shade amongst the trees and they stood, heads down and miserable. There were no cookfires … the people ate dry goods or nothing at all, their appetites deadened by swelter.
The mare suffered with the heat and was moved to the shadows beside the pavilion of the King. Aragorn and Legolas hauled water in buckets and rubbed her with damp cloths. Her mane dripped.
The bugs bothered her, despite the men being meticulous with her droppings. Arwen tied gauze across her ears and draped her eyes and the flies relented.
She grew restless standing and lay down, but that was just as awkward and it was difficult to rise. Aragorn took a brush and groomed her for three hours straight and his calm strokes were comforting.
She refused anything to eat and was irritable. Arwen soaked bread in ground Frinnal Roots and tempted her into a handful of them. The herb settled her and she finally dozed on her feet and let the wearying day pass.
Far away the clouds piled high, heralding a summer storm. The Elves and King watched it gather ominously. By late afternoon, the horizon was filled with dark clouds that erased the mountains and the Pelennor was being readied for rain. Tent pegs were checked. Bushels of grain in baskets were covered. Clothing left out to dry taken up. The sun vanished. The night fell heavy and hot, like a dark hand. Only then could the eye see sheets of glimmering lightning across the Mountains of Shadow.
It was deep night when the storm that had been building arrived. There was no rain, but the thunder shocked through the silence. And, as is the custom of all animals that bear their young in hazard, Shalennah grew more restless, pacing and beginning to sweat. Her great task had come at last.
Aragorn came and put his hands upon the mare, then petted her soothingly. They busied themselves shaking out fresh hay and dried grasses and clearing everything else away to give her room to move freely. Aragorn lit torches and Arwen wrapped the mare’s tail in linen and tied it. Shalennah bobbled her head and flicked her ears amidst all the rustling and handling, but trusted. The contractions made her paw and curl her lip, but between them she settled, gathering her strength.
The Horsemaster saw the torches and came at a jog, studied the preparations and was pleased. “Do you wish me to stay?” he asked.
“Your knowledge will be useful, I think. The Elves have much skill with animals and they will do well. I confess to knowing only a little about birthing them, but much about soothing them.” The King looked solemn. “She bears the twins of the mearas, Shadowfax, and our will is that they both arrive alive.”
The Horsemaster grunted his agreement. “Fetch her some brandied apples to take the burn from her pain.”
For three hours, they listened to the furious storm and watched her restlessness and nothing of any words or apples comforted her. She strained and groaned, circled uneasily. In the fourth hour, her watchers were gratified to finally see a glistening bubble protrude and rupture. A foal’s arrival was near.
The Horsemaster washed his hands again and said, “It has taken her twice as long to arrive at this point. I fear this ending, for how shall her strength endure through two?”
“Shadowfax would not have covered her if he did not believe in her strength,” replied Aragorn, and his heart wished his words true, for Arwen loved her Elven horse. Long had they been companions and the speed of Shalennah was renowned, for her sire was Asfaloth, the Wingsteed of Glorfindal.
But though all was ready, the foal did not come. Shalennah grew more agitated and Arwen finally held her muzzle to bid her stand still and she trembled, seeing her steed’s suffering. The straining was intense and the mare finally buckled and lay out on her side. The men leaped clear, for she kicked, struggling in relentless forces. Legolas sprang to join Arwen and together, the Elves bent their whispers to soothe her through this fire.
Many more minutes passed and their worries multiplied with each one. Thunder crashed overhead and the lightning lit the mare’s eyes with white fire. Then, finally, one hoof appeared… then another, and a nose dove along with them. Shalennah shuddered as if she tore, and the King laid his hands upon her belly, whispering, though he knew he could do naught to help her.
The foal was large and the Horsemaster worried when it hung at the shoulders, caught within. “Gentle her, if you can, fair Queen,” he called. “She knots with the pain and tightens instead of loosens.” More minutes passed and the foal jerked its head, compressed along the ribs and unable to draw breath. “Come then, come then,” he said, and laid a hand along the neck and legs and pulled gently, adding his strength to the mare’s exertion. The shoulders slid free, but then the hips caught. Shalennah groaned in distress. The Horsemaster waited for the next tightening and pulled straight down towards her heels without a twist and the foal slid free amidst a gush of fluids, glistening and white. Its breaths came fast and strong and it flapped wet ears as if annoyed, and then lay quiet, resting a moment.
“There!” called Aragorn, relieved and exultant. “Pale as starlight and irritated at the delay!”
“A fine colt and strong,” said the Horsemaster. “Do not touch him, for the mare must be the one to cleanse him. Thus are they bonded and she will stomp a lion to defend and he will follow her through any torrent.”
“One more,” said Legolas. He stroked the mare along the neck and felt her weariness and trembling. “One more, brave heart.”
But Shalennah was exhausted and she rested her head in Arwen’s lap without moving. Contractions swept through in earnest, but the Elven steed did not lend her strength. Her eyes blinked, stared. The Horsemaster bent to see her and frowned.
“She fails this course, for her toil has lasted long and her first was too large to manage. A draught of something now will slay her.” He looked at Arwen, then the King. “Sad are my words to you. We can leave her and wait, but both may die, one after the other. If we pull the foal with force, it will likely die from the wringing—a terrible death in anguish. More merciful would be to cut the foal apart inside to save her … or we can cut her throat, then her womb, and save the foal, but every course means a death.”
“Tarry the choice,” said Arwen. “She runs swiftly at first, coasts, then musters for a rally. It is her way. Let us wait upon her.”
So they waited, all of them watching for any sign. And no sign came. The thunder growled overhead as if an evil omen. The colt behind her on the straw shuddered and searched the straw with his muzzle. Soon, they knew, he would be struggling to rise and to nurse. And Shalennah was still undelivered, lying heavy and hot and without effort, as if her will had fled. Arwen grew silent and afraid; Aragorn knelt beside her and put an arm around her.
“We must decide soon,” he said gently. “I know you love her … it must be your decision.”
“Listen for the colt, Legolas,” said Arwen. “Is he failing already from the delay?”
Legolas pressed his head against the mare’s swollen belly. “He is afraid. I can hear his fear in the dark.” A pause. “He waits, wanting, and his will is strong. He does not want to die.” He looked up and the blue eyes were haunted.
Arwen looked at the Horsemaster. “Can you reach him? Can you draw him and let Legolas listen to guide your strength?”
So the decision was made and the Horsemaster was gentle in his search, but strong in his grip, for the foal was slippery and lay deep. He feared he would dislocate the babe’s joints in the pull this required, but Legolas, kneeling close, kept a running discourse of what he perceived. And sometimes they could hear the terror in the archer’s voice, an echo of another life crying. Around and through the struggle, the thunder crashed overhead.
At the end, when the limp body slid out, Legolas gasped as if wounded and held his fingers over his face. Aragorn put a hand to his shoulder, felt the tremor through the bones and gripped him harder.
All waited silently while the Horsemaster broke the caul over the second foal’s nose and rubbed him briskly, calling aloud his encouragement. The first breath tarried in coming, but it came. Then the second. And the third.
“He’s alive!” called the Horsemaster, amazed. “Truly, you knew! I thought this little one dead, for see how limp he is? And so small compared to the first—he has been in the bottom of her womb and pressed down all this time.”
But all of them understood what the Horsemaster did not say; that a weakly born foal seldom did well and usually died in the first week. Though they had rescued him from death in the womb, it remained to be seen if he would survive.
The troubles still tarried amidst the storm overhead. Shalennah struggled to gain her feet though they curled her sluggish limbs and heaved her over onto her belly to help. There was pain in her, sorrow deep enough that she could not seem to overcome it. The firstborn foal was already afoot, straddle-legged and nearly sprawling, but gaining balance quickly … and his mother could not rise. She nuzzled him, though, and licked him hard enough to knock him back down. Arwen leaned against her bowed neck and watched, patting her soothingly.
“She will rally and you will see it,” said the Queen. “She held her effort until now as if knowing we could help in the middle.”
It took another hour before they saw the will of the Elven steed. She gained her feet with a lunge and stayed up, though she shivered with pain and bled. She leaned heavily and took her weight on one hip, as if she could not put her foot down. The firstborn colt nuzzled around her in search.
The Horsemaster shook his head as he rubbed her girth to help stop the flow of blood. “Let us wait until the morning to judge this injury. She has lost blood and perhaps that is the cause. At worse, she has broken her pelvis and this is grave. A harsh and difficult labor, though the outcome was fair.”
With the mare up, the second born colt took their attention, for he lay limply and made no move at all. Legolas went to him and knelt beside Aragorn and the Horsemaster, who watched him.
“He knows to suckle, for he gnaws my finger well enough,” the Horsemaster was saying. “He is just tired and frail and the cord broke too swiftly—he did not get all the blood he needed from his dam. He may live and be weak, or he may die.”
“He will not die,” said Legolas. “His will is strong and I will help him.” The Elf gathered him up in his arms and it was piteous how his head hung and his legs dandled. The archer held him near Shalennah and she nosed him over and whickered. He put him down in the straw at her feet and then knelt and watched her lick him. And finally, when the colt lifted his head, Legolas gripped his muzzle, looked in his eyes and said, “There you are! Here now, we have worked all night for you and your brother. Do not fail our trust—shake off your dreaming and rise!”
Aragorn laughed when the second foal was on his feet an hour later, albeit with a little help, and nudging his mother’s flank. “You knew just what to tell him, my friend,” he said to Legolas.
“Of course I did. His name is Ashra and he is mine.”
Aragorn was surprised and made as if to object, but Arwen caught his eyes and beckoned him. “You balk because you view that Legolas has chosen the weak and uncertain, and left you the stronger?” she asked.
“He has. I would give him the free choice, not what he thinks the right choice would be,” murmured Aragorn. “I need no grand stallion to be King. I could ride a mule and still be King.”
Arwen smiled, amused. “This is true … but Legolas called in the womb, and the colt answered him. The archer has already been chosen. And though the firstborn will always be the stronger, let it never be said that the second lacks fortitude. They are both sons of Shadowfax.”
The morning brought an uncertain counsel, for dawn did indeed reveal that Shalennah had suffered some mishap in the labor. Though she could stay on her feet once up, her difficulty with rising and walking was profound. Something was broken internally. The swift hooves would never run again, nor bear any rider. The Horsemaster was grim and sad and offered nothing more.
Arwen stood with her mare and stroked the soft muzzle. Shalennah was calm and quiet and the dark forelock tickled Arwen’s face in the breeze.
“Will she eventually be free of pain or will she always have distress?” asked the Queen. “For she speaks nothing to me of her future, only the present and her anguish.”
“I do not know,” replied the Horsemaster. A crowd had gathered to see the Sons of Shadowfax. “She may always suffer, my Queen. And her inability to run or even walk very far may distress her. She must never be bred again, for she can cast no more foals.”
“Aragorn?” asked Arwen.
The King stood close and looked in the mare’s eyes. “I think she will eventually be free of this deep pain, but I think she will always have some discomfort. She is your horse and answers only to you; you must decide her fate.”
“Legolas?” whispered Arwen.
The archer said nothing for many minutes. “I cannot say, Lady Fair. I know she is wounded, but her will for her young are strong. Their need will see her through this pain. I do not know what will see her through the beyond.”
Arwen was silent, considering. She stroked Shalennah’s nose, breathed her breath. “I will do her no harm, for she has been faithful and has completed her task. And she is my friend. What companion am I to discard her because she is crippled now; it is no fault of her own? Though I will never ride her again, still, I will keep her. She has done well.” She looked sidelong at Legolas and Aragorn. “And do not quarrel with me about calling one of the colts my own. I already have a horse and she is prized above all.”
And so it was agreed and Arwen was content. The mare was given freedom such as she could have and no pen or stall ever held her again. All the people doted upon her, for the choice of Arwen was generous and kind. Shalennah became most cherished amongst the steeds from that day forth and her coat turned to satin from constant brushing and apples from every hand.
Thus did the offspring of the Lord of the Rohirrim come to the realm of Gondor. And one was strong and alabaster white, with proud eyes and a high arched neck—the very image of the mearas of the Undying Lands and of his sire. The King favored him and named him Talemon and he grew tall quickly. When he raced along the banks of the Anduin, people looked twice, mistaking him for Shadowfax, The Great.
The other was also ivory, but his mane and tail were dark like his mother’s, the Elven stock of Rivendell. He was fine-boned and less muscular, but his temperament was even and his eyes were bright and lively. And though he gave way before the might of his brother, his hooves were swifter—as if wind dwelled in his limbs. Above all creatures, he loved the archer, Legolas, and came to his fingers even as a suckling foal.
And the people called them the Sons of Thunder, for such was their birth, and they were fast companions in every way.
13. The Arrival of the Dwarves
Morning. The race of hooves brought people from their porridge and tea. Though no alarm was raised, the fact that the King rode hard and the archer rode with him was forewarning enough. The horses galloped down the center lane heading for the river and the guards of the perimeter saw them and stood to attention.
Faramir called down the row and every hand flashed a sword at his word, for they were a ready defense. “What news?” he cried. “For you ride swift and alert to our line!”
“Something stirs in the forest,” returned the Elf. “But the trees cannot tell me for good or evil—they are quiet and watchful.”
“So shall we be as well.” The Sword of the King burned as Aragorn slid off the bay and fastened his eyes upon the trees across the river. The men turned with him, watching, waiting, and their vision was one. So quietly did they stand, without a sound or movement—two hundred men of stone.
“It’s the Dwarves. They have come.” Those nearest could hear awe in the voice of Legolas. The opposite bank of the Anduin altered and they stared, for certainly they would never live to see such a sight again.
The Dwarves had indeed come and the ground thrummed to the tread of feet and disappeared beneath them. So great the number, so steady their pace, a great hoard sliding like dark water beneath the trees; a hundred hundred, perhaps more, the great Hewers of the Ground filled the bank and ridge and came down to the waters edge.
Each was gnarled and strong as a Broadwood tree, iron helmed and breasted with heavy leather, and all with a cudgel and adz and felak, some with lever bars as tall as the King, many more with shovels. No rings bound their fingers, but all wore bracelets of steel, gold, or copper and they flashed with every arm swing. Crimp rings of metal, glittery as gems, wove through their beards to tend the strands and braids. Their faces were heavy and rugged, with deep eyes buried beneath brows, and in all of them, silence, silence, silence. The silence of deep earth living within their hearts.
Then there was a sight of wonder to all who could see. Out of the midst of this tide sailed a horse and Gimli, Son of Glóin, sat him. He lifted a voice across the distance, one great shout, and sent the plucky steed into the rushing Anduin. Bold was he, and brave, clinging like a burr with his hands curled in the mane and the spray of water rising about them. Near the far shore, the animal shook free of the water and galloped—never a sight to be seen again—a Dwarf willingly astride at a run.
Across the murmur of waters came an answer to that solitary cry. The Dwarves beheld a Son of the Morning riding hard and his hair flashed as gold as any bracelet. He came straight from the line of guards near a great sprawl of tents and closed the distance rapidly … twenty yards, ten … then the Elf threw himself from his horse and landed running from the dismount, extending an arm, reaching. And though some said he seized the Dwarf, other say Gimli jumped without fear, and they met in a collision upon the ground. The horses passed each other, circled and halted as patient steeds are taught when their rider is unseated.
From the brink of the Anduin, the Delvers of the Deep beheld an odd sight: a Dwarf and Elf, one kneeling, their foreheads pressed together as if locked in a grief so terrible or a joy so immense that they could not bear it. They could hear the rumble of Gimli and, winding through it, the tenor of the Elf. Then the Dwarf laughed and the tall Elf-kind stood and looked upon them. Keen was his eye and jubilant his voice and he shouted across the rushing water so they could hear him.
"At last you have come!" he cried, spreading his hands to include them all. "And look at you! All so different and so alike, beautiful and marvelous in my eyes! A wonder to see upon Gondor’s plains are the Sons of Earth! I have watched for you all these months, waiting, but for none as much as Gimli, Son of Glóin, my friend."
The Dwarves crossed the water in a mass, clogging even the mighty center current with their numbers. In the middle came wagon after wagon, heavily loaded with anvils and braziers and sharpening wheels. One flat cart held an enormous black kettle with an iron choke band. The beasts that pulled these wagons never looked up. They kept their heads down and toiled at the load, looking like large patient dogs at work. The people had never seen their like before, these great oxen from the caves.
Though Gimli was first across, those that came after him were the rulers of this hoard. Their beards were full and streaked with gray and their steps were as sure as Kings. The bracelets on them were silver and gold and their helms were gilded bright as fire. At every hip hung a mighty hammer. On every chest: a great gem caught in a net of silver. These, the Stone Masters, were the Lords of the rest and they strode in step with each other as if born to do so. And King Elessar knelt on one knee, for they had come to answer his need, and he would give them honor.
Glóin of the Lonely Mountain was with them and he held a hand, fingers open, towards the kneeling King and all with him stopped. Without any command, the heavy tread of every other Dwarf halted as well and silence fastened across the riverbanks.
“Hail, King Elessar, Master of the White City. We have come to your call and wait our duty.”
“No duty, but what is in you to give,” returned the King. “Minas Tirith was born from the beauty of the Dwarves and foul were the beasts that smote her. To all of you is stretched my hand of supplication, that you bend your skill upon the Citadel and find her woes and heal them, for such is beyond the means of men. We have left her streets and houses to give her rest, waiting for your mercy. This I swear, that whatever your need, we shall see to it for as long as you dwell amongst us.”
“So we have been told, and thus we give answer.” The Dwarf that spoke was heavy as iron and likewise his voice. “And though we would tarry and tell you all our names and ranks, the City is our purpose and thus we would wait the formalities and see to her first.”
“Yes,” said Aragorn, for he expected nothing less. “She has lamented long enough. Please, come with me and I shall show you the Great Door of Entrance.”
So the Dwarven Lords, forty strong, strode behind the King. And along the wide center lane of the Pelennor, the men and women quickly prepared trays of meat and fruit and drink and held them out for any in need. Long had King Elessar told them what their tasks would be, and they were ready. The Dwarves were amazed and silent and took what they needed for their bellies. Some for meat, some for drink, and some nodded and passed by. But there were none who did not look proudly at the greeting and nod their thanks. Behind them, the rest of the wave of Dwarves took an empty place in the field and filled it with wagons and beasts and began unloading.
The King led them through the broken gate and to the curve of wall ending with a single door. Unlit torches were lined up in a row, waiting, for here lay the hewn tunnel to the heart of the city, dark and dank and flooded. He told them as much and they nodded.
“So, Gimli has spoken. He has given us all the knowledge of the city within his mind,” said a Dwarf, weathered as a crag. His eyes were solemn. “We will enter and make our initial search, but take heed! This is not the place for a King—we shall tread muck and mud and foul waters, for we are unafraid of anything of the deep earth.”
Aragorn nodded his understanding and stood aside. But Legolas would not be soonly parted from Gimli, and Gimli, for his part, looked upon the archer and his gaze plucked at him. The Elf strode on undaunted by the prospects of the dark hole and at the entrance, he paused and tied his free locks back into one braid with the others. For an instant, the Sons of the Earth regarded his face and the beauty it held, wondering that he would choose to follow them—for they knew the fear of the Fair Folk for the depths in the ground.
Legolas took off the quiver and bow, the twin blades, and would have laid them aside—but the King stepped close and held out his hands to receive them.
“I will hold them for you, my friend,” he said.
“Be near when I come back, for I will want them,” said Legolas.
“I suspect,” said the King, smiling, “that you will want them after you have washed. I will keep them until you call.” The archer nodded his thanks and then shed his tunic and vambraces as well.
“Gunud,” called one in the lead, and all behind him formed a single file. So they marched below the City, loosening their cudgels as they went and Legolas followed Gimli in the line that ducked into midnight earth through the doorway.
Darkness.
Then…
Light.
They marched out, covered in filth, and only one staggered; he taller than the rest and nothing clean but his eyes, which stared at the sun as if he’d never seen it before. There followed a consult in thick language with a Dwarf who had waited outside the door. He had a face like a hatchet and listened intently, then nodded once.
“Divide!” he called to the field. From just outside the doorway, one hundred Dwarves that had sat idle split ranks with one step. “Gunud!” came the command and half marched below ground with shovels. Behind them, the second file formed, these with buckets and ropes and pulleys, and they also tramped into darkness.
“She keens,” said one, helmed with iron and his beard hued red and blonde. “Can you hear the cry of the stone? My bones shiver and loosen! Dark is this pain … we must find it quickly!”
The Dwarves covered with muck headed for the river to bathe and more than one was humored to see the Elf in the lead, for though his gait was steady now, he wobbled the first twenty feet into daylight, smitten. At the river he stripped without a word, waded out, and dove into the heavy current as if to escape.
The Dwarves were not so precipitous and they scattered in a shallow pool to scrub the cloying mud. The water turned to dark swirls around them. They were an astonishment to look upon, with their bulges of muscle and great beards. Strong they were, strong as young bulls, and their bones were heavy to bear their might. Even the eldest, with a beard white as river froth, was an immutable force. From the massive shoulders and heavy arms, to the broad backs and wide hips, each of them exuded vigor and stamina. Power right down to their knotted calves, thick as a man’s thighs. If ever there were doubts as to the immovability of a Dwarf, they were settled here. A huge boulder was in the way in the pool—one rolled it aside with a hand as if it were only a small stone. A sobering sight.
The King and those who stood with him considered their own strength and found it lacking before the raw element of the Dwarves. And that was not all they found lacking, but none would speak amid their humored grins. The Dwarves were a brawny folk in every way. That was all that needed to be said.
But though the Stonewrights were diligent to the task of getting clean, scouring with sand and pouring water, their eyes strayed to the Elf, for he was different and he fascinated them. He swam in strong current, then stood and unknotted his hair—a fair clean tree amidst rushing waters. His skin was pale and the muscles stretched across his frame tightly. Almost hairless he was, except his head and his groin, a tuft beneath his arms—so unlike the hoary Dwarves. No scar marred him, nor blemish touched him, and he stood absolutely straight; a spine of steel instead of bones. Yet all his movements were full of elegance … a wisp of air, the sway of a willow, the grace of a kiss. He was altogether an unearthly creature. He stood with his eyes closed and let his fingertips trail the water as if communing and the river passed as if touching him was a treasure, a blessing … and the waters laughed.
Many were the tales told of the Elf-kind in battle, but to behold Legolas was a mystery to the Dwarves. That something so spare and wiry in appearance could muster such deadliness, especially when they themselves were stout as barrels?
Gimli was untroubled by such musings for he had journeyed far with this particular Elf, but he discovered his comrade’s intrigue and found it humorous. He picked up a stone and pitched it at the archer and the sound made Legolas turn like lightning mid-river, taut and poised like a wolf. The bright eyes landed on the Dwarve alertly.
“Bathe downstream, you foolish Elf! You’re muddying our water!” shouted Gimli.
“Downstream from all of you? I would be bathing until tomorrow to get clean,” called Legolas. “Certainly you took a wagon of dirt from beneath the city in just your beard!” He leaned, picked up a flat stone, and skipped it back through the shallows at Gimli.
“Ha!” laughed the Dwarf, and his hand was swift and caught the skimming stone in passing.
Then the archer focused and looked upon them for the first time. He waded to squat in the shallows amidst them and the gaze he bent was full of wonder. The nearest Dwarf, Degnar of Barrindar Pass returned it without animosity for he saw the curiosity like a child across the Elf-kind’s face.
“What is this?” Legolas asked. He touched a finger to Degnar where the muscle of his left breast was pierced with a spike of silver. Deep it was, and heavy, leaving no ridge along the surface of the skin. Only the blunted ends protruded to mark its placement buried within. All around him, the Lords amongst the Stonekeepers bore a similar token—a sinister piercing of gold, or of silver, some of black iron, or steel, or copper.
“My Mark,” replied Degnar. His voice was rough hinges on a dry day. “I earned it in the Darnon Cave and was hammered at twilight.” The Elf turned his head sidelong, curiosity unsatisfied, so the Dwarf continued. “Many are the Dwarves and all of us are worthy folk, but some of us make a Finding and thus we are marked with it. I found a Silverlode seven hands deep.”
“A Finding?” Legolas turned the word thoughtfully. “When you discover something of value you … earn this? I do not see mithril amongst you, though I know it is most prized.”
“Harrumph,” muttered another Dwarf, this one with one streak of white through his beard. “We do not pierce with mithril. It is the only metal that we do not bear in our bodies.”
“Men have such things to mark their status; a fine horse, their blades, the jewels their women don … is there is a rank amongst these tokens as well?” Legolas looked at them, searching them.
The Dwarves stared at him, silently, for his questions trespassed. The Elf’s hands went still and though he did not move, his readiness for any action was apparent. Then Degnar, wise in his hundred fifty years, answered, for he saw only curiosity for another race and not ill will.
“Hard was the judgment of Gimli against all Elves. Like his father. Like his father’s father before him,” rolled the sonorous voice. “But he spoke of friendship with an Elf long into the feasts in the Misty Mountains. His mind has changed, for you stood beside him against Durin’s Bane, and rode with him through battles, fought Orcs as diligently as he, and kept with his course over lengthy runs. And though you are strange and we are wary of you, for the cause of Gimli, I will answer.
“The land is vast and has been dug for many years,” he said. “Few Finds are made anymore amongst the Dwarf-kind. We are the last ones for a hundred years and thus, it is a joy to uncover a finger of copper anymore, though sad shall be the years after us, when no more Finds are made and no Marks are given. We are a strong, proud race and we endure, but those shall be downhearted Dwarves that make no Finds at all and have no hope to. As for status amongst us: gold is most precious, then silver, iron, and bronze. The lesser metals are still honored, but they are…” he waved a hand in dismissal.
Legolas looked sidelong and frowned. “Gimli does not have one.”
“He has not made a Find yet to earn his Mark.”
“He discovered the Glittering Caves behind the Hornburg,” returned Legolas.
“So he has said,” replied Degnar. He slapped a gnat near his shoulder and it sounded like a cudgel against a log. “And once the White City is repaired, we shall march to see it and determine if it is worthy of a Find. Then Gimli shall have his Mark.”
“Do you think there is gold in the Glittering Caves, Gimli?” inquired Legolas. His eyes were intent.
Gimli laughed, amused. “Have your ears failed, Elf? It is enough to make a Find any more! If there is any value at all, I count it a bonus, for I have searched my life for my own Mark.” And then, for he understood the hidden question and knew Legolas cherished him: “I do not think there is gold. It is the wrong soil and depth for gold such as we crave. Perhaps silver, but with hard search—which I am more than equipped to accomplish.” He scoffed, “Besides, gold is not so important anymore to this Dwarve, for I have the finest in the land tucked in my possessions.”
“Gimli has been much smitten by the Lady of the Golden Wood, though I would agree that her hair is of the finest color,” Glóin said. “We do not contest the point any longer. He protests vigorously.” A rumble of chuckles greeted this statement.
“It is well that you do not,” muttered Gimli. “I shall teach you as often as you must be taught and my fist is quick to correct doubts.”
Thus did the Dwarves take their place upon the field of the Pelennor and busy was their encampment. While one group toiled, a hundred or stronger, the others sharpened shovel blades and felaks or mended buckets. They built half pipes to carry water and bars to hold torches, pulley wheels and gears, and iron braces for walls. The grind wheels spun continuously and threw sparks. Vats of hot metal were heated and poured into molds and anything broken beyond repair was smelted down and reused. They oiled the sand with animal fats and sank the blades into it nightly, for the mud beneath the White City was full of clay and it stuck to the metal.
And once their work was caught up for the day, they wandered carefully amongst the men of the Pelennor, seeking iron that needed mending and steel that needed sharpening. None rebuked them and the women plied them with sweets and the children stared. The poorer swords of the armory were taken away and restored to former brightness, with edges keen enough to cut Foxtattles. They were altogether an inventive and industrious group of crafters.
Their labor was thunderous. A single Dwarf was a juggernaut of power—a small army could perform any task put to them. Their organization behind a sole leader gave men pause. From the first day on, companies a hundred strong worked in shifts beneath the city and all that was heard was a single tread of feet going by when they passed in the night, for they strode in step and in silence to attend to their task.
A trench was needed at the foot of the city to drain away the sludge that was being hauled from within. When Aragorn set a company of men to the task, they were asked cheerfully to bide—two hundred Dwarves dug it five feet deep in a great curve to the lower slope in a day. The men were astonished at the pace set by the Stonemaster and long after his booming call ceased keeping time, the men could still hear it inside their heads. They bathed in the river and consumed twenty-seven barrels of ale when it was done.
Eighty Dwarves took to Mount Mindolluin and sought out the waterways into the city, for they needed to be diverted. In three days, the waterfall that once plunged off the right cliff was restored to a course that had been silent for five hundred years. The rainbow could be seen clear to the Causeway Forts. It fell true into the trench below and thus the channel never needed to be drug by hand, for the might of the falling water kept the muck flowing away from the Citadel.
And at night, when the Dwarves ceased squinting against harsh sunlight, the ale came out and the raucous laughter rose and the squeee of odd instruments wafted through the Pelennor. Often the King came and lounged along the boundary of the camp of the Dwarves: to be near Gimli and to smile at the boisterousness of these stout people. And Legolas was often with him, for his time divided between the King and Queen, and Gimli, his friend.
The Dwarves roared to see the Elf-kind dance to their songs, though they had to ply him with drink and convince Gimli to dance, too. It ended up an unruly stomp of many, all of them facing a day of toil on the morrow. At sunrise, the Dwarves pulled from their snores and watched Legolas unfold from a squat atop one of their boxy wagons and sing the dawn.
Most delightful of all was when Arwen Evenstar came to their encampment, though the Dwarves were abashed when they first discovered the Queen amongst the group. Her smile was glad and her eyes were kind and they found that their revelry was brighter in her presence. When she first sang for them they were smitten, and thus they caught the vision of Gimli for Galadriel and no more did they tease at him. For Arwen’s hair was dark as the earth and her eyes like the black diamonds of the Rimetellin fissure and they loved her.
14. Hunting
The labor beneath the White City, though mustered by hundreds, was protracted. The Stone Masters walked the dark road beneath the lowest tier twice daily to inspect the work and their words were law. Jacks and hammers and braces and troughs and iron bands and picks—every tool imaginable was mustered and carried into darkness. The King marveled at the amount of sludge removed. At the very end of the trench, where it silted out before entering the Anduin, the children waded, ferreting out old metals and coins and pottery long buried beneath the city.
“We search for the Keystone of the Needle,” said Grór of the Misty Mountains. His beard was wavy as choppy water and held twinkles of gold like stars. “The weight of the tower rests upon it, but many walls and stones have fallen beneath, burying it from view. Long have the old markings of the Stonewrights who built her been worn—they are all but erased. None live who carved this Citadel. We must use all our knowledge to find the Stone.”
“Do you fear it is broken?” asked Aragorn. He squatted in the sand where the old Dwarf drew lines and dots, marking the progress. The map grew daily, for a tarp was placed across it at nightfall. The King suspected the map was only for him, for the Dwarves seemed to hold the entire thing within their heads. “If it is cracked, what shall be done?”
“We can repair the Kingstone,” grunted Degnar. “We have the skill and the might.”
Aragorn blinked, unable to comprehend such a feat. The Tower of Echthelion stood seven hundred feet above the Pelennor. Before it, looming out over the city like a white sail was a great limb of rock. The people called it The Tarlonnein, the Need, the Prow of the City. And it was there, at the base of that scythe of granite, that the Kingstone resided—the foundation stone consecrated before the White City was raised. Upon that keystone, all of the weight of the The Tarlonnein rested. That it could be broken and then repaired was beyond belief.
“We brought mithril and The Kettle.” Degnar smiled. “Nothing born in The Kettle fails, and nothing warded by mithril, fails. But we must find the Heartstone, first!”
“May your hunt be successful,” said Aragorn.
The King found Legolas with Ashra, the foal of Shadowfax, an arm cast around his shoulder. Talemon grazed nearby and came to Aragorn, nosed his fingers. Though both were tall, neither Legolas nor the King attempted to ride them. It was not their time.
“Soon,” said Aragorn, pulling Talemon’s ear and getting a half-hearted nip in return. “Soon shall we see the ground fly and the mountains lay low beneath your hooves.”
“They will throw us once, just to prove they can,” said Legolas. His eyes were humored. “We should get astride in the river so our fall is not dire.” Ashra swiveled his ears back as if he understood their trickery.
Aragorn patted his steed, then patted Legolas’ and Talemon snorted, irritated. “Here, now, I shall pet Ashra if I wish! And you shall endure, for we are brothers just as you are and there shall be no jealously dwelling within you!”
Silence fell. Aragorn scratched both horses and stared off at the mountains and forest.
“You are restless,” said Legolas, for his eyes did not miss the longing in the King’s expression.
“We have been on the field for a long time. I do not cherish the thought of winter with us in the open.”
“A restless spirit has little to do with the place of dwelling.” Legolas looked away in the same direction. “The people are settled and the Dwarves labor without guidance. Come, let us make a hunt, for you long to be free upon the land and any extra meat will save livestock.”
Though men would have joined them, Aragorn made excuses, for his heart yearned for freedom with a man who did not see him so much as King, but as a friend. And he craved silence, silence of the body and mind. The silence of forest, and dell, and mountain. Such was the archer and Faramir was wise and called the others away.
“Let them go to the gloomy woods and harsh peaks, where they shall shiver all night!” he laughed. “We shall keep the people and rest in contentment.”
They packed for rain and wind and cold. Aragorn’s steps were eager to be away. He drew forth his old garb, travel worn and friendly: the dark garb of a Ranger. His hunting bow was in fit repair and he strapped on the Lothlórien long knife given to him by Galadriel. Arwen came with a parcel and studied his packing a moment before adding it to his belongings.
“What is this?”
“Lembas for the journey.”
“A fine treasure!” called Aragorn. “We shall take nothing else!”
“Foolish King—take meat for your belly as well, for you will grow tired of waybread!”
Roheryn, his Ranger steed, nosed him as he emerged from the pavilion and secured the pack behind his saddle. Arwen held him a long moment and sidled her hands beneath his tunic. She kissed him intensely, intimately. He whispered that they could delay another hour, but she laughed and pinched him on the belly for answer.
Legolas was already astride a fawn colored gelding, but he slid down to the Queen’s extended hand. She looked in his eyes a moment, then touched his forehead and stroked a hand down his face in light benediction. “Be hale and safe, strong and watchful. In rain and sun and clearing and bramble: May your hunt be sure and your mercy swift.” Then she added: “And bring me back some Tarnon bark, for my supply runs low.”
