Title: Legolas’ Gift
Author: Estel Baggins
Author’s Email: macfal1219@comcast.net
Rating: NC-17
Chapters: 84-86
Summary: The war continues, including the battle before the White City.
Warning: This is the second-to-last posting, and the other will be up at this time.
Warning 2: Pregnant elf. Pregnant man. Not that you didn’t already know about them, 
but we’re going to be talking about that again.
*****Author’s Note***** Please tell me how you liked this epic, start to finish.
Chapter Eighty-Four
      Arwen found her tent among the Dunedain outside the walls of the Deep and 
ordered her guard, a young Ranger she’d appointed to the task, to make sure none 
disturbed her unless it was an absolute emergency. Confused and fuming, she threw 
herself own on her pile of many-colored pillows and beat her fists on them. She did this 
quietly, and when the tears came, she made sure they were silent, but her shock was real 
despite all the control she placed on it.
      ‘Who does she think she is, telling me I’m beautiful because I’ve suffered? That 
little-’ she pulled out the worst word she could ever remember hearing- ‘bitch think she 
is? Calling me “mature” like some ancient tree, then telling me I’m not perfect!’
      She pounded the pillows some more, then another part of Eowyn’s speech came 
back to her, and she thought, ‘Good things? What are good things except those things that 
are good for me? And I haven’t chosen anything. Everything was thrust on me like I’m a 
pack horse!’ She liked mentally shouting; it was cleansing. She did it again: ‘Thrust on 
me, do you hear, Lady Eowyn? Bitch Eowyn? I’ve chosen nothing; it’s all been given to 
me or pushed on me, and I could do nothing to stop it! I chose Aragorn, but he spurned 
me. And I chose to help my brothers, but they heaped unjust accusations on me like 
piling rocks on someone to crush them!’
      Quite poetic and apt, that last, and Arwen stopped a moment to admire her own 
words. Then, deciding that she was all ‘shouted’ out for the moment, she sat up. That was 
when she discovered the hot tears on her cheeks. Reaching up, she wiped at then, then 
stared in surprise at the moisture on her fingers. How long had it been since she’d truly 
cried? Not in frustration or anger or because it would move someone to help her, but 
because she was hurt?
      She didn’t dare answer that. Staring at the tears, she asked, “Why did she talk so 
much about my beauty?” Men did that; male elves did that. Even the hobbit, Merry, had 
said something about it, and Pippin had waxed almost poetic about her lovely features 
and form. But Eowyn was a woman. ‘Maybe she’s jealous.’ That was entirely possible, 
but unlikely; Eowyn had seemed to be in awe rather than angry that Arwen was more 
beautiful than she. ‘Then what else could it be?’
      Then Arwen was put in mind of her own female love interest, though the elven 
maiden had fawned all over Arwen instead of the other way around. Arwen couldn’t 
remember much about Guine, except that she had been from the Grey Havens and she’d 
come to Imladris long before Celebrain left for the Undying Lands. Oh, and she’d 
followed Arwen around like a desperate puppy for weeks, finally approaching her much 
as Eowyn had, and speaking to her of the beauty of the world, and at last of Arwen’s 
beauty. Then she’d said the words that had taken her words from the girlish-giggly level 
of admiration to a love-interest: “Arwen, I can’t wait anymore. I need to ask you. I want 
to kiss you. Will you kiss me back?”
      Arwen had slapped her; she remembered that clearly. And at the time, it had 
seemed the right thing to do. But as time passed, as Guine first avoided her, then left 
Rivendell altogether, Arwen began to feel that maybe she’d expressed her displeasure the 
wrong way. She’d never done anything to remedy the situation, but her guilt had faded 
with time, and eventually came a day when she hadn’t thought about her behavior 
towards the beautiful Guine in months.
      ‘Beautiful?’ Yes, she’d been that; Arwen didn’t lie to herself. Somehow it was all 
right when Arwen admired someone else even if she didn’t want a woman looking at her 
that way. Guine’s hair had been unaccountably short, and the little bit that should have 
hung to her shoulders was always put up with painted pins. She’d arrayed herself in 
trousers more often than skirts, and forget corsets. Her hands, though slender and 
feminine, had been strong; she’d been able to string and shoot a tall bow, a Gondolinian 
invention that was hardly ever used in Imladris, but which Glorfindel had introduced to 
the curious elf maiden shortly after he’d shown up in the Last Homely like a lost puppy. 
But for all these unusual customs (Arwen had thought they were part of living near the 
Grey Havens before she’d visited there and found that all the women dressed as she did) 
Guine’s face had been the very picture of ethereal beauty. When Arwen first saw the 
slightly younger elf, she’d felt a rush of jealousy. Only after realising that Guine didn’t 
care what she looked like, and that she turned aside all male advances, did Arwen’s 
jealousy give way to interest. Arwen had approached Guine, and though that had turned 
out to be a mistake, Guine deciding to try to be a sexual partner, it had been good at the 
beginning, when the two of them could just talk. Something Arwen had felt lonely being 
one of the few women in Imladris, and Guine helped to ease that ache.
      Arwen took up her brush and unbraided her hair. Using swift, firm strokes, she 
began to comb it out. Her gaze was distant as she recalled each of Guine’s features, 
looking for a single flaw, something that would have prepared Arwen for the shock of 
discovering that Guine liked women. Nothing.
      ‘And what do I like?’ Well, ‘men’ was the obvious answer, but Arwen realised 
suddenly that she’d never fawned over a man the way Guine had fawned over her. 
‘Maybe I just haven’t found the right man, or I have more control over my emotions than 
that.’ She uttered a broken laugh at her self-deception, then amended, “Yes, it could be 
my self-control, but I’d rather admit the truth, that I’ve never been attracted to anyone, 
mal or female, as Guine was attracted to me, as, I’m almost sure, Eowyn is.’
      There was much to be said for the reticence of some elves; many went their whole 
existence without ever finding a mate, and were completely content to have friends and 
family only, and not lovers. ‘Am I one of those?’ She put her brush aside and replaited 
her hair for sleep. The answer didn’t come at once, and Arwen detested that. She wasn’t 
used to having to wait for answers. Scowling, she finished with her hair, tossed her brush 
into one of her bags, and changed into her sleepwear, doing her best to ignore the fact 
that she wasn’t alone as she would have been in Rivendell. Here, she was surrounded by 
men, and thus she must restrain herself. When she was settled into ‘bed’ (more cushions) 
she stared up at the ceiling of her tent, then leaned over and blew out her candles. She 
hadn’t even noticed that the Dunedain had kept these burning for her, but had taken it as a 
matter of course that they would afford her every luxury they denied themselves because 
she was Elrond’s daughter, and, more than that, because she was Arwen, special above all 
others, more revered than ninety-eight percent of Middle Earth’s population.
      And most treated her the way she thought she should be treated, but, increasingly, 
the ones who didn’t do this were those closest to her. Elladan and Elrohir, especially 
Elrohir. Aragorn. Legolas. And, to a lesser extent, Glorfindel, but that was mostly 
because Glorfindel seemed to be in so much pain himself that he seemed unable to see 
beyond his own suffering to help others.
      Distracted from her own pain for a moment, Arwen thought of dancing with 
Glorfindel earlier that evening; she’d caught his arm and held him as soon as he’d 
appeared in the main hall, even though Mordecai had seemingly needed his help. She’d 
told herself at the time that she wanted to keep Glorfindel there because she needed an elf 
to be near, but, gradually, as they danced, she began to sense how hurt he was, and she 
found herself speaking words that her mother had used once, though she’d hated the 
words at the time. “Time doesn’t heal all wounds, Glorfindel,” she’d said, hearing her 
mother saying something similar before she left for the Undying Lands, “love does. As 
long as you leave or die in love, you’ll be able to heal, and those you leave behind will be 
able to heal. Don’t give up on love; it’s the only thing that can heal everything.” Arwen 
had hated those words because it seemed to her that Celebrain wasn’t living by them. But 
as she spoke to Glorfindel, it had occurred to her that maybe her mother had meant the 
words, but she hadn’t been strong enough to live by them. Celebrain hadn’t run from 
Middle Earth, maybe; just possibly she’d been forced. For the first time since her mother 
left, Arwen considered this possibility.
      And with that consideration came a shocking realisation: if love truly healed, then 
couldn’t Elladan, Elrohir and Glorfindel find a way to recover from what was coming? 
Because the love each of them felt was strong enough- she didn’t doubt that now. ‘And 
how selfish I’ve been to think that they didn’t love each other, or that love wouldn’t see 
them through pain.’ Arwen shook her head, thoroughly disgusted with herself. ‘They’ll 
suffer, and they’ll never see each other again, but-’ She shook her head harder, as if 
denying some great truth of the universe. ‘It isn’t right that they suffer! Not Glorfindel, 
and certainly not my brothers. Why does Glorfindel have to go to Valinor anyway? Why 
can’t he stay here with Elladan?’
      She mourned over the question for a moment, then realised there was naught she 
could do for Glorfindel or her brothers to change their fate. ‘All I can do is support them 
before I leave.’ Arwen blinked at the simplicity of that thought, and wondered if there 
was a metal anywhere for long-standing stupidity. Guilt overwhelmed her for a moment, 
but she vowed not to waste any time on the useless emotion. ‘I am going to fix everything 
I can.’ After a pause, ‘That’s not much.’
      Unbidden, an image of Eowyn seemed to join her in the tent, saying that, yes, she 
wasn’t alone, and she couldn’t be. Not here. She needed protectors, perhaps especially 
those who would protect her from her own thoughts. ‘You are to be admired, Lady 
Arwen,’ Eowyn said in her mind, but then Arwen shook her head and the voice amended, 
‘You are to be admired because I love you. I cannot speak for others, but I love you.’
      A creation of her mind, surely, with little or no basis in truth. Eowyn liked her; 
that much was obvious. But love? Arwen stared into the darkness and willed herself to 
drift into reverie. Before she slipped completely away, she thought, ‘I’d be lucky to have 
someone like Eowyn love me.’ And before she could wonder about the baseless 
conviction in that statement, she was drifting.
***
      Aragorn opened the door between what he’d unconsciously named “the battle 
room” and that in which his lover and others waited. But when he saw that Legolas 
wasn’t there, his legs lost most of their strength and he sagged briefly against the 
doorframe before rallying his defenses. He had a moment to be glad that he could reveal 
himself at his weakest to all those that were watching him now, then he was lifted up and 
carried to a chair, where he was deposited by elven hands and a cup of something warm 
and fragrant was brought to him by Raven. Aragorn smiled at his Ranger, took a few sips, 
then allowed the cup to be taken away again.
      “Sauron’s influence has been banished from that palantir,” he said then, and was 
surprised to hear such a weak voice issuing from his own lips. ‘Aii, but I’m exhausted.’ 
Aragorn closed his eyes, and sensed all those around him take an unconscious step 
towards him. He smiled, though he didn’t look at them. “All’s well. I’m just tired. I’ll 
regain my strength in a moment.”
      He heard the door to the hallway open, then warm, strong hands were grasping 
both of his, and a voice sweeter than the final cry of victory would surely be said, 
“Aragorn. Love, are you all right?”
      ‘Legolas…’ He did his best to project the thought.
      ‘Yes, Aragorn, I’m here. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you came out, but 
Mordecai needed me.’
      Aragorn dragged his eyelids up and focused with still more difficulty. Legolas 
was kneeling before him, holding his hands, as he’d felt, but also rubbing them, which 
Aragorn hadn’t been aware of until he saw it. The shocking lack of response in his limbs 
worried him, but he kept his composure. ‘I will have full command of my faculties soon.’ 
He spied then the boy hovering a little back from the circle and tried to summon him 
forward. But his voice failed him and he relied on his eyes to compel his Dunadan.
      Mordecai responded to this, and the others parted so that he could crouch beside 
Aragorn. “I’m here, Aragorn. I don’t want to disturb you, but I’ve had a vision and I 
wanted you to hear it. Also, Lord Glorfindel has told me much, and I wanted to share it 
with you and my papa.”
      Again Aragorn summoned his voice, and this time it came, though all he could 
manage was a whisper. “Speak.”
      Mordecai told him of wanting to heal a man named Faramir, and that he 
shouldn’t, but that he would be tempted. He waited then, to see what Aragorn would say.
      Aragorn sent his words to Legolas, who was stronger, and the elf spoke them. 
“Faramir is the younger brother of Boromir, son of Denethor. As you have been learning 
the healer’s trade from Aaron, maybe you would be called to Faramir’s bedside if he 
were hurt. But I beg you to trust the vision only as long as the specific circumstances 
allow. When it comes time to decide whether to help him or not, trust as much to your 
own beliefs in that instant as to the vision which tells you not to help him. Do not 
discount the vision, but have a balance between the two.” Legolas stopped speaking then, 
and Aragorn took over for only a moment.
      “Mordecai Dunadan, if you are meant to leave Faramir to another’s healing, or to 
his own, the situation will arise wherein you have no choice but to do that.”
      “How can you be sure?” Mordecai didn’t blush at challenged his chief.
      “Your vision speaks to me, giving me that assurance. I can’t give you a better 
reason than that.”
      “That’s all I need,” Mordecai answered. “Now may I tell you what Glorfindel 
said?”
      “Please.”
      “Aragorn, forgive me, but shouldn’t you be resting?” Raven asked.
      Again, Aragorn sent his response to Legolas, who spoke. “I am resting, Dunadan. 
I’m just listening at the same time.”
      Raven bowed, looking somewhat hurt.
      “Forgive me,” Aragorn whispered. “My wits are not quite as quick as they should 
be. The Dark Lord has taken much from me, but nothing that cannot be built up again.” 
He glanced at Mordecai. “Tell me Glorfindel’s words, then give me the night to recollect 
my wits.”
      Mordecai nodded and gave Aragorn the full account of all that Glorfindel had said 
to him. He lingered over the description of the light that resided in both he and his papa.
      Aragorn, true to his word, listened, and when Mordecai was done, the chief said, 
through Legolas once again, “Now I must rest. Thank you for your news, Mordecai, and 
before much happens tomorrow, I will answer your questions.”
      All filed out, though the twins lingered a moment to speak with Aragorn and 
Gimli lingered to speak with Legolas.
      “Master Elf?”
      Legolas’ eyes had been on Aragorn, but at Gimli’s quiet word, he turned to his 
friend. “Yes, friend Gimli?”
