━━━━»•» act four. age of glory

51. soldier, poet, queen «•« ━━━━

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ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ third age ━━ year 3019

𓇻 rohan; dunharrow

IT WAS A DAY'S RIDE FROM EDORAS TO DUNHARROW. Elgarain would've liked to say it wasn't that far, but her body was aching and bruised. She felt every bump in the rode, every jolt of the horse. She was glad to be able to sit behind Aragorn and hold on firmly to him as they crossed the hills and valleys of Rohan. And when at long last the high clifftop of Dunharrow came into sight, she felt herself finally able to breathe with relief.

The hold of Dunharrow wasn't an actual fortress of stone, but a natural flat upland against the side of the mountain. It could only be reached by following a narrow winding path known as the Stair of the Hold. She had read that along the road there were old statues, known as the Púkel-men, placed there by the Men of the White Mountains, who lived here long before the Rohirrim did. But more eerie than that was the shadow that fell upon the valley, caused by the Dwimorberg. For under this mountain lay the Dimholt Road. Through a dark forest right to the entrance of the Paths of the Dead...

She tried to shake those thoughts from her mind and focused on the liveliness surrounding her instead. The valley at the foot of the mountain was filled with soldiers setting up camp. Riders had come from all over Rohan, heeding the call of their king. As the King's Guard passed, they looked up and bowed.

"Make way for the king!" a soldier ahead of her shouted, alerting the encampment of their arrival. "Make way!"

Rows upon rows of white tents they passed. Everywhere soldiers were tending to their horses, sharpening their spears or greeting their kin. The thought of sending all these men into battle made her heart shrink in her chest. They had already endured so much and here they all were, called upon to fight once more. When would it finally end?

Théoden greeted them all with a nod of his head or a raise of his hand, as if he knew them all by name. The image brought back memories of her father walking among his soldiers, putting a hand on their shoulder right before they headed into battle...

"Grimbold, how many?" Théoden called to a man with long grey hair.

"I bring 500 men from the Westfold, my lord," the man said with a bow.

To their right another man with a golden horse on his armor shouted: "We have 300 more from Fenmarch, Théoden King."

Théoden nodded at the men as they passed him, though never slowing down his horse. Then he called out into the crowd: "Where are the riders from Snowbourn?"

"None have come, my lord," a man she recognized as Gamling answered.

The statement left a heavy silence in the air as they continued their way up the mountain. Rohan was a vast kingdom, the message to assemble here would take time to reach the furthest settlements. Still, they had a long way ahead to Gondor and very little time to wait for more reinforcements. But what could they hope to accomplish against the armies of Mordor with such low numbers? Wait, or ride out, it was a tough decision to make.

As they headed up the mountain, she caught a glimpse of one of the statues beside the road. It looked as though it was carved from the rocks itself. She couldn't remember the last time her fingers had ached to draw something as much as they did now. Elgarain took it as a sign her spirit still longed to live, to feel the gratification of creating something beautiful.

The guard Théoden had sent ahead of him had worked up to put the tents and resting places for the horses. The camp was all set up when they arrived at the end of the path. Aragorn drew his horse to a stop near a tent placed at the east side of the encampment. He dismounted, then held out his arms to help her down. She couldn't hide the way her legs were shaking when she finally stood upon solid ground again.

Her gaze wandered to Gyda, who had come down from her horse by the tent next to theirs and was now helping Merry, who had ridden with her, down as well. She was grateful her friend hadn't argued about her coming along to the encampment. Still she knew if Gyda were to see her trembling like this, she might just change her mind and start an argument after all.

Lucky for her, she was spared such an uncomfortable moment by the cursing in Khuzdûl when Gimli dismounted from his horse, trying with all his might to hide the help he needed from Legolas to do so. "Would you rather have run the distance, my friend?" Legolas asked with a sly smile.

Gimli narrowed his eyes at him, making them almost disappear entirely between his bushy eyebrows and his beard. "Keep up your mockery, princeling. My axe longs for death."

The ellon laughed, the sound laced with challenge. "I do not doubt it."

The short moment of laughter was interrupted by Gyda, who spoke with a voice so heavy they couldn't help but turn to look at her. "I count 6000 spears." She was standing at the edge of the cliff, looking down at the white tents in the valley. Her figure was like a black shadow against the setting sun in the distance.

Legolas walked up to her side, his blue eyes scanning the encampment. "That's less than half of what we hoped for."

Elgarain joined their side, wrapping herself in her cloak against the wind, followed by Aragorn, Merry and Gimli. From this height it seemed like an impressive number, but the truth, sadly, was much different.

"Six thousand will not be enough to break the lines of Mordor," Aragorn sighed.

"Perhaps more will come," Elgarain said, unwilling to give up hope so easily.