“We go to hunt meat and you set us to hunting trees?” smiled Legolas.
“You complain overmuch for it is you who have consumed most of the tea!” she returned, her eyes twinkling.
So they left the Pelennor, with its patchwork of tents and set off into the wilds with abandon. Long they rode and their mounts picked up their spirit and galloped freely, leaping logs and darting through the trees. No game would be found near the White City with the noise from a hoard of people; they did not stop to consider prints upon the ground. By nightfall, they were deep in the forest and took their rest beside a glade wreathed with Gorseberry bushes and Black Wattles. Legolas sat against a likely trunk late into the night and Aragorn puffed a pipe until his coals went out—and neither said a word to break the silence.
Dawn, but no singing. Legolas watched the sun from the edge of the glade. Aragorn was chagrined to be the last up, though the Elf merely smiled. The Ranger wondered if the other had slept at all or had listened to the tree all night. He did not ask, but considered if the hunt was for himself or for Legolas.
They munched a pinch of lembas with dried meat, heading up the mountains towards the snowline. Summer heat would push game into the upper altitudes where the grass was green and the days cooler. Up, and up, and up, and through tumbling waters and mossy canyons, they filed. Myrtles and Wattles gave way to Ash and Oaks, then green Pines and Summerwarts. An occasional Broadwood tree squatted, gnarled as a giant. Legolas stopped to touch one and Aragorn blinked when the tree rustled all of its leaves at once.
“What did it tell you?” he asked.
“Amidst all the groaning and complaining, that no game had been through for six sunturns.” Legolas looked sidelong. “She is thirsty, for the rain has tarried.”
“There is a spring along the dell, up near that shale scab.” Aragorn pointed another three hundred feet up. “We’ll make it by nightfall.”
“Then I shall pour for her.” And Legolas returned with his waterbag and emptied the contents around the Broadwood. When he returned, he was laughing quietly. “Still malcontent and cross, for such are those old trees!”
The spring was low and a sorry sight. Both men worked to dig the basin deeper and then waited until dark before it was clear enough to draw from. Aragorn gathered branches for a fire and spent his skill to bring it. By the time the flames were dancing beside the shale scab, Legolas had gathered enough berries for them to spread on a crust of lembas. It was a proper meal and Aragorn said as much.
The next afternoon found the hunters crossing the tree line and the grass became scant and choked in the rocky soil. The Firs here were thin and struggling. Legolas was silent, listening, and then he took a cone from one and put it in his jerkin. The Ranger knew without asking that it would be planted lower upon the mountain, to grow strong and without hardship such as was its birth.
Aragorn studied the ground while walking. Sometimes he paused to stare long at the shale and boulders. A tuft of twisted grass could catch his eyes before he went on. Roheryn was undisturbed at the slow pace and foraged loose. Legolas also set his steed free and both animals followed leisurely.
“Here!” whispered Aragorn, squatting. “The prints of a stag, and a mighty one at that. Would that we could find him, for he would put us to the test!”
“Perhaps,” offered the Elf. “The summer is still high and the season for the horned ones is not for months. He is growing his spikes, not sharpening them. He is less wary.”
They searched the tree line for four miles, but found no other traces. Aragorn sighed, disappointed. “This is like the Dwarves hunting the Keystone of the City,” he said. “Though the stone doesn’t move about on them!”
Legolas’ cheer was undimmed. “Are you only here to hunt, or are you here to be free?”
“Can I not do both?” Aragorn returned, smiling.
They sheltered in the timber, for the wind cut through even their heavy cloaks at this height. Aragorn dug for roots and Legolas scaled an Atticile tree and pulled the last few fruits. He was prickled twice for his pains and sucked his finger until it bled the meager poison out. Aragorn had kept a stick from their previous fire in a tin and the partially burned wood was quick to ignite. Before the night was deep, they had a small pot of stew and nursed it in their hands until it was cool enough to eat.
“Sleep close, my friend,” said Aragorn. “The night is fierce and we will feel the cold despite our friendly fire.” And though he knew the Elf would perceive little of the cold, when he awoke once during the night, he found Legolas curled against his back, his Elven cloak spread across them both.
Daylight. Cold daylight. The horses blew puffs. Legolas rose and left his cloak behind, sprinted to the crest of the hillock. He stared across the terrain a few moments, and then raced back. His ears were tinted rose. Aragorn, rising, laughed and then followed the archer’s model—racing to the top of the hill and then back again.
“Now!” he said. “Our blood is fresh and we shall see what the day brings us!”
They hunted fruitlessly for the first hour, but came upon tracks in the second and meandered with the browsing animal. Through heavy brush and boulders, skirting thickets and stands of saplings, the two crept carefully. It was a buck and a stout one, for the prints were wide and heavy. Shadows hid them until midday, and then their blending garb availed little. Wind blew in their faces and the grasses bent to its touch, but not once did they catch sight of their prey.
“He will settle and doze the afternoon,” softly said Aragorn. “At evening, he’ll come forth again. Let us rest while he does.”
“Agreed.”
Aragorn turned his head. “That last scab held the tracks of a Werecat as well. We must watch carefully, my friend, for their kits are out and they will be aggressive hunters.”
“They are not far. I found a tuft of hair.”
“Your eyes are keen,” returned Aragorn. “If we find more sign, we should abandon this pursuit. Such beasts are unafraid of men and there are other stags in the forest.”
“Let us tarry the afternoon and see. The horses give no alarm.” Legolas curled in his spot with a knife in his hand.
The clouds that had scurried uneventfully, rained upon them. Both men hunkered beneath their cloaks to stay dry and drops pattered off the edges of their hoods. Aragorn fretted that the tracks might be washed away.
Legolas quirked a smile and whispered, “You will find them again. You have great skill, my Ranger friend.”
The shadows stretched long before the two stirred from repose. Legolas sat on his heels and listened, searched the forest and edge of glen for any movement. His nod brought them both out, checking bows and hunting arrows. With a few gestures, they chose their course. The horses dutifully followed and though they lagged far behind, neither man beckoned them closer. It was well for the hunt that the horses could not be heard.
Across the glen, down the hill, circling the Gorse and stand of Pines … they picked their way, one after the other, without a sound. Aragorn found the imprint of the stag exactly where he hoped: the bottom of the next ravine heading down. His delighted grin was infectious. Shortly thereafter, they found his bedding spot. Aragorn drew a hunting arrow with its broader head. Legolas drew one as well and angled away to the left. Together, they trailed their quarry and their feet were noiseless on damp ground.
There! Russet as sunset and broad through the haunches, a great Redback stag. He stood partially obscured by a leaning snag, grazing, one hundred yards away. Aragorn drew and froze, waited, breathing shallow so his aim would be true. The velvet-clad antlers waved, rose as he looked about, returned to the ground. One step. Another. One shoulder clear, but the blade bone was still in the way … his weight shifted….
Spang-g! Aragorn loosed and the fletch passed his cheek with a whiff of air. The buck leaped and shot away, bounding across fallen timber and through the brambles. Aragorn stood where he was and watched. Legolas ghosted up beside him.
“Your aim is true, my friend,” softly said the Elf. He tilted his head; still listening to the drumming hooves receding long after Aragorn could no longer hear them. “He falters already and walks. It sounds as though he has crossed rocks. There! He is down. Let us tarry another moment and he will not bolt again.”
“Was he not clear for you?”
“He was.”
Aragorn did not ask further. Though Legolas was perfectly capable of killing a creature to eat, if another was capable of the act the Elf deferred. The rapport of the First-born with the world around them was a dagger, cutting both ways. Aragorn did not envy him at such times.
“I will track, you bring the horses. We will use their strength to hoist him aloft to clean,” said Aragorn.
The grass hid all whispers and the Ranger ducked under the sweep of branches. Though he was sure the stag was down and likely dead, if his adrenalin was still strong and the arrow not quite true, any startling sound would bring him back up to run. Aragorn did not envy a chase in the dark, though he knew he would be a sound tracker. Blood was black by moonlight. He notched a second broadhead and stepped quietly.
A bloodstained leaf. A heavy print in a ground squirrel’s burrow diggings. A broken limb. Another swipe of blood. An overturned rock. Blood red as berries, leading him on through brambles—a desperate flight from pain. Aragorn prayed his aim was sure, that he would not find this creature panting and terrified, hunched over an arrow not given true.
He was winding through the broken gorse when he caught a glimpse of something hurtling through the thicket at him. Swift was his turn and vision. The notched arrow caught branches and he dropped it, seizing for the handgrip of his hunting knife. Instinct that had served him in many wilderness dangers rose and he leaped for the oncoming threat, half-falling into the tangle of brush with the sharp blade up. A splitting scream of pain and fury sounded and the impact nearly tore the steel from his hand.
He scrambled in brambles, turning and unable to run, and found himself facing a Werecat, seven feet away, gathering into a spring. Fifteen inches of Elven steel was little match for razor claws, but he shouted once and met the animal mid-lunge. The bright blade from Galadriel flashed.
Fangs found his shoulder. Pain blossomed across his chest. Madness snarled in his face. The knife sank true and deep. A fount of crimson washed down his arm and the snarl became a gasp, a froth of foam. Then, Legolas, from three hundred yards and the tremendous pull of the Galadhrim bow. The bolt appeared magically in Aragorn’s vision, buried to the fletch. He stared at the feathers as both he and the beast fell.
Eyes. Blue eyes against a sky that matched. The tang of blood in his mouth. His heart, pounding. Sudden chill of air across his chest. A knife flashed, cut him. Cut him again and again. Somehow this was necessary, but the reason why eluded him amidst the burning. Burning—oh, the burning! It descended swiftly across his torn shoulder, flared through his chest. Darkness caught the edges of his vision, swirled to center. Even the blue eyes vanished.
Awake and shivering. Darkness all around and darkness in his mind. Warm fingers found him, touched. An arm that drew him upright despite pain and lethargy. A whisper. A cup. Something bitter. He strangled, forced, and drank it. Fire inside and outside; cold. Bitter cold. He couldn’t feel his hands. His chest was heavy and fought each breath.
“Poison has you. I have drawn all I dare,” whispered Legolas. “Rest until it passes.”
“Pass…” His lips were thick, unwilling.
“You will not die, I think. Only one fang found you, for she had broken the other off.” The face of the archer swam into focus and then away. “I bled you severely. Rest. You are safe.”
He awakened again in the dark. Cold gripped him, yet burning seethed in his center. A terrible dynamic of opposing forces. Burning, like dancing fires in his veins. And cold. He once waded the Fal’gorth, which gushed from the belly of a glacier high above Rivendell. Its chill was nothing compared to this creeping iciness, slowing settling to his heart. He would die, frozen. With no goodbyes uttered. This cold stole any complaints, all thoughts. All his will.
A word. A voice. A chain, glittering, swinging freely around Legolas’ neck. Another bitter draught from a cup. His struggle was useless against the archer’s strength. Warm hands around his. Warm skin against his, as if knowing his extremity of need. Darkness crept in again. Grateful was he to see it.
Waking sluggishly. This time he only ached, instead of burned. The sense of coldness was diminished as well. His eyes focused on the curve of stone above him. The archer was only a moment before noticing and a warm arm curled behind his shoulders and drew him upright. The rocks swam eerily with the trunks of trees and he closed his eyes.
“Dizzy,”
“A moment and it will pass.”
His body felt twice as heavy, dead to purpose and will. “How many days?” Aragorn whispered.
“This is day two. The fever has broken. The Redback was down just past the gully and I cared for him. The quarters are ready to pack out.”
Aragorn listened to the pound of his heart, willing steadiness. “I have left all the work to you, my friend.”
“I do not mind,” Legolas replied seriously. “Roheryn has remained steadfast, despite fear, but the gelding fled the cry of the Werecat. He will reach the White City by tomorrow nightfall and the people will wonder. At sunrise, I will take you down the mountain.” He leaned, returned with a cup. “Come, sip some water and then you must rest. It will take all your will to stay astride, though your horse is fond of you.”
“You cannot walk all that way…”
“I am an Elf,” he chided, humored. “I could run the entire way!” He slid his arm and let the Ranger down carefully. “Your horse shall bear you and part of the meat, and I will bear the last, for it is a shame to have wasted the stag’s life.”
Even that short amount of sitting and conversation was wearing, though Aragorn tried to stay alert. Legolas unbound his arm and chest and changed the strips of cloth, soaking them first in something cool and aromatic. His hands were light and deft. Aragorn did not endure until he finished, but faded away exhausted.
At dawn they faced the long miles. Roheryn was patient while Aragorn struggled into the saddle and Legolas tied the hindquarters behind it and picked up the front quarters, suspending them across his shoulders by a carved yoke. His eyes were restless, watching terrain. His burden created havoc trying to reach either bow or knives and his tension was palpable.
Aragorn fought his fatigue and loss of balance, though his steed was perceptive and shifted his weight to keep him steady. The terrain was unkind all the same. He was reduced to gripping mane and saddle arch within two miles.
“We must choose our course, Aragorn. We can travel smoothly and have long days, or take the severe way down and reach Minas Tirith more quickly.”
“Quickly, for the alarm has been raised and the city will be in turmoil.”
“Not for myself, they will not. If Roheryn had fled, the garrison would be out searching for their King.”
Aragorn could not even turn his head to answer, for the shift of his vision would throw his balance. The residue of Werecat poison circled faintly. “They will be concerned, and Gimli amongst them. Arwen will take to the cliff to watch for us.”
“Arwen,” replied the Elf, but he said nothing more. The heavy quarters of meat spun on their leather thongs, bounced against his hips.
The day was harsh. Legolas took a steep descent and Aragorn endured until afternoon before his grip failed. The Elf caught him partway to the ground, for he had watched the pallor creep across the Ranger’s face and gauged it correctly. He stretched the King out and rechecked his dressings, then rose to tend the stallion.
The bay was tired from the unwieldy burden, sweating beneath the saddle blanket. Froth caught at the corners of the bit where he chewed tensely. Legolas drew off the tack and rubbed him with sweet grasses, spoke soothingly.
“You carry a heavy load besides balancing your master, dark one. Would that I could carry more.”
Two finger lengths of sunturn and Aragorn was urged back up. Again, the punishing swirl of dizziness and the slide of rocks beneath the horse. The wind picked up; a hundred needles of cold at the altitude. Pines gave way to Myrtles and Ash. They struggled through ravines slanting straight down the mountain. Aragorn spared a look sidelong and wondered how Legolas managed nearly two hundred pounds of meat in the descent. The strain showed uncharacteristically upon the Elf’s face.
By nightfall, they had carved the distance of three days down by half, but Aragorn was spent, reeling. His hands were locked so tightly in Roheryn’s mane that Legolas cut the long hair with a knife to get him down.
“The horse first,” whispered Aragorn.
Legolas hesitated, then nodded and cared for the stallion. The damp blanket was hung on the tree limb and his coat stroked out with a Pine branch. He grazed hungrily and Legolas moved with his steps. When he returned, Aragorn was asleep right where he had placed him, slumped against the quarters of meat. His shoulder had bled and oozed. Legolas changed the dressing and the Ranger did not wake.
Dawn brought warmer temperatures and more distance to cover. Aragorn’s eyes were exhausted and pain lingered through his wounds, but he did not complain.
“Roheryn tires,” said Legolas. “We may have to abandon the meat to get you home.”
“Then we have wasted the stag’s life. I should have gone slower; then perhaps I would have seen the Werecat sign before stumbling right upon her.”
“You would have seen no sign. The rain hid her prints and she was already agitated from the Red Stag racing through. I doubt she uttered even a hiss of warning before lunging for you.”
Aragorn turned his head. “She was denned?”
“She was. Her kits were small.” Legolas did not look at him. “I had to kill them, lest they slowly starve.”
“I am sorry,” Aragorn sighed. Men did not favor Werecats, but they had their place in the wilds. Many of the Tusked Boars were kept culled because of the deadly felines.
“They had good deaths,” the Elf returned and his eyes were calm. “They did not scent me and had no fear. I was swift; there was no pain. Nothing living would choose differently if given choice.” He rose effortlessly and Aragorn envied that strength in the face of his weakness. “Come, let us face the miles as best we may and when Roheryn fails, perhaps I can hang the quarters high enough to salvage them later.”
The day was thankless, bordered with pain and exhaustion. Though Aragorn kept his seat, he knew the shift of his weight was precarious. All his focus was fixed on keeping himself centered in the saddle. The stallion’s attention swept from the rough terrain, to his uncertain rider, and back again.
Legolas lost his footing in loose stones and slid forty yards. Only his incredible balance kept him from tumbling headlong. Roheryn took a different route and the Elf was still catching his breath at the bottom when they arrived minutes later. His forearm bled through his shirt and dripped from the end of his tunic.
“We must stop,” said Aragorn. “Let me see that arm.”
“Nay, you will not tend it. You must marshal your strength to endure this ride.”
“Can you see the Pass, yet?”
“No, we have miles to go.” The Elf set off again.
The miles to go were dire. The horizon tilted crazily as the hours passed and became unfocused as Aragorn fought weariness. How many canyons and turbulent streams? How many logs the bay must step across with a jolt? He didn’t even realize he had fallen, for the trees moved above him with wind and he could feel the stallion’s gait despite the fact he was on the ground.
“Come, drink this,” whispered Legolas, but Aragorn turned his head from the pungent draught.
“No. I do not hurt as much as I am weary. Give me a moment…”
“I will not take you to your beloved stricken so. She will be wroth with me for your suffering, for she knows full well remedies for pain are all about on these mountains.”
Aragorn attempted a smile, but knew it was more a grimace than anything. “Wait until we are near the city, then, and she shall know no difference.”
“You would have me deceive her?” chided the archer. His fingers checked bandages and shifted the Ranger off stones. “I will be unlucky if she discovers such a lie.”
But Aragorn set his teeth and the archer relented and turned to the tired steed. Roheryn was head down and lathered. Legolas pulled off saddle and the quarters of meat and let him loose. He was footsore from too much weight over unforgiving terrain.
“We will tarry a few hours, then leave the meat behind. He has carried as much as he can, as far as he can,” said Legolas. He searched Aragorn’s lined face and saw the regret there. “Rest, my friend. We have miles to go.”
The sun beat upon the treetops and filtered down. A hawk winged past high above them. The woods were silent and at rest. The trees, undisturbed. Legolas scouted and found a damp bog and dug it out. Roheryn came and the archer sat back to let him drink. It was another hour before it had refilled enough for the Elf to sip, wash the grime from his temples. He carried a cup back to Aragorn, but did not rouse him for it. It was not time.
Then a glimmer reached the eyes of the archer and he stood, watching. Something white and moving quickly, but for rescue or treachery he could not discern. It flashed between trees and through the shadows of forest … abruptly became two … and he laughed aloud and the sound brought Aragorn from his exhausted sleep with a start.
“Look who has come!” cried Legolas.
His voice was full of sunlight, for Ashra burst from the gloom of forest and Talemon followed after. The two yearlings circled the curing meat warily, but came to the Elf and the downed Ranger without qualm. Talemon blew in Aragorn’s face and nosed the bandages curiously.
“So who sent you two after us, hmm?” asked Aragorn, rubbing the proffered nose. “I wager that it was Arwen.”
“I will not take that wager,” chuckled Legolas, tugging Ashra’s forelock. “You cannot bear me, but perhaps you can share my load?”
So the archer separated the quarters of meat and fastened part of it upon the young stallion. He rolled his eyes, but endured with a soft word or two from the Elf. Legolas checked to be sure the bindings would not chafe and rubbed his muzzle encouragingly.
Talemon, however, was defiant and would not let Legolas come near him with the stag’s carcass. And though Aragorn spoke quietly, the eldest Son of Thunder would not submit and his ears flattened. Legolas eyed him for a long moment.
“He will not bear the dead, but he will bear the living.” He looked down at Aragorn. “He will bear you and you alone, for he loves you.”
“He is young and untested. I will not injure his back foolishly.”
Legolas studied the yearling. “He has grown tall and his bones are strong. And though I think he has not reached his full might, he has might enough for this. You must ride bareback, for the saddle is not fitted for him. Come, Talemon, let me braid your mane into rings for your master to cling to.”
And to Aragorn’s surprise, the steed came willingly to the Elf and permitted his flowing mane to be braided and tied. This, more than words, convinced him of the truth.
Thus Aragorn rode Talemon, the Son of Shadowfax, before his time and without training. And so carefully did the young stallion bear him, that Aragorn found himself dozing with his hands curled through his mane. Not once did he slide without a shift of pale shoulder beneath him to stop it and not once did any step jar him in pain. Thus is it said of the line of the mearas; that the world moves beneath them instead of their hooves moving across the face of the world.
The miles passed and the sun beat upon their heads. Aragorn whispered encouragements and watched Talemon’s ears swivel to catch every one. And when Legolas looked back, his face was full of delight at seeing them.
“There! The last pass,” called the archer. He turned and sought Roheryn, who bore the meat, and rummaged through a pack. “Do not quarrel with me now, Aragorn. You shall have a draught of herb before I hand you torn to your Queen.”
The last few miles to the Anduin were blurry beneath the Bitterroot, but Aragorn trusted the stride of the young stallion that bore him. When they shouldered the far bank and he heard the cry of the lookout, he sat tall despite weariness. And no hands attempted to draw him down, for Talemon’s eyes were fierce and he bared his teeth to ward them away. The people gathered, cheering to see his safe return and astonished to see the moonbeam colt bearing him proudly.
So it was that King Elessar rode the center lane of the Pelennor all the way to his pavilion upon the Steed of Kings. There he half-slid, half-fell into the arms of Arwen, who had strength to steady him and she drew him inside and tended him. Gentle were her hands and Aragorn was asleep ere she finished.
Two weeks later, when his strength was once more full, Aragorn sought out Talemon where the stallion grazed near the Anduin. Neither tack nor bridle did he bear and the glimmering steed nosed him for a pat and treats—then sidled against him, willing. The fair folk of the White City smiled at the delight in their King’s face as they cantered along the grassy bank.
This time, Aragorn’s horsemanship was steady and the moonlight steed loosed the strength of his gait and the King’s shout was for joy and wonder. Shadowfax, The Great, he had never sat—but here was the closest copy upon the face of the land, willing, and when Talemon set his gaze upon the far curve of the Anduin, Aragorn felt the power thrum between his knees. This stallion could cover the whole of the land at a run and never feel the need to rest, for such was the strength of the steeds whose heritage sprang from the Undying Lands.
Then Ashra called piercingly—but it was not aimed at Talemon, his brother. It wafted over the top of the chuckling waters and through the crowd, where the archer stood within his blowing cloak. Legolas turned to see his stallion come seeking and drew from Gimli and Faramir to meet him. The smoky eyes of the steed were bright and he bowed his arched neck. Legolas took to his back with one springy step and so skillful was the Elf, and so certain was this match of horse and rider, that Ashra sprang away before he was astride yet the archer did not fall. The two darted away after the faint shine of Talemon who was rounding the bend of the river. All that the people could see was the flaxen hair of the archer mixed into the dark swirl of Ashra’s mane.
Aragorn saw them on the run and watched, delighted, for Ashra’s gait was quick and gliding, barely touching the ground. The same breathtaking stride of his dam, Shalennah, and through her, the swiftest of them all; Asfaloth, the Wingsteed of Glorfindal. Ashra ghosted up upon them, drew abreast and passed, and the King shouted encouragement after them, for the joy of riding the Sons of Thunder consumed him.
Thus the companions came to their rightful steeds and they cherished the strength of Talemon and the speed of Ashra, for their differences reflected those of their masters and their hearts were happy.
15. Hunting 2
For ninety-seven days and nights, the sole focus of the Dwarves was to find the Keystone of the Prow of the City. Ferin Bloodhammer, eleventh descendent from Durin the Deathless, was the most gifted of the Stonewrights and daily he listened to the heart of the White City. His comments ranged from a series of grunts, pounding on his leather breastplate, or simple pointing, for Goblins had cut his tongue out as a youngling. Though tormented and silenced, he lived to see his captors slain. The last fell with Ferin’s hammer through his skull—thus did he acquire his name.
Each broken word or symbol scratched on the walls beneath Minas Tirith was studied by torchlight and then rubbings were made of them against lambskin. The eldest, most skillful of the Dwarf Lords spent their lore deciphering the ancient markings, piecing directions and words together like broken pottery—and their opinions varied boisterously. The arguments lasted late. Some came to blows, but none serious enough to warrant attention. Entire histories of the Old Tongue of the Dwarves were rehashed and quarreled about. The firelight threw fearsome shadows against the wagon canvasses where they debated symbols and meanings lost long ago.
King Elessar often joined the circle of debate, though he could shed no light on the language or the markings. He puffed his long pipe silently and his gaze swept from Dwarf to Dwarf, waiting hopefully for the answer to his ruined city.
And no answer came, night after night.
Yet despite the vehement arguments and opinions, all the Stone Masters hearkened to Ferin Bloodhammer. His muteness had oddly increased his ability to hear the earth. He could find one pebble that bore too much strain whispering in a rock wall and set it to rights. Never was there a Stonemason as keen as he. The buttresses built with Ferin among the Stoneworkers endured flood and snow and quakes. Thus, even when the majority of the Dwarf Elders were certain the markings led one direction, if Ferin indicated otherwise, the next shift of Dwarves attended to the course he set. Their trust in him was as absolute as their trust in mithril and the enormous black cauldron they called The Kettle.
Alas for Ferin, even at the distance of the Anduin, the keening of the White City tormented his sleep. Many nights he was forced to seek the tunnels, answering her call. The company working below would give him berth, shaking their heads sadly as he beat on the wall of rock and mud, weeping in answer. Dawn would find him crumpled in some dark tunnel, overcome by exhaustion and the anguish of the mountain. They would carry him out in a canvass sling made for hauling picks and shovels and leave him in the nearest shade. Arwen the Fair took to sitting beside him, singing beneath her breath to counter the unceasing cry of the broken city.
Narin, the Goldsinger of Enmor Vale, found a symbol during midmorning, at midweek, and he scrambled out the Door of Entrance, shouting. The Stone Masters strode to see the etching, one of them with a rolled lambskin and charcoal. Ferin Bloodhammer was roused, bleary and blinking in sunlight, and he trudged down into the dark maw after them.
Aragorn was long used to such shouts of discovery that yielded nothing. If they found the Kingstone, he was certain he would be amongst the first to be told. Still, he watched the Door of Entrance sidelong from where he sat with Faramir and Legolas. The archer was teaching them the skill of weaving an Elven rope and both men seemed to have seven fingers on each hand in the plaiting of it. Legolas told them as much, though his eyes were merry.
“I suspect that this exercise was only to get me to weave new rope for the two of you,” the archer solemnly said. He did not need to look to know smiles greeted his statement. He whispered over the rope as if imparting magic to it and though Aragorn listened carefully, he could make no sense of the dialect Legolas used.
There was a guttural shout from the doorway leading beneath the city and the Dwarf crew waiting without, stirred. If it could be said that a Dweller of the Ground could stand taller, then one hundred stood so at the same moment, bristling with picks, shovels and lever bars. The helm of their leader was set with azure and golden stones and he leaned intently, nay—eagerly—to hear what the Dwarf Masters had to say at the maw of the tunnels.
Aragorn rose to his feet half-speed and Faramir and Legolas stood with him, drawn by his piercing gaze toward the Guarded City. His pose was so intent; his stare so compelling that Grór of the Misty Mountains spotted him from the distance and raised a hand, fingers beckoning. The King needed no more encouragement and strode to join the group. Faramir and the archer coasted along with him as a force of habit.
“…Though it’s been twisted and the ridge beam is down,” rolled the grindstone voice of the Dwarf. “The North wall is buckled in three places—you’ll need shoring ten feet high and braces sixteen. The floor is swirling mud, but without holes. Several places are nearly impassible with boulders; you’ll need the lever bars that Tolma of the Black Hills just finished—the double hand ones. Heed the oil in the torches, for a cursed wind does blow through that cavern and it put out our lights twice. Ferin is tapping the wall, listening, as we speak. Give ear to him, for the passage is broken and another way perhaps must be cut. Send word to Degnar and Glóin that we need the heavy tools oiled and the company of Oláin from Iron Mountain to make ready. This digging will take the strongest of the strong, for which he and his kin have stood by these many days.” Grór, with dirt smudges amidst the golden nuggets in his beard, turned with a jerk and looked up at the men. “We are close, King of the West, very close. If Ferin can hold strength to guide us, perhaps today we will uncover the Keystone and find what harm has been wrought upon it.”
“If he can hold his strength?” murmured Aragorn. That any of these stalwart folk could be made weak was a mystery to be contemplated.
Grór grimaced: a frightful sight. “Ferin hears the crying of the stone in a way we cannot. He has listened too long and too deeply and he nears the source. Even the strongest Dwarf can be worn away by such.” The iron-rough voice went softer. “He is our finest Listener and t’would be great sorrow to lose him.”
“Do Dwarves go mad?” queried Legolas. “I have heard of Elves who have gone insane when held captive in caves.”
There was no malice in the question and Grór answered simply. “It is not unheard of. And though we would care for him to the end of his days, he would beg for death to have peace.”
“The Elves leave the land and sail to the Havens for their healing and peace.” Legolas paused a moment, thoughtfully. “Let me join him and sing, for the songs of the Elves comfort all living things.”
Though Aragorn had fears for his friend to linger beneath ground, he considered them carefully. His city needed to be aided, yet the loss of a single Dwarf was not a price he would willingly pay. “Come to the sunlight as oft as you can,” was all he spoke and that quietly, so none else could hear his voice but the archer.
“Send Gimli to find me, for he shall be my strength and reassurance,” was all Legolas returned. He handed over his bow and the long knives without qualm, but Aragorn noted that he ducked his head a trifle more than was necessary to enter the obsidian of the tunnels. The air emanating from the darkness was heavy and wet, speaking of earth and rock and silent depths. He shivered sympathetically for his Elven friend.
The Dwarves scattered to fetch different tools for the task. Hammers were dropped in a pile and the standard lever bars leaned against the glitter white wall of the city. Braces and beams and water pumps and picks were carried into the tunnel. Canvass slings large enough to carry a thousand pounds of earth disappeared into the dark maw. Enormous double-width lever bars, needing two Dwarves to carry them, were brought. Aragorn and Faramir stood aside, watching and marveling in silence.
“I will fetch Master Gimli for Legolas,” said Faramir softly. “They are close, those two.” His hazel eyes were far away, contemplating the encampment and the people as if keeping watch over them.
But Aragorn knew the mind of this man, his Steward and frequent sparring partner. He knew his thoughts dwelled on a companion who was missing. A best friend and confidant and more—a beloved brother who was absent from a place he had always dwelled. Boromir the Tall would not come riding in to the call of silver trumpets again.
And Faramir missed his father as well, for he could do no less. Gandalf had explained the corrupting influence of the Palantiri, the Seeing Stone of Númenor, during one slow afternoon walk along the upper tier of the City. The doom of Denethor was sealed the day he first placed his hands upon the stone—even if only for a glance—for Sauron waited on the other side in seducing flame. Mercy was a jewel only the wise could give … and Faramir was wise. He forgave the bitterness and neglect of his father and so healed a festering wound in his heart.
But Boromir … Boromir he missed as if part of his soul had been torn away. He found himself inexplicably searching for his face amongst men.
Aragorn himself looked in the Steward’s face and saw the glimmer of Boromir’s echo—the birthright of brothers. Faramir’s profile sometimes made him turn, startled, a glad cry upon his lips, only to find the younger man instead.
“You miss him,” said Aragorn, resting a hand upon the shoulder near him. “I miss him as well. Long have I considered how that day might have gone differently had only—”
“Nay, my liege,” interrupted Faramir and his tone was more like Boromir’s in its stubbornness. “Neither sun, nor moon, nor tide, nor season look back at what might have been. And have we not had this conversation before?” he chided. “Choose a different course and Minas Tirith might not have her rightful King. The Stewards are to serve the line of Isildur, either by our life or death. He served.”
“He did. And with honor, pledging his duty before he passed into shadows. His was the voice that turned my feet to Gondor fully.” It was Aragorn’s turn to be thoughtful. “Yet how I wish that I had both of you by my side.”
Faramir smiled, automatically lightening the mood. His chuckle was humored. “So we would do your work in your place? Leave you riding horses and swimming, sporting with your beloved all day? Nay! Never!”
This now, this was a common banter between them. The Steward who claimed to be doing all the work and the King who claimed it as well—and both were busy throughout the day and met counsel often to see that everything was done. And so skilled were each of them in their roles that everything was accomplished without overlap, leaving both of them time to ride and swim and sport at love.
The day crept past and no further pronouncements came from beneath the Citadel. Dwarves came and went like so many subterranean creatures, each burdened with tools and muttering to their beards. The dirt outside the entrance coated the muck on their boots and each step gained weight as they took it. None had words to give to the silent King lingering near that dark doorway and Aragorn finally forced himself away from the city wall and to his tent, finding Arwen escaping the midday heat.
“Perhaps today,” he said to her upturned face before he kissed her. “Or tomorrow, they say.” He was too restless to sit and paced with his long stride until Arwen caught one hand as he passed, turning him aside. He laughed at himself. “Here I have waited through the months without chafing and now I wear through the rugs? How foolish!”
“Even a calm and patient man can be stirred when the goal is in sight.”
“Ahh,” he said with a sigh, “but it is not in sight. Access to the base of the Tarlonnein may well be cut off—the tunnel is ruined. They might have to quarry a new passageway; a perilous undertaking when the mountain is already riddled and weakened by siege engines.”
“No living folk on the earth has the skill for this, save the Dwellers of the Deep,” reminded Arwen. “We put our faith in them long ago.” Her touch lingered near his neck, sidled up along his jaw line and through his beard.