      “Aragorn needs you. Make sure you rest, too. You can’t help him if you’re 
running around like a dwarf with his beard afire. I know elves need less sleep than the 
rest of us, but since you’re carrying a loaf in your oven-”
      “What?” Legolas’ jaw dropped and he was hard-pressed to disguise the squeak of 
his surprised exclamation. “I’m carrying a what in my what?”
      “A loaf in your oven. A babe in your belly.” Gimli’s grin couldn’t be concealed in 
his beard. “You touch your belly sometimes. And you must have what my mother called 
‘a knowing glow.’” He laughed softly at Legolas’ surprised expression. “Did you think 
you’d keep it secret from the rest of us? Not likely; I’ll warrant the Dunedain all know. 
And those elf-lords aren’t far behind, either.” And, so saying, he headed for the door, 
calling over his shoulder, “Make sure you sleep, Master Elf. You have a responsibility, 
and only part of that’s to the king standing yonder.” Still chuckling, he departed.
      After another whispered word, Elladan and Elrohir left, closing the door behind 
them. Without hesitation, Legolas turned the lock. Aragorn was tucking the palantir into 
his pack, and his eyes were on his work. Still, Legolas sensed his lover’s need, even 
though their bond hadn’t been built back yet. Suddenly afraid, Legolas thought to chase 
after the twins and make Elrohir show them how to bring the bond back. But even before 
his hand touched the doorknob, he heard Aragorn in his mind:
      ‘Legolas, it’s all right. I know how to build it.’ A short laugh. ‘Though don’t ask 
me how I know. Like my battle with Sauron, much is a mystery to me, including my own 
understanding of things I’ve never questioned or had to figure out.’
      Even in the man’s mental voice Legolas heard exhaustion. At once, he went to his 
lover and put an arm around his back, urging Aragorn to lean on him. Then, with the king 
safely supported, Legolas made his way to the bed in the corner. Even though this bed 
was less corpulent than the other, the elf didn’t want to go into the room where the battle 
had been fought. Aragorn seemed perfectly amenable to that, so they sank down onto the 
small bed and Legolas helped his lover recline against the pillows he’d hastily piled 
against the wall. (There was no headboard.) Aragorn’s lack of protest frightened Legolas, 
and he feared Aragorn had lost more than it had first appeared.
      “Aragorn… the baby…” Legolas removed Aragorn’s boots and then loosened the 
lacing at the top of the man’s shirt.
      “If you’re asking if I’ve miscarried, I don’t know.” Aragorn shook his head 
feebly. “I doubt it because I haven’t felt any stomach pains, and surely we’d already be 
seeing evidence of the baby leaving my body, but I can’t tell you for sure. Nothing makes 
much sense right now. It’s like a curtain hangs between me and the rest of the world.” He 
groaned softly and lifted a hand as if to touch his forehead. But the hand dropped back to 
the coverlet and he closed his eyes. “Forgive me, love. I’m tired.” Aragorn started to 
drift, then he rallied his strength for two comforts: “The babe is almost surely alive.” A 
breath. “I love you.” He slept.
      Legolas sat at Aragorn’s side for a time, but then, remembering Gimli’s words, 
and realizing that he could do little to help by sitting and worrying, the elf curled up 
beside the man and descended into reverie.
***
      Everyone woke up a little late the next morning in the Hornburg, expect the 
Dunedain, who were up to the last man as the sun rose. This included Aragorn, though he 
had stayed in the room he shared with Legolas, more because he sought answers to all 
that he’d seen the day before than from weariness. That had gone like mist before the 
rising sun. After casting Sauron out the second time, Aragorn had found himself 
surrounded by a dozen young men and women who all seemed to have the same eyes as 
he. They were dancing about him in a circle, and all laughed. But he couldn’t join them, 
and that troubled him. ‘If those were my children, and sense tells me it was so, then why 
couldn’t I join them? Where was my strength?’ He feared a future where he couldn’t 
move when he wished, but set it aside for the moment. ‘Let me first live the days that 
have been set directly in front of my feet. Let the distant future take care of itself.’
      So, the stone showed more than the present. Aragorn was intrigued, but disturbed. 
He hadn’t known such a thing was possible with the Seeing Stones. Had Sauron or 
Saruman tampered with it in some way? ‘When I get a chance to ask Gandalf, I will. For 
now…’
      He’d seen Legolas sailing West, and that shocked and stung, so much so that 
Sauron had seen his weakness and tried to wrest the stone from him a third time. That last 
time had nearly done him in and was the biggest reason he’d been so far gone the night 
before. To think that Legolas, his dear Legolas, would ever sail… There had been others 
with his lover, but Aragorn hadn’t taken much notice of them, except to see that two had 
hair that was almost black, and the hair of the last had been a lighter brown threaded 
through with grey.
      Next had come visions closer to his own time: Aragorn saw Glorfindel and 
Elladan, surely as they had been after Elladan left with his twin the night before, 
snuggled together in bed, hugging each other and crying a little, but mostly happy. 
Glorfindel’s hand had rested on Elladan’s abdomen for a time, and both elves had smiled, 
seeming unable to stop themselves despite their other worries.
      And at last, a vision that meant something to the war: a great host, spirits all, 
following the Dunedain across the plains and to the ships where men out of Umbar and 
further south had captured many men of Lebanon and the other free kingdoms that were 
loyal to Gondor. At last, Aragorn could not deny his chosen path and now that he had no 
choice, he found that he was not afraid, only anxious to get started. ‘We’ll have to go this 
morning,’ he thought as he rose, only just then noticing that Legolas was not beside him 
in the bed, nor was his lover anywhere in the room.
      Frowning, Aragorn dressed quickly and gathered their meager belongings before 
he strode from the room and down the hall, seeking his lover and the rest of the 
Dunedain. ‘If we’re to travel the Paths of the Dead, we’ll have to leave Merry behind,’ he 
thought. ‘I must entreat Theoden King to keep him safe as he may be kept until we all 
meet on the field of battle.’ Aragorn wondered if Merry would be allowed to join the 
Rohirrim in their final muster, then decided that he would make sure of it. To come all 
this way and not be given at least the choice to fight, Merry would feel like a bit of 
useless baggage. Aragorn had come to see the hobbit’s stout heart, and vowed not to 
insult it, or to see it insulted by another if that could be at all helped.
      But as he came out of one corridor and entered another, Aragorn wondered, ‘And 
why do we have to leave Merry? Why shouldn’t we, why shouldn’t I, allow him to come 
if he wishes to?’ He sighed and wondered what sort of king a hypocritical man would 
make. Then, casting aside his self-reproach, he walked out upon the outer wall, angling 
for the stairs that would take him down to the main gate of the Deep. Below him, the 
Dunedain, as if by some silent signal, were packing up their tents and saddling their 
horses. Theoden wasn’t in evidence, but Eomer stood a little to one side with his sister 
and Merry, watching them. A little way off, on the other side, furthest from the fortress 
walls, Elladan and Glorfindel could be seen gathering their things. Even as Aragorn 
paused to watch them, Elladan raised a hand and sang out in a fair voice for both his 
mount and Glorfindel’s to return from their grazing. Aragorn saw how little untainted 
grass the orcs and Uruks had left in their wake. Still, the horses seemed to have found 
enough to satisfy them; they sped to their riders, coming up short and tossing their 
beautiful manes in the light of the barely-started day.
      ‘My brother, my people, Glorfindel… They all look so healthy. Please, Valar, if 
you have any mercy or can hearken to a man’s prayer, let them all live through the battle 
that will come in only days.’ Aragorn refused to let his grief affect him; the time for self-
collection was gone. The Paths of the Dead awaited. Minutes later, emerging from the 
front gate, Aragorn was greeted by Eomer, and by Eowyn, who seemed, for almost the 
first time since Aragorn had met her, to not be watching him like a lady hawk determined 
to feed her chicks with his flesh.
      Eomer embraced Aragorn. “Your Dunedain tell me you’re leaving.” His hurt was 
mostly concealed by curiosity, but when he stood back from Aragorn, having received an 
embrace in return, his voice dropped, and he said, “Where will you go? ‘Tis practically 
the eve of battle!”
      “It is my lot to walk the Paths of the Dead,” Aragorn answered just as quietly, 
taking an extra moment to make sure none were close enough to hear them. Eowyn, 
though nearly close enough to hear, seemed to be distracted by something across the 
camp, and Aragorn found himself wondering what had caught her attention. Did she still 
wish to ride to war? Would she ask to join him on the path he must trod? Glancing at 
Eomer, he meant to assure his friend, but Eomer spoke before he could.
      “It might be your lot to ride trails no other living man would dare, but I’m afraid 
we won’t see each other again under the sun.”
      Aragorn shook his head and clapped Eomer on the shoulder. “Don’t doubt, my 
friend. Against all hope, I believe we will see each other on the fields before Gondor.” He 
smiled, and cast aside all kingly words for the moment. “Trust me, Eomer; we will still 
draw swords together.”
      The Third Marshal of the Mark sighed, but tried to show as much confidence as 
Aragorn obviously called for. “All right, Aragorn; you have led us through fire. I should 
know better than to doubt you.” He moved close again and drew Aragorn against him in a 
fierce hug. “Be careful, son of the North. If I don’t see you before Gondor, I will hunt 
down your corpse and piss on it.”
      Aragorn snorted, then effectively crushed all the breath from Eomer’s lungs for a 
moment. “I’ll consider that the warning it’s intended to be and make sure I’m there to 
defend my handsome face from your water.” He left Eomer then, and went to Merry, who 
had been abandoned by Eowyn, who was threading her way through the Dunedain, 
seemingly on a most urgent mission.
      Merry looked up as Aragorn approached, but his usual good humor was absent. 
As Aragorn crouched before him, the hobbit said, “You’re leaving. And I want to go with 
you, but I think I’m supposed to stay here.” He blushed. “It’s not one of those visions, 
like you all seem to get, but it’s a very strong feeling. I’m supposed to be here for 
something.” He threw out his chest and met Aragorn’s gaze squarely as if daring the man 
to challenge him or doubt his sincerity.
      “I believe you, Master Brandybuck,” Aragorn answered. Then he held out his 
arms, and the two of them embraced for a long minute. “We’ll meet again, I think,” 
Aragorn said. “You’ll be coming to Gondor soon enough, and there I’ll be, and Pippin 
will be also. But for the time between, may I give you a Dunedain blessing?”
      Merry nodded against his shoulder, then looked up as Aragorn touched the side of 
his face. He blinked as Aragorn kissed his forehead, then said, “I’ll give it back, for the 
hobbits do that, too, though only to little children.” His eyes narrowed before he kissed 
Aragorn, and he asked, “Is it only a child-blessing among you?”
      “I have often kissed my second-in-command on the forehead, and many of my 
other people besides,” Aragorn answered.
      Satisfied, Merry kissed him. “Be careful. The Fellowship’s all scattered, and I 
don’t want to lose you again.”
      “We’ll see each other again, Merry. I promise.” When Merry stepped back, 
Aragorn stood. “Now I must go explain myself to Theoden King. He’s there-” Aragorn 
pointed and Merry followed his finger- “on the ramparts. He’ll be coming down soon, 
and I’ll have to be quick if I want to speak to him before he must tend to others.” He 
patted Merry on the shoulder, then strode towards the gates. Above him, Theoden moved 
on the wall.
      As Aragorn took up a position near the door, but not too near, lest he seem to be a 
pest, Legolas appeared. He was carrying his healer’s pouch under one arm, and another 
sack besides over his shoulder. He came to Aragorn, and they embraced for a moment, 
though Legolas’ parcels made this awkward. “Athelas,” Legolas said in response to 
Aragorn’s enquiring gaze. “You always said it’s best to collect it at night, because then 
you’ll rely more on its smell than on its look, which is close to the poison y’er.” He 
kissed Aragorn briefly, aware that he wasn’t fooling his lover in the least, and added, 
“Besides, I couldn’t sleep long. I drifted for a bit, but concern for the journey woke me 
again and again.”
      Aragorn returned the brief kiss. “I was worried.”
      “I’m sorry. You could have reached out to me through our bond.”
      “Aye, I could have, but that didn’t occur to me, foolish as that seems. I’m 
preoccupied with thoughts of the imminent future.” He sighed, and his melancholy of 
earlier resurfaced. “I can’t help but think some of our people will not live through this. 
And, in my heart, that’s all I really want: for all our loved ones to be alive at the end of 
this war.”
      “That’s all anybody wants, Aragorn.” Legolas drew Aragorn’s hand up until it 
rested on the elf’s heart. “All we can do is fight our hardest and do our best, and hope it 
will be enough. Weak platitudes, I know, but they’re the truth, and I will not speak lies to 
you.”
      “For which I am grateful.” Aragorn saw the main gate opening behind Legolas, 
and he said, “And now there is truly no more time for this. We ride as soon as I have the 
King’s leave.”
      Legolas nodded. “I saw the Dunedain.” He stepped aside, allowing Aragorn to 
move past him. “We’ll be ready when you are.” He watched Aragorn take a few steps, 
but then his attention was caught by young Mordecai, who was indiscreetly watching the 
ladies Eowyn and Arwen as they talked a little distance from the Dunedain. Their heads 
were close together, and Eowyn’s hand was on Arwen’s arm.
      Aware that he, too, was staring, Legolas approached the young Dunedain and 
tapped his shoulder. Mordecai jumped and blushed, but then looked back at the ladies. 
“They’re together, I think,” he said.
      Legolas shook his head. “It’s not polite to stare.” He laughed at repeating words 
that his own father had said often enough when he was very young. How strange that he 
should remember them now.
      “I’m not staring.” Mordecai looked up at Legolas. “Something’s going to happen, 
and they’re both involved. Something during or after the coming battles, but it’s an 
important something.”
      Just then, Arwen pulled away from Eowyn and stalked towards her horse.
      “Maybe they’re not together,” Legolas said.
      “They are,” Mordecai said, “and as soon as they admit it to each other, they’ll be 
a force to be reckoned with.” But to Legolas’ question about that, Mordecai would say no 
more.
      Aragorn approached the Dunedain then, and Roheryn was brought to him. “We 
ride, by the swiftest road, for battle. All that wish to come with me mount up and ride.”
***
      Sam didn’t hesitate at the front of the cave; every nerve was screaming at him to 
hurry, hurry, Frodo was in danger. So he didn’t pause, but didn’t hurry, either, aware of 
what Frodo hadn’t noticed until it was too late: the cave was dark, the floor was uneven, 
and huge spider webs hung everywhere. Those webs were too large to have come from 
any ordinary or even slightly-oversized spider. Sam knew he’d be fortunate to avoid 
seeing the monster that had spread those threads.
