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“It is called a ‘portal’,” said Arador.
“It is like a doorway. You step into it here—in this
case, somewhere in Minas Tirith—and step out of it there—wherever
it happens to lead.”
There was a long silence. Cramped together in Eowyn’s tent, the
warriors exchanged glances. Then, “Lord Fingolfin,”
said Legolas, “have you ever heard of such a thing?”
The scholar shook his head. “Nothing precisely like this,
my Lord—”
“They are described in several books,” Arador interrupted.
“I brought one with me.” He rummaged in his travelling
pack and pulled out a small, badly-worn volume, which he passed
to the elf. “I have marked the page…”
“Even if this thing does exist,” said Eowyn's double,
“I see no reason to change our plans. March Warden Golradir’s
attack will buy us time, and give you the chance to reach
the river. If all goes well you will be back with reinforcements
at about the same time my mercenary returns with his leader. No—we
already have the means to attack the enemy from within—there
is no need to risk sending our men into the dark, and putting
them at a fatal disadvantage.”
“With respect, my Lady,” said Captain Drago, “you
cannot rely on this turncoat—”
“Their leaders are here, Drago—on the surface—Lord
Legolas himself saw their Queen. Whether we hire the mercenaries
or not, this is where we will defeat them.”
“I agree with her—with your Lady, Captain,” said
Eowyn, suddenly, “we should not try to fight them in the
dark—we should attack them above ground and in broad daylight…
But this doorway does worry me. If—Arador?”—the
boy nodded—“if Arador is right and it does exist, could
they not use it, to enter Minas Tirith?”
There were gasps and murmurs all round the tent.
“We must bar it,” said Eowyn. “Quickly.”
She turned back to Arador. “Where is it?”
The boy blushed. “I am not absolutely sure, my Lady, but…”
He dropped his gaze. “The mark is against the third level
of the city, and that—in my world—is where one of my
contacts has his shop. If he exists here, he may know more about
it.” Then he added, with unusual diffidence, “I could
go to Minas Tirith with you…”
Legolas looked to Haldir. “Is he up to it?”
“Yes. If he does as he is told.”
“Good. Then you and he will find this contact March Warden,
whilst Eowyn, Gimli and I speak with Aragorn.”
…
The mess tent was busy. Legolas and Gimli found four empty seats,
and sat down.
“You are sure we need the lad?” asked Gimli, eyeing
the lines of weary soldiers and frightened townsfolk waiting for
their evening meal. “He is awful young.”
“I know. But it will not be the first time that we have
fought beside a child, elvellon,” said Legolas, “and
Haldir says that his knowledge of the dark warriors has already
proved invaluable—”
“I am to sleep in Lady Eowyn’s tent,” said Hentmirë,
setting two bowls of stew on the table. She took the chair next
to Gimli. “And Master Berengar says that there are lots of
jobs that I can help him with.”
“Berengar is a good man,” said Eowyn, setting a third
bowl in front of Legolas, and sitting down beside him.
“Where is yours, melmenya?”
“I am not hungry.”
The elf pushed his bowl towards her. “Eat half.”
“When are you leaving?” asked Hentmirë.
“In about an hour,” said Legolas. He took a mouthful
of stew, then handed the spoon to Eowyn. “We will leave the
enclosure shortly after Golradir attacks the enemy camp—according
to Drago's scouts, to the south east the way is reasonably clear—and
any drow lurking there should be pulled back when the alarm is
sounded… Once we reach the Anduin, we will turn north and follow
the river to Osgiliath.”
“You will be careful?”
“Of course, gwendithen.”
“Only, if it really were that easy,” she said, quietly,
“Lady Eowyn's men would have crossed the river weeks ago.”
Legolas patted her hand. “Nothing much passes you by, does
it?” he said. “You be careful too, Hentmirë.”
…
“There has been some bleeding,” said the healer, carefully
peeling back Haldir’s dressing, “but the wound has already
knit itself back together.” He sponged away the dried blood.