 “So I am reminded,” Aragorn replied, smiling, leaning forward to brush his lips across hers. “Save me from my pensive waiting, my Beloved.” “Save you?” she laughed softly. “What distraction would be adequate to lure you from the nearness to the healing of the City of the Kings?” “I’m sure you can think of something,” he said from somewhere near her left ear and he was correct. Far below the water table, where groundwater seeped through sandstone strata, the Dwarves toiled in the damaged tunnel. Stones and mud made footing treacherous. The picks rebounded off rocks hidden in the black soil hard enough to make their limbs go numb. Seventeen shovels shattered, one every twenty-seven thousand count. Levering boulders the size of oxen brought the strain out in grunts and curses. A pocket of tainted air was ruptured and two Dwarves fell, overcome. Companions dragged them clear, muck and all, and they revived coughing and retching. Minding each torch required two Dwarves: one to hold it aloft and the other to manage the wick, the oil, the sudden guttering of cave-wind that sang through. The Stonewright set a dozen of his crew to run bellows and pump water from the floor. It seeped in as fast as they pumped until seven more added their backs to the labor. Dwarves in squads six strong struggled full canvasses of debris back up the passageways to dump them. It was arduous, backbreaking, nightmarish work and the Dwarves loved it. The rough chant of their work songs set the tempo for the hammers and shovels, the wheeze and slosh of pumps. Three teams of excavating Dwarves rotated shifts at the fore of the treacherous tunnel, each striving to outdo the other teams. Behind them in a long line stretched the haulers with their barrows and canvasses, jeering the diggers, claiming they had time for a thirteen course Dwarvehold feast before there was enough detritus to haul away. The insults fit in with the work chant and the pace never changed. One boulder, the size of a dwelling, was jacked free from where it had lodged and chiseled into quarters. It took twenty-two Stonecutters most of the day and at the end they were buried beyond sight within the granite, wedging as they went. Garl Rockblighter rolled each piece free with a prodigious shove, his feet braced against the tunnel wall and his back contorted. His growl of effort was savage. The Dwarves gave him wide berth to work for his strength was fearsome and his blind ghost-white eyes threw back the torchlight eerily. “Naugoh,” declared Glóin of the Lonely Mountain, his rumbling voice echoing from walls to watery floor and back again. “Remember his worth, Backbenders, the next time you mutter at tending his fire and food. Nary have we set him to a rock he could not move.” He turned, looking down the tortured passageway and lifted his voice to be heard over five score working Dwarves. “Bring The Listener to the fore to check our course.” Ferin Bloodhammer slogged to the head of the tunnel. His beard was matted and his knuckles bruised and scabbed. One hand scrubbed his bloodshot eyes. He stared at the stoneshattered tunnel, the dripping walls, and the wavering shadows of Dwarves before tapping two fingers against the center of his forehead. “Hold!” ordered the Stonewright and the command passed tongue to tongue down the tunnel until every hammer, every chisel, every barrow and felak fell silent. The drip of water became audible. The creak of earth settling. A small stone slid nearby. Wind whispered like a haunting voice. The torches guttered and cracked. The Elf-kind came, his feet nearly noiseless. The breathing of Dwarves sounded harsh in the silence. Ferin hung his head, unmoving, for several moments … then staggered to the front of the collapsed tunnel and put forth his hand. Thick fingers dug at the dirt, seizing a globule of clay mud, but he let this fall, almost trancelike. He hovered over the ruin of the passageway, but then turned away to the West and pressed his head against the muck, heedless of the ooze slipping through his hair, down his collar. Arms spread, embracing the soil; Ferin listened … then sank into agony. It was horrible to witness his face twist, mouth opening in a soundless scream. The nearest Dwarves seized him. One grasped his hair and pulled his head from the wall. Legolas leaped lightly across the mire in the center of the corridor and took the mute Dwarve’s face between his hands. His voice sounded loud in the tunnel though he sang very softly. The Dwarves half carried their stricken comrade away and Legolas moved with them without breaking his litany of calming words. “Kunhu,” said Glóin. “The keening of the City of Kings is strongest through this wall. Bring Tappers and sound this avalanche ahead of us; does the passage turn? If so, we clear it—if not, we must test the granite to see if she will bear another tunnel to her heart.” He glanced aside at Ferin, his misery reduced to twitches where he sagged against the farthest wall. “We dare not tarry this final race. Take him to sunlight. We will call if we need him.” Ferin pounded his temple, grunting, and then pointed at the West wall urgently. He gestured dismissively at the partially cleared tunnel behind him. Glóin nodded. “I know you must be here when the chamber is breached, my kin. You will be first to put your hand upon the stone to silence your mind. I will send for you when the Sounders say we are at the last barrier.” So Ferin departed the darkness beneath the Citadel and Legolas went with him, along with Gimli, who had not left his side that day. Seven mugs of ale were poured for Ferin and he downed the first three without a pause. The last four took more time and his hand grew wobbly. The suds glimmered rainbows. When the seventh was gone, Gimli gave Ferin a shove that plunked him off his low seat onto the ground and tossed a blanket over him. “Go and wash, Legolas,” laughed the Dwarf. “You won’t even touch your fingers together, they’re so grimy! I will speak with the King, for even at this distance his gaze begs for words—any words.” “News, my stout friend?” called Aragorn when Gimli strode into view. He looked up expectantly and his eyes were the blue of summer sky. “Not much, but what I have, I shall faithfully share with you.” “Sit, then, and share a pipe with me.” “That I shall, laddie, and most gratefully! A good smoke will clear the stench of the foul air from my nostrils. No offense to your fair City of Kings, my friend, but she’s not fair from the underneath side these days!” Aragorn laughed in agreement and slid on the gnarled log seat to make room. Gimli, absorbed in packing pipe weed, did not notice that the King deliberately moved to the low end of the beam. Aragorn had scoured the nearby grove fruitlessly for weeks, searching for a log that was thick on one end and thin on the other just for this purpose—that a Dwarf sitting on the taller end would be face to face with him. It was Legolas who solved his ill hunt. He sang to one of the Chestnut trees and it pulled up a great root exactly fit for the task, though Aragorn was loath to cut it free. The archer had to convince him that the Chestnut was sincere, since the root had struck river rock and was next to useless. It was a solemn task and Aragorn used his sharpest blade and chopped swiftly. For two weeks, he carried four buckets of water a day to the tree to make his thanks. The Elf laughed and reminded him that the Chestnut had asked no boon; being rid of the specter of Sauron was enough for the guileless tree. Aragorn carried the water anyway. “They’ve cleared the passage five score steps farther, with much ruin ahead. The hammers clang a din against the granite and the rocks groan when they’re pried free from the muck. The water leaks through seams of silt and makes an icy footbath! We’re pumping twenty strong and barely keep it below our ankles.” Gimli paused and drew his pipe until the coals glowed brightly. “Some of the fallen boulders are bigger than the tunnel … as if they simply sank into the open space from above when the Citadel trembled. Tis a wonder that the Needle still stands with all that pounding of war. “We’ve braced the walls ten high and the ceiling needs more work, but we race to find the Heartstone, so we take no time to repair properly right now. Later,” he said as if promising himself, “later we will refit the tunnels as they should rightly be and then even a Queen, nay, even a wary Elf will find them pleasing to see! It is a shame that the White City has gone these long years without the step of a Dwarf in her belly.” Aragorn pulled the pipe stem from between his teeth enough to answer“Men and Dwarves let their companionship grow cold after the building of Minas Anor by Elendil and his sons. Something I shall remedy and urge all men to remedy after me. A city such as this cannot be left without the care of builders such as the Dwarves.”
“A wise King are you,” said Gimli, his face obscured by smoke. “The Dwarves that stay to mind her must be guided by someone who has seen this ruin. When we finish our labor, it will be as if no stone was upturned and none will believe that such a stronghold could be brought low. They will tend her faithfully, as one tends any rock of their home, but they will not constantly look to her strength and labor to make her twice the fortress she is. You will be the Ruler and Sovereign of Gondor, but the Master of the Tunnels must be shrewd and wary of war, having no cares for his own treasure, mindful only of the treasure which is the City herself.” Aragorn smiled around his pipe stem, but said nothing. He had someone in mind to be that very Master, though it would still be some time before he asked. It was enough to just smoke beside him and wait for the word of the Dwarves in their hunt beneath the City. Through heat waves, Minas Tirith wavered as if trembling. The Keystone was not found that day. It was not found the next morning. But midday, when the sun cleared three fingers past the center flag of the King’s pavilion, the cry came from the lower tier and was carried through the multitude swift as winged birds over the plain. None were surprised to see King Elessar’s smile or glad cry, nor that he ran the distance to the Great Door. The people of Gondor cleared the way for him as they had once given berth before him on his Coronation Day. Their shouts were jubilant. The Stone Masters gathered from every direction and their jeweled beards glittered with midday sun. Degnar and Glóin and Kár, the Eldest. Vadir of Grey Mountains, with both hammers at his belt. Ferin Bloodhammer with his eyes fevered and his empty hands full of twitches. Dain of Nônak Plateau and his sons, Dórma and Kúzan. A company thirty-two strong strode lockstep behind a bear of a leader whose helm was solid black. Oláin from the Iron Mountain with the mightiest of the Delvers of the Deep. Blind Garl Rockblighter was led through the Great Door and drink and meat handed to him. Faramir came from the horse pickets and Rôthatur, Keeper of the Storehouse, from his dwelling. Legolas and Gimli rode swift from the practice grounds on the first mount the archer seized. All of them—tall and lean, squat and rugged, dressed well or girded by stained leather drew close around Grór, Stonewright of the Middle Shift, who lifted his voice to be heard. “We have reached the final course. The tunnel fore is collapsed solid, but two Tappers have stated that thirty feet separate us from an open chamber. Three more from Degnar’s stronghold were brought in to confirm the Sounding.” He paused and glanced at faces near him. “We believed the report of the twain, but were loath to bring word to King Elessar unless we had surety. The way is deep, bowing low to get beneath the point of the Needle and there is evidence that the ground has shuddered a few times since the assault of the Dark Lord. Fresh silt is moving and we smell the burn of rock against rock as they push. Two quakes quivered in the last week.” Grór cast his gaze upon Oláin, shifting focus to the heavy Dwarf and his company. “It is for the Ironfists to determine the last course, for they must pit their strength against the mountain now.” Oláin for his part said nothing at first. He gathered the rioting mass of his hair and tied it at the back of his head; an act that only emphasized the might of his forearms, stout as ridge beams and patterned with scars. “Few are my words, Master Grór. We have rested and readied and will follow your counsel.” “Little have I to give, Master Rockgrinder,” returned Grór and he nodded his head, giving honor. “Only that the Resting Stone must be unleashed from its prison, yet the Tower of Echthelion shivers above us. The weight of the City rests on a sword point, groaning. It is up to you to decide the course—to carve a new passage or free the old from ruin. Either way is perilous with the City shifting her feet around us.” Again Oláin of the Iron Mountains held his voice and none disturbed his thoughts. His company did not stir from their lean upon their picks, all of which bore fifty-pound heads. Not a gem glittered amongst this crew; no opals, no gold, no emeralds—not even a glint of bronze or simple copper. Iron. Black iron was their sole adornment and their helms sucked in all the sunlight and gave off nary a ray in return. “Let us take the hand of The Listener and he shall guide us, for his ears are keen,” said Oláin. “We are ready.” But though all turned to enter the labyrinth beneath the White City, save Rôthatur and Faramir who had duties, Degnar of Barrindar Pass halted Aragorn and Legolas with the strength of his gaze. “There is much danger below, O King of the West, for the ground shudders and is unsettled. It will be thankless and dirty work to cut the last thirty feet.” “I will go,” returned Aragorn, “for I have waited long weeks for this day. I will stand where you tell me, to be safe.” “And I will go,” said Legolas, “to comfort Ferin as I have for days. He is reaching the final goal and I will see his suffering end.” So darkness and depth swallowed the archer and King. They followed the bob of torchlight through partially cleared tunnels that seemed to circle upon themselves, yet never were the same. Caverns opened around them and the air was dead and watching. Narrow steps, hastily cut, brought them past bogs of mud too time consuming to clear. Fierce descents mixed with turn after turn and each of them looked alike. Aragorn, for all his Ranger’s sense of direction, was hopelessly lost within six hundred yards. “I could never find my way back,” said Aragorn. “Nor I,” agreed Legolas. “Deep earth does not speak to me. Even the air is voiceless.” “Take no fear upon your brows,” rumbled Degnar from in front of them. “You will not be lost in the company of Durin’s Folk.” “They are twice our height—how could we possibly lose them?” laughed Grór and amused chuckles sounded from the line of marching Dwarves. Legolas’ smile flashed and Aragorn’s echoed it. “So I walk in surety where sunlight has never trod, putting my trust in the Hands that Carve the Mountains,” said the King and the Dwarves heard and stood taller. Black walls of dirt and rock swallowed the tramp of boots. Where Legolas and Aragorn leaped over puddles, the Dwarves splashed through unheeding. Low ceilings dripped as they ducked through. Gimli fastened a gnarled hand in the tunic of the King at one point in the arduous journey. Later Aragorn was told that the pit beside the narrow walkway fell over a thousand feet. He shivered instinctively and felt more keenly the immense bulk of the city pressing down upon them. “Legolas, how fare you?” he whispered. “The air is heavy, but I have been here several times.” Legolas’ eyes were black by torchlight, his features harsh and sharp. “Focus on the shape of the stones along the path and how they change with the descent and less on the mountain above us.”
“Wise counsel.” “Gimi’s counsel,” returned the Elf. “Tell us if panic overtakes you. They carry a horn of Hathal wine and a sip will calm you.” “Indeed?” said Aragorn, but he asked nothing more despite curiosity. Down, down, down, like winding stairs in the blackest night, one after the other and following the bobbing dots of torch lights. The labyrinth of tunnels grew rough and the piles of rubble more arduous. Aragorn found the challenge of negotiating the loose rock pleasant for it distracted him from the gnawing unease of the depths. When the Dwarves finally halted at a formidable wall of rubble, the torchlights coalesced and the shadows fled away. Here Ferin put his hands against the stones, felt the suffering as if it was his own and Aragorn watched grimly. Oláin of the Iron Mountains tapped rocks and listened, tasted the dirt, squatted over Ferin where he scribbled one word at a time in silt. Silence fell over all Dwarves. The torches sputtered. A stone slid and clacked against another. “Kissham nund,” Oláin said. Then he gestured as an aside, “And helm the Little Giant.” Dwarves scattered to tasks and each of them knew their duties. “They will clear the tunnel to the chamber,” said Gimli, answering the curious look that both Legolas and Aragorn shot him. “Cutting a new one will be a last resort.” “They fear they cannot clear it?” asked the Elf. “The ridge beam is down, hence the backbone of this tunnel is broken. Without the strength of the arch, the walls lean inward. The rubble filling the tunnel ahead has fashioned a support for the passageway all these months, but now we seek to remove it. Even with shoring and braces, the heaviest of lever bars as support, gravity calls to the walls and they call back.” Gimli looked up and down the torn ceiling. “The Dwarves of the Iron Mountains are stout and fierce, mightiest of our kind. Oláin Ironshield has led them for ninety-seven years. A steady and stalwart fist has he—only the power of the Balrog could keep him from wresting the Mines of Moria back from the Goblins.” “I would say that the song of Dwarves will once again sound in Moria,” offered Legolas. “Ha!” said Gimli. “And I think I shall join the legion that takes her back from those fell creatures!” Dirt and mud and swearing. The rattle of picks and felaks. The sheen of shovels casting torch fire. The Iron Mountain Dwarves tightened their wide belts and forearm braces. Their black helmets flared at the bottom, hiding their necks and part of their shoulders from falling rubble. Garl Rockblighter had been fitted with one of the flanged iron helmets as well, though the sides were bent upward to give his massive shoulders room to move without cutting him. One Dwarf laughed and clapped his companion on the head with his cudgel and the iron helm rang one deep note. Aragorn was amused to see the gesture returned with just as much enthusiasm and the violent affection spread through the horde thirty strong. Oláin Ironshield, standing on an upturned barrow, grinned and his dark eyes gleamed. “Stand aside with us,” said Degnar and he motioned them away. “Only the Rockblighter has strength fit to be used by the Ironfists of Oláin’s crew.” The air was crisscrossed with voices, but one barked an unmistakable order. Twenty shovels bit the floor simultaneously and above them double-hand braces hit the ceiling and walls. The hammers rang, setting the spiked ends deep in the floor. Fifty-pound picks, swung by powerful arms, split the rocks with one blow. Enormous rakes pulled the rubble from beneath the worker’s feet and still others shoveled barrows and canvasses full. A team of six; three holding iron splitters and three wielding enormous hammers cracked a boulder the size of a cave Ox in nine swings. Their grunts of effort were in unison. Aragorn could see sweat coursing through the contorted muscles of their backs and he stared, blinking through smoke and dust, marveling at the might of the Dwarves labor. Garl Rockblighter wrestled the halves free with a roar of effort and toppled them into the center of the tunnel. Another team of Dwarves chiseled the halves into quarters, netted them with ropes and dragged them away. Dirt in the air. Mud underfoot. The smell of wet leather. The grind of rocks being crushed. Dull clang of braces crisscrossing lever bars. Curses, groans, the bark of Oláin as he set the pace. A sea of laborers. And Degnar, Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas stood like an island amidst the seethe of movement watching. Nine feet. A halt and consult over a boulder protruding from the West wall. Oláin bent his head to watch Ferin scribbling in dirt and then waved him away. They left the rock where it was lodged and worked around its jagged face. Sixteen feet. Another halt, this one to help a Dwarf from the front line who held a hand clamped over his thigh. Torchlight made his blood black where it ran through his fingers. His curses were dire. Direr was the wound that yawned beneath his palm. They tightened a belt around his thigh until it bit and he clubbed the nearest Dwarf with a hand like a hammer. Aragorn was only mildly surprised at the rage and curses as they hauled him down the tunnel towards the surface in a canvass sling. “The fever to dig is upon him,” said Degnar. “He will be wroth for hours before he ever feels the pain.” Strength against inertia. Iron against stone. Determination against the mountain squatted above them. Both Aragorn and Legolas crept forward with the Iron Mountain Dwarves, caught up in their tremendous will and the flash and bite of shovels and picks. Oláin’s voice was a whip, cracking the tempo over the din. Twenty-one feet. They could taste the end they were so close. Ferin Thunderhammer was unable to hang back anymore and he paced behind and amongst the workers pounding his knuckles against his brow. Someone had taken his regular helm and clapped one of the heavy iron ones atop his head, as if knowing he would wind up amidst the workers. Twice he was struck a glancing blow with a shovel and once a fifty-pound axe nearly knocked his face in. Oláin jerked him back with the curved spike on his axe when Ferin got too close. Otherwise, The Listener was left to his restless and pained circling. The Elf watched him. Blind Garl stripped to the waist, panting. His chest was twice the size of any Dwarf and even by torchlight his skin glowed red. Amidst cold earth, he steamed like a stallion run hard. Several near him drew buckets of muddy water off the floor and poured it over his shoulders. A rivulet of blood crept down his back. Oláin summoned another halt upon seeing it and called an order. The workers lay aside picks and shovels, some sat on likely rocks amidst the rubble. “Water and meat,” said Degnar. “They can keep this pace all day and night if they will it, but only if they break regularly.” He nodded at Garl. “See to him while the hammers are silent, Gimli.” It was only a minor cut, Gimli determined quickly. Garl’s skin had met the jagged wall or a falling rock smote him just past the helm guards. It was not worth the effort of binding with a cloth, though Gimli daubed dirt into it to stanch the bleeding quicker. Garl did not flinch; he stood patiently like some great beast. Gimli drew dried meat from his leather pouch and put it in the blind Dwarf’s hands, followed it with a horn of water. Legolas caught up with the restless pace of Ferin and managed to get him to halt and listen. The melody was simple and calming and the tormented Dwarf picked up a shovel nearby and leaned upon it. His exhaustion and suffering was palpable. Gimli, leading blind Garl, came to put a hand upon Ferin’s shoulder. And Aragorn, moved by the plight of this Dwarf for his troubled city, began picking his way around the debris and tools separating them. Abruptly Ferin raised his head and his pained exhaustion fell away before fear. He wheeled from the East wall, left hand raised in a fist. Oláin Ironshield, Stonemaster of the Iron Mountains, saw Ferin’s sign and roared an order. Thirty-one Dwarves scrambled from a would-be grave. But Aragorn, head down to navigate the rubble, did not understand the guttural command of Oláin nor see the terror of Ferin Thunderhammer. Unable to shout a warning, the mute Dwarf took the shovel he held and threw it with all his strength at the King. It spun like a dervish and clipped Aragorn down at knee level, throwing him face first in the rocks— —and around them the ground suddenly shuddered, heaved and groaned. The ceiling came down with a roar, bending braces and lever bars like saplings. Smoke and dust belched out of the chamber and down the tunnel, obliterating everything from sight. A whip of air, like an enormous exhale, extinguished every torch. Blackness swallowed the deeps and all in it.
16. Finding
I cannot remember the pass of time.
I do not remember falling.
I only remember waking in darkness, coughing, my hands on fire and my legs weighted. Blinking and blinking, wondering why the night was so black and without stars—then that terrible moment of remembering and the spike of fear that followed it. I have known fear aplenty, but this curled my fingers and I fought to not cry out.
A night without stars! I was beneath, in the labyrinth of tunnels, with the mountain crouched heavy above me. A thousand thousand feet of rock and dirt and miles of treacherous passageways coiled around me. I was buried alive here in blackness! I kicked at the weight binding my feet and staggered upright, panicked in a darkness darker than any death, more terrible than any force I had faced … and then heard a cough behind me and a coarse voice.
“Hold, Durin’s folk! Hold! Torchbearers, strike flints!”
Faint glows to my right and never was I so glad of sparks. One torch went up, then another. A face covered with dust raised near me, though I could not say whose.
“The King?” demanded the first voice.
“Here,” I answered and that none too steadily. “Sore, but unharmed.” My rattled thoughts belatedly recognized the voice as Degnar’s.
“Rally, Ironhands,” ordered the voice of Oláin Ironshield from darkness beyond my vision. “Count!”
A stream of single replies followed his command but I failed to number them, staring at the ruin around us. No landmarks of the tunnel remained ahead; only boulders tumbled in a heap. I couldn’t get my bearings, couldn’t seem to grasp what had happened. Which way was I facing when I fell? My tunic was slippery with blood, but I felt no pain. I stared and stared around me, dazed, my shadow stretching long in meager torchlight.
“Legolas?” I called suddenly, apprehensive, looking about. “Where is the Elf? Gimli?”
“This way, King Elessar,” grunted Degnar.
A heavy hand turned me like a toy, faced me the other direction. Degnar, blood running freely where an ear was missing, held a fist in my tunic. “There,” he stabbed a finger another direction. “You flipped when you fell—the Elf-kind stood there, with Ferin and Gimli, Son of Glóin.
“It cannot be,” I said, for there was nothing but a nightmare of rock and slid earth where once a wall had stood. “They surely were not there.”
Degnar did not answer my foolish words; instead he turned and barked a guttural word into the dark beyond the few torches lit. Oláin from the Iron Mountains came scrambling to his call, bleeding and holding one arm close. Behind him, the rocks and the terrain shifted and reformed. His crew trod after him covered with dirt. They were quiet, battered and bloody, some with twisted shovels and others limping, but on their feet.
“The Son of the Morning stood here along with The Listener and Gimli,” said Degnar, pointing. Oláin followed his gesture with his eyes, surveying the ruin.
“Rockblighter was with Gimli,” added another voice. “He cared for him during the break and led him from the pit.”
Degnar’s next words chilled me. “The iron helm and fortitude of the Dwarves will perhaps spare them—but we must dig the Fair One out quickly, lest he smother.”
“Kor-harra!” called Oláin and Dwarves formed a double rank a step from the rubble.
“Wait!” I called. “Your shovels will cut him!”
“Better than staving his skull in with picks. Climb the rubble as we work, King Elessar, and make search with your hands,” replied Oláin grimly. “Dig low and quick time, Ironfists—bring the mountain down!” He barked a harsh word at the line, sharp as whipcrack.
In unison, fifteen Dwarves cut into the bottom of the avalanche with shovels and when they pitched their load aside, the second line stepped forward and bit into dark earth. I scrambled up the face of the debris and felt it slide beneath me as the Iron Mountain Dwarves pulled the base away. The wide shovels of this crew moved sixty pounds of earth apiece—and they worked double time. The entire face of the slide was in motion and I scrambled to keep myself atop it, groping with my hands, seeking with my eyes.
There won’t be blonde hair in this muck, I belatedly realized. Nothing of him would be visible by color. I dug in the top silt, heedless of rocks that cut me, the gash that opened along one wrist. Never had I bent my skill into such a search for the texture of hair, a muddy jerkin, an upraised hand with fingers well known.
Below, the labor was tremendous. Oláin and Degnar both worked along the line with huge grappling hooks to turn out boulders. And though Oláin’s effort was arduous and he favored his arm, the curt call of his timekeeping never faltered—nor did his crew.
Something was here … a shape too smooth to be stone. I pried uselessly at it and called down the face of the rubble. The clack of shovels reached crescendo below my place as they converged and the whole slide lurched, nearly heaving me off. I gripped a likely boulder above and the debris fell away, splitting like water around an iron helm.
“A helmet!” I called aloud. “Dig! Dig with all your might!” And I, too, shoveling barehanded and bleeding, freeing the sagging face of the blind Dwarf from his earthen grave. He was unconscious, but breathing. “It’s Garl Stoneblighter. Quick, they must be near!” The next beat moved the slide a foot … then another.
I found Legolas curled in the bend of Garl’s right arm, nearly beneath him, crumpled there as if crushed. Only his face emerged and I lay flat to see him. “Here! Torches!” I shouted and my voice felt raw as my emotions. A torchbearer scaled the face of the rubble, fighting treacherous footing with fire in his hands.
Did he live? Did he live? “Legolas,” I cried into his bludgeoned face, for there was no warmth, nor movement, no sign at all of life. And his eyes opened, black within black, staring into my face. His mouth moved soundlessly. I felt down beside his jerkin and hit rock. “He can’t draw breath! There’s a boulder against him!”
“Left,” boomed Oláin. “Crosscut!”
I twisted as the rock heap gave way, struggling for balance. The torchbearer scrambled about and finally jumped clear. His torch gutted out. What are they doing, digging over to the side? I need this rock moved!
But the Dwarves knew exactly how to work the earth and within a four-count, the debris buckled away, sliding sidelong as the left flank gave way. Degnar cast an iron claw around the boulder pinning the Elf and heaved his strength against it. Another Dwarf joined him … then another, and the stone gave way. I caught my friend as he sagged into the space it had occupied. He was alive, but heavy. Heavy as if death had one hand on him and I prayed the desperate prayer that men come to eventually.
“Canvass!” shouted Degnar. “Turn him into the sling and we will carry him.”
“Wait, let me tend him,” I returned, but hands were already upon him and the sling was shoved beneath his lax form. In an instant, the Dwarves had him down from the rubble and I partially fell the ten feet into their arms as well. “He is hurt; let me see to him!”
“You cannot tend him in darkness—follow the runners to the light and pray he lives to see it,” returned Degnar. Yet still I argued, overcome by fear and adrenalin, until the Stone Master nearly jerked me off my feet with his grip in my tunic. “He would not wish to die beneath the ground! If you have a care for him, run! Run!”
We ran. And the Dwarves carrying the Elf were sure-footed as goats and just as tireless. The torch in the lead streamed two feet of flames, so quickly did we hasten. I raced through puddles, scrambled through mud holes, and stumbled up rough steps three at a time. The caverns gave me no fear, neither did the yawning hole of a thousand feet that I flew by without a thought—all my focus was upon the canvass sling borne ahead of me. The long march to get below unwound in seeming minutes and then we spilled out of the Great Door into bright sunlight, scattering onlookers and lounging Dwarves.
The tumult of our sudden appearance was startling, but I had no thought for such. I bent over the prostrate form in the sling and drew my hunting blade. Sharper than any man-made steel, the Elven knife slid beneath his leather collar fastenings and I opened his clothing from neck to groin in one effortless pull and flipped the muddy garments back—and stopped.
There was no hope for this.
I knew it in one glance.
Knew it with surety. With the dull ache in my chest. The abrupt sense of falling. The sudden urge to run away, something I had not done since a youngling.
Though the archer drew faint shudders of breath, I knew there was no hope. This was beyond any means of mine, beyond means of any skilled healer, or Elven lore, and I sank to my knees, staggered by the enormity of it.
Legolas was crushed through the chest, his ribs peeled, exposed, and broken. Jagged ends protruded randomly or stabbed down into his lungs. Every pant frothed through bleeding holes and I felt droplets upon my face where I leaned over him. Blood pooled thick, coagulating around organs revealed to the light. The viscus was torn open and I could see the struggle of his heart. Cold was the hand I picked up and I held it helplessly, stunned.
“Step back,” I said to the horrified faces ringing us. “Let the sunshine touch him, for this is why we brought him with haste.” The people silently withdrew and the heat of summer fell upon my skin, but could not touch the iciness in my heart.
I looked down across the knee of the mountain, unaware that I was searching until I saw Arwen running down the length of the Pelennor to reach us. She knows. She feels it from the distance. A deeper agony filled my heart—my Beloved would lose her kinsman, whom I knew she cherished. I wished anything but to be here in this place, at this scene, but had no will or power to leave.
I watched her face, unable to speak anything of comfort or explanations and saw the knowledge hit her as she looked upon him. Her color faded to gray. The light in her eyes vanished. She knelt to put long fingers against his temples and closed her eyes.
“He tarries,” she whispered. “He waits for someone … where is Gimli, his fast companion?”
Gimli! I cursed myself harshly. In my haste and concern, I had not lingered to see about my other friend! But there was a familiar cry echoing from the Great Door behind me and Gimli limped into view, full of a hundred curses in Dwarves tongue. He was dirty and bloody and full of ire. His right leg was broken; I could see the glint of bone through his breeches and he leaned heavily on a companion. I did not envy him that long walk to this place … and I did not envy the sight he was soon to see.
All his words died. His hand left his helper and he shuffled to our side on his broken bones, heedless of anything, anyone, and fell on his knees. He mirrored me: lifting a cold hand and curling it into his own.
“No! No, it cannot be… he cannot die … he is immortal! Immortal!” he whispered, agonized, and his words tore my heart. He lifted bewildered eyes to first me, then Arwen. “Save him. Can you not save him?”
“Gimli,” said Arwen. Tears glittered, but did not fall from her lashes. “His wounds are too grievous for Aragorn or I, or any of our healers to mend.”
“But he lives,” returned the Dwarf. “If he yet lives, there is hope. Will you not try?”
“He waited for you, Gimli,” I said. “His will was strong enough to linger for you, but nothing can overcome this harm.”
But the Dwarf was undaunted and his gaze was compelling. “You must try, Aragorn, for has he not crossed the distances for you? Even against good counsel? And you, Arwen, who holds the mystery of Elven lore, will you not bend your skill upon him? You whom he loves dearly?”
We were silent and sad. My fingers gripped Legolas’ cold hand too hard and I loosened it.
“You must try,” pleaded Gimli. “Try for me. For me! For though the Lady of the Wood does dwell forever in my heart, it was Legolas whom I found first! I knew him first! He is the finest treasure I have ever found! You must try! Can you not just try?” Then lastly, almost to himself, “He is immortal. He isn’t supposed to die…”
We looked one to another, no longer King and Queen, but sorrowful friends caught in the same thread of agony. Can we?
“His wounds are beyond the healing strength of his heritage and yet his soul tarries,” Arwen whispered. “I can hold him here, though the price is high.” She looked at me and her eyes were depthless. “Bend your will only on things that are vital. Spend to the limit of your strength and then cease, my Heart. Send for a healer to mend what she can, but nothing must interrupt your concentration.” She paused and I took strength from her gaze. “It will take all of us and everything that we are and even that may not be enough.”
“Bring athelas and Lemmoth, a cup of Fendril and a sprig of Moorian,” I ordered. “Send for the healer, Ioreth. Raise him—get him up from the ground.”
Men scrambled to tasks and in short order a table was brought from the nearest tent and Legolas was laid upon it. We did not wash him, nor remove him from the bloody sling—there was no time for such amenities.
Arwen put a hand on my forearm, warning and encouragement in one gesture. “Take heed that you do not look in his face, Aragorn. Take no care for his comfort in this. Do what you must do, but you must not look in his face.” Then she placed her long fingers over the slope of Legolas’ brow and she did not move nor speak again.
So I rested my hope on the whisper of my Queen, the hard knowledge of a mortal skilled at mending broken bodies, and the willingness of my own soul to heal. The heritage and gift of Kings, stretching back through all Kings before me. And though I was afraid, if my life were a silver coin I would gladly spend it here to save a brother. I swore it to myself, by my own blood and will and took no heed of the cost.
Fully half of all healing is within the spirit, on a plane untouched by mortal sight. I closed my own eyes in order to see, let my fingers drift above Legolas’ shattered body. A current of strength given from myself to him, a submission and sacrifice to his greater need. Potency rushed away from me into his darkened soul, but my inner light burned brightly on. I focused on the light, ignored the darkness, cast away my doubt and fear of death.
The herbs were thrust into my hands one at a time and I recognized them by feel and by scent. I folded some, crushed some, and chewed some before spitting them on my hands. There was little finesse to this amidst mud and dirt, death and blood. Even my murmurs of Sindarian were rough and I left words out, skipped unimportant phrases. I am not sure to whom I spoke—myself, Arwen or Legolas. Perhaps the Gods who hold all the living and dying within their hands. A hundred unshed tears whispered in my voice I knew, but I could not endure them myself—so I gave them away to the air.
Ioreth, Mistress of the House of Healing, clucked her tongue when she arrived, but caught our stillness, saw our resolve, and set her nimble fingers to tasks. Needle and thread worked around the hover of my fingers and she put hers atop my own to nudge broken bones into place. Thus, while she worked in the physical realm, I was right behind her in the world unseen, sending healing into the same place. But when all tasks were accomplished to the best of Ioreth’s ability, I was left to go on alone in the darkness of a dying body, but my light still burned and so I went on.
Only once did I disobey the given word of Arwen and I looked into Legolas’ face. It is imprinted on my soul somewhere: his eyes starting from his head in agony. The sight of his jaws locked around the screams piled up in his throat, screams that he would not utter and would not let past his teeth.
“Avant, King!” said Arwen sharply, and she forbade me, binding me to myself again.
Time ceased. So did sunlight. Shadows fell like curtains behind my closed eyes. Calling, calling, drawing out of sorrow. Falling through every memory of pleasure and triumph, sorrow and loss. Surrendering fortitude and every grasp of myself, my own pride, my own name. Deep in my soul, speaking, holding my own illumination high and watching it unfurl and ascend.