      He trod forth with all the care and all the silence inherent to hobbits who wanted 
to be cautious. His eyes quested everywhere in search of movement and traps and pitfalls. 
He ducked around the webs and squeezed through places that seemed too small for him. 
He spotted the exit soon enough, and though he was nervous about being in the open 
there- he couldn’t shake the feeling that the spider wasn’t attacking him only because it 
didn’t have enough room- he moved steadily forward, determined to find Frodo at the 
end of this nightmare and stick to him no matter what his lover- ‘ex-lover?’ Sam 
shuddered- might say or do.
      It might have almost been easier, Sam thought as he drew ever nearer to danger, if 
Frodo had yelled a him. But Frodo had seemed dazed, almost as if Gollum was 
controlling his mind and not just his heart. Hearing Frodo tell him to leave as calmly as 
he might have asked for Sam to pass the butter at supper made the gardener feel sick and 
made his pain twice as bad.
      Only a few steps before the exit, Sam saw something gleaming on the floor. He 
bent forward for a closer look, and gasped when he saw Galadriel’s phial and Sting 
laying side by side, gleaming clean, as if they’d been meant to see battle and hadn’t been 
allowed to. Sam couldn’t have avoided seeing the tracks in the dusting of loose dirt 
nearby. He shivered, but not as strongly as he had when thinking of Frodo dismissing 
him, and took up the weapons. He held the light before him, unsure how it would help, 
but believing it would because, like the magical silver rope, it had been made by elves. 
And not even his long journey with Legolas had dispelled Sam’s fascination with the 
Firstborn, or the belief that they could do almost anything.
      He trod forth. But only two steps out of the cave, he spotted the web-swathed 
lump. Rushing forward, he dropped to one knee, and pulled away some of the sticky 
stuff. Frodo stared back at him, but his eyes, though open, were sightless. Dead eyes. 
Sam felt the beginnings of a full breakdown coming, and though he would have gladly 
given in to it, he heard something crunch behind him, and he was up and turned around 
before he could credit the sound.
      The spider was easily the size of two sheep side by side, but Sam wasn’t afraid. 
His fury was too strong to allow any other emotion. He held Sting up and kept the phial 
close to his body, ready to use it when and if the need presented itself. “Come for me, 
you ugly she-monster!” he screamed. “You murdering bitch, come!”
      Shelob paused only a moment, as if to take his measure, then she rushed upon 
him, spitting venom and hissing.
      Sam met her with bared teeth and fiercely-glowing eyes. ‘You killed my Frodo! 
You killed my Frodo!’ he shouted at her again and again in his mind, aware that to open 
his mouth would be to run the risk of letting the venom inside him. And he wanted to be 
able to kill his lover’s murderer if he could do nothing else.
      ‘You spider-bitch!’ Sam rolled under the reaching legs, hardly aware of what he 
did. If he’d stopped to think what he meant to do, he probably would have frozen. At the 
least, he would have lost his fueling rage, and that he clung too dearly, using it as the 
shield from his pain that it could well be. He stabbed upwards with Sting and felt it first 
hit hard chitin, then slip over a scale-like curve to bite deep into soft flesh. Feeling this, 
Sam stuck her deeper, letting his hand pass into the hot, spilling guts. He twisted the 
blade, and Shelob screamed, rocketing back on her feet and striking him with one of her 
side legs.
      Sam flew three or four feet, then scrambled to his feet. He’d lost Sting, which lay 
under Shelob, but he still had the phial. Raising it and advancing, he vowed, ‘I’ll die here 
beside her corpse rather than let her eat him.’ “Come, you furry-legged, ugly-arsed bitch-
thing!” He rushed forward and the phial in his hand lit up like a torch.
      Shelob screeched and retreated, giving Sam the chance he needed to lay hands on 
Sting. But even as the hobbit touched the hilt, Shelob rushed in again despite the light and 
tried to fang the soft creature that had hurt her.
      Crying out in shock and revulsion, Sam blundered backwards, dropping both 
weapons. He rolled and rolled, avoiding her legs and her fangs alike. He rolled again and 
found himself near a tumble of rocks small enough to be lifted. He grabbed one and 
hurled it. The sound of rock against chitin was his only reward and Shelob kept on. ‘Do 
that again and I’ll be sure to die under her instead of next to her.’ The next rock, aimed 
more carefully, took out one eye, and Sam roared. “Ha! That’s for you, Frodo!” He 
darted forward and grabbed up Sting, lunging for her again. Instead of her underbelly, his 
blade found a home in one cheek and again Sam twisted it before trying to plunge the 
blade again. ‘There! And there! Take that, you killing, fiendish bitch-thing! You killed 
my Frodo? I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!’
      But Shelob refused to stay to be destroyed. Screeching in her terrible language, 
she blundered backwards, then staggered about in a half-turn and fled back into the cave 
from whence she’d come.
      Sam, his blade dripping black blood, and his eyes swimming with tears, watched 
her until she was out of sight, then returned to Frodo. Dropping his weapons nearby, Sam 
knelt at his lover’s side and gave himself over to grief. Except he couldn’t. Even before 
he could get fairly started, Frodo’s voice came to him, not Frodo as he had been since 
Gollum, or, further back, since the Ring had come into his possession, but as he’d been 
when they were both much younger hobbits and Frodo had spoken to Sam of marriage. 
At the time, it had seemed that Frodo spoke of Sam finding a hobbit maiden to marry, but 
now Sam saw the scene in a new and beautiful light.
      As they weeded the garden together, something that Frodo had started doing 
regularly once he reached his thirties and he wanted to be both outside, and yet not too far 
from his uncle, Frodo asked, “What do you look for in a life-long partner, Sam?”
      “I’m sure I don’t know, Mister Frodo. I haven’t given it much thought.”
      “Well, while I give you my thoughts, will you think on it?”
      “Yes, sir.”
      “I’d like someone who will have a life all to themselves without me. I want 
someone who can go on if I don’t, and yet someone who will love me and stay by me as 
long as time allows. I want someone to laugh with, but, more: I want someone to whom I 
can tell my most absurd musings and my most serious ideas, and be accepted still as 
myself without reproach.” He’d glanced at Sam then. “Someone like you, Sam. You’ve 
always been here for me, or so it seems, and yet you very much have your own life.” He 
blushed a little, though at he time Sam had doubted what he was seeing. “What about 
you?”
      “I’d like… I’d like someone I can take care of, but they’d take care of me, too, 
sometimes. I’d like somebody who likes gardening a little, but mostly someone who likes 
other things, too, like walking in the woods or dancing or cooking. I guess I’ll want 
children someday, too, but children don’t have to be there. I just want someone I can 
love. If you take my meaning.”
      His hand covered in soil, Frodo touched Sam’s sleeve. “Yes. I do.”
      “You knew what love was, and so did I, even back then.” Sam pulled a little more 
of the webbing back and took the Ring, though he hated to touch it. Groaning, he put it in 
his pocket, making sure it was way down deep so it wouldn’t fall out. Hadn’t he heard 
Gandalf say something about the Ring having a mind of its own? Well, he wasn’t going 
to give the Ring a chance to escape if he could help it. “I’ll finish it, Frodo. Not for 
Middle-Earth, but for you. Don’t worry; if you can hear me, don’t worry. I’ll do what 
you’ve brought so far. And when I get back, I’ll tell everyone about how wonderful and 
perfect you are, and about how much I will always love you, and that I’ll never be with 
anybody else but you.” So saying, he stood, picking up his weapons and tucking them 
away, then headed into the deadly wilds of Mordor.
***
      “I’ve seen this before,” Arwen said. She’d bee standing, uncomfortably idle, 
while Aaron and another Dunadan she could not place packed her tent and the rest of her 
things. So when she spotted Eowyn drifting slowly away from where Aragorn and Eomer 
were embracing and talking, she’d raised a hand to beckon the other woman over. 
Apologies were due.
      Eowyn approached, though she kept a respectful distance and curtseyed.
      “Forgive me,” Arwen said at once, taking a single step nearer the shieldmaiden. “I 
was rude last night, and I was wrong. I shouldn’t have hurt you, and I don’t want to lose 
your friendship.” She made her own curtsey. “No matter what I said, we are equal, and I 
am ashamed to have thought otherwise. Last night, you said I’ve known pain, and that 
I’ve known good and evil, and chosen good. But I don’t know any of those things. 
Selfishness has been my trademark and companion for time almost out of mind, ever 
since my mother sailed for the Undying Lands, leaving my brothers and I without her 
comforting presence.” She blushed. “I felt guilty, and couldn’t allow you to think so well 
of me. You’re right; I’m not perfect, and yet I’ve been telling myself how perfect I am for 
centuries, and believing it more and more each day. Others have told me I am perfect, 
and, like a fool, I believed they were talking about every aspect of me, not just my 
beauty.” A deeper blush. “Please, I know that sounds conceited, for me to say that my 
beauty is perfect, but many times people will say something is perfect when it stuns them. 
And I cannot dissimulate and say I am ordinary or ugly.” She stopped talking and gazed 
mournfully at Eowyn for a moment. “Please say something before I hang myself further,” 
she whispered, then looked down at her hands, too ashamed to raise her eyes.
      Strong hands covered hers and drew them apart. “I was never angry with you, 
only confused and hurt. But women, unlike men, can talk things out, and therein lies our 
strength.”
      “My brothers talk things out,” Arwen said, still looking at their joined hands. 
“Elladan has been trying to help me through my selfishness for a year now, and I refused 
to listen.”
      “No offense, but they aren’t men; they’re male elves. Men are different.” She 
blushed, though the pretty coloring of her cheeks was lost on Arwen. “And maybe female 
elves are different from women, but I’m not so sure about that. I tend to think that all 
females, no matter their race, are fundamentally the same. Whatever the case, I forgive 
you, and ask that you forgive me for making assumptions about you and being foolish 
enough to speak them to your face. It’s only that I was overwhelmed by you, by your 
beauty, as men would be, but more by what I saw as your strength.”
      “Perhaps all you saw was my stubbornness.”
      “No. That isn’t strength. That’s bull-headedness. Maybe I saw your potential for 
growth and love and misjudged it.”
      “Do you still see that potential?” Arwen raised her head, and, for the first time, 
she saw how stunning Eowyn’s eyes were.
      “No. The potential has been realised, at least a little. You came to talk to me, 
right?” Eowyn squeezed Arwen’s hands. “Please, Arwen, part of your discomfort last 
night was undoubtedly my fault. I… I didn’t even try to hide my admiration of you.” She 
blushed once again, and this time Arwen saw it and enjoyed its play over the woman’s 
cheeks. “Not just admiration, and I think we both know it. I could easily fall in love with 
you, as groundless as that love seems now.”
      Arwen stared at Eowyn, then pulled away from her, turned on her heel, and 
stalked away, skirts swishing.
      Eowyn watched her go and cursed her forward tongue. ‘Maybe female elves are 
different in one way: they don’t seem to be able to accept the love of someone of their 
own sex.’ She wondered for an instant if all elves were like that, then remembered the 
Lords Glorfindel and Elladan, and Legolas and Aragorn. ‘So it’s just female elves. Or 
maybe it’s just her.’ Shaking her head, hiding her sorrow, Eowyn turned back to the main 
gate, thinking to bid Aragorn and Merry farewell.
***
      As the last of the Dunedain mounted to ride, Aragorn sent a message by way of 
Annaleh to Saru’s youngest son: we will talk of your vision after we have left the 
Hornburg. Do not despair, son of the North, but have faith that all will be well.
      Annaleh thought to change the wording, which was formal and commanding, as if 
Aragorn was speaking in a letter to a far-off king who needed his encouragement. But 
long years of trusting Aragorn made her repeat the words just as she’d heard it, and when 
she did, she saw the wording as well as the message had been needed, and that Mordecai 
was reassured. She wondered if he would be able to tell her why this was so, and 
knowing her grandson to be intelligent and quick, asked him about it.
      “He’s treating me like one of you, like an adult, but also like an advisor or trusted 
friend.” Mordecai beamed. “He’s treating me like Papa or Dad, or like Grandpa 
Malacai.” He grinned for a moment, then collected himself and assumed a more serious 
look. “Aragorn will lead us to victory, even if the victory isn’t wholly by his making. But 
he knows that, and he’ll give credit where it’s due.”
      Annaleh shook her head and almost made the mistake of smiling. “You speak as 
though visions are coming to you every moment.”
      “They’re feelings,” Mordecai answered without hesitation. “Sometimes, I can’t 
tell what I’m going to say until it’s said. Is that… is that irresponsible?”
      She likewise resisted the urge to ruffle his hair or speak to him as a grandmother. 
He was coming to her as an elder among the Dunedain. That hurt, but Annaleh set it aside 
as just one more sacrifice of this war, and prayed Mordecai might be allowed to take up a 
little of his childhood again when this was all over. “You are allowing yourself to be an 
open channel, as few Dunedain have been asked to do before. Even Aragorn receives 
visions instead of feelings, and is asked to interpret them. I cannot tell you more than 
that, except to ask you to speak to Aragorn of these feelings also, so he can give you 
better counsel.”
      “Who else has had feelings?” A child’s curiosity shone in his eyes.
      Annaleh was glad to see it. “Gil-galad is the only I know of, but I’m sure there 
were others.”
      “There have been no others,” Aragorn said a dozen hours later as the company 
paused that night to rest on the plains of Rohan. Above them, to the north and west, the 
stars shone bright, and a sliver of moon was a pale smile among them. But in the south 
and east, particularly in the east, a shadow had begun to rise that paled the stars to 
vanishing. Aragorn had taken Mordecai a little distance from the camp, and though 
Aaron and Halbarad attended them at a remove, guarding their chief so close to the end 
of his road, the chief and the youngest member of the Grey Company were able to talk 
freely without concern of being overheard. “Gil-galad alone received what he called 
‘messages from the Valar.’ That was considered presumptuous by the people of his day, 
and though undoubtedly some of those feelings he was given were from the Valar, many 
were not.”
      “Not even Gil-galad was perfect?” Mordecai sounded more shocked than teasing, 
but Aragorn still smiled.
      “No, not even Gil-galad. Or Elendil, for that matter. They were living, breathing 
beings, all our descendents, and so they made mistakes and had character flaws just like 
us.” He shook his head. “I could tell you stories about Elendil, Gil-galad, and Elendil’s 
best friend, your ancestor, Kelakai, that would never let you see them the same way 
again.
