|
Eowyn’s tent
Legolas!
Haldir squeezed Eowyn gently, and released her. “I am sorry,
my Lady…” He rose, and walked into the main room of
the tent. “That was inappropriate—I have insulted you,
and betrayed Legolas…”
“Legolas?” Eowyn followed him. “Did Legolas
tell you what happened?” She caught his good arm.
Haldir turned. “What has happened?”
Eowyn’s eyes narrowed as she scrutinised his face. “No.
He did not tell you… Then how do you know? Did my brother
tell you? Or Aragorn? Or was it Arwen?”
“I do not understand—”
“One moment of foolishness,” said Eowyn, raking her
hand through her hair. “One moment! And I must pay for it
for the rest of my life, whilst he…!”
Haldir's expression softened. “Will you please tell me what
has happened, Eowyn?” he asked, gently.
…
The forest
Legolas crouched beside Golradir. “Do you sense any more
lookouts?” he whispered.
The March Warden shook his head. “Not along the trail.”
“Nor do I. I think it is safe to summon the others.”
He raised his hands to his lips and whistled like a bird; then
he turned back to Golradir. “This would be a good time,”
he said, “to scout the enemy encampment, get a count of their
numbers, and view their defences—perhaps discover what they
intend next.”
“Are you asking for a volunteer, my Lord?” asked Golradir,
smiling.
…
“That was the signal, my Lady,” said Fingolfin.
“Return it, my Lord.” Eowyn patted Hentmirë’s
hand. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” whispered the little woman, hoarsely.
Eowyn signalled the others to move out. “Remember,”
she said, quietly, as the riders passed by, “stay on the
trail; move swift and silent.”
…
Eowyn sat down heavily on the camp bed, motioning Haldir to join
her. “After we had defeated Saruman’s army,” she
said, “and Fangorn had finished off those we had not killed—rending
them limb from limb as they fled—we tended the wounded, and
buried the dead.” She glanced at the big elf. “Forgive
me—I was sure that I had seen you amongst the fallen…”
She shook her head, as though to clear away the false memory.
“At last,” she continued, “we could celebrate our
victory. We gathered in the Golden Hall, the ale flowed, the warriors
drank… I went out onto the terrace for some air. Legolas
was already there—a single, lonely figure, gazing out across
the plains of Rohan. I went up to him. We talked…” She
closed her eyes. “It was madness—I knew that it was
madness! And afterwards he spoke of marriage. But he was an elf
and I—my uncle had named me his heir should Eomer not survive.
How could I marry an elf?”
She looked up at Haldir, her eyes pleading for understanding.
“But he was right, I was with child. I had a little
boy,”—her face was suddenly transformed—“half
elf, half human.”
“A child? But… Where is he?”
“He lives in Minas Tirith,” replied Eowyn, “with
Arwen and Aragorn—I will not live to see him grow to manhood,
Haldir, and it seemed best that he should think Arwen his mother
from the start.”
“You are not the Eowyn I know,” said Haldir, slowly.
“You look like her, you sound like her, but you… You are
more experienced, more worldly-wise than she. How can that be?”
Eowyn shrugged.
“Do you still love him—Legolas?”
“Love him? I told you, it was a moment of madness, not an
act of love.” She frowned. “Truly.”
“But you speak of his child with such tenderness.”
“He is my child, Haldir—I carried him, for almost a
year, I gave birth to him—of course I love him—though
I have not seen him since the day he was born…” She turned
to the elf, suddenly anxious. “Legolas does not know that
he has a son—please, swear that you will not tell him. We
thought it best that he should not know.”
“We?”
“Faramir and I.” Eowyn looked away. “I was betrothed
to Faramir before I realised that I was with child—the healers
had always told me that I was barren. When I confessed my folly
to him—he was such a good man, Haldir—he promised to
love the child as his own,”—she shook her head—“so
different from Eomer! But, of course, once Meldon was born, it
was obvious that his father had been an elf. So we asked Arwen
to help us, and she and Aragorn agreed to adopt him—and to
tell Legolas nothing.”
“You must tell him,” said Haldir, softly.
“No.”
“Why, Eowyn? Elves love their children above all else. For
him not to know…”
Eowyn shook her head, determination hardening her beautiful face.