I prayed for endurance. I prayed for water. I prayed for Gandalf and his long staff, the ring on his finger imbued with power. I prayed for an end to darkness. My fingers began to tremble and there was no help for it, or me. But still my light burned on and while it burned, I would spend it.
But strength began to fail me as the long hours unwound. My hands dipped, weighted with exhaustion. They grazed Legolas where he lay unmoving. If I had tears, I would weep for the frailty of mortal men. This course was not yet run, yet my shoulders ached with strain. I had sworn to endure and felt my failure through the tremble of my arms—but then a hand sidled beneath my forearm and raised it. Another arm took my right. Warmth settled against my back.
Faramir, the Steward of Kings. Through senses wide open, I recognized him and took the strength he offered, leaning against his power and letting it uphold me. And he supported my weight against his and I went on, sagging against him like a child.
Nothing remained but my will and oath. Will and oath and darkness. And then oath slipped away and I remembered not the words to hold it. My bones ached and felt unfamiliar. Darkness was my bane and then it too became frayed and streaming, escaping my ability to perceive. At length, only my will remained.
How far?
How much?
Abruptly, light and life drained away and I closed my fingers, alarmed, remembering Arwen’s warning. Spend to the limit of your strength and then cease. So intent was I upon the task, I had failed to watch my own soul. I turned my hands to myself, placed them upon my chest, seeking a final spark. Did I save enough healing for my own body? Even an ember?
No. Death snapped jaws in my face and I was too spent to look away. There was nothing but darkness in my soul.
“Focus,” said Faramir, breathy and close, right into my ear, and the power of his command settled through me. “Draw your strength all to one place, Aragorn, son of Arathorn.”
Perhaps something left … yes … barely. Only a remnant of healing and that scarcely the glow of a newly snuffed wick. Enough to be alive and that is all I knew before unconsciousness extinguished my thoughts.
I woke poorly, aching and wounded profoundly. My limbs were lead and I blinked at the canvass overhead for minutes before registering that I was in my tent. In my tent, on my bed, naked beneath a sheet. The shadow of the King’s pennant formed a serpent in sunlight above me.
Someone moved next to me. I didn’t even turn my head. I wasn’t sure if I could amidst the dark pain in me. It was the Steward and his honey hair curled around his face as he looked down at me.
“You are awake.” Faramir’s expression was glad, but I could see the worry buckled up in his brow. “You have slept the afternoon, the night, and most of the morrow.”
“What happened?”
“Do you not remember? Had I not been quick and Rôthatur beside me, you would have fallen.” His eyes scanned my face. “You pulled away from the Elf and collapsed. We carried you here and tended you, put you to bed.”
“Legolas?” Urgency washed through my hurt and I swung my feet over the bed. Agony made the room swim and Faramir caught my shoulders to steady me.
“Be still, Aragorn, the Elf yet lives,” he said into my face. “The Queen bid me tell you all as soon as you awoke, lest you injure yourself foolishly! I can see that she is right.”
I twisted my fingers in his cloak to steady the room, but it remained completely unsteady despite my will. “Arwen is a wise Queen, my friend. Tell me everything, for little remains that is not shrouded in fog.”
“I supported you for several finger lengths of sunturn, before you drew from him. I feared for you. Your skin grew cold and your heart raced like a thousand galloping steeds. Our Elven Queen did not stir, but pallor crept o’er her face where she sat and her lips were bloodless. Long after you were abed, she opened her eyes and took her hands from him. Her words were sure and her instructions firm: ‘do not touch him, nor move him. And let not the King lay hands upon him again. The archer lies in the shadows near death, but on this side. No one must touch him.’ And we have warded him to be sure.”
“Arwen?” I asked.
“We put her in Legolas’ tent. Near you, but unable to be disturbed by you.”
“She is well, though?” I asked. Faramir did not answer and his eyes were evasive. My grip tightened on his shoulder. “She is well, Faramir?” I pressed.
“She walked unaided and Eowyn helped her undress. She asked for and took a draught of elixir. Though Elves are hardiest in the land, what you feel surely she must feel and perhaps twofold. Until she wakes, you mustn’t disturb her.”
“Wise counsel. Help me dress.”
“And where do you think you shall go?” he inquired smartly.
He narrowed his eyes at me, every bit of that expression learned from Boromir. I smiled to see it. “I wish to look upon the Elf, though I will not touch him.”
“You should rest.”
“Arwen did not say I could not see him, only that I must not put my hands on him. Come now, let us reason together. Would you struggle with me and wound me further, or will you aid me and satisfy my mind so I can rest?”
“Stubborn King,” he chided after a moment.
“Dutiful Steward.”
Legolas lay exactly where we left him, though I felt sure the distance from my tent to the Great Door of Entrance had tripled. He was pale and crisscrossed with bandages, blood smeared and muddy … and breathing. A pang smote me at the sight of his hands—all of his fingers were broken. His eyes were closed and this troubled me greatly. He looked terrible and was the finest sight to see all the same.
Gimli sat with his shattered leg propped up beside him. From the lines in the Dwarf’s face, I knew he had sat all day and night. His leg was untended and unbound and I had no strength to mend him. The sight of the splintered bone reminded me of recent events and I shivered.
“We must send for healers to tend you, Master Dwarf,” I said.
Gimli blinked at me and shrugged indifference. “The Dwarves will tend it when they are ready.”
I sat next to Gimli and the archer, surrounded by their injuries with naught to offer either. “Do you hurt?”
“Nay, laddie. Steady dippers of ale have been brought to me.” He waved a hand dismissively at his torn leg. “We are made of strong stuff.”
“This I knew before you survived the collapse of that tunnel.” I peered into his craggy face, searching. “I was so caught up in the hunt for Legolas that I did not wait to find you, my friend.”
“As you should have, Aragorn. We Dwarves are well schooled on surviving cave-ins. We duck our heads and raise our shoulders, take the weight upon our backs. The iron helmets create an air pocket around our faces and because we do not panic in dark earth, we can endure until freed.” His gaze rested on the archer so still near us. “Legolas surely was terrorized by being buried alive. I do not know how he survived even to be brought forth.”
“I shall venture a guess,” spoke another voice. It was Degnar and he wore a bandage around his head to cover the stump of his torn ear. I blinked instead of laughed at the sight. “Garl Stoneblighter curled over the top of the Elf-kind and let the slide run down his back. Ferin Bloodhammer hid beneath his helm as he was taught, and so did Gimli.”
“Ferin and Garl, are they well?” I asked.
Degnar was long in answering and my spirits sank. “Ferin is broken through the shoulders, but will mend. Garl was unlucky. A granite rock the size of a fist found its way beneath the rim of his helmet. When a much larger boulder crashed down upon him, the helm crushed the smaller rock against his spine. He could speak and breathe, but not move.” Degnar’s obsidian eyes were steady. “The Rockblighter is gone. He asked if he could rest beside the Kingstone when it is found, if the King permits.”
“I permit.” I did not ask how Garl actually died. My heart was heavy for the price being paid to heal the White City, and this coming long after war was finished. “His is a fitting spirit to ward the Heartstone of Minas Tirith.” After that, we said nothing for some time.
The day passed quietly and I rested as best I could, but restlessness was my uneasy companion. Restlessness and pain, which haunted all the deeps in me. I peered in at Arwen once, hungering to hold her fingers and know that she was well. I wondered what price she had paid to hold Legolas to life against such odds. She did not stir and I did not enter. I crept away quietly, comforted that her eyes were open while she slept.
The Dwarves came to tend Gimli’s broken leg and I was much surprised at the group, for they were gruff and girded and twenty strong. For quite some time they argued with him in Old Tongue and I wondered at their words, for they sounded exasperated. I eventually realized that they wanted Gimli to return to their encampment, but he refused to leave Legolas. Eventually they relented, grumbling. They moved him a short distance from the archer and I watched, curious.
To my astonishment, it was not the stoic enduring of suffering that mortal men are taught. Gimli roared and cursed and smote about him with both fists when they seized his leg to set the broken bone. His blows struck hard, like the sound of a hammer against a bullock, and he felled Dwarves right and left in a circle around him. And for every one that fell, another took his place until nearly eighteen of them had taken a beating in the process of resetting and splinting his injured leg. I stared, amazed, and more than a little confused.
I only understood at the very last when a Dwarf laughed and called, “Seventeen? You’ve gotten stronger, Gimli, Son of Glóin! We must quit feeding you rocks in your bread!”
“Ha!” Gimli roared back. “I see you danced out of my reach, Kúzan! I saved my best for you, Son of Dain!”
I shook my head, humored. Would I never understand this raucous hardy folk? Thus Gimli’s leg was set and bound well enough that he barely limped. I went to touch him, to impart what little healing craft had returned to me during the day, and he nearly swatted my hand.
“Hmph, Aragorn. Spend nothing of your strength for me,” he said. “Do you think I misunderstood the Lady of Imladris when she said to not let you lay hands on Legolas? She meant for you to not lay hands on anyone for a time. You were a fair match in color to your stallion at the end!”
I chuckled, grateful for his plucky spirits amidst so much hardship. And if the truth was known, I did not have much strength for healing, but was still stubborn enough to try. How was it that so many understood this about me?
Arwen then, still pale and her eyes without any emotion. I rose to meet her and curled her arm through mine, kissed her gently and felt the chill upon her lips.
“Are you well, Beloved One?” I whispered.
“Well enough, my Heart, but weary.”
“As am I,” I said, searching her face. “His eyes are closed?”
She continued to the place where the archer lay and I took comfort from her untroubled gaze upon him. She put a hand upon Gimli’s and he covered hers with his own, unspeaking. “He is beyond the pale and there are no dreams, no visions. Call for a tub and men to fill it; we will bathe him.”
My concern shown upon my face, but Arwen seemed sure this course was safe. All my mind could think of was the terrible damage to his body. I had tended wounded in battle; I knew the horror of war, of gashes that festered and drew flies and maggots. I knew the damage when poison crept into injuries and how men died in agony long after the battle.
“Trust, my Heart,” was all she spoke. “Elves are not like mortal men. Nothing untoward will happen to him.”
Trust was all I had left, for I could feel my endurance steadily trickling away.
It took us an hour to heat cauldrons of water, but there was no lack to men willing to assist. None said anything about the presence of Arwen in our midst. She was a silent spectator, gliding amongst us in her long gown. She only spoke at the last, as we started to carefully strip him.
“Sink him in the water, clothing and all, and let him float for a time.”
We did as bidden and his ashen skin turned the color of butter, but there was no flicker to his closed eyes and I was disappointed. I was not disappointed to discover his torn skin sewn with close neat stitches; Mistress Ioreth’s careful handiwork. He bled not at all and this was comforting. The token he wore about his neck had enduring the cave in; water washed the blood away and it glittered like a silver fish. I cradled his broken hands, quite aware that Faramir watched to be sure I did nothing to avail them. Arwen trickled water through his hair until it was clean and we moved him to his tent without harm.
“Leave him outside in the sunlight,” bade the Queen and this we did, making a cot soft with sheepskin to lay him in. Gimli made it quite known that he was staying and I was unsurprised. Another place was made near the archer and for the first time in two days, the Dwarf rested.
Little did I remember after that, for by then I was staggering with weariness. I voiced no argument when Faramir and Arwen stripped me out of shirt and leggings and put me into bed. I murmured sleepily and caught her hand, was hushed for my effort. But shortly thereafter, I felt Arwen’s skin against mine and her soft sigh in my ear—everything swept away and I slept dreamless.
17. Finding 2
Memory and light, hillsides, mountains, twisted woods where my face must dwell. Cerin Amroth calling me away, golden heads of elenor nodding sleepily in sunrises, the hills of Goljurine calling ‘wake up.’ The seed of the White Tree planted and tendrils creeping through musty forest floors. No sister, no brother, no father or mother. Alone and sent out alone. Everything changes, but this. Loneliness like smoke around my feet, the day shifting from blue to gray. Calling into this world of mine, ‘wake up.’
Let me dance, let me dance; let me dance on the brow of your glory. I hear you call to me, ‘wake up.’
Enough grace for me, fill this empty house of stone, let me dance, let me dance….
“Wake up,” she whispered, and this time I heard and turned from restless dreaming.
Not alone. Arwen leaned over me and her hair fell like a dark curtain around her neck. My breath shook and my fingers mirrored it, trembling as they slid along the satin of her shoulders, crept up her neck. I could see the silver crown above her eyes like starlight, but when I blinked it was gone.
 “You were dreaming and they were unsettled,” spoke my Beloved. This is no dream. Let me dance. Though my heart said the words, I knew I uttered nothing, smitten by her radiance. Still she heard me, saw the flare of my desire in my eyes and kissed me tenderly. A hand sidled through the hair on my chest, parted my garments with practiced ease. Dance, said my soul, but pain lingered deep in my marrow, haunted my strength like mongrels. Arwen paused, watching my eyes. She stroked a hand along the bend of my hip and read truly the war between my spirit and flesh. I blinked. She still saw and kissed away the tear that welled unbidden at the corner of my eye. “Peace, my Heart,” she whispered. “We are both of us wounded, having come through torment and death. Take no sorrow here, for you have paid for the archer’s life in your body. It will be many days before you come into your strength again.” “And you?” I asked softly. “How have you paid, Beloved, for your eyes are dark and their light extinguished?” “With my soul, though this also shall be made well.” She offered nothing more, but rose and dressed. I watched her, hungering and unable, much like the long years betrothed when I hungered for her and could not have her. Faramir came to her call and I was unsurprised. I suspected he had pitched a tent across the lane of the Pelennor to be near me with his sword arm. “As if anyone would dare the King while the Queen is here,” I said to the slope of the tent above me. “I wager your blade is loose in its scabbard beside the bed.” Arwen laughed softly and I knew it to be true. A humbling thought.  Still more humbling was the suffering that tightened all my sinews when I struggled to sit up. Faramir was swift and not unkind, but his hands were firm to prevent me from rising. His eyes reflected my agony back to me and I subsided, trembling and sweating. “Be still, my liege. This is the second day and your pain will be at its height,” said the Steward. His eyes wished to take my sorrows to himself. “Drink this, my Heart,” said Arwen and she tipped a bitter cup to my lips. Even well sweetened wine could not mask Neirede, strongest of the herbs. When I coughed, fire shot through every limb and burned my vision to black. Was this what death felt like? A wonder that men did not struggle more when caught in it… Surely I pleaded amidst suffering, but no one spoke of it to me later. They dressed me abed, swimming in a circle of anguish and painkiller. Eventually, the power of the Neirede won and though my gait was unsteady, Faramir took me outside into glorious sunlight. A place had been set for me near Legolas. Gimli was already there. I gave my thanks to the Steward, but had only eyes for the Elf who lay so quiet, carved in ghostly wax. His eyes were still closed and I sighed to see it. “Has he moved, or spoken, anything?” I asked of the Gimli. The shake of his head was discouraging, but Arwen handed me a steaming cup and smiled at both of us. “He lies in twilight, at the wall between the living and dead. And though one hand rests upon the stones, he does not cross. You must take comfort from this.” She took the pendant upon his chest and put it in the notch of his neck almost idly, as an afterthought. “You hunger for your words to be carried to him, but he lies deeper than any ocean blue, beyond the rim of sight and sound. Sit with him, but handle him not. Let him abide in the shadowlands.” The day crawled past, though Gimli was a fine companion. We spoke of war and battles, of friendly hearths and hot bread. Twice Faramir brought wine laced with Neirede. I warned that I was becoming loath to see him and he grinned mischievously. “I am richly entertained, Aragorn. How potent an herb to make the Lord of the Dúnedain grimace so!” he chuckled. “But your pain is lessened and your laugh is easy and thus you have done well. See? I have diminished the dose throughout the day and when the sun greets us again, you shall require only a sip of wine to steady your hands.” I found his words to be true; the deep anguish lingering in my bones slowly dissipated and my gait steadied. Clarity returned to my mind, my vision. I ate voraciously and Gimli was amused. We moved the archer within his tent this day and took the canopy from the top to let the sunlight in upon him. This afforded him privacy and we oft left the covers aside to let the light touch his skin. Arwen nodded her approval, combed his hair off the edge of the cot and let it hang loose and unbraided. When she kissed his brow, I watched for any sign and was disappointed that there was nothing. Legolas remained exactly the same on the morrow, though Gimli and I pined like women for him to stir. Faramir reminded me at first light that I was not to heal his broken fingers and I chafed like a common steed at the restraint. Even Éowyn, radiant and strong, gave me a stern look and said the same. She was full of love for the Steward and kissed him when she passed and my heart was glad to see it. Gladder still was my belly for the tray of bread and meat that she brought.
I was sobered to realize that Arwen remained subdued and the light of her eyes dampened. She moved slowly and it was not her usual grace I watched—she was wounded and warded her strength. I chided my self-regard and bade her take a cup of Bitterroot for her discomfort. She smiled at me as if I was a child worrying foolishly, but her kiss reminded me that I was anything but a child. I knew better than to ask for her. My beloved was harmed somewhere in this healing of the archer. I only drew her into my lap and held her, singing softly. I knew she loved to hear me sing though I knew I was piteous compared to her own people. Such did love do to those lost in it. I wrapped her in the length of my arms and was both content and alarmed that she slept in the middle of the day. Day three and Legolas was still without a glimmer of awareness. The Dwarves of the Iron Mountains, except for five shifts of rest sprinkled through the days, had shored the walls of the tunnel far below and excavated ruthlessly. Oláin Ironshield came to tell me when they were down to the last few feet and I kissed the back of his knuckles where they were raw and bled. He was silent, awed. I thought only of the risk they hazarded and the sacrifice of a Dwarf named Garl. “Shall we wait for you, King Elessar?” he asked. “We will stay our picks if you wish, but Ferin grows frantic and the Guarded City shivers.” I looked at Gimli, torn, and then considered. Legolas lingered for this Dwarf and it was Gimli who set before us the challenge to save him against all odds. Without him, would we have spent all of our skill and our strength in the archer’s cause, even carrying ourselves to the brink of death? This I shall never answer and it needs no answer. I reached and took Gimli’s hand in my own. “Keep him in my place and I will go in his, for he wished to see Ferin’s final course and watch the end of his suffering.” “Aye, Aragorn. He would know the full of it, so watch well.” So I went back to the dark and gave no thought to my choice until four hundred feet into the tunnels. It was as I remembered, only heavier and I felt foolish for the trembling at the first suspended walkway that disappeared into ebony blackness. I stopped five paces out and could not take the next step. Treachery, treachery, treachery, whispered the voice of cave wind. I blinked ahead of me and even torchlight could not strike the dread that held my heart.
“Steady, Lord of Men,” said Glóin and his hand took mine. He called a command at the line of Dwarves and every step halted. “Come, a sip of Hathal wine will steady you.” His voice was calm, but his grip bruising. I could feel the power in his arm, barring darkness and any foolish step of my own taken in uncertainty. “You can do this, King of The West,” rumbled Degnar from ahead of me. The walkway shifted and his arm gripped me. “You have survived a cave in and we take you back to the place of hardship. We expect your fears. Let them have you a few moments and then put them aside.” I was silent. How do I put this aside? Surely they could see the terror of my gaze. Death, death, death, whispered the darkness. I could not stand anymore, but when I sagged, Degnar and Glóin were both there, solid as the mountain atop us and just as unyielding. I fought down the urge to cry out and gulped the wine held to my lips. Mithrander never pressed wine this potent. It went straight to my toes like white fire and blazed in the back of my head. I gasped aloud at the shock. “Come then, King Elessar, and listen to my words,” called Degnar, and his voice held all the fortitude of a hundred Dwarves. “Fear not the dark nor the might of the rock, for you walk in the company of Durin’s Folk. We have harnessed the earth throughout this land and bent it to our will. Even the White City towering above could not sway us from our course. She may shift and slide, but a thousand Dwarves rally about her feet, to spare her and heal her. “And you, you the most hardy of the race of Men, have borne the war hammer of the wizard and challenged the Eye of Sauron. Come now; strengthen your resolve and face your fears. You have pledged to see this final course in the place of a friend. It is only the whisper of the broken Needle, pleading, that you hear. And we come to answer her calling—both the King who Rules and the Dwarves who Build! Come!” I came, taking courage from his words and held fast by Degnar’s knotted forearm along mine. Glóin’s strong hand rested on my back. I could feel the power of two hundred Dwarves, striding in step before and behind. After a moment, they started a marching tune and the muttering gloom was drowned out in their rough voices. Down, down, down. I refused to let my mind ponder the distance or the treacherous switchback trails. The Hathal wine was incandescent somewhere in my bones. We came to the last course and there was the crew of the Iron Mountains and their grins were broad beneath obsidian helmets. They rose to their feet, thirty strong, and hailed me with cudgels held high. I laughed aloud to see them and the despair of this place loosened its hold. “Will you wear an iron helmet, Lord of the Citadel?” asked Oláin Ironshield. “I will gladly wear one,” said I. “Helm the King.” Oláin’s eyes shown like fire just to say it and I knelt before the Dwarf who came, heard every breath cease in this dark place beneath the city. Crowned by Gandalf the White atop the highest spire of Minas Tirith and now crowned by a Dwarf clad in black iron in the deeps of her soul. Somehow, it was fitting and I knew I had done well despite fears and uncertainties on the journey. Degnar nodded at me, confirming my thoughts. The weight of the helmet didn’t surprise me, but the way it balanced upon my head did. No careless work ever left the ironworkers of the Dwarves. The helmet fit better than my crown and I considered the fashioning of that crown a moment. The Elves crafted it for the Kings of Men, but I shall have the hands of Dwarves adjust it and so it shall represent three races twined together. Ferin Bloodhammer looked haggard and shrunken; a shell of the Dwarf he once was. A wrap of cloth bound his shoulders to keep the torn muscles from moving. His eyes were piteous. His tears bled by torchlight. I was not proof against them and held his face in my hands, felt his suffering through my palms. Glóin’s hand fell upon my shoulder and I knew he warned me away from attempting any healing—he knew the words of the Queen. Knew that I had not even been able to heal his son. Dwarve tears tasted different from those of men; bitter, almost biting. Something birthed of ground and earth. “Give the word,” said Oláin, Lord of the Iron Mountain, and I knew he spoke to me. “The word is given.” “Dak-konn!” he called and it was just as before; shovels and picks and hammers and lever bars all in unison. He called the tempo steadily and it seemed they had only settled into rhythm when one pick jerked a boulder back and cold air rushed through the gap into our faces. “Hold!” barked Oláin and every shovel ceased. “Dwarf size and strengthen the roof. Torchbearers, break down the shanks.” Dwarves scrambled to tasks and I stared at the dark hole, only large enough to admit the wide shoulders of a Dwarf. It took me a moment and then I snorted at my own foolishness. My shoulders were slenderer than that of any Dwarf; I, too, could enter this chamber if I was not forbidden. And I did not think I would be forbidden; it was why I wore an iron helmet. “My wits are addled,” I said. “It is the Hathal wine, King Elessar. Your thoughts are merely slowed and calmed.” Degnar held Ferin’s arm and though the tormented Dwarf made no move to escape him, I could see him straining against that grip. His gaze never left the aperture punched through the wall. “Tell me when you are ready and what group shall enter,” Degnar called to Oláin. “Three of my crew first with torches, The Listener, the Stone Master, then the King,” said Oláin. No one questioned his orders. They disappeared through the hole and I followed them eagerly. The helmet grazed the ceiling and I put my head down instead of trying to look before me. It was comforting to find all five standing, waiting for me, on the other side. I sighed at my own haste. “We would tarry for you,” Degnar said with an amused grin. “Your longing for this day is as strong as ours—it shall be a discovery that is shared.” Ferin led us with a torch in each hand and his gait was sure, straight as a thrown stone. We entered a vast cavern and the light did not touch the ceiling. I would have known fear if not for the fervor that hummed in my veins. Our footsteps echoed, though we trod carefully on a floor strewn with rocks. The torches bled straight up, as if currents pulled them. No walls at all in our sight. No water on the floor. The air was cold, speaking openness that yawned all around us. And not a single light, save for our flames. Darkness crouched over us and without the wine; I surely would have fought my demons, the gaping devils in this arena of darkness. Bring me the sun. The Listener, drawn by the unseen, raised his torches with both hands. Bring me the answer. There! Rising out of the floor, an immense spear of glittering granite fully thirty feet across. It rose, widening, flaring out over our heads and disappearing above into blackness and I nearly fell on my knees beneath the overwhelming sense of size. The Tarlonnein, the Prow of the City, buried itself here, stabbing into solid rock. We had found the Needle. Ferin dropped his torches, but the Dwarves near him were adroit and they had their hands upon them before he opened his. None seemed surprised that The Listener did not notice—his sole focus was the looming rock ahead and he went straight to it. A torch was thrust into my hand and I had to stride quickly to catch him. There, at the point buried in the floor, the apex of balanced and carved rock, Ferin slowed and stopped. I held my torch high to watch him, witnessed his fingers spread open on the glittering surface. Where he touched, his blood smeared and he put his forehead against the stone in silence. For many heartbeats, we both stood quietly. And though I felt no change, I saw the lines of anguish smooth in his features and knew his answer had been given and the White City heard him. But where is my answer? “Here is the mischief,” said Degnar. His fingers traced something and I knelt and looked closer. A crack. A fracture through thirty feet of granite and running jagged as lightning up and across the face. It gaped fingers wide in places. The bottom of the Needle was broken and the weight of the Tarlonnein rested upon this treacherous fissure. “A simple thing,” said one of the other Dwarves. I looked at Degnar, wonderingly. His smile crinkled his beard and my hopes sailed like a bird and just as wildly. “A small matter to fix for Dwarves,” he said and waved a hand at it dismissively. “We will tend it quickly and then start on the First Level. The Masons itch to be about those houses with the roofs leaning and the Stonekeepers have redesigned the Great Gate seventeen times. If the Stone Masters hold them back any longer, they will carve another City in boredom!” And with that, it was done. Ferin patted the stone and walked away. I stood blinking, dazed, and only remembered at the last that I must keep up. Degnar was amused at my stunned expression and I’m sure I seemed a child handed a treasure box. “A crack in the Kingstone, two-fingers mostly with some wider,” said Degnar back in the tunnel. “A top to bottom run, like lightning strike, but not many fissures slivering off. The stone groans where it holds to itself, waiting. Make the passage safe for the pour and send a runner when all is ready.” Thus we left the caverns and tunnels, the dark and haunted cave wind. Ferin Bloodhammer endured to the seventh staircase and there, Glóin of the Misty Mountains turned him aside. The company that trod with me levered The Listener into a canvass sling and carried him. When I caught up to them, Ferin slept the sleep of the untroubled and I knew the screams of the White City had calmed. I had to put a hand on Glóin to steady my swimming vision. Faramir was at the Great Door of Entrance and I smiled through dirt when I spotted him. I was alarming to see, with tear trails on my face and wine dripples upon my shirt. He walked with me, heard all my words and then I repeated them all for Gimli … then Arwen … then Rôthatur and Ignilr. “Go, you foolish men,” I finally said. “Go and tell the people that the City is to be mended at the Heart and then work shall start on the first level. Mayhaps we will not see this coming winter save from our own warm hearths.” Evening. Morning. The fourth day. Legolas remained unchanged, beyond the reach of sunlight and words. I passed an open hand across his face without touching, seeking his mind, and found nothing. His fingers were less swollen and his bruises were fading. Mistress Ioreth came with her apron of many pockets and cut the knots that dotted his chest. She drew threads fine as hairs from him. “Our Lady Fair told me,” she said while she worked. “He will heal without a scar, as do most Elves, but I have to get these out or he will mend around them. Do be good and sit, King Elessar, you block the light with your pacing.” I sat, though I fidgeted with the end of a piece of rope restlessly. Arwen looked upon me when she passed and her eyes chided my impatience. For a King, I am treated much like a child of late … though perhaps I deserve it. I rose and walked, too pensive to endure stillness while Ioreth worked. I wandered toward the river and watched the Dwarves for a time. There was a group forty strong gathered around the enormous black cauldron and when they fastened rods to the iron choke band to lift it, I winced at the effort required. But they roared and swore, buckled their backs, and the bellow of other Dwarves reached a crescendo when they finally lifted it free of the ground. They settled it upon a great ring of stones, in the center of which blazed a fire so hot that I could hear smaller rocks fracturing in the heat. Exultant shouts rent the air and the mood was jubilant. Ale was poured, laughter was raucous, and circles of dance sprang up. The merriment escaped the Dwarf encampment into the people on the field and I watched the high hopes spreading to the unhoused of Minas Tirth. The word had been carried; the Heartstone of the White City was soon to be mended. But while the cheerfulness was fine to behold, it did not touch me. My smile faltered half-sprung and I turned away from the joyful faces. I felt stretched between strong steeds, each warring to have me. The people, who needed my presence and calm and Legolas, the bright bird plunged into darkness. I could not linger here. Not in this glad throng when the archer was fallen. I fretted for him, anxious and apprehensive, yet there was no aid to offer him, nothing to avail this twilight he wandered. Helplessness was not a feeling I wore well. I returned to the archer’s tent and knew in an instant that something was amiss. I could see it in the poise of Gimli, bristling and agitated, focused like a hound after prey. I was at the cot in two strides. Legolas was immobile, but clearly in distress. His heart raced, where it had not before. The color of his skin was worse, almost gray. His breathing had quickened and fear overtook me. I knew he suffered, but why? “What has happened?” I asked Gimli, for I knew the Dwarf had not left the archer’s side. “Nothing! He was unchanged until a moment ago.” Gimli fretted as much as I did. I studied the archer carefully, coasted my hand across his shoulder. I had been forbidden to do any healing, but nothing had been said about simply searching through him…. His broken fingers shot frissions of pain to my perception, but those were slight matters and could not be the cause of this present distress. His sternum was still unhealed, the rib bones bore fracture lines too numerous to count … all of these expected. The crisscrosses of scars were tender from unsuturing, yet I knew the Mistress of the Houses of Healing to be the most patient and tender of nurturers. She could not have done him any harm. I would trust my own child to her. I tossed back the coverlet in my hunt and discovered the source of the problem and was at a loss; Legolas was aroused and his body awakened, something I had never witnessed. “Here is the cause; he is dreaming,” said Gimli, then he added with a dry chuckle, “the Dwarves all bear a mighty hammer, but Legolas wields a long bow.” I quirked a smile at his humor and put my hand on the archer, down low on his belly, sensed the passion fervent as fire within him. What do I do, my friend, for you burn and suffer? You are too torn for this awakening in your flesh… There was no answer for my question and I considered it. Will anything of my ability to heal care for this without harming you? My keen ears heard a quiet footfall and I knew who it was without looking. Arwen, feet noiseless to all but myself. It would be pointless to flip the covers back over Legolas and for what cause? They were Elves and beyond such concerns; realms apart from things mortals are self-conscious about. I did not move, did not stir my hand upon him. Arwen spoke from behind me and her voice was a quiet pool. “Do not think to handle or heal him, Aragorn, for he is Elf-kind and different from men.” “I have not,” I answered and met her gaze without trouble. “You would seek only to ease the anguish of his body, but he would reach through you and beyond you for something more and not find it.” Her voice was calm and gentle, soothing my apprehension by tone alone. “And though you mean him no harm, he would panic and struggle, wondering what creature touched him. You would injure him thinking only to aid him.” “Yet he is in distress and you name it yourself; that he has anguish in his body. If I cannot avail any change without hurting him…” I looked at her; fell into the tranquility of her face and spoke my thoughts. “Can you?” “Yes.” Her eyes did not change and that answer hung between us so gently. I staggered through it on faith, on my trust, the witness of my own heart and my love for both of them. “I cannot give you to him,” I admitted slowly. “It is beyond me, beyond my ability … but anything less, please do and free him from suffering.” Humor. The first of lights to see in her eyes since the day Legolas fell beneath Minas Tirith. She blinked once and quirked a corner of her mouth. “Remind me to ask you what you thought I would do,” she said, amused. I said nothing, for she turned from me before I could fashion any words and knelt beside the archer. “Do you wish us to leave, my Lady?” asked Gimli. “No, Gimli.” She did not look at him, but her voice was warm and full of affection. “We are Elves and untroubled and you have been by his side all this time. I would not have you leave and surely he would not wish it, either.” So we stayed and listened to her whispers—whispers that fell like petals drifting in springtime, loose and quiet and soft. She did not touch him save for her fingers against his forehead and her words poured gently over the top of him in a constant stream. And her face grew paler and the locks of her hair trembled and I knew fear, swift and certain, but did not disturb her. Eventually I heard something else in the midst of her speech. It wound around the Sindarian as if she spoke two languages at once. A murmuring undercurrent, almost another voice, something pure Elven and pure spirit. She called as if beckoning him from darkness. And though her voice never changed, I could feel the power of that summons gain strength and reverberate through the words. The archer stirred ever so slightly and I knelt, watching his face. He turned his head to Arwen, breathed deeper, slower … but I heard in his breath a faint sound, unmistakably one of misery. He was in torment and the token at the notch of his throat bounded with his pulse. My Beloved heard it as well and took her hand from him, sat back on her heels. I did not touch her; her poise was still taut and focused. “I can see him,” she whispered. “I can reach him, but he lies beyond the veil and the distance is so great.” Her voice caught, as if she fought tears. I ached with her and waited out her pause. Clearly this was an immense task; her lips had paled to bloodless. Gimli shot me a worried glance and I shared my own back. When she spoke, it was with certainty. “I will not draw his passion through this curtain of agony. The price is too costly for such a trifling thing, though I have told his body to relent so you will not worry for him.” She sighed, blinked as if waking from dreaming. “He sees me standing in the doorway of his soul and has turned his gaze. Perhaps I can beckon him to the light…” “Arwen,” I said, but she was already murmuring, sidling her fingers over his closed eyes and I held my tongue and watched. Calling in Sindarian … and again that hidden undercurrent, twisting through her words like an echo. I tried to hear it, closed my eyes to see it with my inward sight, but it was slippery as frozen fog, eluding my comprehension and grasp. Then I worried I would hinder her and ceased my foolishness. This was not a thing of men, but of the First Born. Like ripples from a thrown stone, all her words ringed that summons. And though it was gentler than Gandalf drawing Saruman from King Théoden, it was no less potent. As if she cast an anchor into his soul and drew him inexorably. Through his dark dreamlessness beyond this realm, beyond the veil of earth and time … and into light— —And Legolas opened his eyes and saw her. And I, standing so closely, witnessed the profoundness of that gaze, the strength of their heritage, their familiarity and affection spanning the gap like a bridge. Powerful enough between them to hold his soul against death and now prevailing against darkness. Everything in my heart leapt and she spoke a single word, Laegolas, and then his focus faded and I knew he passed from all comprehension. But his eyes remained open. He was in common Elven sleep, bending vision and dream and night together. I was elated and Gimi’s eyes danced. Arwen sat back with a soft sigh and I cast an arm around her, let her lean upon my strength a moment. “He will dream deep,” she said. “Deep and slow, for he abides yet near shadowfall. Do not touch him for a time and do not worry for the sun striking his face.” Her hand curled around mine and it was unnaturally cool. “I must rest a bit, my Heart.” I drew her up, alarmed at her weakness and pallor, the chill of her hands. She did not meet my eyes and thus I went uncomforted. We entered our chamber and I helped her lie down. She had let her sandals slip off partway through the room. I picked them up and put them away, hung a robe I had left on a chair, poured water and put a glass near her. Her mending basket was out and I tidied it. I put away our cups from tea that morning. Twenty other little tasks of no consequence and my nerves rattled as much as the parchments I gathered and rolled up.