      “All that’s for another time, though. We both must sleep, and we’ll be leaving 
well before dawn. As to Faramir, I wish you would tell me the little bit you’re holding 
back.”
      Mordecai blushed. “It was only a slip of the tongue.”
      “And yet you know to what I’m referring without even a moment’s hesitation. 
Please tell me, Mordecai. This isn’t an order, only a request.”
      “I-” He blushed. “When I was talking to Glorfindel, I had a feeling about him and 
Elladan, so I told him that he isn’t going to lose Elladan, and that he’ll live. When he 
asked how I knew, I said it was a feeling, and that Glorfindel would be here to see me 
marry someone. I meant Faramir, but I didn’t say that. I was too shocked and 
embarrassed to tell him.”
      Aragorn sorted all of that out, then said, “If you’re meant to marry Faramir, that 
will be decided for you. Not by tradition: there will be no law in place that makes you 
marry him, but by the circumstances of your own life, and of his. I don’t ask you not to 
worry about it, but to think on it when you have time that isn’t taken up by other things, 
and also to speak to Faramir at your earliest convenience, so the two of you can become 
acquainted.” He smiled. “You, like the rest of the Dunedain, will be emissaries to the 
people of Gondor. I would love nothing more than to have the son of my Steward become 
good friends with one of my trusted Dunedain. Being a returning people and smoothing 
our reintegration into a self-sustaining culture like Gondor won’t be easy.
      “Enough of that, though. About wanting to help Faramir when he’s hurt: do two 
things when that time comes, if you have the time. First, ask yourself who you’re 
supposed to help. Next-”
      “But I don’t know who I’m supposed to help!”
      “Mordecai, knowing now isn’t knowing later on.” Aragorn waited as Mordecai 
collected himself, went through the embarrassment of blushing, then nodded his 
understanding. “Second, if I’m there to ask, ask me. I think mayhap visions I had while I 
was in the palantir are connected to your feelings. I agree with you: it’s not Faramir 
you’re meant to save. And I’m not sure it’s an elf, either, though I’m sure an elf’s life 
hinges on the one you save.”
      Mordecai threw up his hands in frustration. “How can you talk about knowing 
things and not say that you’re having feelings?”
      “Feelings, as Gil-galad had them, are different than instinct. Tell me this: how did 
you know Glorfindel and Elladan haven’t had much joy or time for each other? That isn’t 
instinct; you’ve barely seen them together. That was a feeling.”
      “Like knowing that Eowyn and Arwen are together,” Mordecai murmured, “even 
if they seem to be fighting it.”
      Aragorn’s eyes widened, and he whispered, “Aii. Aii.”
      Mordecai looked at his chief, clearly upset. “Did I say something wrong?”
      “No. Only shocking. And maybe for the best, though I can’t imagine Arwen 
staying here while her father sails. Aii. Have you shared this news with anyone else?”
      “With Legolas, but I don’t think he believed me.”
      “I believe you. It goes a long way towards explaining the unusual actions of both 
of them this morning. Please don’t tell anyone else, not because you might be wrong, but 
because I don’t want Elladan and Elrohir getting wind of this when they have so much 
else to worry about. Let it wait until after the war, if such a time comes.” He shifted his 
weight, then looked at the young Dunadan. “Mordecai, please tell me why you feel so 
guilty.” He registered Mordecai’s surprise, and said, “You seemed distracted as we rode, 
more than the dream alone could explain, and when Glorfindel saw that I was watching 
you, he volunteered only that you feel a burden of guilt.”
      Long moments of silence passed between them before Mordecai could speak, and 
when he managed it at last, he did so in a whisper. “Has any told you of the Ents we 
encountered? Has there been time?”
      “Aaron told me, yes. He told me you received a message and told it to your older 
brother. That was well-done.”
      Mordecai was staring down at his hands, which were busily worrying at a hole in 
his tunic. “I don’t think I got everything I was meant to. The message was vague, and it 
wasn’t enough to warn us. We almost got ourselves killed.”
      ‘So here is his guilt. And will he believe me if I tell him the truth, that such 
messages are rare, and are, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, vague or conflicting?’ 
Aragorn spoke these things, making sure that Mordecai was looking at him, and could see 
the certainty and truth in his eyes. He ended with, “You did all you could, Dunadan. And 
even if you didn’t- though I believe otherwise- it’s over, all lived, and our relations with 
the Ents are intact. Also, it’s past. Turn your mind to the future, for that is where your 
intelligence and firm knowledge of right and wrong are needed.”
      “Oh.” Mordecai blinked, took in a breath, blushed. “I’m sorry, Aragorn. I didn’t 
mean to worry about this so much. It’s just that I wanted to help, and-” he shifted his feet- 
“the message wasn’t clear enough.” Having admitted that to himself, Mordecai blinked a 
few more times, collected himself, then said, “Thank you, Aragorn.”
      “All’s well, Dunadan. I’m only glad you confided in me.” Aragorn touched the 
young man’s shoulder and watched him away. ‘If only others would come to me.’ Kehydi 
was very much on his mind. So far, his second had spoken to him calmly and with 
purpose and a focused mind, but Aragorn sensed the darkness beneath, and wished 
Kehydi would come to him. Unfortunately, like some of those who had died during the 
civil war, Kehydi had a responsibility to want to be helped. ‘There is only so much I can 
do for my Dunadan. That does not mean I have given up, or that I ever will until 
circumstances state that he is forever beyond salvation, but neither can I berate myself for 
not doing all that I should have when I know I have tried everything at each moment.’ 
Grieved, yet resolving to sleep and start the next leg of the journey as fresh as possible, 
Aragorn went to his place beside Legolas and fell almost at once into a deep sleep.
***
      In the dark and freezing tower-room, Sam chaffed Frodo’s hand and prayed his 
lover would open his eyes soon. What had just occurred- Sam’s defeat of the orcs- 
couldn’t have been further from the gardener’s mind as he strained to hear the sounds of 
new enemies approaching. Kissing Frodo’s hand, Sam whispered, “Wake up, Frodo. 
Wake up. Everything’s all right. Just wake up so we can get out of this terrible place. 
Gollum’s gone, and you’re safe, and I’m going to take care of you. Please, Frodo, wake 
up.” Sam’s voice broke, but he cleared his throat before speaking again. There wasn’t 
time to show Frodo his fear and pray his lover would comfort him. ‘I’ll be doing the 
comforting for awhile, and make no mistake. Not that I mind. Whatever he needs, I’ll 
give.’ He kissed Frodo’s forehead and whispered again, “Wake up.”
      As if called by the last line of a magic spell, Frodo’s eyes flew open and he 
blinked up at Sam, then gripped the other hobbit’s hand where it lay on his shoulder. 
“The Ring. They took the Ring!”
      Sam drew the deadly circle of gold from his pocket. “No. I took it. For safe-
keeping, like. I thought-” his voice cracked like that of a thirteen-year old hobbit boy 
despite his best efforts- “you were dead.”
      Frodo’s grip tightened on Sam’s hand. “Give it to me. Give me the Ring. It’s my 
burden.”
      Sam handed it over at once. “I don’t want it,” he said. “I just want to help you.” 
His eyes had dropped to the filthy floor, and his gaze was blurred with suppressed tears. 
‘He doesn’t care that I’m here, that I came back. He only cares for that evil thing.’ In that 
moment, Sam came closest to insane hatred as he would ever be. And when he looked up, 
it was the Ring he stared at, hating it, raging against its evil, and wanting only to be rid of 
the stupidly-demonic thing. ‘I’ll see an end to you,’ he vowed, ‘if it kills me. You won’t 
be the death of Frodo, or even his destruction. He’s fallen far with you dragging him 
down, but I’m going to see him restored to strength. And if you try to stop me, you’re 
going to find that I keep my promises. Beware, you little evil thing; Samwise Gamgee is 
going to see the end of you.’
      The Ring caught the dim light and seemed to laugh at Sam. ‘You will never have 
me,’ it seemed to say.
      “Sam? Sam, how did you get here?” Frodo was struggling to sit up, yet trying to 
shrink into himself. Shivers made his teeth chatter, and he was hugging himself now 
instead of holding onto the Ring. But his eyes were on Sam, and he looked as though 
only the cold was keeping him from falling into his lover’s arms.
      “I-I followed you.” Sam was on his feet, gathering orc-clothes. These he brought 
to Frodo, and dressed him, taking care not to touch the Ring, but to rub life and warmth 
into Frodo’s limbs and to rain delicate and heartfelt kisses on his cheeks, forehead and 
mouth. “It’s all right, Frodo. We’re going to get there. We are. We’re in Mordor, and 
we’re going to get there. Mount Doom isn’t far. And I’m going to help you.”
      “Oh, Sam…” Frodo moved into his lover’s arms then, and he closed his eyes. 
“You’re so wonderful, Sam. I love you. I love you.”
      Sam kissed him again. “Come on. We’re almost there. Then we can be rid of that 
Ring and we’ll get back to the Shire, and when we’re there, I’m going to make you a big 
pot of tea and a hundred different kinds of cake, and then I’m going to fill Bag End with 
flowers, and then I’m going to go find us a little orphan hobbit and we’re going to name 
her Elanor, and we’re going to all be very happy.” Talking thus, and giving Frodo help 
up, Sam effectively forgot that Frodo had left him to find his own way home less than a 
day ago.
      But the Ring, while it had robbed Frodo of much, hadn’t taken his memory from 
him, and he said as he leaned on Sam and tried to catch his breath, “I’m so sorry I didn’t 
believe you, and left you alone. Please, Sam, forgive me. I was an idiot, and I love you so 
much I don’t know how I could have done it, except…” He shivered.
      “Except that the Ring made you. I know, Frodo. I know. And I’m not angry with 
you.” Even as he said this, Sam realised it was true, and hugged Frodo even closer. “I 
love you, and I’m here for you. Let’s get this over.”
      That earned a weak smile from Frodo. “That sounds good, Sam. I’ll follow where 
you lead.” And though he would later again forget his love, for that moment, the Ring los 
its ascendancy in his mind and Frodo was able to trust to Sam.
Chapter Eighty-Five
      Theoden spoke to Eomer as the two left the king’s tent. All around them, the calls 
of men and the neighing of war-horses rent the air and charged it as with lightning. A 
storm was brewing, not in the sky, but in the hearts of the Rohirrim, and Theoden meant 
to command that storm and direct whither he wished. Leaping to his horse, he bade 
Eomer to call all the riders to their horses and be ready to ride, light and swift, the road to 
Gondor.
      But coming upon a small figure standing by the pony, Stybba, Theoden’s eyes 
narrowed, and he regretted what must now be said. Having no time for such feelings, he 
spoke to the hobbit before him, and prayed that he would have occasion on his return to 
apologize for the strictness of his orders. He tried to gentle his tone, but the sight of 
Merry in helm and armor told him he must not neglect firmness, else this little one’s 
blood would be on his hands. “Little hobbits do not belong in war, Master Meriadoc.”
      “All of my friends have gone to war. I will be ashamed to be left behind.”
      ‘He speaks so boldly to a king, yet he doesn’t understand the foolishness of his 
words. For that reason, if for no other, must he remain here.’ Theoden’s tone hardened. 
“It is three days’ ride to Gondor, and none of my riders can bear you as a burden.”
      “I want to fight!” If Merry felt anything but determination, he didn’t show it.
      Theoden, confident his order would be obeyed, answered, “I will say no more.” 
He turned Snowmane and cantered away, refusing to look back.
      Not far away, elven ears heard this exchange, and elven eyes lit with fury. ‘More 
male condescension. “You shall not do this because you are a woman. You shall not do 
that because you are too small.” ‘Men and their idiotic notions of weakness! Don’t they 
know that women brought them into this world, and that pain can be as bad as any wound 
sustained in war?’ Arwen spun away from Merry and, tucking her hair into the helmet 
Eowyn had left her earlier, suggesting that they ride to war together, called for her horse. 
When she was astride her, Arwen galloped over to Eowyn, who was just then mounting.
      “Listen to me,” Arwen said, low. “Forget everything I’ve said and done to upset 
you. Merry is being refused a place in Rohan’s host. I cannot bear him; my mare cannot 
bear other than elves. But your stallion could bring him easily enough. Go over there, 
pick him up, and we’ll ride together.”
      Eowyn was silent a moment, then she said, “You’ve forgiven me, then? For 
saying I love you?”
      “Whether I’ve forgiven you or not- there is nothing to forgive, I don’t think- is not 
important. Right now, we must appear to be one of these loathsome men and ride forth. 
And we must take Merry with us.”
      “Yes,” the woman answered. She looked slightly confused, and yet cautiously 
optimistic.
      Arwen reached across the short distance between them and squeezed Eowyn’s 
hand. “I don’t know if I love you, so I won’t lie and say that I do, but I know I care about 
you, and I want you happy.” Her cheeks colored for an instant before she mastered 
herself. “Please, pick up Merry and let’s go.”
      “You always get your own way, don’t you?” Eowyn asked as they rode forward 
together. The dejected hobbit was standing a little away from Stybba now, watching the 
riders stream after their lord. Many riders rode around him, and though they came quite 
close, he didn’t seem to notice.
      “Less and less as the days go on, but I’d like my way in this, if you don’t mind.”
      Eowyn chuckled. “It’s my way, too, unless that bothers you to know you’re 
sharing your idea with me.”
      “Not at all. Now grab him! One rider’s looked at us already. Men may be stupid, 
but they’re not blind!”
***
      The taking of the black ships had been easier than Gimli would have ever thought, 
though his heart had been relieved so much by the passing of the Dead that everything 
seemed simple and wonderful just because the ghosts were gone. Still, as they rowed 
north against the current, the dwarf groused continually as he laid his hands to the oars 
alongside Dunedain and elves and those men of Lebanon who had been freed from their 
Southron captors. “If your Valar were truly a beneficent people,” he said to Elrohir more 
than once as they broke their backs against the heavy water, “they would send us a breeze 
so that we could get to Gondor before the battle’s over and done!”
      Elrohir’s mind was very much on the coming battle, and so he scarcely heard 
Gimli’s words. Like Legolas, who had received a vision of Aragorn falling before the 
warg-riders in Rohan, Elrohir had received a vision of Halbarad’s coming death, and the 
elf couldn’t bring himself to discuss it with anyone, though his bond to Elladan remained 
open so that his twin was aware of his grief, though not its specific nature.
      Elladan had tried, several times, to speak to Elrohir, but his brother didn’t want to 
talk, and at last Elladan secretly approached Halbarad. Taking the Dunadan aside (they 
were on a different boat than Elrohir and the querulous dwarf) Elladan asked him about 
Elrohir’s distress.