The man beside her shook his head, voicing the thoughts that had been plaguing her own mind: "Every hour lost hastens Gondor's defeat. We have until dawn, then we must ride."

"And so we will," a determined voice spoke up behind them.

She turned to see Théoden King walk towards them and felt a relief at seeing his confidence. It would inspire his men to see him this way. They would need his strong leadership in the days to come.

Aragorn nodded at the King, gratefulness making his eyes shine. He would keep his promise to Boromir to protect the White City, or die trying...

"Then we better make sure to be well rested," she said, desperate to distract her thoughts from the battle to come. "Who would like some tea?"

"A wonderful idea!" Merry chimed in, seeming happy for another topic than war. "I would love some."

She pretended not to see Gyda and Aragorn sharing an amused smile at her thinly veiled attempt of distraction. They followed her to a campfire with a blackened pot dangling above it and took a seat on the grass. There was nothing to do but wait. Soon darkness would fall, but it was unlikely any of them would sleep that night.

As she got to work on filling the pot with water and adding the right amount of herbs, she felt the sense of unrest lingering in the air. The horses neighed and stamped their feet, barely listening to the hushed whispers of comfort from their masters. If even the Rohirrim could not calm their companions, it was no wonder she felt so unsettled herself. The rosey scent rising from the pot brought some sense of peace, but not nearly enough...

"The horses are restless," Legolas said, "and the men are quiet."

She shivered at his tone, not liking it one bit to hear him so uneasy.

"They grow nervous in the shadow of the mountain," Éomir spoke as he walked up to them, taking a seat beside Aragorn.

"As well they should," Gimli said, eyeing the mountain as one would a stranger entering their home. "The stones are whispering with strange voices." He tilted his chin towards a crevice in the mountainside. "That road there, where does it lead?"

The thoughts of the Path of the dead returned to her. The story had been told to her by her father, who had heard what happened here from Isildur himself. It was strange to hear it spoken of by a man who only knew the myths that arose in the years following the war, passed down from mouth to mouth by his people. A long forgotten history instead of a living memory.

"It is the road to the Dimholt, the door under the mountain." Éomir spoke. "None who venture there ever return. That mountain is evil."

"Why?" Merry frowned.

"It is guarded by the dead," Elgarain said, when Éomir remained silent. "Men who were cursed by Isildur for refusing to fulfill their oath to him, to fight when he called upon them during the Last Alliance. He cursed them so they would never find rest until one of his heirs would call upon them to fight once more and they would answer."

One of his heirs...involuntarily her eyes wandered to Aragorn, who was staring into the fire with hardened grey eyes. There was another part of the story her father had told her, about a prophecy foretold by Malbeth the Seer, councillor of the kings of Arnor;

Over the land there lies a long shadow, westward reaching wings of darkness. The Tower trembles; to the tomb of kings doom approaches. The Dead awaken; for the hour is come for the oathbreakers: at the Stone of Erech they shall stand again and hear there a horn in the hills ringing. Whose shall the horn be? Who shall call them from the grey twilight, the forgotten people? The heir of him to whom the oath they swore. From the North shall he come, need shall drive him: he shall pass the Door to the Paths of the Dead.

The words could point to many different people and yet, a dark shadow gnawed at her heart, a feeling she couldn't possibly shake. Gandalf had looked at Aragorn in the hall of Meduseld just days ago and spoken of another path to take. Was this what he had meant? What he wished Aragorn to do? How could he possibly mean for such a thing to happen?

She leaned closer towards the Ranger, as if her presence was enough to protect from outside forces pulling at his path. He never took his eyes away from the fire, but wrapped an arm around her midst and drew her against his side.

"Óricuva," Gyda muttered, her eyes filled with shadows of a dark memory.

Éomir frowned at her. He might have been ages younger, but he was a man who had known war. He recognised a soldier plagued by memories when he saw one. "You were there?" he asked.

Gyda turned her head to look at Éomir and nodded in confirmation—something cold and unforgiving laced in her words: "They abandoned their king. Ú-thand I naid hain; aníron danad hain ú-guiliel."

The words left a heavy silence behind, and even those who did not understand them knew the weight they carried. Careful, barely noticeable, Legolas moved his hand and placed it on Gyda's back. Only then did some of the tension seem to leave her shoulders as she took a breath.

"Some place to gather your army," Gimli muttered.

"We all know the dishonor that awaits us for refusing the call," Éomir spoke, staring into the fire. "This mountain is a reminder of that."

Wordlessly, Elgarain got to her feet and started filling the cups with tea. Maybe the warm drink would lift their spirits somewhat and chase away the shadow that so clearly lingered in the encampment. She passed the cups around and then sat down next to Aragorn, wrapping her hands around the mug, letting the warmth fill her entire body.