“Come here,” she whispered and yet I heard. She patted the bed and I sat. Her eyes were pools of shadows and expressionless, but a trace of a smile slipped across her face. “Do you remember our wedding night?” I snorted. Did I remember? I remembered every sound, every breath, every beat of my heart and every time it skipped. All of her sighs, her words, every touch, every scent. The way my bare feet sank into the rugs. The way our hips fit just so. The swell of her breasts in my hands for the first time and how I sank to my knees, pained with the force of my passion. Weeping like a child at finally being permitted to hold her, to have her. The simplicity of just getting to see her. How I sat gazing at her for a time and pleaded with her to not forbid it—how she smiled fondly and did not forbid me anything. The chill of cold linens that later we kicked off our burning skin. The way I seemed to babble everything in my heart until her mouth silenced me. The choking desire that threatened my self-control more than any threat of death bid me turn from the wars. The way she knelt before me, naked and radiant, scattering all shadows, to present the King’s ring to me. And how I could not bear it, could not suffer that image of her kneeling to me, and so I knelt with her, face to face, to receive my ring and bestow the Queen’s ring. The kiss that burned like a brand that we shared on that floor. The knowledge searing through my back and down my hips that it would be soon. Soon. Soon to lie with her, for all had been made ready: our Vows, the room, the carved bed, ourselves, the Great Rings given … soon for her to bear my body and I, her heart. I remembered whispering, before all my words failed me. "Are you going to make me yours, or do I make you mine?" In the end it was both of us, urgent and demanding, tender and gentle, surging for that union of flesh and spirit. And her desire … stronger and more potent than I could imagine, passion and hunger outstripping my own—a lesson I had to be taught over and over for a few weeks. And I learned it dutifully and willingly and cheerfully. I was a tired King, but happy. My eyes smiled and all the people of Minas Tirith knew full well why their King was tired and still smiled. I blinked and focused. Had I even answered her? I took her hands in mine, raised them, kissed her fingers and thought nothing of the tears that she surely felt. Thrones and crowns and kingdoms and swords and great steeds they could give to me, but I gazed at the only thing I ever wanted for myself. “There is nothing like your love,” I whispered. “Your presence with me, in me.” “My Heart, my light, my dream, my one joy. All jewels are pebbles save for the ones in your eyes.” Her fingers gripped mine a little tighter, but her exhaustion was nearly palpable. “Rest, Beloved. You must rest,” I urged, but I put her cool hands about my throat where my life beat hot and near the surface, unable to let her go. “Talking is not wearying,” she said. “Lie here with me, for you are warm and I would hear your heart beating.” We lay quietly for a few moments. I watched the flag’s shadow through the canopy and realized evening was drawing in on us. The day was spent. “Remember our wedding night?” she asked again. “Everything. And if you make me dwell on that thought long, I shall become lost in it again.” This humored her and I felt the quiver of her chuckle against my side. “Do you remember my curiosity at your body?” I had not remembered her curiosity, but I remembered with a rush now. Her eyes, her airy laugh, her hands exploring and driving me wild. I smiled and knew she saw it. Insight struck me. “After seeing Legolas today, I think I know why you were so intrigued.” “Mortal men are very different from Elven males,” she said. “The differences were … surprising.” “Disappointing?” “Pish,” she shot at me and prodded a finger in my ribs. “I am weary … do not say foolish things.” I laughed, content and at ease. I knew Arwen was satisfied in our passion. My ardor was solely for her and all my skill given over to her. “Why do we speak of these things now?” “Legolas.” Yes. Legolas. His desire was a startling thing amidst the trauma he was in. His body was more startling and I admitted as much. Arwen raised on her forearm to see me fully. “Have you never seen the males before? You were fostered amongst the Elves.” She was puzzled. “Yes, I’ve seen them. I know how they look and where they’re different. I’ve seen Legolas bathe before.” She contemplated my words and all the words unspoken. “But, you’ve never seen them roused before; never watched the Elves mate?” She was unblinking and direct and I was truthful. “No. My mother taught me it was not proper.” Something akin to pity flickered through her expression and I wondered at it. A long moment passed. Her fingers drew whorls through my chest hair, a favorite idle mindlessness of hers. The Elf-kind did not have hair like I did and this was another intriguing feature I possessed. “Raised in Rivendell, the second most powerful enclave of the First Born in the land, and yet the whimsy conventions of mortal men thrive?” she said with a sigh. “You know Elves take their vows seriously and none enter into a joining without preparation, body and mind and soul. We bind ourselves for life, an immortal life. We do not hide away our love once the vows and the joining are accomplished—the passion of the Elves is a thing of beauty and light and we do not keep it aside as if it should be a thing done in secret. It is not flaunted, but neither is it hidden away in shame. The young Elves learn of love and its play by watching their elders.” “But I am not an Elf, Beloved,” I reminded her. “The ways of men are different from the First Born. And though some of them are foolish, they are what I was taught because I am a man. Try as I might, I could never become an Elf.” She leaned and kissed me on the chin. “I’m sure you wished to be an Elf when you were a boy.” “I was overly in trouble for trying to be an Elf when I was a boy.” She laughed at this and I realized I would have to tell her of all the mischief I had been in before I was grown. And she would worry them out of me like a hound after a digger, I knew. But I did not really mind … Arwen’s laughter was worth any amount of momentary embarrassment. “You did not think to disobey your mother’s teaching and watch the Elves give themselves away in passion?” “No. She was my mother and my only family.” I shrugged. “I had been taught what I needed to know … I did not disobey her in this.” “I am sorry.” Her words startled me, especially the genuine mourning I heard in her tone. I looked into her face, saw it true. “Why are you sorry? Elves surely mate as all creatures do; as we do…” But her expression did not change and I stopped talking. “Elves are eternal, my Heart, and loving and giving in love is not done lightly. Elves do not always choose a mate. Still others do not prepare long enough and hard enough to make the joining one of perfection. Their bond is strong and endures forever, but they are not perfectly aligned, hearing one another over the breadth of the world and into the beyond.” She took on a faraway look, one that saw past the linen of tent walls and the land where we dwelled. “My father prepared eighty years for my mother, but he is also strong and disciplined. Others have prepared over a hundred years for their joining.” Eighty years? My whole lifetime, waiting for a lover whom he already knew and loved? I considered the strength of my foster father in a new light. “Mortal men come to their Day of Vows to claim what is theirs. To have what they want.” Her voice was gentle, for she knew I had been crushed between the hammer of my desire and the urgency to not cause her pain on the night of our consummation. “The Elves sift their mind and spirit and body and purge everything of dross. Deep meditations that open up their soul. When they come to that moment of unity, it is as if they have built an alter within their heart and place themselves upon it as a sacrifice to be wholly consumed.” Her eyes fell upon mine, drowned me in their deeps. “Men come to get what they want; the Elves come to give themselves away. My father poured himself out so completely that nothing of him remained and so did my mother—theirs was a perfect joining.” I felt choked, drowning. Was there something Arwen lacked because I was not her kind? Something in her soul, searching for mine and I was unable to meet her there? Why was I not taught this? And the answer came welling up: because I never watched the Elves and so did not know that there was more. I was taught love play as a man and it was expected that I would find my way into the world of men and marry amongst my own kind. A pang shot through me. Arwen saw and cradled my face in her fingers, disarming any attempt on my part to look away. “Do not,” she said. “Do not. I chose you above all others and I knew my choice. I would make no other decision if I were given leave to choose differently—the answer would still have you at the center. This is my place and always will be, where my Heart dwells.” And she kissed me, truth and vow and pureness combined, and laid her head upon my shoulder. “Your love is like fine wine, pressed sweetly and poured out as an offering. I lack nothing; miss nothing. “But you,” she continued gently, “You have missed one of the wonders upon the land, the joining of the First Born. We sport and charm and kiss such as mortal men do, but the bond is within our souls and shines out of us. Elven males are only aroused when they choose to be and their passion is well controlled at every other time—one of the surprises I learned about you, my Heart.” I felt her laugh against my side. “Why did you not tell me your desire was kindled every time we walked and kissed? I tormented you without even knowing.” How I remembered that torment and how often I longed to be tormented again during those long years. I told her as much and she laughed harder, but then I contemplated the archer. “Why was Legolas’ passion stirred? Surely his pain would deter such thinking.” Arwen was silent and I turned slightly, tipped her face to see her. Her words were solemn when they came. “His soul is torn and loosened from its moorings. Death came and spoke his name. It is an injury far below the realm of physical healing. He was leaving this world and I held him to it. It was a choice we all made; with a price I was willing to bear. An Elf with a torn soul cannot manage all the forces within them very well. I should have watched him more closely—I could have prevented this unguarded step.” “But he will be well?” “He shall, though the way is long and fraught with hardship. But take heart, he is strong and has us to shepherd his course. You, his beloved King, and I, of his race, and Gimli, a true companion.” I considered her words with a sigh. Yet more suffering that my friend must endure? We lay quiet for a time and I thought of everything we had spoken of. “I am humbled by Lord Elrond,” I said finally. “I thought it a sore trial to wait forty years for you—I cannot imagine waiting eighty! Surely I would have cast myself into the sea in desperation!” “My father is mighty amongst the First Born,” Arwen said quietly. “This I knew from my childhood, yet I did not understand until I watched him open the womb of Celebrían.” My hand stilled where I stroked her forearm. “You watched your own father and mother?” She gazed back at me and her face and demeanor changed. No longer simply my Beloved, my wife, but the Lady of Imladris and of Lo'rien, Evenstar of her people. I quieted before that presence, humbled. “Listen well, my Heart. Elven men are potent only when they choose to be. All other times, love is just for the pleasure, the joining, the dance of hearts and souls. But when they decide to father a child, then they come to sire and they come to it in their full strength and ability, to impart their fortitude and immortality. And their Beloved comes to carry that child and to bear, for no mishaps occur in the wombs of Elves. What is conceived is brought forth whole and hearty, the delight of Elvedom. “My father is accounted amongst the most formidable of the Eldar: Gil-galad, Círdan, Thranduil and Celeborn, the Sovereign of the Golden Wood. The might of the Edain from the First Age lives preserved in Elrond, last of the High-elven Kings of old. And when Celebrían desired another child and Elrond agreed, no Elf within the land of Rivendell would miss such an act. “He left Rivendell with my mother and searched the Beyond, nigh to the mountain of Nahismet, and there he laid her in an open glade surrounded by Myrtles and Ash. So greatly did he conjure his strength, harnessing all his enchantment and stamina to this one act, that the power shown through his skin bright as dawn and Vilya, mightiest of the Three Rings flashed lightning from his outstretched fingers. We who came to witness had to lie down on our bellies in order to endure the intensity … and when it was accomplished, every tree ringing the meadow took a single step toward him, summoned into life by his willingness to impart it and his ability to do so.” I reached a hand to Arwen’s face, cupped her cheek in my palm, overwhelmed by her tale. She smiled back at me, returning from memory as if from a great distance. “I crept into his arms late the following day where he sat resting on a dayseat. The Elf-lords had kept him secluded while he recovered. He was weary and weak, heavily warded by the strongest of Elven archers until his vigor returned. He whispered, ‘Did you watch me, Little One?’ and I replied, ‘Yes, Ada, and I shall watch no others the rest of my days. For having seen the strength and beauty of the Lord of Rivendell open the womb, every other joining shall be a disappointment.’” She looked at me, traced a finger along my jaw line. “And lest you speak foolishly, you are not disappointing, for you bring a different kind of strength to our joining and the fire in your eyes and the tremble of your fingers speak volumes to my heart.” I remained quiet, thinking a moment. “You said that the First Born suffer no mishaps in the womb, but I know of no child of Elrond and Celebrían after you,” I slowly said. Arwen stilled in my hands as if stricken and a trickle of cold shot up my spine. “I have not meant to hurt you, Beloved…” “No, Estel, I know that you do not,” she whispered and I winced to hear that name. Arwen called me Aragorn or my Heart … the name Estel had been left behind with those lonely years of waiting and wanting. She only called me Estel when something wounded her and then she called me hope. Hope. “There is no child past me. Orcs took my mother in Redhorn Pass and they destroyed her babe in the womb. She heard every cry of the dying soul within and it was for this cause that she lost all love for the beauty of Middle Earth and sailed to the Undying Lands. My father could not heal her mind of it—no Elf possesses the lore to cure something so terrible.” She clung to me and I did not flinch beneath the grip of her fingers. “My mother fled the land lest she go mad with those final desperate cries. She sailed to find her other daughter and comfort her.” This I did not bear well. There was no shame in grieving for the little ones who never drew breath … and that such would happen to an Elf was a tragedy too terrible to bear. Echoing in it circled the knowledge that Elrond had given Arwen up to me, to be mortal and eventually die. His last daughter. My sorrow overwhelmed me and I clung to her. It was long past nightfall when I left our bed and prepared a tray of meats and bread to settle us. Gimli rested beside the archer, a hand upon the coverlet. I set my worries aside, confidant in his watchfulness and crept into the sanctity of my bed. Weariness and hardship crowned my brow and Arwen sensed it, spoke into my twilight: “All thing are new with the dawn, my Heart. Rest your burdens and stretch your sinews beside one who loves you.”
18. In Darkness, Light
“He will awaken and rise,” offered the Queen. She stood with her back to the dawn and it shimmered off the edges of her ivory gown and cut her outline with fire. “There will be little warning. He will strive to gain his feet despite weakness and fragile bones.”
“We will stay him,” said the King, but then spoke no more for Arwen shook her head and smiled at his words.
“Nay, you must not stay him,” she said. “Legolas was buried alive and that last moment lingers as a nightmare, unrelenting. The archer will pull from terror and rise to the sunlight and you must not hinder him.”
Gimli fingered his beard and looked up at her quiet face. “Is there aide we can give him in this torment?”
Arwen smiled fondly at the Dwarf and rested a hand upon his sleeve. “Do as you have always done, Gimli, Son of Glóin, stand beside him in your strength. And you, Aragorn, in your unfailing friendship and surety of mind. Do not help him, for your grip would both injure and disturb him. He will not comprehend anything but the shadows in his mind—but after the darkness is dispelled, perhaps he will turn and know you. Only then may you help him.” She looked up at the tent walls and waved a hand at them. “Take him from this shelter and into the open. He seeks the sunlight and must find it.”
“When?” asked Gimli.
“Soon. Today, before darkness falls. He circles just past the edge of waking, gathering his strength to cross.” She looked at Aragorn. “He is still weak and this step demands strength. Strength that he will summon from a torn soul despite pain, for his fear is great and Mithrandir is not here to dispel his darkness nor raise him.”
Aragorn did not question why his Queen could not dispel the archer’s terror. She still moved carefully, as if her strength dwelled in a fragile jar. And though she labored not, she still dozed during the day. Every day. To his Ranger eyes, breathing her breath was exhausting, and he set a ward at his tent to keep passersby from disturbing her. Often did he find her sitting beside Legolas’ cot, her head tucked beside the archer’s. The tumble of their hair together, one flaxen and one ebony, was a curious pleasure. Neither Gimli nor Aragorn was sure if she meditated, or called, or simply rested. It was the only time she looked peaceful and they disturbed her not.
They moved him, cot and all, back to the space framed by the pavilion and Legolas’ tent. Aragorn frowned at how light the archer felt, as if his bones had become hollow as bird’s wings in the five days. “Can I heal his hands?” he asked almost to himself, though he knew Arwen surely heard. “My strength is restored and I would mend his fingers before he wakes…”
“Leave his fingers,” returned Arwen, but she took one of the archer’s hands within her own tenderly. “They are un-knit, but you would be wise to allow them to heal on their own.”
Aragorn searched her face for clues and then chuckled. “You would have me leave them broken for it will stay him from taking up the bow again too quickly? You are a sly Queen, indeed!”
“He is altogether a stubborn Elf,” she replied and Gimli agreed.
Grór of the Misty Mountains and Degnar of Barrindar Pass came and the shadows of their brushy brows could not dispel the light in their gaze. They nodded to Gimli and paid respect to the fallen Elf-kind, but then faced the King.
“It is time,” said Degnar. “The Kettle has been fired for two days and the stone prepared to receive the mending. Will you come or abide?”
King Elessar was at once torn; to linger beside his fallen friend or leave him when Arwen felt sure he would awaken. The play of distress was evident across his features and he paced. The long stem of wheat he had been twirling ended up crushed; ground into chaff and kernels.
“I cannot leave him,” admitted Aragorn. “Yet I desire to see the ending and thus I am torn.”
Degnar smiled and stopped the pacing King. His hand was full of strength and trembled with suppressed energy. “The ending is far from you yet, O Master of The City. We only pour the mithril now. And though we would bring you and show you this wonder, there are many who guard the secret of the Dwarves from the other races. The Stone Masters have given only the King permission to see, but if your heart bids you stay, then this is also wisdom.”
“I will stay,” returned Aragorn and he wrapped his long arm down the knotted strength of Degnar’s. “But I bid you watch in my place and shout with my joy, for if I came, the delight of a man would sound in the deeps.”
“I will shout for you,” chuckled Degnar. “But I think it will be drowned in the roar of the Dwarves as we mend the stone.”
“Stand on a boulder and then you shall be as tall as the King to shout,” said Gimli.
“Hah!” said Degnar, and it was amusement and delight mixed.
So the eyes of men did not see the Dwarves pour the molten mithril, glittering like liquefied lightning, from the enormous Kettle. Nor did they see the iron pots, twice smelted, hammered and hollowed until they were round bellies with tiny open tops. They were black and girded with leather, but the inside of each flask glittered silver—the dregs from other pours. The arguments over the Bearers were decided by tokens, for every Dwarf upon the field was skilled enough to rework stone. In an hour, three hundred twenty-two Dwarves marched below the ground, each laden with a bottle of raw mithril, the treasure of the Delvers of the Deeps.
No man witnessed the mithril being poured into the fractures of the Heartstone. It spread as each flask was emptied, seeping into every crack, tendrils of silver so fine as to glisten like hairs laid carefully upon the rock face. Each Dwarf empty their iron flasks quickly, proficient and moving amongst each other easily. A misstep with scalding quicksilver was agony.
And next came the binding: pulling a leather yoke around the Kingstone with the strength of four hundred harnessed Dwarves. They leaned into tightening straps with all of their might, grunting, pulling with such effort that their beards drug the floor. Every drop of the cooling liquid was captured where it oozed out, for it was holy to Durin’s folk. Not a tear of it touched the floor and after an eighty count twice, the mithril was cool and drew the stone to itself with strength a thousand times greater than unbroken granite.
Ferin Bloodhammer wept, kneeling, when it was done, for the Needle murmured in his mind and then fell silent. And the Dwarf-kind roared and cheered and the iron bottles were clanked until the din wafted up the miles of tunnels and the sentries who heard it echoed the jubilance.
Thus the King knew when the Heartstone was healed, for he heard the peal of their voices escape the maw of the tunnel mouth and dissipate in the air. He stood quite still and his eyes were very bright—but he did not leave the side of his fallen friend.
It was the third hour of second watch when the archer awakened and it was exactly as Arwen predicted; one instant Legolas was unmoving … and then his gasp of effort coincided with the thrust of his forearms against the cot. The archer struggled to his feet, torso bent, pain running wildly through his frame, and neither King nor Dwarf reached to aide him for they remembered Arwen’s words. They startled to their feet with him, hovering close as hawks and just as alert, watching.
The sun, bright and unblinking. And the Elf, also unblinking, shivering and nearly naked with the sheet wrapped in a tangle about him. He lifted a hand, but his fingers were broken and uncooperative. What he reached for, none could see or fathom and his voice was fractured when he started to sing. He fell silent in seven words, trembling, staring fixedly at the sun.
Arwen, from yards away, summoned without a summons raised for her, lifted her voice into the archer’s silence. The self-same song greeting the morning and it crossed the distance to the poised Dwarf and the tall tense King, though Legolas did not seem to hear. She sang only two verses and then came and stood behind the archer, staring upwards with him—both of them frozen in the eye of the sun.
Then Legolas blinked and staggered unsteadily, nearly snarling his swollen fingers in Gimli’s thick hair. The Dwarf ducked beneath that fragile hand and pressed against the archer’s hip, steadying him, and Aragorn was gentle, but firm, and sat the Elf on the cot.
“Down?” Legolas said and his voice was hoarse, as if he had shouted endlessly in some fierce battle and had nothing left but the edges of tone. His eyes blinked and blinked; clearing something they could not see.
“Yes,” said Aragorn and they levered him gently back onto the cot.
“Down,” Legolas said again, disoriented. “Down?”
“Only minutes were you buried, Laegolas, though the sun has sung five times to you without reply,” said Arwen and she sat on the edge of his bed. “And she has missed you, as have your fast companions.”
Her voice pierced through confusion and Legolas turned his face. The tension bled from his features; his gaze focused, his bewilderment fled—as if he looked into all questions and answers at once and the surroundings melted away. “Arwen…” He reached a hand for her and she took it so tenderly that he did not flinch. “It is you…”
“Who else would it be?” she replied very gently and to Aragorn she said, “Bring a draught of Neirede for him.”
“I mixed it in advance,” said Aragorn and handed her a cup. “There are three pinches mixed herein.”
“A wise King are you.”
Legolas said nothing more, nor did his face twist with the sip of potent drug. He stared back into Arwen’s eyes without a word. Aragorn, standing close, wondered if he saw nothing—or somehow saw too much. And then the herb seized him and the brilliance of his gaze faded and he dreamed.
“A good awakening?” asked Gimli, hovering without touching. “You said he was smitten with terror, though I find it hard to consider this one afraid of anything. The Balrog, mayhap, but any wise creature would give such a thing wide berth.” He fussed with his beard as if trying to look busy instead of overwrought and Aragorn smiled to see it, though he said nothing. Friends did not mock the affection between friends.
“A good awakening. The darkness relents and his mind clears.” Arwen turned the silver token upon his chest and smiled at Gimli. “He chases the light and will catch it. It glitters golden before him and leads away from death, where the stars turn not. He will wake pained and distressed and we will aid him with herbs, but he will swiftly mend.”
“But do not heal his hands,” said Aragorn and his smile was wry.
“No. Leave them fragile.” She glanced at him and her eyes laughed. “If you must avail something, seek through his ribs and torso for hurts to tend. Feed him nothing, though he will desire food. He is unwell within.” She gazed off across the encampment. “His soul is torn—for this, you have no skill, my Heart. Only time will heal such.”
So Aragorn walked the center pathway to the dwelling of Ioreth, Mistress of the House of Healing. She rose at once when his frame filled her doorway. He waved a hand of dismissal to her fearful face and she smiled, worries dispelled. Ioreth kept the herbs and the King searched amongst them for what he wanted. Before he left, he took her hand in his, to give thanks for her skill and wisdom. She blushed like a girl. When he chuckled he found himself shooed from her presence like some common boy and his laugh rang long.
The Elven archer has awakened and King Elessar is full of joy.
Such were the words that had raced through the Pelennor and the light in Aragorn’s eyes confirmed it to all who looked to him on his way back to his pavilion.
Chasing fractures and knots of clotted blood through the archer’s torso, Aragorn noticed the chill of his skin. Caught between the present world and the unseen, he spared only one thought; that Arwen’s skin had the selfsame coolness ever since Legolas was pulled from the brink.
But when hours of healing had passed and his mind grew weary, he did not remember his idle wondering. He tipped into the nearest chair and hung his head. Gimli patted a hand on his shoulder and fetched a dipper of wine. When Arwen chanced by and kissed his brow, the King did not rouse.
Twice more that day, Legolas stirred and awakened. Each time, Arwen was there a step before his eyes sharpened, lifting him to a sip of bitter herb. He spoke nothing, but Aragorn heard the click of the archer’s teeth and witnessed the muscles of his jaws bunch—the evidence of his present pain.
Though Aragorn and Gimli were present, Legolas did not seek for them, nor seem aware of them. His gaze rested solely on Arwen; fathomless and unblinking, enduring through suffering until the Neirede caught him away into oblivion. At nightfall, Aragorn mixed Cliarrza leaves with the pain draught, for Arwen bade him to render the archer deep and dreamless.
“We must rest, all four of us, for the sun will find him more alert and his pain deeper. These will be difficult days.”
The King did not question her counsel and retired with her early, certain that he would find the morrow full of hardship. His dreams were full of shadows and things chasing, but not one did he catch. He rose early, unrested and troubled.
Legolas saw Gimli first. He turned his head before dawn broke and the Dwarf was there, a shadow of strength and obsidian eyes.
“You are here,” Legolas whispered. His voice was rough with hurt.
“Certainly,” returned Gimli and the hand he laid upon the archer was weightless. “Aragorn and I have rarely left you these past days.”
A thought and a faint word: “Aragorn…” Legolas did not turn his head and there was no need, for the King appeared at Gimi’s shoulder and smiled down at him.
“I am here and you have been long in waking into the world, my friend,” said Aragorn and he placed a hand gently on the coverlet. “We have sat idle while the Dwarves found the crack in the Heartstone, mended it, and now swarm a thousand strong upon the lowest tier of the City.”
“Ahh, and the Great Gate gleams with steel and mithril bands, Legolas! It is twelve times stronger than before—wait until you see it! They’ve reseated the cobblestones of the main road and replaced seven sections of the wall in a day!” boasted Gimli. His enthusiasm was a wave that encompassed them all.
“That is the way to wear him out,” sounded Arwen’s melodic voice. “Let Gimli tell him of all the labor of the Dwarves and his Elven eyes will glaze over into unconsciousness without the aide of herbs.”
“Ha!” said Gimli, for he fondly remembered Arwen asking of everything the Dwarves were doing and how his throat had gone dry during the hours of telling her. She had fetched him a cup of ale and then demanded to hear more. A fine Queen she was, Gimli decided. Perhaps finer than Galadrial. Perhaps.
Legolas, however, was not caught into the light conversation. If anything, his face was troubled and his look more intense as he watched Arwen approach. She sat on the cot and regarded him.
“It is you,” he said.
“There was no one else,” she replied seriously. “Your soul fled the land, chased before grievous wounds and pain. Gimli bid us save you and Aragorn was willing to avail what he could.”
Legolas shivered. Just once. Blinked. “I saw him, felt him deep as a blade.”
Behind her, Aragorn’s breath caught, but she lifted a hand to still his words. “I charged him to pay no heed, Laegolas, for if he extended care for your suffering, his power would have failed the long course. He would have burned through his strength and perished, for his heart loves you and he could not be called back. He swore his life for yours and I saw it in him.”
Aragorn was still and Legolas considered her words a moment. His voice was fragile when it came. “It was folly to risk the Lord of the Citadel for an Elf.”
“You are no ordinary Elf,” said Aragorn and his voice was that of the King. His eyes were very serious.
Arwen smiled at them both. “You are no ordinary Elf and this is no ordinary King,” she amended.
“Indeed,” said the overwrought voice of Gimli. “And Arwen the Fair played no small role, though it remains a mystery kept to herself. But all saw Éowyn the Brave dab the blood from her nostrils while she held you at the brink during those long hours. And it was she who called you from darkness and affected some comfort amidst your dark wandering. Thus they both have toiled for your awakening eyes and you would dispute with their decision? You are altogether an argumentative Elf!”
This brought the faintest twitch to the corners of Legolas’ mouth, but he said nothing. His gaze was intense and Arwen met it unflinching, as if she waited. Aragorn caught their stillness and let his next words perish unspoken.
“It is you that I see,” Legolas whispered to her. “For I look in my soul and everywhere your eyes look back. You are too deep in me. Let me go.”
Arwen’s voice was low, passionate, and just as stubborn as any Dwarf-kind. “Your essence is torn from mooring and house. You cannot do this without help and I am willing. In three days, you will be strong enough to endure. Until then, I will bide, for your spirit is gossamer as ptarmigan wings and it is only my grasp that holds the pieces together.”
“You must let me go, Lady Fair,” the archer whispered. “I have been strong. I have been strong for a thousand years, but you will break me. You must let me go…”
“And release a torment within you; you whom we have suffered for?” Arwen’s eyes flashed and her words were iron. “We have endured and come through and I should let you fall into fire now? And what will Aragorn think if I open my hands, knowing that only a threeday will avoid such suffering?”
“Do you not see?” the archer said almost as a plea. “You are too deep and I will not endure. I cannot bid my own silence amidst this. You must let me go, for I will not hurt him.”
Aragorn frowned slightly, puzzling over their spoken and unspoken words, but he found no ready answer. Arwen reached and took his hand, as if Legolas’ last statement had given some unarguable tenant, and drew him close to the cot.
“Sit behind him, lest he fall,” she said to Aragorn. “He will be faint and full of agonies when I withdraw my support, but it is beyond your means to assuage.”
Her words were true. And dire. Aragorn felt the surge of anguish through the archer immediately and curled his fingers about Legolas’ shoulders to steady him, found him sagging and took his weight against his chest. The Elf’s head fell back and his eyes were stricken. Aragorn could feel the agony sharp and fierce, resonating nearly within his grasp. But try as he might and with all his strength and focus, the damage was beyond healing reach. He looked at Arwen, shaken.
“I will mix a strong draught for him,” said the Queen and she strode away.
So Aragorn sat with the archer fretting over this new torment. Gimli fretted likewise and twisted his beard into snarls at the ends. Legolas was without words, pale and tremulous. Aragorn could feel him twist slightly in his grasp, then still himself with effort. It was the closest he had ever seen an Elf thrash with pain and it troubled him greatly.
Moments passed … then more...
Aragorn looked up, troubled. It had been too long since Arwen left and he gazed perplexed at her when she reappeared.
“What took you so long?” he asked.
“I tarried, for he is altogether a stubborn Elf and pain is oft the only teacher he will hearken to!” She leaned to take the archer’s face in her hands. “You are strong, Laegolas, but can you endure this? Can you hold this fire for days, perhaps a week, and heal at the same time? Or will your strength be vanquished in this relentless agony and then how fiery will my path be to raise you?” She forced him to look upwards into Aragorn’s face. “And what of Aragorn, whom your soul loves, shall you force him to watch your torment? Can you not sense his fear and worry? In seeking to do no harm, you plunge Aragorn into this abyss with you. A Healer-King cannot endure standing idle while a comrade suffers.
“And what of Gimli, Elf-friend, who has not left your side; he who bid us to call you back from the edge of the world for him? And so great was his yearning, so strong his plea, that both of us went after you and found the risk worth taking for the life of a friend. All of us, of one mind and one heart, have caught you back from the brink. And now, by our affection and our sacrifice, we bid you relent from this course.”
Legolas did not answer. The King was convinced that agony locked his jaws. Gimli muttered a word or two in old tongue that sounded suspiciously like cursing.
“Not so deep…” finally whispered Legolas. His muscles tensed and trembled beneath Aragorn’s fingers, knotted with control. “Do not reach so deep within me; I do not want to hurt him.”
“Not so deep,” Arwen agreed quietly and her voice was compassionate. She coasted one hand over Legolas’ brow and rested fingers there. With her other, she reached and took the silver token about his neck and held it, as if measuring its weight, circling a thumb across the top. “Open your vision and look for me; find the path and meet me there, for we match, you and I. Fast friends and kindred, the voice of all things living, our spirits enduring far beyond the horizon line…” She breathed a breath, another, matched hers with that of the archer’s and spoke very quietly into his face. “Dream, Laegolas. Sink below the surface to a place of peace and abide. Let my soul pour into all the shallows of you and make you whole.”
Aragorn felt the wave of pain diminish beneath his hands and the archer went limp and boneless. Aragorn let him down carefully upon the cot while watching the light fade in Arwen’s eyes. Understanding dawned.
“You mend his soul with your own…” he said, wonderingly. “This is why you are pale and tired. You are stretched through another life besides your own.”
“Yes.” She put her hands in her lap. Her fingers trembled and she held them together to halt it. “It can be done even though my Elven blood is failing. He sees and knows me, accepts portions of my spirit as his own.” She looked into Aragorn’s face. “There are drawbacks to this support, however.”
Aragorn contemplated everything he knew of Elves, everything she had told him. “It is kin to the bonding of Elves, is it not? For you have told me how your kind meditate and open their souls to one another—pour their essence into one another on their Day of Vows.” A trickle of wariness spiked through him and he frowned at it as something completely foreign and flicked it away. “You patch his torn soul with yours and he reaches for you amidst his suffering?”
“Yes, but I am not his and this he knows full well. I belong to you.” Arwen’s eyes were calm and kind. “He is harmed and in pain; a child seeking shelter amidst fear and tempest winds, knowing only that where comfort dwells and torment abates that he finds me. He worries that in a moment of weakness, he will speak thoughtlessly of what he feels and hurt you.”
Aragorn huffed a sigh. “Foolish Elf. Does he think I would not understand an explanation? And there is trust between us four; trust forged with blade and fire, companionship and devotion. It is not put aside so easily. In the face of suffering, such troublesome worries flee like shadows before the summer sun.” Aragorn lifted her face with a hand and kissed her. “But come, he is resting and you have gone bloodless. Let us break our fast and then rest, for the day is just starting and already it is full of uncertainties and hardship.”