      “I don’t understand it either,” Halbarad said, and his eyes darkened. “He won’t 
talk to me, or to anyone else.” He sighed. “If we were not on the very road to Aragorn’s 
destiny, I would ask Aragorn to help him. But as it is…” Halbarad’s eyes went to the 
largest ship in the fleet, which the Dunedain would have gifted to Aragorn if their chief 
hadn’t led a great part of the ghosts to that ship himself and taken it for his own. Then he 
looked back at Elladan. “All I can say is that I’ll stick close to him if the battle permits, 
and I’ll guard him with every strength in me.”
      “Don’t neglect your duty to Aragorn. You are his standard-bearer, are you not?”
      “Aye.” Halbarad’s eyes softened slightly. “He’s welcomed me back in full 
standing, and I couldn’t ask for better from him.” He laid a hand on Elladan’s shoulder. 
“I will ask others of the Dunedain to also watch out for Elrohir. We will do everything we 
can to protect him.”
      “I know, Dunadan. I know you will.” And with this Elladan had to make himself 
content. He had other things to worry about. Leaving Halbarad to captain the ship, he 
sought Glorfindel, leaping easily from one ship to the nearest, then to the next, and the 
one beyond, until he reached the one next to Aragorn’s, which Kehydi captained. 
Glorfindel had set himself as Kehydi’s unknown guard and spy, and so he was near the 
second-in-command, watching him for any treachery or weakness. But when he saw 
Elladan, he turned his whole attention to his lover, not caring if Kehydi ran around. This 
was almost surely to be their last moment together before the battle.
      “I love you,” Glorfindel said the instant they were wrapped in each other’s 
embrace. “I will love you from this life to the next, and our love will never be forgotten.” 
Tears were in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Proud, courteous, lordly words 
were one of his few defenses against their fall, so he used them. “We’ll not worry about 
the end, and when it comes, we’ll be near each other and we won’t-”
      Elladan put his hand over Glorfindel’s mouth, then replaced it with his lips. When 
he could be sure that he’d broken through Glorfindel’s resistance, he drew back, though 
only an inch, and whispered, “Please don’t make our last tryst like a speech before a 
battle. I want to hear your real voice, Glorfy, not this stiff speech.”
      Glorfindel wept then, and cared not who saw. “My Elladan. My precious 
Elladan.” He rained kisses on Elladan’s mouth and drank in the feeling of his lover in his 
arms. “My Elladan.”
      “Thank you,” Elladan whispered, and he returned Glorfindel’s kisses.
      When it couldn’t be delayed any longer, Elladan gave Glorfindel one last, chaste, 
kiss. “My Glorfindel,” he said, and his voice broke. One more kiss, to Glorfindel’s hand 
this time, and they parted, Elladan returning to Halbarad’s ship, where he was supposed 
to be.
      Saru turned the captaincy of his ship over to his eldest son for five minutes, and 
he, slightly less graceful than Elladan, yet beautifully as men reckon such things, leapt 
from his ship to Aragorn’s, and begged a moment with his chief. Elladan or Elrohir or 
any other could have stolen a moment from the chief, but none other had the courage, 
save Legolas, who had yet to speak with his lover. “Aragorn,” Saru said as soon as they 
were alone, “please hear me with all your mind. I would speak to you of Kehydi.”
      Aragorn closed his eyes a moment, composed himself, made sure all his heart was 
on Saru, then opened his eyes and said, “I hear, Dunadan.”
      “He is going to be tempted during the battle,” Saru said. “And yes, we will reach 
the battle in time to make a difference. Mordecai has seen it, and I believe him. May I 
beg your permission to attend him instead of to stick with you? I won’t betray the 
Dunedain. I swear. Please let me stay with him and try to protect him. He has earned both 
your derision, and yet your pity, and even some honor for some of the things he has done 
in the name of the Dunedain.” Saru blushed and ducked his head for a moment. 
Collecting himself, he looked at Aragorn again, and his eyes were filled with anguish. 
“Please, Aragorn, let me stay by him and guard him if I can.” Diamond tears gleamed in 
his eyes, and one fell. “Forgive me,” the Ranger whispered. “I know I should have more 
composure.” He wiped the tear away.
      “Why? He is your husband.” Aragorn put his hands on Saru’s shoulders. Long 
ago he had become accustomed to looking up into his Ranger’s eyes, though Saru was 
only one of two who had been taller than Aragorn since he grew to manhood. “You have 
my permission and my blessing. Would you that I send one or two others with you?”
      Saru blinked. “I don’t know if you can spare them, but I’d be lying if I said I 
didn’t want you to send a little help.”
      “Annaleh will go with you, and so will three others you choose. For myself, I 
would recommend Aaron, though I don’t think he’ll agree, Stenva, son of Aaron’s 
brother, and also, if he can be persuaded, Cein, son of Smetana.” These last two had 
started out fighting on the side of the Enemy, trying to sow dissention among the 
Dunedain, but Cein had repented to Malacai shortly before the civil war, and Stenva had 
sought out his uncle shortly after his father, who had been feeding his tendencies, had 
been killed during an orc attack.
      Saru bowed, making the sign of fealty to his lord, and then stood straight and said, 
unable again to stop his tears, “Thank you, Aragorn. Thank you.”
      Aragorn kissed Saru’s forehead, and bid him take up his new duty with a firm 
hand and bring Kehydi through the coming battle safe and sound of both spirit and body.
      After Saru was gone and Aragorn had returned to the bow of the ship, gazing 
ahead and praying silently for a stiff breeze, Legolas came to him and stood beside him. 
Intertwining his fingers with those of his lover, the elf said, “Aragorn.”
      “Yes?” A smile, made of equal parts love and amusement. “Are you reminding 
yourself not to call me Strider anymore?”
      “Maybe, but if I am, it isn’t for you to taunt me.” Legolas touched Aragorn’s 
abdomen, then his own. “We’re both still with child. I was afraid the battle with Sauron 
had taken your miracle.”
      “How could it, when it was you that planted it within me?” Aragorn drew 
Legolas’ fingers to his lips and kissed them. “Such strength as we have has not existed 
since the days of Elendil and Gil-galad. In terms of love, devotion, truth and honesty, we 
have nothing that many couples before us haven’t had. But in terms of our place in this 
coming war, we have the power to enact amazing changes and save millions of lives.” 
Aragorn kissed his lover’s fingers again, but couldn’t think of anything else to say.
      “The battle comes,” Legolas murmured, and he kissed Aragorn’s forehead. “You 
are not blessed enough, love.” He stood at Aragorn’s side for another moment, then was 
distracted by a sudden change in the way the ship moved in the water. “Aragorn, a breeze 
is coming.”
      Aragorn didn’t feel any such thing, but he called, “Lower the sails! Lower the 
sails!” and as his command was carried back to the other ships that followed him upriver, 
a stiff wind roared up from the south and billowed all the sails out.
      The black ships raced up the Anduin.
***
      The ships would not arrive in time to save some, but there was still hope while 
Rohan rode to war. On the final rise before the great fields before the White City, 
Theoden called a temporary halt. He looked out at the orcs before them, and saw their 
number was impossible to count. He saw, too, that some had broken ranks in fear when 
they saw the horse-riders, and that gave him courage. He hoped many of his people had 
seen it. Turning Snowmane, he rode before his people, the last muster of Rohan in the 
Third Age, and exhorted them. Long after the events of that bloody day had been 
decided, his speech would be remembered, word for word, by half his men, and by the 
rest, many phrases would be recalled and cherished. Many of these would be put into 
song.
      “Ride, and fear no darkness…a sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises! Ride now! 
Ride now to Gondor!” The way Theoden rode down the line of Rohirrim, hitting their 
spears with his spear, connecting his fate to theirs, setting himself as their general, yes, 
but also as their equal, ready to die beside them if such be his fate. This, too, would pass 
into song, and then into legend. Theoden would have been glad to know that there were 
still people who were still alive to remember it.
      Few knew that a hobbit and a woman rode together on one stallion, or that an 
elven princess rode beside them.
      Her sword, feather-light, yet strong as any that had ever been made, save Anduril, 
Arwen now drew and sat ready in her saddle. The daughter of Elrond had never fought, 
and she was frightened of what was to come, but her line, even her mother, had been 
warriors, and she felt that lineage in her blood, and drew on the simple battle lessons 
she’d been taught as an elfling. ‘Let me know all your lessons, Glorfindel,’ she thought. 
‘And let me remember your teaching, brothers.’ Her fear tried to rise, but she throttled it 
down and vowed, ‘If I must fall here, I can’t say I won’t scream, but I can promise I 
won’t go without at least trying to make a difference.’ She glanced right at Eowyn, and 
thought, ‘I am a proud fool, but at least I will die as I really am.’ She laughed silently at 
herself and added, ‘Which means I’ll die afraid, but without a lie on my lips. And here I 
was so worried about losing Elladan and Elrohir!’
      Just before Theoden urged them on, Arwen had time for a last thought: ‘If I 
somehow survive this, falling in love with a mortal woman would seem no great task.’
***
      Eowyn spoke to the thing on the winged beast, and her eyes flashed behind the 
helm she wore. Merry and she had both been thrown from her stallion’s back, but she 
stood between the Nazgul and its intended target: her beloved uncle, who had led the 
charge, who had brought death to so many of their enemies, and who might live yet, if 
she could only get to him, and get him within the city. The battle was turning, or was 
about to turn; she could sense this, and trusted it, though dozens died all around her, and 
more died each moment.
      Not allowing herself to worry about Merry, wherever he might be, or Arwen, 
wherever she was, Eowyn stood before the Witch-King with his black mace and held her 
sword out before her. “Begone, foul dwimmerlaik, lord of carrion! Leave the dead in 
peace!” When she spoke that last, she realised that, in her heart, she believed her uncle 
was already dead. And yet this realisation only infuriated her and made her want to dare 
the thing before her.
      “Come not between the Nazgul and his prey. Or he will not slay thee in thy turn. 
He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where they 
flesh shall be devoured, and thy shriveled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye.”
      ‘Words to threaten a king, spoken so cordially!’ Eowyn laughed. ‘And because it 
falls to words, though it may still be strong, it seeks to frighten. Fear has ever been this 
thing’s greatest weapon.’ She laughed again, louder, and twirled her sword, once, 
repaying the Witch-King’s courtly words with ones of her own. It delighted her to jest 
with the monster. “Do what you will; but I will hinder it, if I may.”
      “Hinder me? Thou fool. No living man may hinder me.”
      Her laughter rang out all the more now, and she took off her helm, reverting to 
everyday speech. “I am no man.”
      The winged beast rose into the air, though the Witch-King, in sudden doubt, 
didn’t command it. Striking out with beak and claw, the beast sough to rend Eowyn.
      She struck out, her sword dancing expertly, and separated the creature’s head 
from its body. It fell, spilling the Witch-King off its back in its death agony.
      The Witch-King rose, screaming in rage, a cry that stabbed every ear that heard it. 
He loomed over Eowyn, dwarfing her, and sent his mace whistling through the air. 
Eowyn raised her shield, but the mace splintered it, and her arm besides. Raising the 
weapon again, meaning to mete her head like treatment, the lord of the Nazgul suddenly 
stumbled, and his stroke went wide.
      Merry, having regained his senses after being thrown from the horse’s back, and 
racing to Eowyn, was just in time to save her life by sticking the Nazgul in his mighty 
knee with the narrow sword he’d taken from the Barrow-Downs.
      Eowyn was able to get to her feet one last time, and with the very last of her 
strength, she drove her sword between the crown and mantle the Witch-King wore. The 
crown rolled away, and the Witch-King dissolved, but Eowyn wasn’t awake for that; she 
sank to her knees, and then collapsed completely, unconscious before her face met the 
earth.
      Merry stood beside her for a moment, scarcely aware of the pain that was clawing 
its way up from his fingers, snarling up his arm and shrouding the world with a red 
curtain. He stared at his shriveled blade, and regretted the loss of such a fine weapon, and 
wondered not that the weapon disintegrated, but that it had hurt the Nazgul so badly at 
all. That was when the pain of his hand and arm and shoulder reached his mind, and 
Merry, swooning, fell to the ground beside Eowyn.
***
      When the leading ship dropped anchor, Aragorn vaulted the railing and stood 
before the shocked orcs and Southron men. His quick eye spotted the mumakil (called 
oliphaunts by the hobbits) ridden by the Haradrim. These beasts were not so large as 
legend had them, their legs being only tall as a man, but they were intimidating enough. 
Aragorn had ridden a few in his day, and he had gained respect for the skill of any, be he 
friend or foe, that could ride the beast and still keep shooting. Then Aragorn’s eye fell on 
the towers that the orcs had built and that they used to assail Gondor. Drawing his blade, 
Aragorn smiled at the host before him. “Come, then,” he shouted. “Face the King of Men 
if you dare.” Trusting that he would be followed close, Aragorn charged into battle. With 
him, almost close enough for touching, went all those that had ridden the ships. They 
remained so united for only five minutes.
      Elrohir, watching Halbarad out of the corner of his eye, saw his lover suddenly 
break from the tight line they’d made beside and behind Aragorn. The Dunadan raced 
through a gap in the enemy’s line as though pursued by Sauron himself. Without 
hesitation, Elrohir took off after him, shouting, “Hal! Wait! Don’t go that way!” even 
though he knew his husband couldn’t possibly hear him over the clash of swords and the 
shouts of men and orcs.
      Halbarad killed three Easterlings that barred his way and arrived in time to see the 
object of his sudden urge. The impulse to leave his lord and king had been so strong he 
couldn’t have resisted it even if he’d tried. Guilt for not being at Aragorn’s side might 
come later, but for now, Halbarad could do little but answer the call of his people. Like 
that mysterious something that gave the most foolish and hot-headed Dunadan wisdom 
when he was in desperate need, Halbarad was not so much called as moved by an ancient 
force stronger than himself.