From the corner of her eye she watched as Gimli took his flask from his pocket and poured some of it into the tea. When he noticed her looking, he simply smiled. "I need something stronger than tea when listening to stories of the dead, lass."

Aragorn took a long drag from his pipe, lazily blew out the smoke and said: "I thought your axe longed for death?"

For a moment Gimli stared at him, eyes dark in the fading light of the day. The Dwarf sat perfectly still, as if ready to jump up and throw his fists at Aragorn. Then, he threw his head back and laughed. So loudly, so heartly, that all around the encampment heads turned their way. The sound blew away the lingering shadow of the Paths of the Dead and her heart suddenly felt lighter.

She should've known better than to let her guard down in times of war...

A warning blow of a horn came from the guardtower down in the valley. She could feel the change in the air. Below in the encampment, the sound of lazy chatter changed into the warning shouts of men waking each other and the clanking of swords being drawn. The fellowship were on their feet immediately. Her heart pounding in her chest at whatever it was that could have alerted the guard.

They hurried to where the path led up the mountain. The falling of hooves, the rattling of armor, spears glittered in the light of the moon. An unknown company was approaching. A quick count told her it was a group of about thirty. All seated upon horses, slowly making their way up the winding road. But somehow they had been allowed to pass by the soldiers below. They would hardly let an enemy convoy get so close to their king...But then who could it be?

When they almost reached the top, Éomir cried out: "Halt! Who rides in Rohan?"

A figure wearing a deep blue cloak dismounted and walked forward. He held his hand up, outward, a sign of peace. Then his clear voice rang out: "Rohan did you say? That makes me glad to hear, for we have ridden long and far to reach it."

There was something familiar about the voice, bringing back memories of laughter and warmth. And suddenly the figure looked all too familiar. It couldn't possibly be...

"You have found it," Éomir replied, hand firmly on the hilt of his sword. "This is the realm of Théoden King. None ride here without his permission. Who are you?"

"This is the Grey Company, Rangers of the North. They have been joined by my kinsmen, Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Lord Elrond of Rivendell." He removed his cloak, moonlight shining upon brown curls. "And I am Galion, guard of the High Queen of the Ñoldor."

There had been no mistake in her memory, it was him. Her friend, her guard, Galion...

Gyda pushed forward until she was at the front, wide eyes shimmering in disbelief. "Mellon, you are well met."

He grinned at her, smile like molten sunlight. "Gyda," he breathed out, "Na vedui." He strode toward her through the dimming light, his mail catching the ember glow of the campfires. There was no hesitation in his step, only the steady, unflinching presence of someone who had fought beside her through storms of both steel and shadow.

When they met, there was no soft embrace, instead their forearms came together in the soldier's clasp, the iron grip speaking more than a hundred words could. Their gazes locked and Gyda smiled widely at him. "You've come just when we needed you."

Upon seeing them standing together, Elgarain could no longer contain herself and rushed forward. She pulled them into her arms, holding the two of them as close as she could. All the years fell away and suddenly she felt like a young elleth again, causing trouble in the woods and escaping the watchful eyes of her guards. They had all changed since then, had their own paths to follow, but the Valar had made sure their paths would intertwine once again. Oh how she had missed him.

"Tarinya," the archer greeted her as he pulled away, placed his fist against his heart and bowed. Though his face was lit up by an all too familiar playful smile. "I am glad to see you well."

"And I you, mellon nîn," she smiled, feeling as though the stars suddenly shone brighter. "More than you could possibly know."

At those words he frowned, sensing immediately there were things left unsaid. But he did not have the time to question it, for the rest of the company had arrived at the top of the mountain. Two figures, dark haired, grey-eyed and with sharp lined cheeks, got down from their horses and joined them. Few could tell them apart, but to her, their eyes shone with different memories.

"Elladan! Elrohir!" she cried out, not caring one bit about appearing regal.

The sons of Elrond bowed, bright smiles on their faces. "How good to see you," Elladan said.

Gyda moved to stand beside Elgarain and tilted her head at the twins. "I'm glad to see you both once more."

"So are we, Gyda," Elrohir spoke, clasping her hand in a warm embrace.

They were joined by another man dismounting his horse. He had a kind face, warm brown eyes and light hair held up by a string of leather. He held his fist against his heart in the Elvish greeting and bowed deeply. "I am Halbarad Dúnadan, Ranger of the North. We have come in search of Aragorn, son of Arathorn."

"And found him you have," Aragorn called out as he walked forward. His face lit up with a smile as he embraced the newcomer. "Of all joys this is the least expected!"

Halbarad laughed. "I have missed you, my friend."

"So have I." Aragorn clasped his shoulder before turning to face Théoden and his guard. "All is well. They are my kin from the lands in the North where I long dwelt."