“Quite remarkable. If we humans had a tenth of your powers
of healing, Master Elf, I might even enjoy my work.” He looked
up at Eowyn. “I would say that he is fit to ride, my Lady,
if he takes reasonable care.”
He applied a clean dressing and re-bandaged the shoulder.
“Good,” said Eowyn. “Thank you, Master Ethelmar.”
She waited until the man had left, then turned back to Haldir.
The elf stretched out his hands and she came to him, dropping
to her knees. He wrapped his arms around her. “You are sending
me away,” he said, burying his face in her hair.
“You are needed.” She closed her eyes, tightly. “We
are both needed. Separately—”
“I know. And I accept that, meleth nín. But you would
be sending me away even if it were not so.” He kissed the
top of her head, adding, softly, “I do understand, Eowyn.”
“Do you?” Gently—aware of his injury—she
disentangled herself and looked up into his face. “Gods,
I am no good at this.” She reached up and brushed back a
strand of his silvery hair, letting it slide through her fingers.
“At what, meleth nín?”
“At ‘afterwards’.” She smiled sadly. “At picking
up the pieces, afterwards.”
“I am not Legolas…” Her hand was still in his
hair and he grasped it, and drew it to his cheek. “I have
no great destiny to fulfil, as he has. I would be content to be
your companion, Princess of Ithilien.”
She grinned, suddenly. “My wife?”
He smiled. “If that is what you need. And the Captain of
your Guard, perhaps. When all this is over.”
“But you said it could not last.”
He kissed her fingers. “Because this is not my world, meleth
nín, and I do not know yet whether I can stay here.”
“But you would want to?”
“Oh, yes,” he whispered. “But… Would you want
me to stay?”
Her reply was forestalled by a polite cough from outside the
tent. “Who is it?”
“It is Eowyn—your double—you promised to lend
me a broadsword.”
The woman looked up at the elf, mouthed, Later, then rose quickly
to her feet. “Come in.”
…
Eowyn lifted the tent flap and entered.
Directly before her was Haldir, sitting on a folding chair, his
broad chest bare apart for the bandage that passed under his arms
and over his right shoulder. He picked up his tunic and slipped
it on.
Eowyn blushed to the roots of her hair. “This is a bad
time,” she muttered.
“No,” said her double. “Wait there.” She
pulled back a silk hanging and disappeared into her bedchamber.
“It is strange to see you here,” said Eowyn, quietly.
She could not meet his eyes. “I mean… In this world. It
is as though… Fate…”
“Yes.”
“Haldir…” She remembered Legolas’ double, and the
dreams that he had described to her, of himself with her own double.
“Be careful—”
“Here,” said the other woman, emerging from her bedchamber,
“my cousin gave this to me on my sixteenth birthday. It is
a good sword, perfectly balanced. The tang—”
“—is almost the full width of the blade,” said
Eowyn, “which is forged from Haradin steel. There is a firestone
set in the pommel.” She watched her double draw the sword
from its scabbard and examine its edge. “Is he… Did
he survive the Fords of Isen?”
“No. Theodred died bravely.”
“Yes.”
“In your world too?”
“Yes.”
“It was a terrible loss for his father. For all of us.”
She re-sheathed the blade and gave the sword to Eowyn; and she,
impulsively, caught hold of her double’s hand and—although
the other woman immediately pulled away—their eyes met, and
something passed between them—and it was as though Eowyn
was seeing her own life, with all its joys and sorrows, in the
mirror of her double’s eyes.
All its joys bar one. The most important one, she thought.
But must it be him?
The other woman laid a hand on Haldir’s shoulder. “My healer
has pronounced Haldir fit to travel,” she said. Then, “Will
you give us a moment?”
“Of course,” said Eowyn.
…
“She knows,” said Haldir.
Eowyn smiled. “She is a woman. Of course she knows.”
She squeezed his good shoulder, gently. “Does that trouble
you?”
“She will tell Legolas.”
“Does it matter?” She stepped in front of him and,
dropping to her knees, peered up into his face. “Gods, you
are feeling guilty!”