The Dwarves swarmed through the lowest level of Minas Tirith and by midmorning, Glóin of the Lonely Mountain stopped at the dwelling of the King to give a report. He was covered with dust, but the silver fasteners of his beard braids glittered undaunted and his eyes were cheerful. Two hundred Dwarves marched in step beyond him on their way to the City of Kings.
“The outer wall is refitted and the buttresses reinforced. The gateposts for the Great Gate were dug seven feet down into the bedrock of the Mountain for more strength. It would take five Cave trolls in harness to tear it out. And tear it out would be the only means, for there will be no breaking of a mithril and steel warded gate. Nine dwellings were rebuilt from the ground up, as the stone was unsound. Three new ones have been carved at the edge of the South wall, for there was room and Tolma of the Black Hills was impatient with the waiting.” Glóin shot a humorous look at Gimli, for Tolma’s crowd was known for their eagerness in building. “Three of the four towers have been raised and the forth will be done before midday. We cared not for the roof of the Main Hall and stove it in. Oláin’s crew have raised the walls and refit the roof with enough ironwork to rest another tier upon.”
“Ha!” said Gimli. “And if any complain of their overuse of iron, they will find an ingot hurled at them!”
“None complain,” returned Glóin. “We have learned our lesson. Ferin Bloodhammer is making his final walk upon the Great Wall and when he is finished, we start on the second tier.” The stout Dwarf looked up at King Elessar and his grin was fierce. “If it were not for the need to be silent for the Listener to hear the whispering of the stone, the field would shudder with the roar of the hoard that waits to ascend the City! And there is my crew—I must go!”
When Legolas awakened hours later, his face was calm. Only the trace of tightness about his eyes revealed the pain that lingered on. When Aragorn put his hand upon him, he could feel the eddy of unease far below the surface.
“I know what she has done,” said Aragorn very quietly. “I did not forbid it then, I do not forbid it now. As it has been since you knelt crownless beside my bed and swore fealty to her, I forbid you nothing with my Beloved. Gimli has forfeited sleep for days and I have been tended with the strongest of painkillers in the aftermath—all of us willing to bear the cost of your life.” Legolas shook his head as if to object, but Aragorn put a knuckle beneath his chin to halt him. “Have you counted the arrows you spent saving my life; saving it when I doubted my blood worth saving? Did you not follow me to Helm’s Deep, there to face overwhelming odds in a fight not your own? Were you not willing to die beside me? And think you that I did not see your struggle to reach me when I fell at the Black Gate?” The knuckle turned, became fingers beneath the archer’s chin. “You have crossed the distances with me. It is my turn. Our turn to cross the distance for you. Now rest; be at peace.”
Legolas was silent, watching him, but then Arwen stepped into view and the archer’s gaze fastened upon her. When she drew near the cot, he whispered, “You should not linger with me.”
“If I do not, you will chafe and be restless seeking me, Laegolas.” She tipped a cup to his lips and he sipped once, twice, eyes gazing across the rim at her. “You will fare better if I am near, matching closeness both without and within. I do not wish your healing to tarry, for this faintness in my soul is disturbing, as if the ground has fallen away. There is a mist hanging before my mind.”
“This was folly to attempt as your Elven blood fails…” the archer returned. “You might have perished in the attempt.”
Arwen’s eyes flashed. “I had no fear that you would not hear me, nor see me. I spoke with the birthright of authority: of Elrond and Celeborn, the supremacy of Galadrial. Through me and all Elves before me, summoning your essence in its flight. And you, who knowest my voice, you turned and in your spirit I saw your longing for life. Yours is not the land where the grass ripples not, nor the sky of stars unturning. Not yet, that land.” She caught a drop of wine from the rim of the cup with a finger. “I shall accept no more arguments from you.”
“I will cease,” he said and his face was pained. “But I fear speaking the chaos and longing in my soul.”
“Later, when you are whole and strong again, we will chuckle at such,” she whispered. “Rest now. You tax yourself with these worries and the pain gathers strength behind your eyes. This is a dark road you travel and it will worsen before relenting. Rest.”
“There now,” said Aragorn from near her shoulder. “Have you not heard it from both King and Queen? Let it not be said that the Prince of Mirkwood takes instruction poorly. Rest!”
Degnar of Barrindar Pass came with a report when twilight stretched shadows across the Pelennor. His torn ear was a grim reminder of the price paid beneath Minas Tirith. He sharpened the edge of his pickaxe while he sat before the King’s pavilion and Aragorn watched his deft strokes.
“Ferin found three stones set poorly. In a wall of seven million, that is fair work for us. They have been made straight and the wall is finished. Not even a Mirmouse could sneak through a crevice. We added some beauty to Oláin’s work in the First Hall, for he is altogether a Dwarf of simplicity. It is an unsaid agreement—the Iron Mountain crew builds with brute strength and what they build does not fail. Others of us come behind and fashion beauty to that strength. We set beryl and jasper bands about the columns and heeled the pillars with onyx. I trust it will be grand enough to suit the people.”
Aragorn, drawing on his pipe stem, nodded. He was still marveling at Ferin’s ability to find three stones amiss in a wall of millions. Again, he was humbled at the talent of these stout folk of the mountains.
“The twilight crews are clearing the second level and will have it done before morning.” Degnar inspected the edge of his axe with a thumb, and then went back to honing it. “It will take us less time to finish this tier, but I suspect the Stone Masters have redesigned some of the towers that have been ruined. If they win their cause by bonfire tonight, we will be quarrying for granite—that will take some more time. A day or more before we ascend to the Third Ring.”
“I asked only for healing of the White City from your kin, Degnar. Do not feel pressed to build anew,” quietly said Aragorn.
“Harrumph,” grunted Degnar and waved the whetstone dismissively. “Building is what we do. Mending is for the young, for their practice. The Stonewrights live to carve the living Earth into magnificence. They see it within the stone and cannot resist releasing it.” He looked sidelong at the King, sitting eye level with him on the seat. “Wait until you walk the long dark to the Heartstone again, King Elessar, for Garin, the Goldsinger of Enmor Vale and Uónin of Darkrun Rim joined their forces and have labored all these many days below the surface. A marvel is their mind and skill and their craftwork is without peer. There is not a Dwarf on the field who is not eager to see what their hands have wrought!”
“And you have told me this to make me chafe even more in the wait, have you?” chuckled Aragorn. He was gratified to see Degnar’s humored expression. “I gave little thought to how the Dwarves would test the patience of the King until these days!”
“Ha!” said the Dwarf and he clapped an iron hand on Aragorn’s shoulder as he rose. “To the ale and to bed go I! Tomorrow—I build!”
Legolas was restless through the night, turning amidst his sheets and uncomforted. Gimli cooled his brow with water and said nothing. For the Elf to express even this much discord was a sign of trust. Aragorn came with the rise of the moon, tall and silent and his eyes sad. He put his hand square upon the archer’s chest, below the silver pendant, and sang every song he had learned in boyhood, for he remembered Legolas’ own words: the songs of the Elves comfort all living things.
Gimli sipped some ale and watched his two friends; each carved still and white by moon glow. Aragorn’s face reminded him of the Argonath and the great stone Kings abiding there. An hour or two at best passed in peace before the archer woke and his eyes betrayed the anguish simmering within him.
Before dawn, when Gimli’s heart was sore from watching and Aragorn’s voice started to fail, Arwen came. Her feet were noiseless. She glided amongst the trio of friends and knelt where the archer sat. Legolas reached for her and his expression was helpless, hurting. His fingers were swollen and dark, every joint frozen and yet still he placed them upon her, driven to extremity.
“If I was your love, I would want only you,” he whispered. “To lay on this altar all that I am, all that is true—” he shivered and went quiet, trembling with effort. “I speak folly…help me be silent. O, help me!”
“Peace,” she said, coasting her knuckles beneath his jawbone. “Peace to you. It is enough to be strong in the broken places, Laegolas. I will not let you fall, nor let you dwell in the house of torment”
Aragorn circled them with his arms, rested his head against Arwen’s. “You speak no folly, Legolas, for all of your words are true.” And to Arwen, “I did not wake you, wishing you to have rest. He has slept little and struggled with sorrows the full night and nothing we have done has aided. Should I dose him with Neirede?”
“No. I will sit with him and he will sleep until the sun wakes. Today, all his inner healing will be put to test and his birthright will not fail him. See to yourself and Gimli, for your weariness haunts your faces.”
So Gimli and Aragorn breakfasted and few were their words, each grieved on account of a friend. When they looked in upon the archer, he was dreaming and Arwen’s hair spilled across his shoulder where she had laid her head. They did not disturb them. And when Arwen rose later, it was only to sit and watch the archer and he watched her, both of them focused on some inner purpose. Unspeaking, unmoving, nearly without breath. The Queen did not break her fast, nor take any rest, until Legolas failed the long hours. Then he slept again; his limbs sprawled in exhaustion as if he had simply fallen in place.
“Better,” said Arwen and her voice was tired. “His will is strong and he fights to mend. Pain and fear dog him, but he pushes them away. This night will be easier.”
Grór of the Misty Mountains came, limping. A strip of cloth bound his right knee, but he offered no explanation. Aragorn regarded him soberly, still weary from the long night. Faramir was quick to gauge the exhaustion of the King and interceded in the silence.
“What news, Master Dwarf, for why else would you have left your crew and duties if not to brighten the eyes of men?” said the Steward. “And ever do we long for your words, for each day brings wonders and marvels! We scarcely can wait to see what you have wrought within the Citadel!”
Grór grinned and nodded. “We will finish the Second Ring in a day it seems. Tormhall of Red Rim unearthed a quarry beneath the city. A lucky find it is, for we carved slabs of granite for the new towers in a single morning! We fashion the pulleys now and will bring the cave oxen to hoist them into place before midday meal.” He sketched with a gnarled finger in midair while he talked. “We will fortify the tops with steel. Each watchtower will have a place for your siege engines and the men will be safe beneath their armored roofs when called upon to fight!
“Seven hundred build the towers and the rest ascend to the Third Tier. You have made good effort to clear the streets there. Three hundred more have come from the bowels of the mountain and joined us. It is a great throng working now, and we might be querulous if there was not so much to do! We scarce can turn without stepping on one another and ever we duck each others hammers!”
“Harumph!” said Gimli and he twisted his beard in his fingers. “If Legolas was sound, I would be one of those Dwarves singing upon the road!”
Aragorn smiled and nodded at him. “Go and build for a time, Gimli, for the Queen and I will tend him dutifully. If ‘ere he asks of you, we will send a runner to fetch you.”
“Ha! And how shall a runner find me in such a bustling hoard of beards, I ask?” Gimli’s laughter boomed.
Grór waved a hand impatiently at them and they turned their attention. His eyes were humored, if not more than a little impatient. “The wall is sound, but we strengthened it to endure catapults better. The City of Kings has shifted before, I say, for the marble stones in the streets reveal a buckle all the way through the Great Turn! We have dug the road and recut the pavers to make it smooth again. The Main Hall of the Third is stable, but did not match the first two halls. Kár, the Eldest, saw to that. There are walls to refashion and seventeen roofs to rebuild, but the Third will not take long. Already, Tormald eyes the Fourth Tier and his mind is sharp as my pick! If we hasten, we might be ready when he is!”
Legolas was less restless by evening and sipped wine laced with herbs as bidden. He favored his broken hands and was careful how he placed them. His gaze fell oft upon Arwen, sitting with her face in sunlight, but he spoke nothing … only watched her.
“She forbade me to heal them,” said Aragorn. He touched the archer’s fingers very gently, felt the burning through them as if it was living.
“She told me,” returned Legolas. “You overspent your strength.”
“She worries you will attempt too much, too soon,” corrected Aragorn.
The archer smiled, but it was fleeting amidst the haze of painkiller. “A thought far away since I dare not even rise. The horizon moves curiously with the turn of my head.”
“I have no doubt you will be chafing at restraint soon enough, my friend. And a happy day that shall be, though we will be vexed with your persistence!”
Night, and the moon was full. The Citadel glowed with torchlight and Aragorn watched the shimmer of the City. Dwarves passed down the center lane quietly, their tread as commonplace as the sounds of the people dwelling upon the field. Gimli came and sat puffing his long pipe.
“Legolas rests better tonight.”
“So he does,” said Aragorn. “Arwen said he would have pain then quickly mend. I shall be glad, for her strength is fragile.”
Gimli grunted his agreement. “Sleep you the first half of night and then sit with him. I watch to see the roof of the towers placed.”
“You can see them from here?” Aragorn squinted at the city, perceiving only the mist-white of its form.”
“They build with metal and the rooftops are fiery as boiled fat during the summer heat. They dare not walk them in daylight, so they—there! See that spark and flash of fire? They are smelting on the roof!”
Aragorn nodded, quietly amazed. “You are the masters of this art,” he said solemnly. “Men of this age will speak of this throughout their years, passing such marvels to their sons in stories.”
The King retired and Arwen curled into his warm embrace without speaking. Her hands were cold and Aragorn tucked them against his belly and rubbed her back until she lulled into the open-eyed dreams of Elves. When he rose with the high arch of the moon, he tucked the blankets to keep her warm in his absence and went to the archer.
Gimli nodded at him. By moonlight, the crimp rings in his beard sparkled. They were wordless, for Legolas was still and quiet and the light filled the tent as the first sliver of moon crested the center pole. Gimli’s snore soon mixed into the night noises of the encampment and Aragorn sat watchful over both their dreams. Faramir stole softly in and the King blinked to see him afoot. The Steward smiled and handed him a cup of tea, steaming fresh and hot. Thus Aragorn spent the remainder of the night in quiet contemplation.
At dawn, when Arwen rose, the Stone Masters came twelve strong and stood in a half circle before the King’s pavilion. Aragorn nodded his head in greeting and was silent, wondering what news would bring this group together and to his door.
“The passage to the Heartstone of the Minas Tirith is finished. We would bring you back to the deeps to see it, King Elessar, to witness our skill and labor and to give your blessing,” said Kár, the Eldest. A gold nugget the size of a Dwarf fist rested on his chest, token of his rank.
So Aragorn left the Pelennor without a backward glance, for he trusted the steadfastness of Gimli and the skill of Arwen and his mind was untroubled to leave the archer. He took his crown, scooping it up from beside the tent door, for they called him King Elessar and asked for his blessing; a duty as Lord of the Citadel. At the Great Door of Entrance, the Dwarves stood aside and he was first to step into the maw of the labyrinth. And there he stopped, amazed, looking down the long tunnel leading away.
Dwarves build for their own kind; great supporting pillars ascending into gloom, naked staircases standing in chasms thousands of feet deep, bridges like narrow fingers spanning gaps. And throughout such, there is only meager illumination. Ground dwellers are they, comfortable in dimness as the wild beasts, seeing past the darkness that causes men to band close for comfort, and sure footed as the ivory Mountain Rams.
But Minas Tirith is built for the dwelling of Men and so the craftwork of the Dwarves reflected its purpose. Braces of torches lined the wall and the glow illuminated the arched roof. No demons in the minds of men had shadows wherein to hide. The floor was swept clean and the path inviting. Aragorn walked without qualms and at the first suspended walkway, paused to study it and then looked back the way he had come.
All had changed beneath the White City. From the rubble and disaster of war, the hundred years of neglect, the Dwellers of the Deep had called forth the beauty designed by her builders. Aragorn bore witness to what once was long ago; the magnificence revealed in all fullness. And in his mind circled the promise of splendor to come as the Dwarves worked on the outer city.
They had finished the bridge with granite and topped the railing with marble bricks. Torchlight bounced off the reflective surface and was magnified. The bridge glowed, floating across darkness and casting its own light—a great arc of silvery white. The light filled the open air and touched the stalactites descending gracefully from the ceiling. And inside those multi-fingered spears, the marble facets cast the glow back. The ceiling glittered like diamonds as far as he could see; a million dots of light, winking like stars in the deeps.
From bridge to tunnel, to the switchback trails that washed ever downward, Aragorn was silent, marveling, pausing to run his fingers across stones carved delicately by a Master’s hand. At every cross tunnel, a diagram showed the way and was written in the tongue of the common people. At every gaping crevasse, the railing rose and blocked it from view—only a glimpse was allowed to the danger beyond the guard. The thousand-foot drop into darkness, Aragorn passed without knowing. A child could tread the depths without fear, without harm. The air was fresh, as if a hole had been punched through the mountain to let it in and there was no haunted voice of cave wind, murmuring in bleak darkness. Aragorn half expected to hear a bird twit as it coasted past them.
The distance down into the heart of the mountain did not give the King pause, so great was the wonder. At the final course, he walked slower and slower, awed by the progressively more elaborate pillars holding the tunnel roof up. First, sets of plain stone, then a set of granite, then marble, then iron, then banded with jasper and onyx, then ringed heel and crown with gold, pearl, red-blue opals, and blood-black rubies. And great was the light streaming from the chamber ahead, causing all the gems to glitter and shift points of light with each step.
And though Aragorn could not see, the Dwarves following in a great silent group could and they were proud, for they had set the gemstones correctly. The winged crown of the King caught the gemlight and threw silver radiance bright as mithril. Aragorn passed through the columns as if the sun had descended into the deeps to rest upon his dark hair. Thus was the glory of the Lord of Men revealed without shadows miles below the ground.
Nothing of the resplendence of the journey prepared Aragorn for the grandeur of the Great Chamber housing the Kingstone, however. His long stride carried him a half score of steps before he stopped, overwhelmed by the majesty.
Here, where the Prow of the City rose flaring from the bedrock, the heart of the mountain was opened wide. A great curving chamber rose three hundred yards or more overhead. The floor was pure marble, a sea of reflecting glass stretched in every direction. Two hundred torches circling the room picked up the flecks in the stone like so many fish scales and the glow ascended the chamber, bouncing from wall to wall and back. High overhead, windows had been cut and sunlight spiked down in perfect beams, crisscrossing the Heartstone of the City. Morning air puffed fresh and cool, renewing the room.
And here it resided, the greatest wonder of all, the point of the Needle rising before him: the Spine of the Citadel. Where once it had staggered the King, potent in darkness and unknowing fear, now it held him silent with power, commanding the room. From a root only a few yards across, swelling prodigiously to thirty, then progressively widening to support the seven tiers of Minas Tirith, the spire rose smooth as an immense ivory sword stabbed into the floor. Veins of mithril netted through the rock and cast a luster that burned vision. At the very top of the Chamber, the stone roof did not seem to enclose the Tarlonnein —it was the Tarlonnein which lanced through the ceiling, unable to be contained, vaulting its way into sunlight a thousand feet up.
And King Elessar retained enough presence to bless the stone, though he could not remember afterward what he said. The Stone Masters knelt and some wiped their faces, so he knew he had spoken well and from his heart, overawed, his fingers wide upon the stone and the wings of the crown hard against the rockface.
But as they filed out, Aragorn saw one window letting the light down to a flat rectangle near the far wall and he turned back. The Dwarves let him go, watching, for here they had laid Garl Rockblighter. And there the King knelt and put aside the crown, meeting this solitary stone not as Lord, but as a humble man. Overspent and meek, he stretched his arms across its width, put his face to the granite and wept. It was a faint sound in the hush of the Great Chamber.
When he rejoined them, he was utterly silent and the Dwarves were caught in their own awe, for the grief of King Elessar for one of their own moved them. If any of the Hewers of the Ground doubted the worthiness of their labor for the Lord of the Citadel, such thoughts were dispelled when word spread through the Stoneworkers. Drawings in sand of the kneeling King were found wherever the Dwarves retold it; thus all of them held the vision of this gesture of respect and thanks. And if it is ever said that Dwarves could labor with more energy and forcefulness, so it is said of the rebuilding of Minas Tirith during the first year of Telcontar’s Rule.
“Your eyes are brighter,” said Aragorn when he entered his tent. He took Arwen’s hands in his own.
“Legolas spends all of his stamina within, healing. I have taken more of my spirit back, though I linger about the edges of his, watchful.” She smiled up at him. “I have missed my energy for you, my Heart.”
Aragorn kissed her with a hint of his passion; eddies of hunger unmet for days. “I have missed your energy as well, but I am patient.”
“Sometimes.” She nipped his lip and felt him shiver.
“This is true and well should you not test my patience!” Then, more seriously, “How will he fare when you withdraw completely? Will he suffer the loss?”
Arwen was slow to answer and Aragorn sighed.
“He will be bereft and lost, tracing the shape of his soul forlornly. Until it becomes familiar again, he will search unconsciously, a stranger to himself and haunted. I will not abide near him for a time, until he finds his way.”
He held her, feeling her sorrow as his own and unable to rescue. “This will pass and he will be whole and friendships renewed, strengthened by our resolve and sacrifices.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “And your love makes all these things better. Abide with him, for I will let him go soon.”
Soon became first light and Aragorn and Gimli were witnesses. There were no words, no deliberation between them, as if each understood the next course. Legolas rose from his cot and his voice was steady to greet the sun. When he took Arwen’s hands within his own and kissed them, she closed her eyes. Some tenuous connection parted and they each trembled very slightly, almost surprised by the feeling. And though the archer watched her walk away until lost from view, Arwen did not look back.
Legolas was quiet and did not meet their gaze. Gimli brought wine and he sipped only thrice. His fingers could not hold the cup and he scowled at them, betrayed, glanced at Aragorn as if seeing him anew.
“Why are you still here?” said Legolas. “Gimli will stay with me—go and find Arwen and soothe her sorrow.”
“Arwen bid me to stay with you,” he returned. A hand on the archer’s shoulder picked up the bewildered hurt circling.
“Do not be foolish.” Legolas shrugged off his hand. “Pain is ever my teacher, but not hers. For once, you should not listen to the counsel of your Beloved. Go to her, wrap her inside your presence. Only one of us need suffer today.”
So Aragorn left his companions and sought long and far for the Queen. Faramir, watchful with his company near the Anduin, gave his counsel and Aragorn found her near the shoals, where the water rushed madly. She did not weep, but crept into his arms without argument.
“I’m only alive with you,” she said and Aragorn would have answered, but the words failed. He held her more fiercely and his kisses questioned, then pleaded. They spent the day beneath the trees and comforted one another.
19. The Gold and the Silver
“We are upon the Fourth Ring, King Elessar,” said Grór. He sipped strong tea laced with Dwarf rum, a dram of which rendered most men giddy as fools. Aragorn tasted it once and found it onerous; dark brewed and tasting of old metal. He staggered when he rose, however, and respected it thereafter. He asked for a flask to give Mithrandir, certain that the old Wizard would have a merry time and then curse him soundly on the morrow while he recovered.
“The Fourth? And did you surpass Tormald and get to the gate before he was ready?” asked Aragorn.
The stout Dwarf chuckled in his cup. “Aye, we did, but it was a near thing. We rounded the corner as his crew was coming the other way! We laughed, he and I, for we are kin these past eighty years and it has ever been a contest. I nearly stove his head in before he got his helm down, but I am straying…
“The Fourth Gate is sound and we left it whole. We replaced a few lengths of the East Wall where the breeze comes fierce around Mount Mindolluin. We raised the barrier to give men more shelter when the snow comes, for surely it drifts at that elevation before the restless wind. Some of the dwellings needed repair and one tower was altogether rubble and still standing. It was a curiosity for the younger Dwarves before they found the internal supports and discovered how it held to itself. It took them too long, so that was great fun.”
“Why great fun?” asked Aragorn sipping his own tea.
“After a hundred count, we pitch rocks at them until they figure it out! Slow-witted, those Dwarves under sixty years old!”
Aragorn tried not to sputter in his tea.
“We move swiftly now, for much escaped the reach of Sauron’s forces in the upper levels. All we find to delight our Stonewrights is the evidence of the long years without Dwarves tending this fortress. The Fifth Gate has been opened and smallwork is being done until the bulk of us have finished below.” The Dwarf looked sidelong at him. “It is the mind of the Stone Masters that the First Tier can be opened to the people, if you wish. As long as they are dutiful at keeping the Great Gate and the main road clear for the Dwarves to work, there should be no quandary”.
This Aragorn considered with hope, for the people had been in the open for months and the novelty had worn thin. Even the children were listless with the long days. After the blood and death of war, then the burning of carcasses and bodies for weeks, the Pelennor had barely recovered. Now, after the tread of so many feet, what little green there was had been crushed to listless brown.
“I would let them resettle their dwellings,” said Aragorn seriously. “They grow weary of the open plain and their spirits are low. It will be orderly and easily halted, for your workmanship must not be hindered. The winter comes fast upon the peaks and there is much to do before snowfall. We will be sending to Rohan for stores lest we endure the winter poorly.”
Grór nodded, drained the last sip from his mug and wiped his mouth with the trail of his beard. “We will not tarry the winter, King Elessar, for we miss the Dwarveholds. Take no thought to house us for when Minas Tirith is healed, we will return home.”
So Aragorn summoned counsel in the middle of the Pelennor and the Lords were cheered with his words. Ignilr and Rôthatur took charge of the dwellers of the First Tier, organized their households and lent their hands to assist. One by one, families gathered their belongings and made their way to the Great Gate. The King met them there and his smile was easy and his cheer a delight. The toddlers pulled on his fingers and touched the crown. Older boys waved stick swords though Aragorn did not draw his, content to feign defeat, which made them laugh.
He did not enter the city, however, and the people wondered, for the work of the Dwarves was marvelous. The walls of stone gleamed, the balconies were sound, the dwellings showed no evidence of the pounding of war. Even the statues had been repaired and several were carved anew, for the old Gondorians remembered the splendor of their images and gave detailed descriptions. The Master Carvers tooled long hours in wood, refining the images, before starting on the white marble. Everywhere, the scrollwork had been reworked and the high arches replaced. The Great Wall warding the City loomed as formidable and impregnable as they remembered and their fears fled. Where the stout folk passed, the men were free with their praise and thankfulness, and there was no conflict of passage between those who toiled and those who resettled their households.
At midday, in simmering heat, Aragorn heard the summons of Faramir and he came swiftly from his tent. Forty strong stood the Dwarf Lords and the gold and silver upon them gleamed as it did on the day they arrived. The King inclined his head before their authority and heard the nearest huff at him.
“Do not bow, King Elessar, for we are of one rank here. It is honor enough to meet as equals upon the field,” said Degnar and his voice rolled as thunder in a cloudless day. “We seek Gimli, Son of Glóin, together with his Elven friend, and would have you witness.”
“Gimli wards his fast comrade, for he is still mending from his ordeal beneath the White City.”
“This we know,” said another of the Stone Masters. “We have come to them, rather than summoned them to us.”
Aragorn wondered, but strode and drew up the side flap of the dwelling of the archer. Gimli was smoking and took the pipe from his teeth, surprised. Legolas pulled from dreaming and sat up, leaning slightly upon the chest near him for support. The scrutiny of the Lords of the Dwarves rested full upon them and none spoke.
“Give me your counsel, Durin’s Folk,” said Kár, the Eldest. He leaned on the haft of an axe nearly as tall as he was. The marks of battle scarred the iron handle repeatedly; a testament to this grizzled Dwarf’s status. “I will hear the full of your minds.”
“Long have the Folk of the Mountains dredged the Earth and brought her riches into our storehouses,” solemnly spoke Grór of the Misty Mountains. “We have counted the jewels, the gold, the silver and mithril as things of value and spent our lore and energy to have them. Long were the years we dwelled apart from the races of men and of Elves and our mistrust of them built itself into a wall of obsidian.
“But a new thing blooms where it has not in all our memory, for not even The Eldest lived during the old alliances. We have a Dwarf of no small stature in our midst, and he has named an Elf as friend. Such a friend that he trod beside him through long miles and travails, and has put down his hunger to build in order to ward him in his hurt. And this we would forgive, for he is but young yet, and the young are ever foolhardy.” Grór eyed Gimli, almost as a dare, but Gimli was wise and kept silent before the voice of his Lords.
Degnar of Barrindar Pass spoke next and he aimed his comments at Gimli. “Your words were honest and moved us in our deep halls for the plight of Minas Tirith. Your sire gave your voice heed and we came to see the City of Kings, carved long ago and left bereft of her makers. In coming, we committed to make this great work whole, regardless of the men who lived herein or the King who ruled them.
“And this is a mystery, for we found the people humble and respectful, and a King worthy to govern, thinking it a privilege granted to him for a little time. He has given us honor and revered our sacrifices, listened and taken our counsel willingly. In him is the best of all Men, for he is noble and recognizes his place in the circle of the world. And he calls this same Elf-Kind friend and so deep a friend that he would gamble his life to save him.”
“I also attest,” said Glóin of the Lonely Mountains, “that Legolas came into darkness to comfort one of our own in his suffering, thinking little of the danger to himself. And he put himself in our hands, even when his fears troubled him and we gave him Hathal wine to steady his mind. He trusted us with his life, for easy would it have been to do him harm in the dark depths of the Earth.
“I would speak for the dead,” growled the dark voice of Oláin Ironshield. “Garl Rockblighter found him worth the risk to rescue, sight unseen, for he knew of Ferin’s torment and that one of the Sons of the Morning comforted him. And well do all know the fear of the Fair Folk for the depths in the ground, the silence of the Earth … yet this one came, despite dread, and suffered the darkness. The Little Giant rendered his judgment and was content to die rather than abandon the Elf and live.”
Kár tamped the shaft of his great axe upon the ground and it shivered the sod. “Wordy are you youngsters!” he growled. “Think you that I have all the time in the day? We are on the Fifth Tier and night closes fast.” He scowled over his white beard. “Who else deems Legolas of the Elves worthy besides the dead who speak not?”
“Ferin Bloodhammer. His writ of testament lays on the black sand near the Anduin,” said Tolma. A murmur of assent sounded behind him in agreement.
“The Master of the Citadel holds him worthy, and I hold the King’s wisdom as worthy,” said Degnar.
“I hold the Elf worthy, for Gimli tells of his fortitude in battle and that he saved the Bearers of the Ring more than once.”
Silence fell after this final statement from Glóin and they waited for Kár to speak. Aragorn was thoughtful and silent, mystified by this long discussion.
“The Stone Masters have spoken and declare he is worthy,” said The Eldest, stirring into speech. “By counsel and my decree, Gimli, Son of Glóin, has earned his Mark, for it was in the hearing of Dwarves that he spoke the words and he was heard true. The friendship of Legolas is the greatest treasure he has ever found. So we have debated and assert the treasure worthy of a Find. May the judgment of Aulë the Smith, maker of the Seven Fathers of Dwarves, and Ilúvatar, who granted us life, stand witness of our decision.” The grizzled Dwarf looked at Gimli. “Name the time and we will prepare for you.”
None was more surprised than Gimli, but he was only a moment to answer. “At dawn, when the sun breaks the horizon.”
“Send word through the White City and our encampment; Gimli is hammered at sunrise,” ordered Kár. “Now—to your crews!”
The Eldest made to turn, but Gimli put forth his hand and took the haft of the axe in his fist. “And what Mark shall I wear, Eldest of Durin’s Folk?” he asked. His voice was solemn if a bit unsteady.
Kár said nothing at first, but then reached past Gimli and took a lock of the archer’s hair beneath a finger. “Gold, Gimli, the Fairest of the Earth. Long did the Masters wrestle with this judgment, save for myself. I remember the tales of the Ancient Days and the formidable allies to be found in the First Born. You have started trust anew, as it once was in the First Age. Gold it shall be, for such is the Elf-kind in sunlight.” And then the old Dwarf turned and stalked off with the great axe swinging.
“Gimli,” said Legolas and then nothing more, for his friend was overwrought and hid his face. Aragorn stepped close and put a hand upon the Dwarf, then caught the archer by a shoulder and gently pushed him to lie down for his color had drained quite away.
When dawn drew nigh, the Dwarves came for Gimli and Degnar smiled at the King and Queen who stood watching. “The archer must come, for he is part of this, and you must come because you are each part of him and we permit it.”
So Legolas rose and walked the long path to the Dwarf encampment. And sometimes he leaned a bit on Gimli and sometimes a bit upon the King and no one said anything of his frailty or the way his breath caught. Degnar made a place for the archer to sit near a brazier of fire.
A Dwarf Aragorn did not know tended the fierce blaze and spoke not a word. The sky lightened, cloudless and hued from pale blue to deep azure. Silent Dwarves gathered, ringing them until the throng was thick, all of them watching the heavens.
Grór came, and Oláin Ironshield with him. Dórma and Kúzan as well, the sons of Dain. They took Gimli and bared his chest, binding the thick beard over his shoulder with silver pins. Then they reclined him on a pile of blankets near the fire. Kár, the Eldest, stepped within the close circle flanked by Glóin. The ranks of Dwarves parted for them and swallowed the path just as quickly. The silence was unsettling for such a vast hoard and the sun drew near the horizon line with every eye upon it.
“Have you words?” asked Kár, leaning upon his axe.
“Is the fire hot?” returned Gimli.
“It is hot, hot as the belly of The Kettle,” said the ring of Dwarves.
“Is the spike fired?” asked Gimli.
“Fired red, red as the dragon’s blood,” said the ring of Dwarves.
“Then I am ready.”
“Will you have a sip of rum?” asked Kár.
“No,” returned Gimli, but he surprised them and said, “Give me your hand, Legolas.”
Aragorn grew apprehensive, for the archer’s fingers were unhealed and he remembered the Dwarves setting Gimli’s broken leg and the brawl to do it. And here gathered a great throng for this event, all of them brawny and eager. But Legolas had not seen this and he put his broken hand within the power of Gimli’s without hesitation and the Dwarf closed his fingers over the top of it.
It was all happening too quickly and the King had no time to voice his fears, for just then a sliver of the sun peered over the rim of mountain and touched the top of his head.
“Now,” said Kár.
“Now!” said the throng circling them.
The Dwarf tending the fire picked a great spike out of the embers with his tongs, glowing bright as the crawling sun. He seized Gimli’s left breast with his fist and lifted, and at the same time plunged the bolt of fiery iron behind the heavy muscle until it pierced through the other side. There was a hiss of metal, a wash of stench, and Gimli tightened all over with a jerk ... but he made no sound behind his clamped teeth and his grip did not close over the archer’s fragile fingers. His dark eyes bulged, but remained steady upon his friend and Legolas watched, unflinching and unharmed, his own eyes wondering.
And then the Dwarf wielding the tongs pulled the spike out the other side and dropped it in the dirt. The fired iron was black, cooling quickly. In a blink, a nail of pure gold was forced into the cauterized piercing and it was done.