“Oh, Eowyn,”—Haldir reached for her—“what
a difficult life you have been given to lead…” He drew
her close. And, this time, his conscience did not stand in his
way.
…
Three elves darted from the trees, and signalled the riders to
stop.
Legolas came up beside Eowyn, catching hold of Brightstar’s
bridle. “We have dealt with the lookouts,” he whispered.
“So you should have no trouble provided you keep to the trail.”
“What will you be doing?”
“Golradir and I are going to scout the enemy encampment.
Orodreth will come with you.” He laid a reassuring hand on
Eowyn’s booted leg. “We will make sure that we are not
seen. You must lead the others to Emyn Arnen. Leave our horses
another quarter mile down the trail and we will catch up with
you as soon as we can.” He squeezed her ankle, mouthing,
“Trust me.”
Biting her lip, Eowyn nodded curtly, then signalled the other
riders to move off. As they passed behind her, she lingered, gazing
down at Legolas. “If you get into trouble, tell me,”
she said, softly—referring, as he knew, to their mental bond.
“Gimli and I will come back for you.”
“I shall, melmenya.” He patted Hentmirë’s
foot. “And you—do not look so worried, gwendithen!”
“Take care,” said Eowyn. She drew up the reins and
spurred Brightstar’s flanks, and the two women galloped down
the trail after the others.
…
The mess tent
“Master Arador…”
The boy tried to swat aside the hand that was gently shaking
his shoulder. “Wha’?”
“I have brought your father.”
Arador sniffed, and—suddenly aware of the painful crick
in his neck—raised his head. He had fallen asleep in the
empty Mess Tent. He peered up at the two men standing beside him.
One was Berengar. The other was…
“Uncle Aubin.” The boy yawned. “What are you
doing here?” Moving his head cautiously, he looked around.
“I thought you said you had brought my father?”
The two men exchanged glances. “Did you bump your head in
that cave?” asked Aubin.
“I bumped everything,” said Arador, stretching his
arms. “Several times. And nearly drowned.” He rubbed
his face. “Where is my father?”
“What are you talking about? I am here, Arador.”
Aubin sat down opposite the boy. “Can I trouble you to fetch
my wife, Master Berengar?”
“Of course…” The secretary left.
“Let me see your eyes,” said Aubin.
“What?” Arador scowled. “Why?” He
batted the man’s hand away. “Why are you pretending
to be my father? What has happened to my father?” He suddenly
rose to his feet and demanded, loudly, “Where is my mother?
What have you done with her?”
“I am here, Aran…”
The boy turned towards the feminine voice. “Mama?”
He frowned. The woman standing beside Berengar looked at least
ten years older than the mother he had left behind in Newhome
but—despite the grey hair—there was no doubting that
it was she. There was a moment’s pause. Then Arador held
out his arms and his mother rushed to him, hands outstretched.
“Oh, Aran, I thought you were dead! I thought I had seen
your dead body…” She threw her arms around him and Arador
gathered her close, cradling her head on his shoulder.
“What is he doing here, Mama? Where is my father?”
The woman looked up at her son, then turned to her husband, confused.
“What do you mean, Aran?”
“You are not married to him—he is my uncle.”
Berengar stepped forward. “Whatever is happening here,”
he said, “must wait—”
“He is not my father,” insisted Arador. “He
is my father’s twin—”
“Please, Lord Aubin, Lady Morwen,” said Berengar, gently
disentangling the woman from her son’s embrace and handing
her to her husband, “I will bring your son to you when he
has discharged his duty.”
“He is not—” began Arador.
“HUSH!” Berengar waited calmly, pinning Arador in place
with one outstretched hand whilst staring down Lord Aubin until
the man reluctantly drew his sobbing wife from the Mess Tent.
“Good. Now, what I told your parents,”—he held
up his hands—“told them, was true. Princess Eowyn
needs you—map in hand and with all your faculties alert.”
He grasped Arador’s shoulders and shook him hard. “You
must put this behind you until the war is over. And then…”
His voice trailed away.
“We may all be dead,” finished Arador, quietly. “And,
if so, nothing else will matter.”
“Exactly.”
…
Haldir sighed contentedly. He had always known that Eowyn was
the true companion of his spirit, but—
He felt her stir against his chest. “You are a dear, sweet
elf to be with, Haldir,” she said, softly.