“No…”
“Yes! Why? Because of her? Or because of him?”
She stared up at him, her face suddenly flushed with anger. “Haldir!
You have not betrayed her, because she chose him; and you
have not betrayed him because I am not her.”
And when he did not respond she rose to her feet and cried, “Get
out. Go on! Go!”
But Haldir did not move. “It is not guilt, Eowyn,”
he said, quietly. “It… It is embarrassment.”
“What?”
“By making love to you, it is as though I have made love
to her… And… And shared with him.”
“I am not HER!” She clenched her fists in frustration.
“It makes no sense!”
“No,” said Haldir, “perhaps not; but… Yes, it
does: you are different but you are the same…”
“No! You said that I was your Eowyn. You said…”
She ran her hand through her hair. “So where does that leave
us?”
Haldir looked up at her, sadly. “I do not know, my love.”
…
Arador approached the jumble of wooden sheds and canvas awnings
that served as the field Healing Room. Captain Drago had told
him that his ‘mother’ often helped tend the wounded.
The boy was not sure what he was going to say if he found her—he
just knew that he had to say something.
She was working in one of the outlying tents. She looked exhausted—the
marks of her earlier tears were still on her face—but she
was doing her best to help: carrying a pitcher of water from bed
to bed, patiently giving each man a ladle-full. Arador waited
until she had emptied the jug, then stepped inside and caught
her eye.
“Aran!” Her face lit up at the sight of him. “Is
everything alright now? Has Lady Eowyn seen you?”
He wrapped his arm round her shoulders, and hugged her. “Let
me help you fetch some more water, mama.”
…
“What is wrong, melmenya?” Legolas held the reins of
Eowyn’s horse whilst she buckled Theodred’s sword into
her shoulder harness.
“Wrong…?” The straps were uneven—the sword
was hanging awkwardly, and she pulled at it in frustration. “Argh!”
“Here. Take these.” Legolas handed her the reins. “You
must calm down, melmenya. Once we leave this enclosure, you will
need all your wits—”
“Do you think I am a green girl?”
Legolas smiled (to himself) as he carefully adjusted one of the
straps.
“I am worried for him,” she said. “That is all.”
“He is a grown elf.”
“But he is so… You are all so… When it comes to emotions,
you are like children. What?”
“Why should he not be with her, melmenya? Why does it trouble
you so much?”
Her answer took him by surprise. “Because he is coming.
Your double. Another you. And she… She is so like me, Lassui.”
She shook her head. “She is just like me.”
…
Arador took the jug from his ‘mother’s’ hands
and let her lead him outside, down the alley between the two rows
of wooden sheds, to the back of the plateau, where a low wall
had been built to catch the waters of a spring that bubbled up
from the depths of Emyn Arnen.
They joined the line of people waiting to fill their pitchers.
Arador could stay silent no longer. “Do you remember,”
he said, quietly, “what you said when you first saw me in
the mess tent—that you had seen me die?”
The woman's eyes filled with tears. “I am so sorry, Aran.
I do not know how I could have imagined it…”
“No.” He put his hand to her cheek and gently turned
her face towards him. “No, what you saw was real. Though
I do not know how to explain it to you… Unless,”—inspiration
suddenly struck him—“come with me.”
…
“Where is the lad?” asked Gimli. “He should be
here now.”
“He has a few minutes yet.” Legolas helped the dwarf
into the saddle.
Gripping the leather tightly, Gimli straightened up and raised
his head. “Hmmm,” he said, “and here is more trouble.”
Legolas smiled at Eowyn. He could sense her double and the March
Warden approaching from behind, but he resisted the temptation
to turn and stare. “Shhhh.”
“What?” growled Gimli.
“Do not bait him. I am warning you.”
But Gimli was not listening. “It is hard to tell you ladies
apart,” he said.
…
“So, just as there are two Lady Eowyns,” said Arador,
swallowing the lump in his throat, “there are two
of you, and—there were—two of me. The other you
is my mother; the other me was your son.” He hugged her tightly.