      A soldier in the armor of Rohan was sorely pressed as he stood over three prone 
figures. Halbarad recognized one at once, and his heart broke to see Merry lying beside 
the two Rohirrim who had fallen. Seeing the dead winged beast, Halbarad wondered if 
the hobbit had killed it. When he was close enough to start engaging the men and orcs 
that surrounded the lone Rohirrim, he realised that the dead man nearest him was 
Theoden, and that the one beside him was no man, but the lady, Eowyn, his niece. ‘And 
so our women are not the only ones who ride to battle when the war cry sounds.’ The 
moment of introspection blew away and Halbarad killed three more enemies. But for all 
the fury and excellent swordplay he used on his enemies, they remained focused on the 
Rohirrim man in their midst, and though Halbarad knew him not, he vowed to protect the 
defender of Theoden, Eowyn, and Merry. Unwilling to wonder why he’d been drawn 
hence to protect a king that was not his own, Halbarad fought on, always seeking to reach 
the soldier who seemed weary beyond belief, almost unable to lift his blade.
      Breaking through two shields, Halbarad stood, back-to-back with the armored 
man. “Others of the Rohirrim will come to help us,” he shouted to the exhausted soldier. 
“I cannot call others of the Dunedain. They have their own king to defend.”
      “Call my brothers, at least!” sobbed the person under the armor, and Halbarad 
almost turned to her in his shock.
      “Lady Arwen!” His blade flew faster, killing more and more of the Enemy’s 
servants. ‘Please tell me I didn’t hear her voice, that she isn’t here. I didn’t think she 
could fight. How has she managed to stay alive?’ Halbarad, knowing he didn’t want to 
call the Dunedain, but that some must come to his aid, started to whistle.
      Before his lips were rightly puckered, Elrohir burst through the line of men and 
plunged his sword into the back of an Easterling that had been pressing Halbarad close. 
“You fool!” he screamed. “Why are you here? Don’t you know there’s strength in 
numbers? You stupid Ranger!”
      “Elrohir!” Arwen cried, and she was sobbing harder now. “Elrohir, help me!”
      Her brother’s jaw dropped, and his eyes widened, but still he twirled his knives 
against the enemy and urged her to stop fighting and rest. She took a few steps (guarded 
before and behind by her brother and his lover) and collapsed by Eowyn, taking the 
woman’s head in her lap, and closing her eyes to the horrors around her, wishing she 
could close her ears, too. ‘Never will I fight in war again,’ she thought. ‘Never. Never. 
Never.’ She’d been forced to kill, and though it had been exhilarating to discover that she 
remembered enough from her lessons to defend herself against some men, she knew 
nightmares of this day would long follow her. ‘If I’m only allowed to live.’ Arwen 
dipped her head and kissed Eowyn’s cheek. ‘And if you live, I’ll want you by me 
always.’
      The wrath in Elrohir’s and Halbarad’s eyes frightened many into backing away 
and seeking easier targets. Still, many were brave beyond all reason, and they assailed the 
two Dunedain, seeing them only as two that could easily be conquered, and not, as 
Theoden had said, a strength that could not be counted by heads. Slowly, slowly, the 
enemies around these two dwindled as those that had first seen them fighting were slain, 
and no more were sent to defeat them as all others had turned to engage the rest of the 
Dunedain, and those that had come with them, and the Rohirrim.
      Their enemies were thinning, and Elrohir thought they might all get back to the 
safety of the rest of the Dunedain. If he had to carry Arwen, so be it. A fell cry rent thee 
air then, and for a moment, Elrohir thought the slain beast near them had come back to 
life and regained its rider.
      Halbarad shouted, “There!” and he took a step towards the descending Nazgul, his 
sword raised.
      Elrohir, shocked that his lover would want to bring the moment of clash nearer by 
even a single step, sprang to the man’s side and fitted an arrow to the string. ‘Maybe I can 
kill one or two before they get too close,’ he thought, even as he knew that wouldn’t be 
enough. They were outnumbered, doomed. ‘At least if my Hal dies now, I’ll die right 
beside him.’ Elrohir loosed an arrow, killing one winged beast. As he readied another 
arrow, Halbarad whistled, long and loud, calling his people. Elrohir hadn’t been with the 
Dunedain long enough to know the different whistles, but he guessed this one was a call 
for help.
      The sound of running feet reached the elf’s ears and he prayed Halbarad’s whistle 
had been heard. They didn’t need any more enemies just then. The elf let another arrow 
fly, but this one went wide, piercing only a wing at its tip, causing a scream, but no death. 
The shadows cast by the Nazgul on their mounts covered Elrohir and Halbarad then, 
drowning them. But then the Riders passed them by, even though one beast was double-
mounted because of Elrohir. Behind them came the real threat to Halbarad’s life, and 
Elrohir was so shocked to realise that they’d been passed by the mounted horrors that he 
didn’t turn to look until Halbarad shouted, “Look out!”
      Whirling, Elrohir saw the line of mumakil headed right for them, and he longed to 
fall back and run. He did take a single step back; Halbarad wasn’t moving, and Elrohir 
couldn’t leave his lover.
      Halbarad stood, feet planted, sword waiting in his left hand, a throwing-knife in 
his right. He’d never rival Legolas for accuracy, but his skill was well above average. The 
first knife he threw came to rest in a mumakil’s eye, and the beast staggered sidewise, 
knocking another of its kind to the ground. Halbarad only had two knives, and he took 
aim with the second, hoping for a similar result. But this Harad-man understood his 
tactics and turned his mount’s head an instant after Halbarad threw the second of his 
blades, so that it grazed the mighty creature’s head, and pierced the rider’s wrist.
      The Dunedain who had responded to Halbarad’s call came then, and arrows upon 
arrows were loosed by Annaleh and Nella, who had both dropped to one knee on either 
side of Halbarad to make their shots. Kehydi, who had led them away from Aragorn, 
drew his sword and stood at Elrohir’s side.
      “Kehydi!” Aaron’s voice. He was standing a little back, and his eyes were filled 
with indecision. “Aragorn is pressed! Kehydi, go back!” Aaron turned to do just that, his 
eyes intent on the eight diving and swerving Nazgul, but he was cut off by half a battalion 
of Easterlings, and he was forced to stand and fight.
      “Why?” Kehydi shouted. “He has enough protection! Let the Heir of Isildur 
defend himself for once!”
      Three mumakil remained, and two of these were triple-mounted: one to steer and 
fight, and two fighters that balanced with skill on the beast’s back, arrows ready.
      “Poisoned arrows,” Saru shouted. “Guard yourselves.” Out of arrows himself, he 
rose to his feet and drew his sword. The blade would have to serve him as shield, and as 
he moved right, wanting to draw the attack away from the injured trio in the grass (he’d 
noted them without recognizing any) he wondered if he could jump up and catch one of 
the hanging ropes on the side of the chair that held the pair of archers nearest him. They 
were more dangerous than their mounts, for a single drop of poison in the blood could 
kill, as had happened with Versh. Disarming them was his first priority.
      “Saru, come back here!” Kehydi started after his husband. “You’re going the 
wrong way!” He leapt at Saru, as if to bring him down, regardless of how close the 
enemy was. Cein, son of Smetana, and Stenva followed him, believing they were leading 
the mumakil away from those in the grass. Annaleh, Nella, Morwen (who shouldn’t have 
followed, but refused to be left behind) and Mordecai, whom none had noticed just yet, 
stayed where they were, planning to back up Halbarad, who had swung far to the left to 
draw off the mumakil in that direction. Elrohir had been charged by his lover to stand 
guard over Arwen and the others, and because his sister was among the others, Elrohir 
obeyed, though he ordered Halbarad to live and come back to him whole.
      Kehydi’s leap saved Saru’s life. Three arrows, aimed by Haradrim that saw him 
as the wisest of those they fought, flew at Saru, and would have pierced his eye, throat 
and abdomen if Kehydi hadn’t tackled him and rolled with him out of the way of the 
speeding mumakil. Coming up out of the roll, the second-in-command slapped Saru 
stunningly hard. “Idiot! Why are you trying to draw their fire! If we stayed together-”
      Saru, on his feet now, his cheeks flushed with the high blood of exhilaration, 
slipped his sword into its sheath, took a step forward, and punched Kehydi full in the 
face. “For saving me, you have my gratitude. But as to the reason you did it, you’re the 
fool. The Haradrim must be stopped. They must not be allowed to come to Aragorn, who 
is pressed enough. And if you don’t think Aragorn’s life is worth it, then take up your 
sword and fight me, Servant of Sauron, for I will not guard your back anymore!” Saru 
spun away and charged forward to meet the triple-mounted mumakil that had turned and 
was coming to meet him.
      With a part of his mind that was not taken up with fury and purpose, Saru saw that 
the Haradrim’s turn had been clumsy, having trampled several Easterlings. Aaron had 
managed to get out of the way by sheerest luck, but he was still blocked from getting to 
Aragorn, so he turned to join Elrohir in defending Arwen and the others. Saru vowed to 
clear a path to Aragorn as soon as possible so that Aaron and at least two others could 
help Aragorn. ‘Fuck Kehydi,’ he thought. ‘Aragorn is our concern now. He will fulfill the 
purpose of the Dunedain.’
      Saru, minding where his sword was, flipped out of the way of one of the 
mumakil’s massive legs and slashed up and sideways before he was right on his feet 
again. He sliced through the main thong that held the high platform steady, and down it 
tumbled. One archer and the driver were thrown and Saru saw that they did not rise, but 
one archer leapt clear. He fired off an arrow before his feet touched the ground. Saru 
dodged this, rolling between the rearing mumalik’s back legs and coming up on the other 
side. He heard the beast scream as the arrow struck it, and wondered how long it had to 
live. ‘Long enough to cause some damage, surely. Maybe I can encourage my foe to 
shoot it a few more times and put it out of everyone’s misery that much sooner.’ Saru ran 
with the beast, purposely letting the archer see him, and ducking back and forth between 
the mighty legs, glad that, though the baby slowed him some, he was still able to move 
much as he had all his life.
      An arrow buzzed past his ear, and Saru decided he’d better quit while he was 
ahead. Turning back to face the archer, he drew his sword and parried the next strike. 
Standing firm, he waited for the next arrow to fly, and tuned out the battle around him as 
much as it was safe to do. These arrows were too deadly to take lightly.
      Not far away, Aaron, Stenva and Cein, son of Smetana, fought back-to-back. A 
fresh wave of Easterlings, reinforced by orcs, had arrived, and were gleefully trying to 
dismember the three Dunedain. “Three-way spin?” Stenva shouted in Elvish.
      “Not yet. They’re not close enough,” Aaron returned in like kind. He kept one eye 
on the younger Dunedain beside him, and remembered when his nephew had come to 
him, repentant and in need of guidance. ‘That was long ago, but it feels as though he is 
still that young man.’ Aaron wondered at his introspection, decided it probably meant he 
was either going soft, or he was going to die in the next few minutes, and let it go. ‘If I 
die, I die.’ But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t urge the others to take up his duty. “Once 
we’re clear of this hoard, make for our chief,” he commanded.
      He spoke with such authority, as if Malacai’s spirit had entered him, that the other 
two answered without wondering at their formality, “Yes, sir.”
      Annaleh, her four grandchildren, and Nella stood by Halbarad and faced the 
remaining mumakil. Halbarad had already killed the sole rider of the third, and Nella had 
executed the beast. Annaleh shot one of the archers in the thigh an instant before he could 
loose an arrow in her direction, and he fell, breaking his neck when he hit the ground.
      Then the seven Dunedain were forced to scatter as the mumakil bore down on 
them. All cleared the swinging head and pounding feet except Halbarad. The Haradrim 
rider saw who was nearest, and urged his mount to lower its head and swing it right, 
meaning to catch the man if he could. One tusk missed Halbarad as he ducked and rolled, 
but the other caught him sidelong, not piercing him, but breaking all the ribs on that side 
of his chest.
      Halbarad’s sword-arm jerked up as every nerve in his body screamed, and drove 
the sword hilt-deep into the mumakil’s ear canal. The thing screamed, did a little dance, 
reared up, pawed at the sky, came crashing down on four feet again, and started to sway.
      “Halbarad!” The cry went up from three directions at once, though Elrohir’s 
scream was loudest, and the elf abandoned his charges to reach his lover.
      Aidan, closest to the older Dunadan, lurched forward and seized Halbarad, 
dragging him several steps before Halbarad tripped and fell on top of him. They hit the 
ground hard, and Aidan wasn’t able to cushion either of their falls. He struck his head on 
a rock, and lost consciousness. The mumakil crashed down, shaking the earth, just 
missing the two Dunedain.
      As for the Haradrim rider, Morwen’s sword separated his head from his body 
even as he tried to stagger to his feet after falling, unhurt, from his mount’s back.
      Elrohir, screaming, insane, ran for Halbarad, ignoring all else in his need to get to 
his lover. Behind him, Kehydi, having staggered about for a minute or more, finally 
plopped on his ass next to Arwen and allowed his eyes to drift closed. All he heard were 
Saru’s words; all he felt was the blow Saru had dealt him.
      Saru, for his part, had forgotten Kehydi, and was busy saving Aaron’s life. It had 
been fated that the healer was to die in that circle of Easterlings and orcs, but, in the spirit 
of justice for which the Dunedain stood, Saru defied that decree. When he had turned to 
face the archer, the man backed down, realising that he would waste all his arrows on an 
excellent swordsman who could almost surely parry each one. So he had turned to flee, to 
set his sights on an easier target. He thought Saru was only armed with a sword, and he 
was right. But Saru, knowing he was near enough to hit the mark, picked up a fist-sized 
stone and hurled it. The stone struck the archer between his mail and his helmet, snapping 
his spine like a twig.
      Even before the man’s fingers had stopped twitching, Saru had grabbed up his 
quiver of poison-dipped arrows, keeping his own bow, and looked for the nearest 
enemies to kill. He spotted the circle of orcs and men at once, and though he couldn’t see 
who they pressed so close, he determined that they should have no victory. Twenty 
arrows remained in the quiver. Saru killed twenty-two, managing to fell three foes with 
one arrow. The poisoned tip grazed one, ripping his cheek open, struck a second man in 
the throat, and threw drops of poison into the eye of a third that had been standing too 
close. The remaining enemies fled, chased off by Stenva and Cein. Aaron knelt between 
them, clutching at his arm in an attempt to stop the bleeding.
      Saru knelt beside Aaron, ripped his own tunic, cinched it about the older man’s 
arm, and rose again. “Aragorn,” he said urgently to the Dunedain that stood near. “Go 
help Aragorn. We’ll be along in a moment.”
      Aaron was already on his feet, but his eyes were drawn to where Halbarad and 
Aidan lay. His attention had been caught by Elrohir’s screams, and now Saru consciously 
heard the elf’s cries, too, though he’d been hearing them for the last minute or so. He 
started in that direction at once, calling for Aaron to follow him. “Take Annaleh and 
others to help Aragorn. I’ll see what I can do here.”