The throng roared and it was one great sound, startling birds. A cup of rum was brought for Gimli and he quaffed it in a gulp and laughed. Kár was shooing Dwarves away and back to work, prodding the slower ones with the haft of his axe. Oláin Ironshield barked for his crew and they called back to him and shoved lesser Dwarves out of their path to get to where their Master stood. There was a great clank of iron helmets when they thronged together, for spirits were high and the energy could not be contained. Oláin himself joined in the common welcome and he head-butted several so hard that they stumbled to a knee. Degnar pulled the blankets away from Gimli and laid them out behind the weary archer and bid him rest and none thought it strange that he did, for his frailty was obvious.
Thus Gimli joined the ranks of his sire and his sire before him, one of only a few Dwarves in the latter days to earn the privilege given by their own hand, and he was happy.
By morning, the second through the fourth levels of the White City were opened for the inhabitants and the majority of the Dwarves had ascended to the Sixth. The Pelennor Plain became choked with dust as the people relocated. Faramir wisely set barrels and troughs of water from the Anduin at each of the Tier Gates and the people washed their feet before ascending. Thus the white roads stayed reasonably clean with thousands of individuals moving through them. Older children chased about with wet blanket strips tied to sticks. For every mark of dirt or grime they swabbed away, they doused their comrades twice more and when they were unwary, the Dwarves dumped a bucketful on their heads from overhead. The raucous noise told where the participants were, though the Dwarves were never there when the children went to make their retaliation.
“They can walk straight through the stone and rock, you know!” said one child. “And when they die, they turn into great gems in the ground.”
The Steward thought it all great fun, even when he was inadvertently doused a few times. Éowyn was humored by his sodden appearance and refused to kiss him, but at the tunnel leading to the Third Tier, she was caught between children and emerged bedraggled and laughing. Faramir kissed her soundly and the people watching through windows caught them and banged their iron pans, a token gesture in Minas Tirith for lovers who met with approval.
With the nobles’ patient organization of the returning families, there was little for Aragorn to do but watch. And he did, sitting by the Great Gate to welcome the dwellers back into the city. He brightened at the jubilation on their faces and held babies born out on the plain, blessing their first entrance into the City of Kings. Little tokens from toddlers piled up beside his seat; bright rocks, bits of cloth, a feather or two weighted by stones. One gave him a bright copper button strung on a string, another a tooth he had lost. One solemn girl gave him her tattered doll, as if he was a sentry who must be paid, and he took it just as solemnly. When her father’s wagon passed, Aragorn sat the doll in a likely basket with the bright button charm around its neck.
Duathir’s wife came with her chuckling boy-child of four months. Aragorn took him up and gazed into his eyes, for he had held this child on his birthing day and was present when he was named. An unspoken affinity rested between them and the King kissed him on the brow, smiled at the grasping hands that pulled his beard and handed him back. The people watched the wistfulness pass across his face and hoped for the day they would see their Lord with his own child.
None asked why the King himself did not ascend the white road. They remembered Aragorn tarrying until the time of his own choosing before being crowned King of The West and knew there was some reason why he lingered. Anticipation built. They set their households back in order swiftly and set a vigil upon the streets, watching for him.
Legolas regained his strength slowly, walking the open lanes until he wearied and then resting. Gimli was his constant shadow. Arwen brought him broths, but counseled the archer not to eat anything heartier. Legolas made no complaint. His features were sharper, the hollows of his face harsher, his silence dire. Aragorn watched the play of bones through the pale skin, took his friend’s shattered fingers within his own and measured the healing grimly.
“He is hungry,” said Aragorn. “Such fare we give him does little to speed his mending. His strength would be full by now, as would be all Elves.”
“I would not have him retching painfully,” said Arwen. “He must be fully healed within and even so, I will give him nothing but lembas for the first day.” She put a hand, suddenly tender, on Aragorn’s face. “Steady, my Heart. He is past all your fears and has outrun your worry. You are the one chafing, not he. When he breaks this fast his health will return swift as dove flight. We will quarrel and threaten to keep him resting.”
Aragorn snorted beneath his breath, humored. “I am counting on it.”
“He is a stubborn Elf,” laughed Arwen. Her smile was bright, as were her eyes.
Two days hence, they flanked the archer and watched him eat. Gimli tore the Elven bread into small pieces and poured broth over the top as if it was commonplace to do so. Every third bite, Arwen put her fingers across Legolas’ … a quiet reminder to eat slower. The play of emotion upon his face and the tremble of his hands were the solitary evidence of his hunger. Only one bowl did she permit him, but he did not ask for more. His eyes were uneasy, as if even the small amount he had consumed was unsettling.
“Have you starved before?” inquired Arwen.
“Once,” Legolas returned. “It was long ago, but I would not forget such.”
“Tell us,” asked Aragorn. “It will keep your mind busy.” He, too, had noticed the archer’s restlessness and remembered his own ordeals of hunger and how disconcerting it was to eat again afterwards.
Legolas was quiet a moment. “It was midyear, when the Earth was hot. I roamed far into the Northeast Wilderland, along the rims of the Tagäth Mountain for I saw smoke rising and the carelessness of it during the dry summer spoke of Sauron’s deviltry. Dol Guldur and the Great River were lost from sight, though I did not go so far as to see the Sea of Rhún. I found an abandoned encampment with Orc-sign and a great score of bones, as if they had overtaken travelers and slew them to the last. The ground was foul with old blood and the grasses wept, speechless.
“I turned then, for I was alone and it was folly to attempt such a band alone. Two far range scouts saw me cross the open near the High Lands. And though I slew the one, the other sounded his war horn ere he fell to my arrow. Their company, eighty-two strong, gave me hard chase and drove me up the side of the Tagäth, where the trees dwell not, nor any living thing. And there they pinned me, unable to climb the face of shale higher and they, swarming madly below.” He paused with a sly look. “I was out of their bow range, but they foolishly were in mine and I took eight more before they fell back. They made camp and set fires in a ring about the rockface.
“Days marched past and my enemy neither left me, nor attempted the climb. They guarded me from below and I could not escape. The nights were frigid and the shale held no warmth to keep me from shivers. The days scorched vision and I hid from the sun to endure the heat. They called at me from below, offering water and food if I would come down to them. I did not answer, but my circumstances were dire and worsening.” His eyes were serious. “I ate anything that moved, stripped what leaves grew on shrubs. It rained once and I lapped every drop from every dip of rock before the sun took it.”
His gaze drifted, settled on Aragorn. “I knew I would not survive another three days upon the heights. My mind was becoming unclear. I would tie my left wrist at night, lest I be tempted in weakness to their promises of water. Finally, I decided my own ending on the day of my choosing, before my mind became completely unstable, for I still had my knives. But then the company abandoned their long wait and withdrew, though they left with cursing. Some summons had called them away.
“I waited hours before coming down. Starvation kept my pace sluggish. I crept all day down the sloping heels of the mountain and into a grove. There, the trees roots grew deep to reach the water, but there was none for me and I staggered, fainting, and sat.” He smiled. “Something hit me and bounced away, jolted me from my weakness. An apple! Not large and not sweet, pocked with worm holes, and a joy to find! Before I finished it, another hit me and I looked about for the cause of this fortune. There was one lone apple tree amidst the quiet greens, and she was tossing what fruits she had left. A piteous fare and she said as much, but it was a feast! I sat as long as I dared, eating, thanked her and went on my way. There are four of her now, growing wild in the Forest of Mirkwood, for I took one apple to plant. Thus she dwells forever amidst plenty and in the company of the Fair Folk.”
Aragorn nodded at this long tale and Arwen was thoughtful. But Gimli took his pipestem from his teeth and asked curiously, “Why didn’t you come down to make war while your hands were able? You would choose death by your own hands amidst the dry rocks, Legolas? This is a surprise!”
The archer was calm, but truthful. “They did not want me dead, friend-Gimli. They would take me alive if they could, for Orcs originally were of my own ilk. They were once Elves, twisted and corrupted by Melkor’s mage-work before the First Age. You know him in legend as Morgoth, the First Dark Lord, and Sauron was but his lieutenant in the Wars of Beleriand. But when Morgoth was thrown down in the War of Wrath, Sauron took up his mantle. Severe would be my fate if they took me alive before Sauron, who delights in twisting purity into malevolence for his own enjoyment. I would rather leave my body dead and beyond their grasp than to fall into evil.”
Gimli scowled and was silent. Smoke curled about his face a long moment. “I do not fault your choice, then. A Dwarf would come down and fight, to die amidst many blades, but that was not a choice held forth to you.” He shook his head and the crimps in his beard winked. “Such ruins are those creatures. Nothing alive on the land weeps for their demise.”
“It is sobering to consider that not all of them are perished,” grimly said Aragorn. He flexed the fingers of his right hand, remembered gripping a sword hilt for hours upon end. “But they are scattered throughout the lands and have no Captain, so they wander, vagabonds and outcasts, until their days fail.”
“Tis a pity we do not have the forces to hunt them to the last, to make a full end of it,” grunted Gimli.
“I, for one, am glad for no more such ventures,” said Arwen. “I would have Aragorn here and the lands at peace. The remnant of Sauron’s forces skulk sorrowfully and full of terrors, for every blade and bow is against them.”
“Where is my bow?” asked Legolas suddenly and his three companions smiled.
“I did not deceive you, did I, friend Gimli?” laughed Arwen. “Did I not tell both of you that as soon as he supped, he would call for his bow? I should have placed wagers!”
“I would not have taken that bet,” seriously replied Aragorn.
“Your bow? Now, there’s the pity, for we have misplaced it!” teased Gimli and the look the archer shot him was dire. It only served to whet their amusement and chuckles ringed the little throng. But though they talked long into the evening, no one brought forth the great Galadhrim bow. When Legolas wearied into sleep, Aragorn sat sentry first and the Great Blade rested across his knees.
Firelight dotted evening.
When the sun touched the tip of the White Tower, the Stonewrights entered the High Court and the Place of the Fountain. Seven hundred twenty strong, the Dwarves held tight ranks and stood with their hammers and shovels quiet.
Faramir, clad in the cloak of his Office, went before them and all was as they had left it: the mirrored pool of the fountain, the slender White Tree, the long wall of the rampart. He circled the King’s Court, the Hall of Feasts, the inner chamber, gazed out upon the saddle linking the Citadel to Mount Mindolluin. The Throne Room lay quiet. Quieter still the Houses of the Dead, where his own father was placed. The only sound was the skree of a Winterhawk circling far above.
“Enter,” Faramir said and his voice was strong in the pale morning. “Here lies the heart of Gondor and the Great Hall of the King.”
The Dwarves spread through the topmost of the Great City and solemn were their faces. None disturbed the pool, nor drew near The Eldest of Trees. Their voices were hushed and their footsteps quiet, as if recognizing hallowed ground. And though they had come from throughout the land; the far Blue Mountains, the Black Hills, dark Enmor Vale, and the jagged topped Misty Mountains, they had slowly adopted common hand signs, for long had they labored in one great task together. Even the notoriously proud Darkrun Rim Dwarves and the quarrelsome Dain of Nônak Plateau had laid aside their differences. All fell beneath the rule of Kár, the Eldest, and no orders were shouted raucously across the open.
So upon the uppermost level of Minas Tirith and around the feet of the White Tower, Durin’s folk worked in near silence save for the ping of the mason’s chisels at their repair. They scattered through tower halls and counsel chambers, worked their way through the King’s House and across the mountain behind the tall tower. Rath Dimen, the Silent Street through The Hallows, was resurfaced. The great bath of Gil’bredtha had fast drained away and fifty-three Dwarves repaired the founts and reseated the tiles. The statues were scrubbed until they dazzled and the crumbled wall repaired. The rumbling fall of water that had been diverted away from the White City was restored and every fount throughout Minas Tirith sprang to life. Far below, the serpentine snake of the trench went dry.
When at last they came to the White Tower, glistening fifty fathoms high overhead, only the Stone Masters entered. They themselves saw to the Throne Room and the Seat of Kings. And it was Kár, the Eldest and Degnar of Barrindar Pass who ascended the upper levels and came to the hidden chamber of the King, where the pedestal of the Palantir rose barren in the center of the circle. What reparations they made, they did not say, and when they finally came down to Faramir, it was only to pronounce, “It is finished.”
Thus in the third month of summer on the seventeenth day, Minas Tirith was made whole and the Dwarves removed from the Great City. The remaining people of Gondor began to return to their dwellings and in two days, the Pelennor Field was empty of all save the Dwarf encampment and the King’s pavilion. On the third day, before light broke the horizon, Rôthatur, Keeper of the Storehouses, donned his crimson robes and descended from his house to stand in the Great Gate.
Then the Queen arose and ascended the white road and every hand was extended to aid her. She carried the sceptre of Annúminas in its inlaid box and the crown of silver upon her ebony hair glimmered as the Great River. A ripple of people bowing charted her course up the winding street, through the great keel of the Needle, and through the tunnel leading to the topmost Tier. The King was not with her, and the people wondered, searching the ivory road for him. But he was not to be seen.
Arwen attended her household quickly, quietly, and when all was settled, she came once more to the Court of the Fountain and walked the rampart clear to the embrasure. Here, where the vast spar of the Tarlonnein extended like the prow of a ship, she gazed out over the land. From this vantage, Osgiliath nestled beside the Anduin as a jewel and Mordor, silent and lifeless, filled the distance.
Legolas came with Gimli and though he was quiet and tired, his eyes were clear. He, too, looked out upon the Guarded City and field, watching. He smiled at the same instant Arwen pointed; both had seen a small flash of white at the edge of the river.
The guards of the Citadel were attentive when the Queen turned to look upon them. “Summon the King and stand ready to receive him, for swift are the hooves of his steed,” she commanded.
Promptly was the message dispatched and the horns rang from the rampart, one shivering note sounding over and over. The morning breeze caught the banner of the Lord of Men, a thousand feet above the plain atop the pinnacle of the White Tower, and snapped it full. When the sun crested the ridge and set the White City ablaze in pearl, the King galloped through the Great Gate and the steel shod hooves of Talemon clattered. Up and up and up the circling road they came, the ivory stallion’s tail streaming like a flag. The people shouted with one voice, a great roar of approval marking his passage.
Thus King Elessar was called in to the sound of silver trumpets and the sight of the banners a-wing overhead. The Son of Shadowfax, the Great, carried him to the Seventh Gate and Aragorn dismounted and dispatched the great beast to the care of the Horsemaster. Talemon went willingly, though his eyes were fiery and watchful.
Crowned and afoot, Aragorn strode the tunnel and emerged into a great throng. The trumpets fell silent and every head bowed. Arwen joined him and he kissed her, but then let her slip from his arms. The Steward warded the doorway of the Throne Room and the King ascended the steps to meet him. His robe swept the stairs and his footfalls were silent. For a moment they stood face to face, unspeaking.
“Enter your Chamber, Lord of Men, for all has been made ready for you,” said Faramir and he threw wide the great doors and stood aside.
Marble tiles, glistening as water, stretched away. The silver outline of The Eldest of Trees engraved in the floor reflected sun-lightning. The candles were lit and the flames were motionless, without breath. The arched ceiling gleamed gold, but it was a lesser light than the gems glittering from the carving on the end wall: the White Tree in bloom. Sun fell into the room in a great shaft, resting fully on the Throne and the Steward’s Chair. Onyx marble pillars framed vision and drew it down the long hall, lined with the statues of the Great Lords of Old.
And last in the stately procession of statues rested a new sculpture in its vestibule. The Master Carvers of the Dwarves had set their skill upon a slab of marble and Aragorn, Heir of Elendil, now took his place amongst his forebears. The scepter was in his hand, the Elfstone upon his brow, the crown held against his chest. But while all other Rulers stood, wielding their lordship in power, the likeness of Telcontar, Renewer of the Two Kingdoms, knelt on one knee. Instead of gazing proudly over the heads of all who entered the Throne Room, this Lord looked directly in their faces … for as the heart of this King was seen, so it was reflected in his likeness.
Down the throat of the Throne Room, King Elessar walked alone, his footsteps measured and his hands spread wide. His voice, singing, escaped the doorway and all those within hearing smiled, for their Master entered with thanksgiving in his heart and he could not contain his pleasure.
Faramir and Arwen, along with Legolas and Gimli, watched him. They saw his stride break and witnessed him falter at his own likeness. He reached to touch his own fingers, then the crown, then his brow. For an instant, there were two Kings reflecting from the floor and one smiled broadly, approving.
Then Aragorn rose to circle the Throne, brushing fingers across the polished granite. He rested his palm on the Steward’s Chair as he passed, ascending, the briefest gesture of respect and love. The dark robe swirled as he turned and the crown seized the sun, dazzled it into every corner. For only a moment, he sat the tall backed Seat of Kings and Faramir blinked, for the descendant of Isildur was splendid to behold and divine presence filled the room.
“And the King of Glory will sit judgment and rule fairly. A kingdom of peace he will establish, to his people and all races,” softly quoted Faramir. “The alter within him, a throne of light. Seven stars and seven stones and one white tree.”
“Yes,” said Arwen.
“A feast!” called the King, arising. “A feast for the Dwarves, who have made our City strong, and for the people, who have endured patiently!”
“A feast! A feast!” was the cry carried.
And King Elessar descended the steps and kissed his Queen, took Legolas’ arm in friendly greeting. Gimli was laughing for his heart was joyous. Faramir also drew close and they stood a moment all together, for the King’s eyes were full of tears and he was abashed. Arwen circled him with her arms and Faramir put his sword hand on Aragorn’s shoulder until he came back to his strength … then they went out to the Court of the Fountain and to the tumult of people.
20. Circle Dance
I walked the dawn on the morrow. The guards with their winged helms stood as still as the statues towering overhead and were absolutely silent. Denethor seldom spoke to them during his rule and they learned by his rages to pretend he was not there when he walked the Overlook. But I had taught a different lesson in the months following the ravage of Minas Tirith. When I met their eyes and gave my voice to them, then they were free to speak with me. I learned all the riddles of the White Tower and the hidden paths through King’s Hall from the guards; learned them as if I had lived here as a boy, squirreling through the secret passages in play.
But today I spoke not. So they spoke not. Today I needed silence and they gave it. Forty men of stone and their eyes rested not on me, but on the surroundings. Great leashed hounds, warding me.
Whispering wind through the Eldest of Trees, growing newborn beside the fountain. I knelt and touched the branches, thought of the coming winter winds and snow. And then the spring. And though the tree was small yet, perhaps blooms in the season of renewal. Blossoms herald the rebirth of Gondor’s kingdom and such would lift the hearts of the people.
A child of my blood would herald the same, but I chafed not. Elrond reminded me that Elf and Men took longer to conceive. And Arwen had seen him once; saw the son in my own likeness. Watched him run to me on the ramparts. I doubted not her vision, trusted absolutely. There would be an heir and my faith in this was absolute.
The parapet called me and I came, looked hundreds of feet down and hundreds of miles into the Great Surround. Swallows below me in a swooping flock and, briefly, my soul took flight with them, then returned. A barking dog joined with another. Someone shouted at them and they broke off. A rider came at a canter from Osgiliath bearing a report, but I was untroubled. The White City was whole and her people at rest.
Companies of Dwarves were spread upon the Rammas Echor, the ringwall circling the Pelennor. Even across the distance, their hammers flashed and the lever bars bristled.
Gimli, Son of Glóin, was upon that guard wall, I knew, for he led them. Fully two hundred Dwarves of various realms pledged fealty to him the day his Mark was hammered. To fall under the Lordship of a Dwarf bearing a gold Mark was a fine matter, I learned. I watched Gimli come into his Rule proudly—knelt when the Dwarves knelt in homage. If it were not for the suffering of the new spike piercing him, I daresay he would have been wroth with me for that. When he returned to the caves behind Hornburg, he would not be going alone.
Far to the West, the sky was open over Mordor. The sun came down into the broken land, touched the twisted knife-edge of mountains. Someday the green would replace the blackened hollows. Life conquering death and pestilence. For now, the forbidden land was empty. Empty, empty…
Empty as my stomach. The scent of bread waft on the breeze and I turned, then smiled, humored to see Arwen noiseless behind me. Nothing of the White City equaled her beauty, the raven of her unbound hair loose around her shoulders. I blinked, smitten.
“My Heart,” she said, peering into my eyes. “You did not break your fast? I brought honeycakes.”
We ate them on the balustrade, with the soft sky all around us. She poured milk and we dipped the bread together, chased crumbs, licked our fingers. Sweet honey was nothing compared to her kiss, her fingers that twined in the hair on the back of my neck. And she left me wanting more, like treats that children hunger for after they are full.
“I would ask a favor of you,” she said.
“I will give you anything.”
“Ahh, you are a foolish King to promise so boldly before knowing,” she laughed. Her eyes were enchanting and I watched them.
“You are not speaking to the King,” I said. “Just me.”
“I would ask both King and you.”
This was curious and I caught her face in my hands, felt the skin soft as ripe peaches. “Ask then, for I listen.”
“I would like the Dwarves to build a circular wall behind The Hallows, where the City meets the mountain. The soil is rich and dark and I would like a garden grove planted inside the protection of the walls.”
“You may have a garden, Beloved,” I answered softly. “You need not ask such a thing—just command it done.”
“Nay, my Heart.” Her hands went still upon mine. “This garden will be unlike those of mortals, of Men. It is not meant to grow sustenance or crops. It will be a holy place, planted for a single purpose and consecrated for that end.”
This I understood instantly. Rivendell had such a place and I was forbidden to walk there. A high walled garden of trees with a carven gate, a sanctuary to all Elves. Lord Elrond went there, pale and quiet, when I told him Arwen and I had plighted our troth. I sat long hours outside the boundary, distressed, caught between my love for the Evenstar and the pain I caused my foster father. He emerged calm and tranquil, as if some healing balm had touched his troubled soul. Lothlórien had a holy place as well, though my eyes had never beheld it.
“Yes,” I said. “Tell the Dwarf Masters exactly how you wish it built and I will see it done. Will you plant it or can men help you before it is consecrated?”
“Legolas will plant the grove for me,” she said. “It will be a haven for him as well, until he leaves the land and sails.”
The thought made my breath catch as swift as a blade set in me. “For him as well…” I said softly. “The Dwarves have been feasted and now repair the boundary wall. We must go down to them to make your request ere they make to depart.”
“You need not go.” She placed a hand upon my arm. “I will ask them and they will build or no on my wishes alone, for such is not commanded. It must be done for friendship and affection, lest the garden fail its purpose.”
So Arwen went alone to the plain and I watched her progression, for the people called to her on the streets and she dandled children and petted hounds and laughed with bright young women along the way. She sat an hour to listen to the chatter of a circle of elders who were patchworking a great quilt upon their knees, for such are the real tales of any city revealed. Arwen was wise, and wise was I to hearken to anything she had to say.
Faramir abruptly appeared at my elbow and leaned over the banister to smile down.
“She very much dwells in your heart, Aragorn,” he said. “For you have not moved for hours and the guards have not changed the watch while you tarry.”
I laughed, bemused at my own thoughtlessness, but the Steward’s voice did not mock when he continued, “So is my own heart pulled with invisible strings throughout the day.”
“Ahh, Éowyn the Bold, Daughter of Kings,” I said knowingly. My hand took his shoulder in a strong grip. “We have feasted a feast for the Dwarves to last us for two months, but another can be made in gladness within a twoday or three. I would see you wed, my friend, and tell Éowyn to weave blue ribbons all around your head to let the maidens know you are betrothed.”
Faramir’s gray-blue eyes were serious. “Perhaps I should ask her first, my Lord?”
“Ha!” said I. “She will not refuse—she will chide you for tarrying!”
“The people were unhoused and I lived rudely in open air or in Osgiliath. A tent of soldiers is no place for the Shieldmaiden of Rohan,” he replied with a sigh.
My words were gentle, but direct. “Love cares not the dwelling, nor the state of living. Love only wants the lover and until then, the heart calls across the distance, seeking and wanting. It yearns for the circle to be made whole and join the great dance of all living things. Methinks you have tarried overlong, believing she wanted finery.” I put my hand upon his breast piece where the ivory tree was wrought in thread. “Finery she has always had, glory she has obtained at great cost … but love, love is what she desires the most.”
“And that she shall have, overflowing and abundant!” he said, and his greatclock slapped me as he turned. “I will send you the word!” he called over his shoulder, as if I was merely an afterthought.
An afterthought—and I would have it no other way. My heart was glad, here on the highest rampart of the City. Gladder still in late afternoon, the sight of a great throng of Dwarves entering the city once more.
Thus on the far saddleback of Mount Mindolluin a new work was raised and the Dwarves built with a care both for the wishes of my Queen and of the placement beyond the Silent Street, for it was holy. They were quiet and reverent and covered their heavy boots with cloth lest they leave dirt upon the roadway.
And though the great oxen from the caves brought the stone up to the Sixth Tier, they did not ascend to the Seventh. The Delvers of the Deep carried the rock by hand, some of them taking a single rectangle of stone upon his back and bearing it alone. Such was the fearsome strength of the Men of the Mountains.
To my wonder, there was no metal used at all in the raising of the garden wall. They built with old tools; tools entirely of stone and wood, bound with leather. I took one up in curiousity and considered its age, for the handle had been worn through several layers by the grip of a Dwarf hand.
Gimli came and his beard was braided tight to keep it out of the way. I was pleased to see him amongst the workers. He was carrying a boulder of quartz nearly the size of a millstone in one hand and stopped beside me. The fact that his arm trembled not reminded me of his strength. Gimli was a formidible Dwarf and this I had always known. His eyes were furnaces, brilliant with the thirst to build.
I asked him of the tools they used and this he told me:
“The Queen’s Garden Grove must be raised without smelting or forge fire; without metal tools created by Men or Dwarves or Elves. A thing of Earthen power, built with brute strength, and shaped and carved by stone itself. We build as we once did long ago; before iron, before steel, before Elves knew we were upon the world,” he said. “This will be a sanctified place. Dwarfs will shape the raw stone and the First Born will shape the living things and so it shall be made whole, a perfect circle, the image of Middle Earth when Aulë first spoke it into being.” Then he strode away and his footsteps were heavy with nearly twice his weight.
The Stoneworkers studied each great boulder at length before setting the maul against it and striking … and each one split precisely along its natural fault line and was set carefully into place. Ferin Bloodhammer was a sight of joy, for his eyes were bright and he climbed the rising wall like a goat, touching every rock as if questioning.
There were no straight lines upon the high wall; it dove and curved like elegant script ten to twelve feet overhead. Along the upper edges, seemingly at random, scalloped rocks protruded. I studied them, wondering, and it was Legolas who revealed the purpose.
“Every bowl will catch water and sunlight. Trailing moss will grow and creep tendrils along the face of the stones—this shall be a place of verdant green and living things behind the silent tombs of the dead.” He watched the busy builders a moment. “The Dwarves build for endurance and the rampart on the mountain side is six feet at the base. This quartz and basalt comes from beneath Minas Tirith and has never been touched by sunlight. Until they bring it up into the day, they know not what note it sings and they must hear it in order to weave one great song of power to hold the wall against the strength of Mount Mindolluin. The strongest force of nature will not conquer this glade.”
“The stone sings?” I asked wonderingly.
“Ferin tells me it does, though I cannot hear it,” said the archer. “Dirt and rock do not speak to such as I, a creature birthed into the green. But Durin’s folk hear it as clear as their own hearts. When they finish, the rock will hum as it hums in the earth below the Guarded City. Such, say the Dwarves, cannot be conquered by anything of nature above.” He gazed up at the wall overhead. “Quake or landslide will not overtake these stones, for the lowest note of the song they craft is one of the Old Powers, undying and unending, the strongest in the depths of Middle Earth.”
I was silent, awed anew. Such was the mystery of the Masters of Stone, who could harness such forces and reset them whole in another place.
“In a thousand thousand years, when the City of Kings wears to nothing, this garden wall will still stand,” I whispered to myself.
But I had forgotten Legolas’ Elven ears, for he glanced at me. “Not so, Aragorn. Ferin has reset the First Wall and the Great Gate himself. And he walked the level of the Citadel, even to the apex where it drops 700 feet to the ground, listening and shifting stones. What Ferin builds, endures, as did Degnar tell us. He is their finest Listener. Did you forget he entered the House of the King and the Throne Room? Though he did say that the White Tower is designed to hold its own note and needed no tending…”
I was silent, remembering climbing the turret to the top of the tower with the Seeing Stone of Númenor. I replaced it on the pedestal and left it covered, unwilling to look upon it after my encounter with Sauron through it. Such had left me dazed and in pain, though I told my companions not.
“The ground and grass whisper of a great work,” the archer said. “As if they know the plan before we have accomplished it....”
I turned to look at him. “Arwen tells me that you will plant this grove.”
His eyes were calm. “I will, though I am unready. When I can draw the bow, it will still be months before I am fit for this task.”
I took up his hands in my own. “The fracturelines are gone, but your tendons pull and hurt. Even if you have the power to draw the bow, do you have strength to string it?”
“Nay, Aragorn,” he said, sighing. “And I will little try, for Gimli has hidden my bow until Arwen gives consent. Thus do others determine what I shall do and and vex my patience.”
I glanced at him, humored. “That sounds like being a King, where counsel is held for every decision great and small and I am forced to attend despite my earnest desire to snore through all the talking.”
Legolas laughed and cheer was restored. The sun went down in fire on new white walls.
Faramir came at dawn and I was robed and barefoot, barely awake. A cup of tea steamed in my hand, became unsteady when I saw him, for the blue ribbons were tied in his hair and I was overcome by both mirth and joy. Surely my tears were for joy.
It was as I suspected, Éowyn was delighted to be betrothed to Faramir … and then was swift to harry him for his long wait to ask her. He laughed to retell the way her eyes flashed and I was reminded of those same eyes over a short sword in Theoden’s Hall. I knew again what I knew then: she was a woman of beauty and remarkable fortitude … but my heart then, as now, held only one face, one voice. Yes, I thought. His calm strength and her fiery will are a good match, for they balance each other. I said as much aloud and sipped my tea.
“Wed us soon, King Elessar, for I cannot wait,” said he.
Calm strength, indeed. But this I did not say.
Nor did I say it when Éowyn caught me in a hallway and inquired how soon everything would be made ready for their joining. I do not remember my answer. Her eyes blazed like beacon fires, though they remained the same blue as a mountain lake.
The people of Gondor rescued me, for word came up to the Main Hall that the wedding was to take place at noon the following day. We kept Faramir late at cards and drink and the men made merry at his expense, for he was wound up tighter than a young stallion in a stable of mares. Some of their jokes nearly sparked a riot and I learned more about my Steward and his brother Boramir’s antics in a single night than I had learned in the past six months. We stumbled him off with his guards in the wee hours and I asked Arwen if I was as nervous and rattled as he was on my Day of Vows.
She did not answer; she only looked at me. I laughed at myself and curled up in her arms. At dawn, I had the banners of the Steward run up on every rooftop and the pennants flew gloriously.
Faramir came in his gray mantle of Office and the silver clasp of the robe shone. His eyes were bright and fixed on the future. The promise of his wife, and her love, and perhaps children. Long had the hounds of war hunted this one and this day, all was lifted from his brow. If ever a man prayed for Boramir’s eyes to look from the Heavens, it was myself standing in the arches of the White Tower facing his younger brother.
Éowyn came in a gown of pure lambswool with long flowing sleeves. I blinked when I saw the bodice, for Arwen had been stitching gold thread and pearls through it for nearly two months. Such is the wisdom of women, who see a thing and know it true before it happens. She was radiant and all her smiles were for the soft-eyed Steward.
It was my delight to share the cup, to bind their hands together and guide them through their ceremony. Arwen sang and every note hung like a crystal in midair. When they knelt before me for their vows, Faramir’s voice was a trifle unsteady and Éowyn’s absolutely certain, but it was she who cried when he swung the cloak over her shoulders, signifying taking her into his household and his protection.
Suddenly I remembered extending my hand to Arwen as she ascended the staircase to my side on our Day of Vows … how warm her fingers were, how she never missed a single step in the iridescent gown of the Elves, trailing thirteen feet behind her. Her eyes did not leave my face, even when I laid the alabaster Cloak of the King around her shoulders. We were captive, one inside the other, willing.
So it was with Éowyn and Faramir, who lost all of us in the wonder of each other, that kiss of absolute fire in front of the Citadel. When he gathered her up in his arms, the cheering crowd parted like water and let them by. Thus they escaped the feast and all the guests and none of us minded. I sent the Captain of the Guard after them, to ward their doorway from mischief and I knew him to be a discrete man. There would be no idle tales of the new lovers circling in gossip.
“Do you remember our Day?” I asked Arwen amidst the multitude.
“I remember the passion like a whirlpool about our feet. Gandalf was humored by us, though he did not laugh.”
She did remember.
The feast lasted too long.
I was too hot beneath the wedding garments and the crown vexed me when I danced, gaining weight with every turn. Arwen persisted in stroking the small of my back, sliding her fingers beneath the tunic to bare skin. I kissed her neck instead of her mouth and wouldn’t leave her ears alone, so we were evenly tormented. The guards were amused. I suspected they placed wagers on how long we would linger at this feast.
It was hours before the guests dwindled and we finally escaped and ran down the wide hall of the King’s House and tumbled through the door of the King’s Chamber. Legolas had been there before us and I laughed, for he had poured two glasses of cool wine and sprinkled spice on the windowsill. He knew us both so well; knew the ardor of our own Day of Vows would be kindled anew. Sadly, the wine was warm before we drank it, but we drank it all the same.
It took seven days to build the wall of the garden for Arwen and she came and took my hand at the last, led me into the great circle. The uneven ground grew only grass and there were no birds. We walked barefoot and no rock or root tripped us. Dwarf shadows seemed to dance on the walls where they labored, closing the final span.
“What will you have planted, Beloved?” I asked.
“I have left it to Legolas to decide the grove.”
“He is not ready for the task.”
“This I know. Even when he is fit to draw the Great Bow, he will tarry the day until he is ready.”
I was perplexed and curious. “It is not a small thing to plant this grove, is it?”
“It is not. And I would help him, but a grove planted with two minds is not as perfect. He will have the full of it, for his vision is true. This place will be gloriously bright, a sanctuary and a refuge. When my kin forsake the land, and Rivendell and Lothlórien fail, Minas Tirith will house a great grove.” She looked into my eyes and, just for a glimpse, I saw her whole soul therein. The Lady of Imladris and of Lo'rien, Fairest of all Elves. Lúthien come to Earth, walking with me.