“And you,” said Haldir, raising her small hand to his
lips and kissing her fingers, “are a dear, sweet adaneth.”
The smile they exchanged was filled with all the intimacy they
had just experienced. Eowyn was the first to turn away. “I
should—”
“No. Not yet.” Haldir exerted just a fraction of his
elven strength. “Stay with me a while longer.”
She gazed into his eyes, and read his mind. “This cannot
last.”
“No. I wish for nothing else, meleth nín, but I do
not believe it can.”
“Then let us stay like this until they come to fetch me.”
…
The forest
Eowyn led the advance party northwards until she found a sharp
bend in the Forest trail, forced by an outcropping of rocks to
the east, that formed a natural fortification. She drew the riders
to a halt. “This will do well,” she said, quietly.
“One of us should stay with the horses, my Lady,” whispered
Orodreth.
“My thinking exactly—Lord Fingolfin, might I trouble
you to take care of Lady Hentmirë for me?”
“Of course, my Lady.”
“Eowyn?” The little woman peered over her companion’s
shoulder. “Why?”
“Because Gimli and I are going to wait for Legolas,”
said Eowyn, patting the older woman’s hand. “(Just in
case he needs us, Hentmirë). The rest of you will make for
Emyn Arnen with all speed. Lord Fingolfin,”—she pulled
a small leather document pouch from around her neck and handed
it to the elf—“this is the message from your Lord. I
trust that you will give my double your full support if, for any
reason, Legolas and I cannot reach her.”
Fingolfin placed his hand over his heart and bowed his head.
“You may rely upon me, my Lady.”
…
Legolas raised a hand in warning, then beckoned.
Golradir, following close behind, leapt gracefully through the
branches and landed silently beside him. From the cover of the
foliage, the two elves gazed down into the clearing below.
“By the two trees,” murmured the March Warden. “That
must be their command post.” He pointed to a pavilion of
dark canvas, sited at the far end of the encampment.
“And that,” said Legolas, referring to the small, elderly
woman sitting at the centre of the tent, “must be their Queen.”
“Valar,” muttered Golradir. “That throne…”
“Is built of bones,” said Legolas.
“Something is happening…”
Two female warriors, clad in leather armour, dragged a male—somewhat
smaller than themselves—into the command post and threw him
to the ground at the Queen’s feet. Then one of the females
drew a curved blade and, placing her foot on the wretch’s
back, pressed its tip to his neck.
“The last battle did not go well for them, then,” said
Golradir.
“It seems not.”
In the tent, there was a brief exchange of words. The elderly
Queen waved her hand.
The female warrior raised her sword high above her head, and
brought it down in a single clean cut. The male’s severed
head rolled away from his body; his executioner caught it with
the side of her blade and swept it away from the throne.
“At least it was swift,” whispered Golradir.
A second male was brought in, and dispatched in the same way.
“How many troops do you see?” asked Legolas.
Golradir scanned the clearing. To the right, a herd of massive
lizards waited restively, stamping and snapping at their handlers;
to the left, ten distinct clusters of male warriors appeared to
be digging in for the night. “No more than two hundred here,”
he whispered, “but that trail,”—he nodded northwards—“leads
to a long chain of clearings, all of comparable size. If they
are making full use of them, we could be looking at a total force
of,”—he shrugged—“up to three thousand.”
Legolas nodded. “Do you see any indication that they will
attack tonight?”
Golradir looked back into the tent. A third male had been brought
inside, but this one—a fine-looking elf, taller than most
of the females, but lean, and with a thick mane of white hair—appeared
to be in favour. Golradir watched the executioner unbuckle the
sword belt from her first victim and present it to the newcomer.
“He must be their new field commander, the poor orc,”
he muttered. “No,” he concluded, “I do not see
any preparations for battle tonight.”
“Nor do I,” said Legolas. “And that gives us a
chance. Come.”
…
They remained aloft until they had passed the perimeter that
had been marked by the chain of lookouts, then they dropped to
the ground and, staying within the trees to the west of the trackway,
headed north to collect their horses.
They had covered no more than five hundred yards when Legolas
suddenly sensed something—someone—hidden in the
Forest to his right; and, as he pulled his bow from its strap
and smoothly nocked an arrow, he saw that Golradir, having felt
the same presence, was doing the same.