“I am telling you this because Lady Eowyn has asked me to
go to Minas Tirith, with Lord Legolas and the others, and it will
be dangerous, and I may not come back. So I wanted you to know.
I wanted to make sure that you did not lose your son twice…”
…
“Lord Legolas.” Eowyn’s double handed him a leather
dispatch pouch. “I have written a letter to King Elessar—to
Aragorn—explaining the situation—the capture of the
city, Faramir’s death, our present position—it may help
you convince him.”
Legolas bowed. “I am sure it will my Lady. Thank you.”
He slung the bag over his shoulder.
“My Lady!” Captain Drago was approaching at a run.
“It is almost time.”
“Very good, Captain. Prepare to open the barricade.”
Legolas and his small band of warriors trotted forwards, lining
up along the cart that served as a gate—Eowyn to his right
on a powerful grey stallion; Arador to his left on a swift Haradin
gelding; and Haldir to the rear on one of Lady Eowyn’s own hunters.
“Can you tell my double from me, Gimli?” asked
Legolas, over his shoulder.
“Oh, easily,” said Gimli. “He is the one with
the axe handle up his backside.”
…
I would have preferred, thought Golradir, to have done
this at dawn. The sudden daylight would have helped us. He
signalled Camthalion and Orodreth to follow him, and the three
men (all of them excellent warriors, though not up to the task
of approaching the drow unseen) to wait. They would be needed
to cover the elves’ retreat.
The trio advanced slowly, keeping the warmth of their bodies,
as far as possible, hidden behind the trees. The encampment was
just as he remembered it. The elves worked their way along its
northern border, staying high up in the branches.
Lady Eowyn and the others had been wrong to think that the dark
elves might be sleeping—night, he realised now, was their
natural element and, though some of them appeared to be resting,
most of them were fully alert—with their weapons to hand.
But now was not the time to falter.
Silently, Golradir gave the sign, and the elves spread out, taking
up their positions on three sides of the lizard herd.
He gave the signal to shoot at will.
A blizzard of arrows filled the clearing, targeted, with deadly
accuracy, at the lizard handlers, at the tethering ropes, at the
lizards’ throats and bellies, and—when the drow warriors
(all too quickly) realised that they were under attack—between
the pairs of fiery eyes that scanned the forest in search of them.
Several of the lizards had broken free and were already causing
havoc—one viciously attacking its drow handler, the others
lurching about the clearing, trampling anyone who came between
them and their quest for cover.
But, despite the chaos, Golradir could see no way to withdraw
without exposing his warriors’ backs—and he was painfully
aware that their ammunition could not last much longer—until
fate kindly intervened.
The drow had lit no fires—had no light at all save, here
and there, the odd glowing jewel—but a tent towards the rear
of the clearing must have housed some kind of smithy, with a covered
furnace, and into this one of the lizards suddenly blundered,
scattering hot coals across the ground in a wide arc.
Clumps of dry grass and brushwood caught light instantly and,
as the fire quickly spread, Golradir raised his hand to his mouth
and gave the familiar bird-call, and his warriors retreated, leaving
the panicking drow to deal with their worst nightmare.
…
The sound was faint but unmistakable—the noise of an army
in chaos: of animals stampeding and men—dark elves—struggling
to regain control whilst their comrades panicked and—yes—screamed,
in terror and pain.
And then another sound reached them—a snapping, crackling
sound—
“Gods,” whispered Drago, “the forest is alight!”
And he pointed, above the trees, to a dull red glow that was bleeding
up into the sky. “Now, my Lady—they must leave
now. Before the fire spreads west and cuts them off from
the river!”
“Open the gate.”
Drago gave the signal and his men hauled back the carts.
And—with a final salute to Hentmirë (who had already
taken Arador’s ‘mother’ under her wing) and Berryn,
Lord Fingolfin, Berengar and, of course, Eowyn’s double herself—Legolas’
small band of warriors galloped through the barricade, cut sharply
west, crossed the plain, and disappeared into the trees.
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