      “No.” Aaron grabbed Saru’s arm and made the younger man look at him. “I will 
help your son and Halbarad. Go to Aragorn. No arguments. I’ll send your mother and the 
others after you.”
      This made more sense than Saru’s plan, and though the younger man knew Aaron 
wanted to be near Aragorn, he saw the wisdom in Aaron’s suggestion. Turning, he ran for 
the clutch of Dunedain that were assailed from every direction but below by the wraiths, 
who seemed to all know which was Aragorn, and thus which was their true target, no 
matter the others that tried to get in their way.
      Aaron, upon seeing Kehydi, ordered, “Get on your feet and help us!” but didn’t 
wait to see if the fallen second would do anything. He charged towards Elrohir, and 
slammed into the elf, knocking him flat. Before Elrohir could regain his breath, Aaron 
knocked him out and got off him.
      Aidan looked all right; Aaron saw this at once. His wrist was broken, but 
everything else seemed all right. It was for Halbarad that the most concern must be given. 
Annaleh and her eldest granddaughter had moved Aidan and were trying to stop 
Halbarad’s bleeding. Mordecai knelt nearby, his herb pouch open, but his hands frozen 
over it. Aaron started barking orders at the boy and at Nella, Morwen and Cein to find 
flat, straight pieces of the broken mumakil platform and bring them to him. Then he 
delved into both Mordecai’s pouch and his own, and prayed he would remember all 
Malacai’s younger brother had taught him.
      Nella and the others were joined in their hunt for planks by Kehydi, whose eyes, 
hollow and lost, fixed on nothing. His hands seemed to know what he wanted, however, 
and he sought rope among the planks, as well as the planks themselves, for Aaron had 
forgotten to call for rope in his agitation, and it would be needed.
***
      The mumakil riders at first ignored Aragorn’s band, preferring to continue their 
assault on the Rohirrim line which had been broken and reformed many times. Eomer, 
unaware of his uncle’s death, yet sensing that something was amiss with the King, 
nevertheless refused to let doubt or worry enter his war-plan. The Rohirrim had a job to 
do, an oath to fulfill, and they were going to fulfill it.
      After the sixth scattering by the terrifying beasts, Eomer’s men received a 
welcome, though unlooked-for salvation as, from behind, Aragorn and his varied troops 
drove the mumakil to distraction, shooting at them, killing archers and riders, and 
generally causing a panic. The mumkil split in two directions, one headed for Saru and 
the other Dunedain, and the other heading east, thinking to continue their assault on 
Gondor itself. These latter were chased by the men who had been enslaved chiefly by 
their drivers, and so Aragorn’s troops were back down to the Dunedain, three elves and a 
dwarf. It mattered little. Seeing that their way was cleared, Aragorn ordered his Dunedain 
to join with the Rohirrim and this they did, briefly renewing old acquaintances from their 
brief time in Rohan, and Aragorn met Eomer, smiling at the man’s shock. “I told you we 
would meet again,” he said, “though all the forces of Mordor stand between. And here we 
are.” He laughed to see Eomer’s surprise, and the moment of joy, though short, imbued 
both men with new strength and will.
      Eomer could but shake his head. “I said I might see you again, and yet I doubted 
it in my heart, as you seem to know.” He laughed himself, then said, “How shall we 
divide these men?”
      “Half to the towers; they must be dismantled at once. A quarter with you to assail 
the Easterlings on that hill there, the ones with the catapults, and the remaining quarter 
with me to see to the orcs that invade the main gate.”
      Before Eomer could agree to this, a trumpeting roar shook the very ground under 
their feet, and a tri-mounted mumakil bore down on them. The men parted then, and 
didn’t see each other until much later in the battle.
      Even as Aragorn leapt aside, he saw Legolas bound into the air like a hart, 
parrying two arrows with his knives. The elf landed on the back of the beast and killed 
both archers without pause. But the driver turned, and Legolas was forced to fight blade 
to blade.
      Aragorn had no time to watch his husband’s battle; he turned, thinking to work 
with Eomer again, but saw that the Rohirrim- all the Rohirrim- were assailing the towers, 
and that the Dunedain, elves and dwarf had returned to him. Aragorn, though he longed 
for his people to fight alongside others, was glad to have them with him, and pointed 
towards the Easterlings, who had redoubled their assault on the city, as if in a last-ditch 
effort to do as much damage as possible before they were ousted. “For Gondor!” Aragorn 
shouted.
      “For Aragorn!” came from every Dunadan throat, and they followed him.
      The catapults were sorely guarded, and Aragorn divided his force into four parts, 
directing them to come from four sides and press the Easterlings hard. Swords raised, 
bows shooting dozens of arrows, the Dunedain challenged the catapult defenders, 
demanding that every one of them turn and fight, effectively halting their assault on 
Gondor, at least for the moment.
      Aragorn, recognizing a keg with Saruman’s white hand upon it, thought, ‘More of 
that powder which was used to blow a hole in the Deeping-Wall.’ Nodding to himself, 
Aragorn retreated a little, found two guards to watch him, and made a hasty fire. Bringing 
forth a burning stick, Aragorn loosed the Dunedain whistle of retreat, and the Dunedain, 
though confused, responded at once, drawing the elves and dwarf with them. The 
Easterlings, thinking they were on ascendancy, might have pressed their foes, but they 
didn’t want to leave the precious catapults undefended. Such was their undoing. Charging 
towards them, guarding himself with his sword, Aragorn hurled the fire into the open 
barrel, then raced away. One arrow stung him, cutting into his leg, but he scarcely felt it, 
and soon he was among his own people again, who sheltered him and removed the arrow 
even as the catapults and most of the Easterlings near the machines were blown all over 
the fields.
      “You should have sent someone else,” was the general consensus as the Dunedain 
regrouped to charge the main gate and the orcs that were concentrated there. “If we’d lost 
you-”
      “Chide me later,” Aragorn said. “I’ll certainly take any charge you give against 
me fairly and without complaint. For now, we have more to do.”
      “Infernal Strider,” said some, but with great amusement, and they formed around 
and behind him, ready to fight again.
      The shadow that fell over them then made all look up, and made Aragorn wish 
they were near the fire he’d kindled. The Nazgul were coming for them, and though their 
terrible leader didn’t seem to be among them, the other eight were bad enough. Their fell 
cries reminded Aragorn of the Witch-King’s private assault, and though his body 
suddenly ached with remembered injury, Aragorn didn’t let this show. “Stand firm,” he 
commanded. “Kindle a fire, Brey and Kendah; the rest of us will guard you.”
      “Aragorn, we have no wood,” Kendah said. “You had what little you carried, and 
it was enough, but we have nothing.”
      Aragorn groaned inwardly, mostly at himself for not noticing such an obvious 
thing. “Then you must go to the burning wood there-” he pointed at the ruined catapults- 
“and bring back torches for the rest of us.” He named three others to go with them, and 
then turned his eyes to the sky. “Form tight ranks,” he said.
      “Around you,” one of his Dunedain said, and the others responded to this, 
determined to save their chief. Little or nothing could be concealed within the camp; all 
knew that Aragorn had been raped by the Witch-King, and none would let it happen 
again. ‘Death first,’ a cry Elendil, among millions of others, had shouted at one time, was 
their belief and their rallying cry.
      The Nazgul descended, their mounts lashing out with talons and beaks, and each 
beast seemed to make a dive for Aragorn. The Dunedain battled them back, shooting at 
the riders sometimes, but mostly concentrating on their mounts. One winged beast was 
slain, but even as it fell, scattering some of the Rangers that stood in its crashing-place, 
the spirit that had ridden it flew at Aragorn, screaming at him and reaching for him. Many 
knives, arrows and swords found their mark, but none could harm it, and it continued, not 
even slowed, to Aragorn, who stood ready, Anduril in his hand. Anduril would not bend 
if it pierced one of these creatures, and Aragorn met the shadow blade to blade, defending 
himself and also stalling as he waited for the weapons that would truly kill the remaining 
eight. Where the Witch-King was, Aragorn didn’t know, but he thought perhaps he might 
be dead. Such was surely the stuff of good dreams, but Aragorn couldn’t shake the 
feeling, so he ceased to try. Let the Witch-King be dead; the others would follow in time. 
‘As soon as we have fire to fight back, that is.’
      That was when Legolas, leading the five Dunedain, appeared with fire, and 
Aragorn thought he had never see a more beautiful sight than Legolas’ eyes dancing with 
firelight and energy. Catching the torch he was thrown, Aragorn thrust it deep into the 
chest of the wraith before him, and watched the creature writhe. But it didn’t catch fire, 
and the flames rather seemed to surprise it, but not to hurt it, not really.
      Shocked, and yet convinced that the fire must work, Aragorn seized Legolas’ 
torch and thrust this, too, in. And when both flames went out, he drew his sword, took a 
step back, and engaged the wraith at close range. Above them, two mounts dove, and the 
Dunedain were forced to scatter, giving a third a clear shot at Aragorn.
      “Hai Gondolin!” Glorfindel’s fell cry echoed off the city walls as he, followed 
close by Elladan, leapt onto the beast that bore down on Aragorn. Elladan killed the 
creature with a double-knife stroke, and Glorfindel plunged Light-flamed hands into the 
back of the Rider. The wraith screamed, twisted, and exploded in a shower of darkness 
that momentarily obscured the two elves.
      The Dunedain returned, trying to decapitate the other winged beasts, but they 
were thrown aside and rent. Six were killed by one creature alone, and though one of 
them managed to take the mount with him, the price was too high. The wraiths on the 
ground could not be halted by fire, but by swords they were challenged, though swords 
alone could not kill them. And so the Dunedain fought a battle they could not hope to 
win/ Still fighting on, they denied all fear in their hearts, rejecting it utterly and fastening 
their hopes on the elves that leapt from mount to mount, killing like lightning and then 
leaping away again before they could fall from the sky.
      Five wraiths remained, and two of these were without mounts, but still they came 
on, reaching again and again for Aragorn. The chief was defended on one side by 
Legolas, and on another side by Gimli, and, though he, too, fought, he was not injured. 
His sword danced ever before him, and Aragorn, though weary, parried each thrust and 
shouted encouragement to his Dunedain again and again, knowing the wraiths’ greatest 
strength was in fear and demoralization.
      “You honor your fathers with each stroke!” he told them. “Your mothers would 
rejoice to see how bold and courageous you are! You bring honor on the Dunedain. I am 
proud to have such brothers and sisters as you! You gladden my heart, Dunedain! Fight 
on! Fight the Shadow! I am with you! Fight!”
      Glorfindel fell on the wraith that was most closely pressing Aragorn. The Balrog 
Slayer had been cut deeply by a beast’s claw as it descended from above to save one of 
its fellows, and the elf was nearly unconscious. Still, he burned the wraith that he fell 
upon, and it vanished.
      If the other wraiths had known that Glorfindel was out of the fight, they might 
have stayed. But as it was, they thought he was still strong, for Aragorn had lifted him up, 
and it looked as if he was on his feet, though with a little support, and they feared him. 
Only their conviction that their lord was still alive and that his hour was come had kept 
them fighting. With the deaths of three of their company known to them, they decided to 
retreat and regroup. Surely their Lord and Master would forgive them the retreat, and 
surely he would give them better strength so that they could defend themselves against 
the elf-lord that insisted on attacking them, though he was only one and they were nine- 
eight- five. Four.
      Elladan knelt at Glorfindel’s side, and joined Aragorn in swiftly binding the 
Elda’s wounds with bandages made of tunics and herbs from the man’s pouch.
      “He’ll need to be conveyed to the city,” Aragorn said, laying Glorfindel in 
Elladan’s arms. “We’ll give you safe passage there.”
      Elladan nodded. “I’ll return to fight.”
      “Do what you must for Glorfindel. He has saved us all.” Aragorn kissed 
Glorfindel’s brow, then ordered the Dunedain to make a triangle about them, with the 
point at the back, so that the most might be in the front to meet opposition head-on.
      But as Aragorn started to follow them, Saru found him and told him all that had 
happened. Grieved, Aragorn ordered his people to convey Elladan and Glorfindel into the 
city, then return for the other injured.
      “Aragorn, we can’t all leave you.” Raven’s eyes were filled with anguish, and 
though he was still a boy in many ways, untried in the ways of war, he knew his place, 
and that was by Aragorn’s side.
      “We’ll set up a guard around those that are hurt,” Brey added, and Raven, 
younger by fifteen years, deferred to him. “You are King now, Aragorn; don’t forget that. 
We will not abandon you to less-than-fastidious protection, especially now. You are our 
King.”
      “I seem to forget often.” Aragorn thought as quickly and as well as he could. 
“Very well.” He followed Saru back to where the others were, and the Dunedain 
followed.
      Aragorn crouched beside Halbarad, and as he began to tend his Dunadan, noting 
that Aaron had done well considering he had naught but planks and a few herbs to work 
with, Elladan laid Glorfindel down for the moment, leaving him to the care of Saru, and 
went to his twin. In the fury of battle, he hadn’t even sensed his twin’s grief or collapse, 
though he knew that to be mostly due to the presence of the wraiths, he was still hurt to 
know that he hadn’t felt Elrohir’s pain.
      Aragorn was also aware of Kehydi, who sat nearby, holding more planks and rope 
as if he didn’t know what they were, or what use they could be. Seeing his second so lost, 
and yet, for the first time in a long time, unsure of everything, including the anger that 
had fueled him for so long, Aragorn dared to hope for the son of his former lover. He 
didn’t speak to his second, knowing words would most likely not penetrate the man’s 
daze. Kehydi’s lips were swollen and bleeding, and the bruise around them was rising. 
Aragorn wondered for a moment how the man could have sustained such an injury 
without other injuries being present as well, but dismissed the question out of hand.
      The chief’s full attention was on Halbarad once more. ‘He has lost much blood, 
and though his wounds have been bound, they may become infected unless I can find 
time and resources to make an infusion with which to pack them.’ He knew such could 
only be done in the city, since he lacked the means just then.
      But Halbarad surprised him, opening his eyes. His gaze was clouded with pain, 
and he was disoriented, but when Aragorn put leaves of athelas in his mouth and told him 
to chew and swallow, he did, wincing a little as the fire of their untreated juice entered 
his body, but then he passed out again, and he breathed easier for the leaves.