The two elves turned to face the threat.
At first they saw nothing.
Then a lean figure stepped out onto the path, swept off his extraordinary
plumed hat, and bowed.
Legolas lowered his bow.
The stranger straightened up, smiled, replaced his hat, and stepped
back into the trees.
“What, in Manwë’s name, was that?” asked
Golradir.
“I have no idea—” Something else caught Legolas’
eye, and he turned south to see a band of dark warriors streaming
towards them, hand crossbows raised. “Poison,” he muttered.
“RUN!”
…
Eowyn’s tent
“Ahem.”
Eowyn grinned at Haldir. “What is it, Berengar?” she
called.
“Messengers, my Lady, from Prince Legolas, leading an advance
party of—”
Eowyn leapt up and, pausing only long enough to pull off the
coverlet and wrap it around herself, threw back the curtain that
closed off her bedchamber, temporarily forgetting the naked elf
that was still lying in her bed.
“Oh!” Berengar quickly turned his back. “I will
give you a few moments to make yourself decent, my Lady. Open
the tent flap when you are ready.” He glanced over his shoulder
and winked at her, affectionately.
…
The forest
“Where has that crazy elf got to?” muttered Gimli.
“I should have insisted on going with him. When I—”
He saw Eowyn suddenly raise her head. “What?”
“He is coming,” she said, loosening her sword in its
scabbard. “Running!” She released her sword and instead
took up her bow, swiftly knocking an arrow.
“Running?” Gimli rolled off Arod’s back, drew
his axe, and assumed his battle stance.
They waited.
At last the elves flew out of the Forest, closely pursued by
a dozen black-clad warriors.
Gimli hefted his axe and, roaring like a warg, charged with such
ferocity that several of the enemy simply turned and fled. The
remainder raised their crossbows and took aim.
Eowyn immediately loosed her arrow, burying it deep in a glowing
red eye. Blinded and panicking, the stricken dark elf blundered
about, throwing his comrades into chaos, and giving Legolas and
Golradir time to turn and plant their feet.
As Eowyn nocked her second arrow, Gimli swirled through the knot
of warriors, swinging his axe in great curving strokes, smashing
heads and slashing limbs, and batting their tiny crossbow quarrels
out of the air.
Legolas and Golradir raised their bows and shot steadily, finishing
off the remaining dark warriors with surgical precision.
It was a short battle.
…
“Shall I leave?” asked Haldir, struggling to close
his jerkin with one hand (his earlier exertions having made his
wound tender).
Eowyn reached up and, smiling, undid the misaligned hooks and
refastened them. “No. You are an experienced warrior and
my trusted advisor. I want you here.” She smoothed the fabric
over his broad chest. “Do you need to see Master Ethelmar?”
“Later, perhaps.”
“I do not want your wound to fester.”
“I am an elf,” said Haldir, smiling. “We do not
fester.”
“Well then. Sit down. I will call them in.”
She raised the tent flap and peered outside. Moments later, Berengar
ushered in the strange messengers: a tall, distinguished-looking
elf, a plump little woman dressed—ridiculously, Eowyn thought—in
an elven jerkin, leggings and boots, and a young man.
“Hentmirë!” cried Haldir, leaping to his feet.
“Lord Fingolfin! Berryn! It is so good to see you all.”
Eowyn watched in fascination as the little woman threw herself
at the big elf, wrapping her stout arms around his waist.
“Haldir of Lorien,” said the elven messenger. “How
did you… Cross over?”
“Cross over?” Gently, Haldir deposited the little woman
in one of the folding chairs. “What do you mean—?”
“Perhaps,” said Eowyn, suddenly taking command, “we
should begin with business.” She turned to Lord Fingolfin.
“My secretary tells me that you carry a message from Prince
Legolas.”
“Of course, my Lady.” Fingolfin bowed formally. “Forgive
me.” He drew a leather dispatch pouch from around his neck
and handed it to her. “Lady Hentmirë, Master Berryn,
and I left Eryn Carantaur yesterday, in an advance party. The
plan is for us to leave for Minas Tirith and make contact with
King Elessar as soon as possible. Prince Legolas, meanwhile, is
raising troops and will be marching out tomorrow at dawn.”
“The Prince’s letter,” said Eowyn, looking up
from the parchment, “mentions my double.”