Surely my heart pounded for I could only whisper her name, “Arwen Undómiel.” And she kissed me, Queen and wife and lover, there in the center of the circle. When I came back to my senses, the Dwarves were silent, all standing atop the great wall. They enclosed us in a hoop of unbroken ivory stone.
Ferin Bloodhammer raised his voice to the sky, “It is complete!”
We left the garden. The gate with its curling Elven script and fantastic beasts and flora closed behind us soundlessly. I knew I would not enter there again, but such gave me little grief. A sanctuary of peace for the Elves was a small thing.
At the next Counsel, the edict of the King went forth that no living man was to set foot inside the gate of the Garden Grove, for it was the Queen’s and would be made holy, a haven for Elves alone. And though I would have set a high punishment for desecrating this place, Awen forbade. I saw her wisdom, for in the face of every man present was the watchful care and love for their Queen. A person inside the Garden would not long survive their vengeance and I need not lift any hand or make any decree to make it so.
Thus the Grove sat fallow and untilled beyond the silent streets of the dead—an empty place to fill.
21. Winterfall
Legolas called for his bow on a fallstormy morning and Arwen nodded her agreement. It was finally time. Gimli was quick to secure the beautiful weapon from the place he had secreted it and we watched quietly while Legolas inspected it tip to tip. His fingers flowed over the wood as if it were a long absent lover, coasting through every engraving in familiarity. To see him with it soothed my soul. But though he held it, he did not string it and this wearied my heart, for I knew he was not strong enough.
It was the same the morrow, though he closed his hand upon the curve of the bow until his knuckles went white. The ache in his tendons shifted to fire and my hand settled over his without volition. I only realized I had reached out when Arwen’s fingers curled over the top of mine, preventing me from making him well.
“Leave it,” she said, and though I chafed, I obeyed. Steady was her counsel and I trusted her wisdom.
Legolas, however, was without humor. I saw it in the flash of his eyes though he said nothing. He walked away and I let him go, for no words of comfort were adequate for this wait. I remembered again my own impotent anger at being left behind to mend after a battle, when a simple draught to cover my pain would have let me fight with those leaving. No words of comfort by the healers of Lord Elrond could quell my indignation as a youth.
I watched Arwen coast after him and placed my trust in the powerful harmony that remained betwixt them since Legolas’ soul was made whole. They went all the way to the balustrade and idled there a few steps apart. Sunlight was an ill shaft between them and the stance of the archer bespoke his irritation. But presently he threw it off, as I knew he would, and took her hand. They stood in the waning day, tall and flawless and utterly still as their kind manages, needing no words to speak and no gestures to carry the weight of their emotions.
“Quickly now,” Arwen said to me at supper. “Legolas will have his bow strength and then he will range far, hunting, and fight on the black sands of the practice field. Men who have boasted these past weeks will be silent and limping, nursing their egos and wounds.”
I laughed, eager for the complaints to begin and certain that I would be one of those complaining.
It was two more days before Legolas took up the bow and this time I saw the icy calm of his eyes. Today. I knew without having to see the act: today.
Gimli was with us and Arwen came to a balcony overhead as if drawn by some inner voice. And while others watched his movements, I watched for his pain and found only determination. The same willpower that kept him tireless over leagues of running, kept arrows a-wing beyond the strength of men’s bow arms, brought him ceaselessly through implacable foes. He strung the Great Bow and the string hummed beneath the stroke of his thumb. It fell into my soul as if my heart answered it, so great was my yearning to see him whole.
One arrow was discarded because of some infinitesimal warp in the feathers. A second was also placed aside, though my eyes perceived nothing amiss. The third, Legolas took up and notched, stood gazing out over the top of Minas Tirith. Then, with a long pull of arm and perfect stance, the arrow was awing with barely a hiss. It shot out of sight down the wall, faster than the eye could follow, but Legolas smiled for he heard it speak when it hit.
“Where?” I asked, my joy sailing as far as that gliding arrow.
“Faramir’s door, for he is slothful of late,” returned the archer.
“He is newly wedded, foolish Elf!” said Gimli. “You shall be in trouble now!”
Two hundred yards down, the single arrow protruded squarely from the door of the Steward’s home. And Faramir himself came and swung it wide, incredulous, then looked up the city wall to see us. He laughed, and it was faint from the distance and I laughed back, delighted both with Legolas’ success and with the Steward’s good humor.
“I will not be in trouble with Faramir,” said Legolas. But just as he spoke, Éowyn came to the doorway and looked up at us.
“I wasn’t referring to Faramir,” said Gimli smugly.
I was highly entertained by Legolas’ interesting expression. He was a long time in descending to retrieve that arrow and we chided him the whole hour. When he returned, he said nothing of the encounter at the Steward’s door and none of us asked.
The Dwarves marched on a cloudless day and three thousand souls came to see them off. Never had the Men of the Mountains been kissed by so many fair women. Nor had soldiers salute them in such a throng. The trumpets sounded mournfully. Children cried. Older children marched along with them, chests puffed out and chins tucked in. The Dwarves smiled at their imitation and passed off trinkets they had smelted. The sound of hand-spun bells soon heralded every youngster.
I walked with them, crownless, choosing to be just a man who honored their grueling labor. It was hard to see them go, these whom I had come to know so well: Degnar, Ferin, Glóin, and Kár, the Eldest, who took my grip in a clench so fearsome, I worried that he would break my fingers. And quiet Oláin Ironshield, who looked me up and down from beneath his obsidian helm as if measuring my worth before saying, “Call upon the Iron Mountain if you have need. We will come.”
“But not soon,” added one of his followers.
I looked questioningly at Oláin, who smiled fiercely back.
“Durin, Son of Thorin Stonehelm, fourteenth from Durin the Deathless has taken up the mantle of his sire. He has petitioned the Dwarves of every realm to march to Khazad-dûm and take back our ancient kingdom and I have answered. We will conquer the Goblins until there are none living therein. Durin VII will be King under the Mountain when we succeed. And we shall succeed, for we have built for months and our hands hunger for the war axes and the blood of those who slew our kin.” He clicked his teeth together with a snap.
“HA!” said the dark helmed company around us.
“Baruk Khazâd!” Oláin shouted, and then again, sharp and clear, “Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd aimênu!”
Around us, thousands of voices rose and the cry spread across the field of marching Dwarves, “Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd aimênu!” The strength of their roar threw the claxon call against Minas Tirith and it ricochet back like low thunder, ominous and potent.
Suddenly I could see it within my mind: the darkness, the dry scent of stone and foul air, the heavy gates of the ancient Stronghold giving way before the rightful owners. A thousand thousand Dwarves, perfectly at home in utter black, scrambling down trembling staircases over half-league precipices, boiling through every chamber with axes in each hand. Maces and chains and the half moon scythe blades, the black leather shields with jutting iron spikes. And Oláin Ironshield with his war hammer, and his crew armed with their longpikes with serrated blades. Ferin, The Listener, soundless and deadly and bloodstreaked. Vadir of Grey Mountains, who could scale any wall with his handpicks and find a way across every abyss. And Kár, the Eldest, in perhaps his last great battle, calling the play of combat with his axe singing death. The war would be bloody and fearsome and protracted … and for just an instant, I longed to go with them, to be once more Strider, the hunter, the vengeful wind with my face set against evil.
My hand ached sweetly. I had seized the haft of Andúril and gripped it tight. I let it go … dropped my hand. This was not my course, this march to Durin’s Realm. My place was here, with a city facing the winter with meager stores.
“Will you go, Gimli?” I asked, for my friend strode beside me.
“I do not know,” he replied, but his eyes watched the great throng of the Dwarves as they streamed rank upon rank into the mass on the move. “I would gladly join them to take the East Gate near the Mirrormere, for when I last beheld Kheled-zâram, it was in sorrow after Gandalf fell.” He sighed. “But Legolas is not to his full strength and I will not leave him.”
“Surely you believe him safe here,” I returned.
“Harrumph,” snorted the Dwarf. “It is not about his being safe; it is about him coming to fight with us! An Elf who can kill nearly as many Orcs as a Dwarf is a Find, indeed!”
“Nearly?” chided the voice of the archer from somewhere to my left. “I thought we had settled that count correctly and here you are telling tales again? You have breathed too much rock dust, my friend.”
I chuckled at the insult riddled exchange that commenced. Degnar of Barrindar Pass took up a chant beside me and soon the footsteps of every Dwarf kept pace together and they decended the slope to the Anduin. It was low, this being the final stretch of summer, and the wagons crossed easily.
“Will you go?” I asked again of Gimli, for his gaze at his kin was pierced with longing. “You know that I do not hold you, friend, and I heard you speak it beneath the White City; you desired to help take back the Kingdom of Dwarves from the fell beasts that held it.”
“Of course we are going,” said Legolas. “I finished my second bow and packed last night. Ashra is fit for the journey and is willing, though Talemon will vex impatiently while he is gone.”
“You packed?” demanded Gimli. “Why did you not tell me you were able and willing for warfare?”
“Why must I tell you what you already know?” chided the Elf. “I am always willing—and if my bow is in my hand, I am ready! But do not fret your simple mind, Gimli; I packed for both of us.”
“Simple mind? Packed for both of us? What wine have you been sipping, foolish Elf!”
The vociferous exchange roiled near me, full of sound and fury and signifying nothing. I smiled, raised an eyebrow at a particularly strong barb from Gimli, but never let my stride falter.
“Are they always this quarrelsome?” asked Glóin of the Lonely Mountain, sidelong.
“Nearly always,” I replied. “If they are not, then that is cause to worry.”
“Ahh,” said he. “Then I shall not worry.”
“Gimli!” barked Kár, the Eldest. “Have you your axe and helm?”
“Always,” said he.
“Then you are packed as well! Come, and may the edge of your blade feast on the blood of our foes until it is slaked!”
So Gimli marched with the Dwarves and those who pledged themselves to him were swift to seize their weapons and follow. Legolas rode and Ashra slowed his long stride to keep the pace of the march. Behind the white stallion, the quiet gelding Gimli had ridden to bring the Dwarves came and his back was laden with rolls of blankets, each of which was full of arrows. The archer had indeed packed.
At the Great River, I knelt on one knee and said my final farewells to the Stone Masters. They gave no gifts, for they knew I would have refused; the White City was restored—that was gift enough. I had no gifts save my thanks, of which I gave in abundance, and each Dwarf Lord put his open palm against my brow as he passed.
Kár, the Eldest, was last and he placed both hands atop my head and blessed me by the Powers of Earth and the Seven Fathers of the Dwarves. Then he spoke the Old Tongue harsh as dry metal and every Dwarf bowed as far as the eye could see. I felt again the fearsome power of this race, which only Dragons and Balrogs could overthrow.
And then, the last—my friends. How my soul longed to take part in this adventure, but I knew it could not be. Gimli muttered and the fierceness of his clasp lingered long after he released me. Legolas merely nodded over our grip of arms, but the affection was in his gaze. He gazed over the top of my head at the White City for a moment and the lights kindled in the deeps of his eyes. Arwen. I knew without asking and was sorrowful that she was not here to bid them goodbye.
I watched them all disappear into the dark forest and felt absolutely bereft. Winter was months away, but it fell in my heart there on the rocky shoals. I stood long on the embankment before turning away.
The walk back to Minas Tirith stretched twice the distance. The company of men with me picked up my solemn mood and held their tongues. Talemon came and nudged at me until I rode. He was fey and boisterous, successfully breaking my disposition. When I finally slid from his back at the Great Gate, he looked off to the thread of river and snorted.
“They will be back,” I said to him and scratched beneath his cascade of mane. “We will both miss them, but they will be back.” In my heart, the longing to go with them was replaced by uncertainty. Have I said my final goodbyes and not realized it? Talemon blew hot breath in my face then wandered away, for he was left free upon the Pelennor Field and answered to no man save myself.
Arwen was on the balcony of the King’s room, staring away across the distance to the mountains. I suffered a pang for her, felt my spirits swoop and dive. I was to be the one to tell her our friends had gone. Her eyes were calm when I picked her hands up within mine.
“Beloved,” I said.
“Why does trouble cross your brow, my Heart?” she questioned.
“Gimli has answered the summons of his kin and joined the long march to Dwarrowdelf. They will fight what Orcs and Goblins remain in the long night of Moria and free their lost kingdom.”
“Yes,” said she. “And Legolas went with him.”
“You know already?”
“He came when you were abroad on the Pelennor to give his farewell and ask my blessing. But even if he had left no farewell, I would know him gone for his soul has become like sunlight behind the clouds. But you, you hold a weight behind your gaze that was not there when you arose.”
“I will not deceive you,” I said, sighing. “Gimli wished to go, for this is his birthright, and Legolas would go, for the companionship, but I feel their loss as if wounded, for I did not expect this departure. But such is warfare, often springing upon you unawares.”
“They will return,” she replied. “Gimli, to dwell as Lord in Aglarond, the caves deep behind the Hornburg, as King Theoden bequeathed him before he fell. And Legolas also, for he vowed to plant the grove for me.”
Her faith was pure and devoted. I drew her near, rested my brow against hers.
“And if they fall in the dark of Moria, my Beloved,” I said very gently, wishing to share my private fear.
“They will not, for the prowess of Legolas is legendary and Gimli, Elf-friend, is formidable as the rampart of rock piercing this city. Wounds they shall carry and blows they will bear, but they will come alive into our keeping once more.”
She looked into my eyes and I became adrift in her certainty willingly. I did not ask from whence it sprang. Today, I needed hope, for my soul was lost.
“Here is the Queen comforting the King instead of the King being the comfort as he should,” I finally whispered.
“Pish,” she said and put her fingers against my mouth. “Such foolishness amongst mortals. Comfort comes from the weak or strong in times of need and you have carried the stress of these long months while we were all homeless; a weight heavier than the Crown of Kings.” Her hands circled on my back, soothing, but then she lifted her face to me. “I would bid you peace and rest from all matters, but we must turn our thoughts to the stores of Minas Tirith, for she faces the fall of winter thin as a hound.”
Rôthatur, Keeper of the Storehouses, gave his report to the counsel and though it was lean, it was not dire. We would fare the winter with rations even if we put no effort into our provisions. Ignilr and Kelsâi, a host of the other Lords of the City, were already ahead of my thoughts. One by one they stood and set forth their plans and their words were wise.
Every crew of free men was organized to harvest the fields near the Pelennor proper. What farmers had fallen behind in their threshing, the people would aide. Haradden, the pot spinner, had banded together companies of women and older children to glean behind the threshers. The Third Tier assumed the duties of the orchards and not a single fruit would be left to waste. Seven companies of woodsmen were already gone, riding the seaward side of the White Mountains to Lamedon and the far Pinnath Gelin to hunt. Robust Sidiän, with his black hair all in braids, had gathered every idle fisherman—they made for the mouth of the Anduin on the morrow with their nets and barrels of salt for curing.
I smiled and listened, sipped my wine, contributing nothing. I was well pleased with this counsel, for the Noble Born had stepped readily into governing sections of the White City and they did so with humility. As a servant I had come, and they had watched and taken lesson well. If harm befell the King, Minas Tirith would not be cast into chaos. Nor would the governorship fall harshly upon the shoulders of one man, as it had Denethor.
Thus all the people of The City applied themselves to the foodstores. Wheat was threshed in every courtyard and the sacks filled. The long fall grasses were scythed and tied to care for the horses. Fine bullocks were slaughtered and the meat jerked for keeping. The rooftops were covered with baskets of sliced fruits, drying. Every place of sod was planted with hardy greens for the winter and the groundhens multiplied like quickgrass and none complained. A fattened bird would be a fine meal during the oncoming cold months. Zîrianû, the Falconer, set his Greathawks into the wilds and they came bearing geese and mudhens by the score, for nothing awing save the Eagles could out fly such birds.
My Beloved was gone daily, for long hours, while I aided Rôthatur in organizing the bounty being brought in to store. I searched for her once, finding her with scores of women harvesting the tart fall apples. She was in the highest tree and my heart skipped to see the height to which she had clambered. She laughed down at my worried face and dropped an apple over my head that surely would have crossed my eyes if I had not caught it. Then she leaned for the next branch that hung out in space … and the branch reached back for her and two more sidled from their place to support her. I was promptly bemused by my thoughtlessness. Perhaps that apple should have fallen on my head, I thought to myself.
There were only women gleaning the apple orchards, and this was well, for I stared mesmerized up at Arwen. At her breasts that swung and bobbed as she picked. At the way her shift rode up her thighs when she reached. If there were other women harvesting in such alluring attire, I never noticed. I didn’t even notice when the women near Arwen’s tree smiled knowingly at each other and drifted away. I only knew that Arwen finished near the top and then swung herself down with an apron loaded with round fruit. At the very bottom, the tree curled a branch about her and sat her upon the ground like a child.
There were only women gleaning the apple orchards, and this was well. Arwen kissed me passionately and I had a hand up her shift and was halfway out of my trousers before it dawned on me that we weren’t alone.
“Silly man,” she breathed, tugging my shirt off my shoulders. “Every woman knows why you are here.”
“I didn’t come here for this,” I managed.
“But you’ve changed your mind now,” laughed Arwen, and she had me down in the velvet grass before I could think of anything to say.
Our lovemaking was often sweet and tender, but our coupling in the orchard was anything but tender. I was eager and too aroused to wait for her and I think the tree laughed at my chagrin when it was over. Arwen giggled like a girl and ‘tsked’ at me, then fed me an apple and waited until I recovered. The sun on her skin was dabbled with leaf shadows and I traced them with a finger, then my lips, until my ardor was restored.
“That was better,” she said to me later, “but now you are spent of your fruit just like that tree overhead and will laze about the rest of the day!”
“Perhaps I shall laze the day right here in this trampled grass and watch you pick,” I chuckled.
“No, foolish King. Go back to the city and let us pick in peace! We cannot have the harvest interrupted for the pleasure of every man wedded to a woman here,” she chided and I knew her words were true.
So I was shooed away like an imp and the young women I passed hid their smiles behind their hands, but the older ones laughed out rightly. I laughed back, feeling every bit that imp, but I stayed away from Arwen’s duty after that day.
The hound hunters went abroad, and I with them, and we chased through the velvet woods with the throats of the dogs baying. We cornered a great-tusked Boar and brought him down with seven arrows and butchered all afternoon to carry the meat back. For two months running the huntsmen went out and every day we brought game back to jerk and salt.
Talemon gloried in the fast chase through tangled trees and babbling streams. I have always been lean and strong, but this wild horsemanship put muscle through my shoulders and down my back and thighs. This was unlike any riding I had ever known. I ached, but adrenalin kept me with them. I became adept at staying mounted amidst the gait changes and jumps, anticipating the swift turns as the terrain flashed past. I learned to trust the young stallion that flew over downed trees that other steeds raced around. We hurtled a ravine that made my breath catch until his shoulders took the ledge on the far side and he thundered on. The men laughed at my exultant yell.
Arwen was amused by my breathy reports when I returned late, muddy and wild-eyed and blood spattered. I fell asleep several times in a robe after bathing and she merely covered me where I dozed off, be it my chair or the couch, once upon the balcony. At dawn, the hounds called and I was afoot and clattering down the stairway eager as a boy.
The larders of Minas Tirith were full and the storehouse bursting when the winter descended hard upon us. In one night, snow fell until it was to my knees and the Great Surround was changed. Drifts covered the base of the towers. The balconies glowed with white. The flags hung limply and the trees held treacherous boughs of powder. The dogs ran wild, snapping at snow-covered bushes in mock ferocity. The horses ran just as wild and Talemon was a ghost upon the field, blowing steam. Men shoveled their doorways clear; women dusted their windowsills to see out. The children built forts and snowpersons and fought a multitude of wars. The city made merry, celebrating our readiness.
Faramir, on a lark, had the guards roll the snow up so deeply against my doors that I could not get out. I looked from my balcony and laughed at the sight. Forty men looked up and laughed right back.
“You have worked hard preparing for this winter day, my Lord,” called the Steward. “If we contain you, perhaps we will have some leisure at last!”
I laughed harder and my breath hung vaporous in midair. My tea curled wisps where it sat on the railing, melted a circle in the snow. I blinked flakes off my eyelashes, felt snowmelt against my scalp. Arwen came and slid her arms about my waist, over my robe.
“And who then have they created work for, confining you in the King’s House with me?” she softly inquired.
I called the same down to my cheerful guards and they grinned back.
“Our Queen has been downcast, for you have been hunting all the days and return exhausted,” shouted up Faramir. “It is our duty to care for our Lady of The Tower as well, my Liege—and today, your appointment is to her!”
“Ahh,” said I. “A plot against the King, I see!” I tossed one snowball down upon the guards and retreated before their answering volley could catch me. Snow muffled all shouting, every sound.
Arwen, laughing, and her eyes were deeper than any sea and twice as mysterious. Desire pooled in my belly. The pelt of missiles against the door of the balcony faded. My robe tangled where I tied it, but Arwen’s came free easily. Her skin was hot ivory, every curve familiar, beloved. My hands spanned across her ribs, touched the velvet curve of her breasts, felt the run of her heart. I sank to my knees to taste her, but then felt her fingers in my hair, pulling. I recognized that urgency and tugged aside my obstinate robe, drew her down upon me, felt the heat of her. Her fingers pressed along my scalp, holding me with that remarkable Elven strength. Strength that brooked no argument and no delay and I gave none.
The furs on our floor were luxurious and I laid her down, rested my weight upon my elbows, her hips, and gave myself to the fierceness of her possession. She rolled me, and I, obedient to her wishes, lay out upon the floor, hands above my head and trapped there. I could not quell my groans beneath the roll of her hips and did not try. Instead, I let them tell her how my endurance fared as she drove me along the path of her desire; relenting when my urgency grew strong and slaking her fire when my need was lessened.
Faramir was right; I had neglected my Beloved somewhat in the race against winterfall—but no more. Snowbound and without care, I gave all my will and vigor to her—this delicate dance between a Man and a First Born. There was music in every sound. Love in every touch. Hope in every kiss. My heart was like the bird that dives into a sky of blue.
They did not let us out for three days and we feasted alone from the larder, baked sweet tarts of apples and sipped snow chilled wine. There were hours of talking, of laughter and singing. Hours where she simply looked into my eyes and I could give her my whole soul; all my demons, all my dreams, all my darkest nights and most joyous dawns. And she had her own demons and dreams as well, springing from thousands of years of living. Each of us, in our own way, was crisscrossed with hardship. But now our burdens became light, for we gave them to one another … and for the first time since the Day of Crowning, I was at peace in a kingdom both settled and strengthened.
A string musician came and stood below our window, playing. I threw wide the doors of the balcony and we danced, she and I, without speaking in the Greatroom. The crisp air upon our skin did little to dissuade the heat of our blood. We danced one dance, embraced passionately the second, danced the third. My thighs felt weak; undone from hours of lovemaking, so I watched her dance alone, her body light and supple with an elegance that mine could never master. She was a whisper of wind, the slant of sun’s arc, a Snow Egret; the elusive silver bird piping in mid-winter. The silver charm she wore between her breasts flicked the firelight with every turn. Her beauty conjured ardor out of my weakness and when I put my hands in her raven hair, the sparks tingled and spotted my vision.
At nightfall, we took to the balcony wrapped in robes and blankets. The evening was clear and cold-locked. The streets silent. Minas Tirith in snow … a sight that took my breath. More glorious was Arwen, her ebony hair streaming past her face as she gazed out over the whitewashed land that fell away for a hundred miles. We swept the snow from the bench and curled up together beneath our furs, speaking our hearts.
“A child,” I whispered, praying. “Legolas and Gimli.”
“A child,” she whispered as well. “Legolas and Gimli.”
They did not let us out for three days, but it was four before I noticed that my door was unblocked. Still, I tarried. Not yet willing to relinquish the simplicity of this single household; this one woman, the quiet ferver simmering between us.
Here in this purest love, the purest I have ever known, here was my place. My journey was over, the long night ended, this was the shimmery dawn.
It was hard to put on my robes, take up the crown and pass through the doorway, but I knew I must end my respite and see to the needs of the people. Surely there were duties and grievances and judgements that I must attend to.
I went alone to the Secret Room and stared out across the whitened land. The Palantir was cold and lifeless and no lights kindled in its depths—something for which I was glad. My thoughts turned to Legolas and Gimli and I wished again for their safety in the war beneath the mountains. Then I descended the White Tower of Echthelion and went into the Great Hall, so silent and empty that my footsteps echoed.
“Tell the City that I am abroad and open to them,” I said to Faramir. His gray eyes were glad to see me take my place in the throne room. I suspected he had sat counsel in my place all these days and would not speak a word of the difficulties he had settled on my behalf.
“The Doors of the King are thrown wide!” was the call down the city streets and the people came by the hundred count—but none of them with petty arguments and petitions. They came with cheer and goodwill, celebrating the Festival of Winter which I had forgotten completely. The bells rang from every tower and little token gifts spread from family to family. Wreaths of woven grasses were placed at the feet of every statue in the King’s hall. Mine own likeness wore necklaces of greens until my face was peering desperately over them and I laughed at the sight.
“I quite misplaced the holiday,” I said to Faramir apologetically.
“I suspect I know the cause,” he chuckled back. “But no matter. The people of Minas Tirith waited for you as you have waited upon us all these months. And now our joy is full, for the City of Kings is whole and strong and her people housed safe. We celebrate our strength and your Rule; Blessed be the Days of the King.”
“Blessed be the King! Blessed be the King!” shouted the crowd gathered shoulder to shoulder in the Throne Room. I placed my fingers upon my brow and bowed to them and they to me, then I went out amongst them, my people and my kin.
22. The Retaking of Moria
Mellon-nîn – my friend
It was night and most of the city was asleep when the frosted-foot Owl landed on the stone railing of the King’s balcony. Aragorn, standing silent and still, with only the glow of his pipe to mark him in shadow, blinked once and regarded it. The Great Snow Owls of the mountains seldom flew near the city, for long ago the men of Minas Tirith thought it sporting to bring them out of the sky with arrows. And though such wastefulness had long fallen into disfavor, the wise birds of the night had not forgotten. Only far away in Mindolluin’s forests could they still be seen; the silent wardens of darkness.
This one cast a shadow nearly to the balcony doors and its head tufts were so long that they touched at the top. Talons of pale ivory curled clear beneath the rim of the railing, strong enough to pierce men’s armor. And though the King made no move at all and made no sound, the golden eyes watched him without a blink and he stared back into the amber furnaces just as steadily.
“Arwen,” he said very softly, for he knew she would hear.
The Queen came silently in her dressing gown and the wide doors to the balcony made no sound. Only after she appeared did the great raptor turn its head completely around with the unworldly ease of its kind.
“Ahh, you have a messenger,” said Arwen.
“Perhaps this message is for you, since it is sent with a Ruler of the Night.”
The Elf regarded the Owl silently a moment. The night wind rippled a feather on the Owl’s head, then stirred the gossamer silk of the Queen’s dressing gown. The King noticed, almost idly, that they both wore winter white.
“One who knows you haunt this balcony alone late a night has sent him,” she said at last.
“Legolas?” Aragorn smiled. “And what message would he send with such a courier?”
The Queen was silent, but the great Owl clicked its beak together with a snap. To Aragorn, it sounded akin to the breaking of a finger bone. To Arwen, it was the click of pottery against pottery upon the table in the great hall.
“Have we some raw meat?” she asked a moment later.
“A bit of beef and some groundhen,” returned Aragorn and he tapped out the bowl of his pipe. The coals glowed bright, then went dead with a hiss in the snow.
“Bring the beef, for it is hardier and this one is tired.”
So the King withdrew and returned with a bowl of raw strips and tossed them one after the other to the great bird on the railing. The Owl caught each with a snap of curved beak and swallowed them whole. So true was the King’s aim that the Owl’s furled wings never extended in order to intercept them by any hop or flight. When the bowl was finished, the amber-gold eyes blinked at him once---then the creature leaped from the high rim of the King’s chamber and fell without a sound into the heart of the night. Aragorn watched it go, a soundless shadow, until it was lost from view out over the plain.
The King did not question his wife; he sat upon the chest at the foot of the wide bed and waited, watching her. She stared long into the darkness as if ordering her thoughts.
“The minds of the Owls are ponderous, weighted with all they see and hear, think of and dream. Unlike the trees, whose simple thoughts are merely ponderous because of the weight of their years; the Night Hunters have wisdom given by the Eldar and they pass all their lore to their young, building upon their knowledge.” She looked at him, but her eyes were dark in the shadows near the heavy draperies. “Thus the slaughter of them for sport brought much disfavor to the race of Men.
“Legolas comes to the sunlight to rest his mind from the press of the Dwarrowdelve. He came during the night and trod the open plain until he spooked up enough small game that the Owls came, hunting, and discovered him,” said Arwen. “He was tall and white and startling---nothing like the dirt diggers they expected the ground to disgorge. They perched in an Elbothan tree to watch him—he lay down upon his back to watch them. It took some time to hear his simple thoughts, for their mindspeech is old, old as the land and just as rich.” Arwen chuckled, amused by this. “His voice harbored no ill, no deceit. He listens well and speaks little. Thus he had respect from the old ones and his request was considered. The She-Owl volunteered to carry his message to the City of Kings and so she flew the distance to us in a night and must fly the same before the sun rises. The beef will give her wings strength”
Aragorn did not fidget, but his question was direct. “He is well?”
Arwen stepped into the arc cast by candle glow. The flames lit stars in her eyes. “He suffers more from the silence of the deeps than wounds of war. He spoke nothing to her of pain, but that is Legolas.” She waved a hand in dismissal. “He only asked that she report what she saw and heard, and so she has. Tall and pale, quiet and still, the strong scent of fouled blood upon him, no weakness, alert and poised as a Hind.”
“And what of Gimli? Does the war fall in the Dwarves favor?”
“She spoke naught of such. The Owls know little of war, only the noise of it that disturbs their rest and the lack of game when it is done, for the ground is spoiled for weeks. She did speak of hunger in him, though for food, for freedom of darkness, for rest … she could not say.” She stood long in thought, looking into his face and unseeing. “This I do know, he will fight until the Dwarves hold the mountain clenched in their fist, for it is not in him to cease before the ending.”
The King smiled, remembering Legolas with three arrows, poised to fight at the border of Lothlórien. “Thus he is counted amongst the best of fighters.”
“I miss him,” said the Queen and her face was sorrowful.
Aragorn came and put his arm about her, held her face in his left palm. “I long for him as well, as if part of me is absent and I wait for the return of it to be whole.”
“I know what you feel,” said she and then there were no more words. They lay awake together that night, watching the moonlight shift the shadows of the room and nothing comforted their longing.
The weeks passed and became months. The King wearied of his duties and none knew save Faramir, who was privy to all of Aragorn’s thoughts. The two men watched the Pelennor for any sign of Ashra and day after day, there was nothing. The swordsmen practiced with their King with caution, for often his will was not in the fighting. The Queen joined the women with their quilting and pottery, but she added nothing to their chatter. Her mind was turned inward, listening for something unheard and unseen. The people of the city grieved for them both.
The snows had come and gone, returned once to vex the city, and then gave way to the first run of Spring when the horns sounded in Osgilieth. Aragorn looked up from the parchments scattered across his desk and went to the window. From the White Tower, he could see the farthest upon the plain, but nothing hinted why the horns were blowing and no rider was seen galloping to the Guarded City with any message.
But then Arwen appeared below him, running barefoot to the embrasure with her hair loose. Her glad cry was faint as a bird, but she turned and looked up at him and delight illuminated her face. Straightway Aragorn descended the spiral staircase and strode to the rampart to join her.
“Look there!” she called, pointing, and along the line of her arm came a rider, moving quickly. For an instant, the King thought it was Shadowfax the Great, bearing Gandalf—but then far out across the plain, Talemon shrieked a stallion call and galloped to pace the other steed. Even at the distance, Aragorn could see the nipping and jostling of the two.
“Legolas,” he said, and nothing more, for his heart was quite full and he would have composure when his friend arrived.
Composure was a fleet-winged bird, however. It took flight the instant Legolas cleared the entrance of the tunnel doorway. In one step, he was before the King and Aragorn caught him by forearm and shoulder and embraced him, felt Legolas’ willow strength, the pound of his heart, heard his soft laugh of surprise and affection. There were no words: just the clasp between them, summing up everything they were. The sun dazzled the King’s eyes and he wiped them surreptitiously before pulling away.
“Mellon-nîn,”Aragorn said, his voice rough-quiet. “I ceased the watch for you, for my heart became sore waiting through all the days you did not come.”
The archer’s smile was understanding and forgiveness in one. “I am sorer than you and in more places. I think I shall lie abed for two weeks and be waited upon!”
Aragorn laughed, amused, and believed nothing of what he heard. But then he spoke seriously, “There is someone who never ceased watching in her heart for you, I think.”
He stepped aside and watched the faces of Arwen and Legolas change, softening, the lights in their eyes brightening as they locked gazes. Beauty and elegance met palm to palm, stepped into each other’s arms without speaking. Aragorn smiled to see it, witness to his beloved’s solace. The powerful connection of the First Born kindled and became magnified by their shared affection. The eddy caught Aragorn, swirling peace and joy, running ripples across his skin almost palpably.
Arwen’s face glistened with tears. Legolas caught one atop a knuckle and searched it with his gaze, then tasted.
“Why do you weep, Arwen Undómiel? You knew I would return,” he whispered.
“There is always a chance that you will not, Laegolas, and such would undo me.”
He regarded her seriously, pulled her close, and leaned until he met her forehead with his own. “I made a pledge to you, to plant a grove. Death is the only master that could prevent my return to honor that vow. And you would not fall, for the Keeper of your Heart resides here.” He kissed her gently and let her go, trailing the back of one hand down her cheek.
“Come,” said Aragorn, his soul light with restored friendships. “You are weary and hungry. Let us sup and tend to you—you must tell us all that has happened and why Master Gimli is not with you. He must live or your countenance would tell us of grief, so there is some tale to be had of why he tarries…”
Only as they walked to the Great Hall, did both King and Queen sense the archer’s weariness. His customary spring of step was lacking and there was a trace of a limp off his left foot. Over the meal, they saw the healing wounds along his forearms: a thin scar fading from a blade, deep chafe marks from his vambraces, a plethora of minor abrasions healed and reinjured and healed again upon both hands. When he turned his head once, greeting Faramir gladly, there was a bruise about the back of his neck where something had seized him. But of these, he spoke not a word and |