Halbarad bowed before the King of Rohan and at his example the other Rangers followed. While the Elves gave him the formal greeting of their kind.

"Then I welcome them," Théoden spoke. "If these kinsmen are in any way like yourself, my Lord Aragorn, such strength will be much needed. Come, we have food and drink to spare."

As they moved towards the fires, Aragorn greeted the rangers with warm smiles and long embraces. These proud men and women, his people, having travelled all this way to support and fight for their king. And when she saw him standing among them, she could see it. Their mere presence seemed to have awoken a light within him. He stood taller, more fair, more like a king.

Though there was a question tugging at the edge of her mind that clouded her happiness at being reunited with her friends. "Elladan?" she asked, turning to the Ellon. "Why have you come?"

A shadow moved across his face. "We bring word from our father for Lord Aragorn." His eyes swept across the Grey Company as they settled by the fire. "Lord Elrond believed he would need the aid of his people in the battles ahead. So we searched the north and set out with them."

His words did little to reassure her. However grateful she was to the Valar for the crossing of their paths, she could not help but feel the place of it happening was no coincidence. She only nodded. "Well then, let us not waste any more time."

Together they walked to where the others were gathered. Aragorn was in deep conversation with Halbarad. Seated on the other side of the fire, were Gyda and Galion, talking as only friends of so many long years could. Legolas and Gimli were sitting in between, the most unlikely friendship of all seated there, but no less strong. Merry sat at Gimli's other side, sharing his famous longbottom leaf. Elladan joined his brother next to Halbarad, while Elgarain sat down at Aragorn's side. The arrival of the Grey Company brought strength to their tired bones and revived their spirits.

"Halbarad tells me you come bearing a message from Lord Elrond," Aragorn said as soon as Elladan had joined his brother. All conversation around the fire died down as everyone looked at the Elf lords.

Elrohir shared a glance with his brother before nodding. "Indeed we do. His words are these: the days are short. If you are in haste, remember the Paths of the Dead."

A cold breeze prickled the hairs on her neck, sending shivers down her spine. It felt as if the dead had joined their midst, bringing a chill that settled deep into their hearts.

"Murderers, traitors," Aragorn muttered as he stared into the fire. "You would call upon them to fight? They believe in nothing. They answer to no one."

Elladan reached for a package he carried at his belt, wrapped in dark cloth and shaped like a sword. He held it out with two hands for Aragorn to take. "They will answer to the king of Gondor."

Slowly, hesitantly, Aragorn reached for it and took the sword in his hands. Careful not to cut himself, he unwrapped the blade and at last, the hilt. Beneath the moon it seemed to shine with golden light. The pommel was decorated with golden figures but the hilt itself was simple and elegant, long enough to be held with two hands.

"Andúril, flame of the West, forged from the shards of Narsil," Elladan spoke, watching with a smile.

"Elbereth Gilthoniel," Elgarain breathed, eyes wide. The blade that once had been broken was now renewed. The sword of kings once again held by the one worthy to wield it.

Aragorn stroke the hilt, regarding the blade with admiration. "Sauron will not have forgotten the sword of Elendil," he muttered, lost in thought. In one, swift, movement he held up the blade. The light seemed to shine on him as well, illuminating him like the sun was shining for him alone. "The blade that was broken shall return to Minas Tirith."

"Put aside the Ranger," Elrohir said, his face carved with the same stern lines as his father. "Become who you were born to be. Take the Dimholt road."

A heavy sign left his lips and he lowered the blade. "I thank you for delivering Lord Elrond's message. I will let you know of my path in the morning." He bowed to the Elven Lords, then got to his feet and walked to his tent, disappearing inside.

"We should all get some rest," Elgarain said, feeling even more weary than before the arrival of the Grey Company. "The light of the dawn will bring us the council we need." 

°∴,*⋅✲✦ ( ♕ ) ✦✲⋅*,∴°

𝕬𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝕹𝐎𝐓𝐄 . . .

Aaaahhh I've been so excited for this reunion! I'm so happy to have Galion, Elladan and Elrohir back into the story! Our little main cast from act 1 is back and I'm so happy! I knew when I read the books I really wanted to include the Grey Company in this story and I also knew I really wanted Galion back. So, what better way than to combine the two?'

I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. I'm really proud of it so please comment and vote. Oh and bonus points if you caught the reference in the chapter title. Because, that song really is their theme song ;)

Much love,

Nelly

TRANSLATIONS:

Óricuva ― Traitors

Ú-thand I naid hain; aníron danad hain ú-guiliel ― Their deeds were without justice, their own hand shaped their doom

Mellon nin ― My friend

Na vedui ― At last

Elbereth Gilthoniel ― Varda Starkindler