“That is correct, my Lady,” said Fingolfin. “May
I?” He gestured to one of the folding chairs. “This
may take a while to explain.”
“Please do,” said Eowyn. “Master Berryn, Berengar,
please be seated.”
“How do I explain?” Fingolfin began. “Several
days ago a young woman—identical to you in almost every way,
it seems—appeared at Eryn Carantaur claiming to be Lord Legolas’
wife. At first we both thought her mad. But, after listening to
her story, and questioning her, and looking into local lore, I
became convinced that she was telling the truth—that she
is Lord Legolas’ wife and she is the joint
ruler of the colony, just…” He leaned towards Eowyn,
as if closer proximity would make her more likely to believe him.
“Just not this Lord Legolas nor this colony.
It seems that there exist two versions of our world—you may
imagine them lying back-to-back, like this.” He raised his
hands and held them palm-to-palm to illustrate. “In certain
places, where the boundary between them is weak, it is possible
to cross over—pass between the two—and that is what
she had done. Two days later, her Lord Legolas, Lady Hentmirë,
Gimli son of Gloin, and Master Berryn followed her.”
Eowyn, not knowing where to begin, took a deep breath.
“Manwë and Varda,” muttered Haldir.
“Quite,” said Fingolfin.
Eowyn stared at her lover.
“Where is Legolas?” he asked. “Did he come with
you?”
“Yes. But he and Lady Eowyn sent us ahead whilst they scouted
the dark warriors’ encampment with March Warden Golradir
and Gimli son of Gloin. They will be here shortly.”
“I should go to them,” said Haldir, rising. “I
should make sure that they—”
“No,” said Eowyn firmly. “Sit down.” She
waved her hand. “You are not fit to ride. Besides, I want
to talk to you.”
…
Stupid map! thought Arador.
He pulled the sheet of parchment from its oilskin pouch and,
showing none of his customary reverence for it, spread it out
on the Mess table.
I should never have bought the thing. I should have spent
the money on drink and women, like Brand, son of Bain. At least
he had some fun.
Or so he said.
He peered at the coloured markings.
It would have killed Mama, though…
Frowning, he leaned in closer.
To the left of what he believed was Emyn Arnen, in the very corner
of the map, was a shape that could only be—and he wondered,
now, why he had never noticed it before—Minas Tirith. And
about half-way up the city’s sloping side, corresponding,
he supposed, to the third or fourth level, was a tiny image. At
first sight it looked like lantern—for the artist had, with
remarkable skill, contrived to make it seem to glow.
But as Arador stared at it, some unconscious part of his mind
sorted through the information stored there, and retrieved a tiny
piece—
And suddenly he knew exactly what the drawing represented, why
the drow artist had marked it, and how it could be used.
Arador folded up the parchment and rushed out in search of Berengar.
…
Leaving Berengar to make her guests comfortable in the tent,
Eowyn led Haldir out onto the plateau. “We can inspect the
defences,” she said, “you may be able to make some further
suggestions.”
They walked in silence down the winding path, to the mouth of
the gorge, each wanting to say so much and neither knowing where
to begin.
As they threaded their way through the various groups of warriors,
engineers, and earnest civilians, Haldir watched Eowyn with growing
admiration—as she took the time to greet her men and women
by name, ask about their work and, often, make useful comments.
At last they passed the enceinte closing off the gorge mouth,
and walked out onto the plain. “The area is roughly triangular,”
she began.
“I know, meleth nín,” said Haldir gently. “And
I am intimate with your barricade, having been forced to climb
over it by Captain Drago. Eowyn… Tell me what is on your
mind.”
“You love her,” said Eowyn. “My double.”
“Whatever makes you say that?”
“I am not a fool, Haldir, and I do not believe in love at
first sight.” She turned west and walked towards the gulley.
“When you made love to me it was as though—it felt as
though you had suddenly been given something you had wanted for
a very long time—as though your moment had suddenly come.”
She turned to him. “It was her, was it not? You were making
love to her.”
“No!” Haldir caught her by the arms. “No,
meleth nín. It is true that I have loved her, that
I… Well, that does not matter now. But you and she are so
different. I made love with you—with my Eowyn. Not
with her.”
“Hold me.”
“Oh, meleth nín.”
…
|