      Aragorn stood. “I’ve done all I can,” he said. His eyes went back to the battle for 
a moment, then he saw Eowyn and Theoden. Sighing, he bid Aaron to tend them if he 
could. He didn’t see Merry, who was hidden by armor and a small rise in the land. “The 
rest of us must return to battle. This isn’t over yet.” He blessed Aaron and gave him his 
pouch. “Stay with them,” he bade, then went away, taking most of the Dunedain except 
those who had drawn lots to see who must stay with the injured.
      Elladan, against his better judgment, went with Aragorn, leaving Glorfindel and 
Elrohir in Aaron’s capable hands. Saru, too, followed his chief, and took Cein the son and 
Cein his daughter, and Mordecai with him, though Morwen stayed behind. Stenva, 
having drawn a lot to stay, took Annaleh’s place protecting Aaron’s back as he worked. 
Annaleh went after Aragorn. The sun by then had begun its descent from zenith. In 
another few hours, it would be dusk. All hoped to have the battle decided by then, for 
there was no doubt that night was an aid to orcs.
***
      The battle lasted until the hills were painted red as blood and the Anduin looked 
like a river of fire. Too many had fallen, but many more had lived, and countless lives 
had been saved. As the last of the Enemy’s servants were driven away, fleeing into the 
darkening landscape, Aragorn met Eomer again. The king of Rohan was kneeling beside 
his fallen uncle, and though the standard flew over him, he looked like one who was lost 
rather than a ruler. ‘But his kingship begins with death,’ Aragorn knelt beside Eomer and 
raised him up, bidding the Rohirrim to convey their lord and Eowyn into the city. And he 
also bid them, with those Dunedain that gathered near, to take Halbarad, Aidan, Arwen, 
Glorfindel, and Elrohir, who had regained consciousness earlier, only to be knocked out 
again as his mind threatened to snap.
      The remaining Dunedain divided labor among themselves as the night wore on. 
Some went to prepare the tents on a patch of ground less desecrated that the rest, and 
some went to gather their dead and wrap them in cloaks. When Aragorn emerged from 
the city, the fallen would be buried or set on a pyre, depending on their lord’s preference. 
Many whispered that they were in Gondor now, not as visitors, but to stay, and must 
abide by Gondor’s rules and traditions, whether they approved of these or not, but most 
said they would hold to their own traditions, which must not be much different from 
those of the White City. Saru, whom circumstances had named temporary second-in-
command, answered all that they woud do as Aragorn instructed, and he reminded them 
also that the war was not over, and that there would be no talk of traditions slighted or 
adhered to while there was still an Enemy in the east who must be dealt with.
      Just as he calmed the Dunedain and centered their thoughts on what must be done, 
Saru kept all away from Kehydi, who was led to a tent and left there to sit or rot or 
recover as he chose. Saru had no time for grieving for his husband or for others who had 
passed. He helped Aaron tend the wounded, and spelled the latter when he grew too 
weary, and was spelled in turn. But three hours before dawn, as the Dunedain set up a 
watch over the camp, and especially around those that were injured but still lived, a 
young boy, Bergil by name, was sent from the city to bring “Saru Doondan” and his 
youngest son to Aragorn in the Houses of Healing at once. As Cein and Morwen weren’t 
sent for as well, Saru concluded Aidan still lived, and he breathed again, though he’d 
been afraid when he saw the boy approaching. None should die of a broken wrist, but 
other evil things had happened, so it wasn’t impossible.
      Within the walls, the damage and carnage were less, but not by much. Saru took 
in the charred bricks, the men crushed beneath broken stone, and the wounded who lay 
everywhere, some being tended, but most just being left. Saru stopped Bergil. “We will 
find the Houses of Healing. You must go back and tell my kindred-” the boy looked 
confused- “those in the grey tents outside- that there are many here who are injured and 
need attention. I’ll also send help from the Houses.” The boy was hesitating. “Go! Do 
you not know a captain’s order when it is given? Go!” Bergil at last went; Saru and 
Mordecai were left to their task.
      The Houses of Healing were filled with the wounded, the dying, and the dead. 
Saru took in the unhealthy practices these men had for tending to their injured, and 
sighed. ‘Aragorn will have much to change when he becomes King,’ Striding past all 
this, Saru came into the room where Aragorn worked over Lady Eowyn. Eomer stood 
near, watching him work.
      Without raising his head, Aragorn said, “Glorfindel calls for you and says only 
you can save Halbarad. I don’t understand, but he insists.” His hand was on the Lady, and 
as the two Dunedain left the room, they heard him calling her.
      “That’s how Aidan called for Aragorn when you were hurt,” Mordecai said as 
they left. “Why does calling work sometimes and other times it is useless?”
      “You call someone when they are in the grip of Darkness,” Saru answered. “She 
must have been hurt by one of the Nine.” He strode into the next room, seeing Merry 
there, and into the next, a grand, well-lit place where Faramir, lay. Saru saw his brother, 
but didn’t react; Faramir, though he lay still, looked strong. Soon he would wake.
      Saru was ready to pass to the next room, but Mordecai stopped and looked at the 
man. “Who is this?”
      “Faramir, son of Denthor, Steward of Gondor.” Saru made to catch the boy’s arm 
and pull him away, but Mordecai evaded his grasp.
      “I had a dream about him,” Mordecai said.
      Saru, impatient, said, “Then you may stay with him if you wish, but know that 
Halbarad’s life may hinge on your being with him.” Mordecai stared at his papa, shocked 
to hear so bitter a tone, but Saru didn’t recant. “Come if you care for your people. That 
man there is in no danger of dying. Can’t you smell the athelas on the air? Aragorn has 
already been here and helped him.”
      “Papa…” But he couldn’t put his hurt feelings into words, so Mordecai went to 
Faramir and knelt beside him, taking his had.
      Saru strode into the next room, where at last he found Halbarad. Elrohir knelt on 
one side of the bed and sobbed. Glorfindel lay on the bed with Halbarad, and his eyes, 
though pain-haunted, were trained on the man’s face. Elladan crouched beside his lover 
and waited.
      “I am here, Lord Glorfindel,” Saru said, and he approached the bed.
      “Quickly,” Glorfindel said, his voice ragged as he fought against the pain in his 
side. “Quickly, both of you, lay your hands on him. Good. Think your Light into him. 
Mine is not enough.”
      At once, Saru knelt by Halbarad, took his hand and, trusting to instinct, tried to 
send his light to the Dunadan before him.
      “Stop!” Glorfindel slapped Saru’s hand away. “What are you doing?” The Elda’s 
eyes were wide with shock and pain. His sudden movement had cost him dear. In 
response to the Ranger’s confused look, Glorfindel said, “You can’t imbue him with life 
when you yourself are uncentered and angry. You must let go of the battle and everything 
that went before. Forget everything outside this room and this purpose, or you cannot 
help Halbarad. And where is Mordecai? His light is needed also.”
      “He’s with Faramir.” Saru’s hands shook as he fought against the surge of 
emotions that polluted his mind, called up by his very attempt to banish them. “Can’t I 
just block what I feel?”
      “You could, if you were used to feeling enraged and trapped,” Glorfindel 
answered, and his eyes darkened with memories. “But you’re not. You have ever been 
cheerful. What is wrong? Talk quickly, and I’ll help you work through it if I can. 
Halbarad is dying, and the three of us- all three of us- are his only hope.”
Chapter Eighty-Six
      Aragorn, when he emerged from the three-quarters trance he’d slipped into while 
trying to reach Eowyn and draw her back to the land of the living, became instantly 
aware of his Ranger’s suffering. Saru wasn’t making any sort of noise, and he was two 
rooms over, but still Aragorn heard him, as though he shared a bond with Saru like that 
he shared with Legolas, except all that came through his bond with the red-haired 
Dunadan was a dim echo of his emotions. Before he could rise and start from the room, 
however, Aragorn realised he felt more than just Saru’s emotions; more than one hundred 
distinct minds, some closer than others, called to him, inviting him to feel what they felt. 
Aragorn put his hands to his head and tried to block it all out. Dimly, he sensed Legolas, 
though, and instead of sealing himself off, he reached for his lover. ‘Legolas?’ Where 
was his husband, anyway? Could they talk over such a long distance with so many other 
voices getting in the way?
      ‘Aragorn? Aragorn, what’s wrong?’ Legolas sounded almost panicked. ‘Aragorn? 
What is it? Where are you? Who’s with you?’
      ‘Everyone, it seems, or at least all the Dunedain.’ Even as he answered, Aragorn 
realised that last was true. ‘All of them, Legolas, even those who are back in the north. I 
can feel all of them… Their thoughts are louder or softer, depending how far away they 
are, but I can hear every single one of them.’ He shivered. ‘I feel the children, I feel 
Mordecai, I feel…’ He groaned. ‘I can feel Halbarad. He’s fading. And I feel-’
      ‘Saru.’
      ‘Yes. He’s in pain, and he’s confused, and-’
      ‘Aragorn, slow down. Take a moment and filter out all the other voices besides 
mine.’ He waited until he could feel Aragorn’s focus sharpen. ‘Listen. Do you hear him 
still?’
      ‘Yes.’ Saru’s voice was painfully loud in Aragorn’s mind, and he winced as he 
put his fingers to his temples and unconsciously rubbed there.
      ‘You’re hearing him through me. I’m coming into the Houses of Healing. I’ll 
meet you where he is. Bring Mordecai with you. Saru says he’s nearby and he’s needed.’
      ‘How can you be so calm about this?’ Aragorn was on his feet, and he left the 
room under his own power, though his stride was less than even. He continued taking 
consciously-deep breaths, and focused only on where he was going and who he was 
talking to. When he passed Mordecai, he gestured for the boy to come with him, and 
Mordecai followed, though he cast a glance back over his shoulder at Faramir.
      ‘I’ve felt others from great distances before, remember?’ Legolas asked. ‘It’s a 
gift or curse I’m familiar with. And though you and I have connected over long distances, 
this is your first time connecting to anyone else. I’m completely used to hearing voices in 
my head that I never expected to be there.’
      Aragorn couldn’t decide if Legolas was being flippant to tease him or because he 
himself was nervous.
      ‘Granted, I’ve never heard so many voices,’ Legolas sent.
      ‘You’re hearing them too?’ Aragorn was standing directly behind Saru, and his 
hand went to his Dunadan’s shoulder, instantly seeking to comfort.
      ‘Apparently. This is just a gift that keeps on giving.’ Legolas entered the room 
then, and he stood shoulder to shoulder with Aragorn. The man noted out of the corner of 
his eye that Legolas’ color was high, and he wondered if his husband had run. “Saru?” 
Legolas asked aloud, laying his hand on the red-haired man’s head.
      Saru didn’t look at them. “I can’t help him, Aragorn. Forgive me…”
      “This isn’t about Halbarad right now,” Legolas said. “It’s about your healing. You 
can’t cast everything on me, or I’d let you do it in an instant. You need to work through 
this. Tell me what’s wrong.”
      “Everything.”
      “That’s like saying there are orcs in Middle-Earth somewhere. What specifically 
is wrong?”
      “Kehydi. Aidan. Denethor. Mordecai. Loneliness.” Saru paused, searching. 
“That’s all, but I can’t sort out any of it.”
      “Kehydi first. What happened?”
      “I hit him.” Saru laughed. “I punched him for saying… for going against 
everything that’s right and trying to go his own way even after everything we’ve tried to 
do for him, after everything Aragorn has done, after everything I’ve suffered for him, 
given up for him…” He sobbed, and his knuckles, as he gripped the edge of the bed, were 
pale as bloodless lips. “Aragorn, I tried not to hate him, I thought I could never hate him, 
but it’s different now. It’s… I don’t know.”
      “Yes you do, Dunadan. Speak. Please.” Aragorn squeezed Saru’s shoulder, 
rubbing at the tense muscles he found there with his thumb.
      “I’ve seen real suffering now. Not just the civil war, but the deaths of those who 
should have lived. And all Kehydi wanted to do was defy you. My own slavery wasn’t 
enough. My own suffering under him wasn’t enough. He was getting in the way of the 
mission of the Dunedain. That shouldn’t effect me so much, but it does.”
      “As Aaron said, we each need something to live for. Be angry at Kehydi, Saru. 
You don’t need my permission to do that, but I’m giving it anyway.”
      A wave of rage so sudden and strong overswept the man and elf at that moment 
that Aragorn realised Saru had been waiting for such permission. The wave crested, 
receded, and Saru whispered, “He can’t hurt you now. He’s gone deep into his mind 
where no one can reach him until he’s ready to come out. And if, when he comes out, he 
tries to stop you, I’ll kill him for you. I’ll protect you, Elf Stone. I’ll protect you.”
      “Thank you, Dunadan. I couldn’t ask for a more trusted second.”
      Saru blinked at that, accepting the title. “I will ever serve the Dunedain.” He was 
silent for a moment, then said, “Aidan’s injury frightens me. Next to the Dunedain, my 
children are my life.”
      “He is well,” Legolas said. “I saw him as I came into the Houses of Healing. He 
was sitting with Lady Arwen, talking with her.”
      “He is well?”
      “He has a broken wrist, but, yes, he’s fine, in no danger of dying.”
      Saru nodded. “Denethor-”
      “Is dead,” Legolas answered. “Gandalf told me so, and I heard it whispered in the 
streets as I came here. He went mad and killed himself. He tried to burn Faramir alive, 
but Pippin saved Faramir. Denethor could not be saved.”
      “I don’t ever have to see him or talk to him?” A great weight rolled off Saru’s 
back, and both Aragorn and Legolas felt it go. One burden only remained, but it was 
heaviest, connected so close to Kehydi that it was surprising Saru hadn’t made the link in 
his own mind. “I know my need is to serve the Dunedain, but that’s a lonely place to be. 
It’s like being killed slowly by poison, and no one stops to help, or even pretends 
concern.” His eyes were fever-bright. “I didn’t mean to break now; believe me, Aragorn, 
I didn’t. I couldn’t have chosen a worse time, I know.”
      “You didn’t chose this, Saru,” Legolas said. “And no one really knows what will 
break them, or when.” He glanced at Aragorn, wanting him to say something.
      Instead, the man dropped to his knees and drew Saru back against his chest, 
cradling his head in one calloused palm. He laid warm kisses on Saru’s hair and rubbed 
his free hand up and down Saru’s arm. Saru turned to him so that the side of his face was 
against Aragorn’s chest now. Murmuring, nine words out of ten indistinct, Aragorn 
caressed the side of Saru’s face, taking his tears away, blessing him over and over again 
with soft lips.
      Saru’s hand reached up, and Aragorn guided the questing fingers to hold to his 
shirt. More murmurs, and he wrapped his arm around Saru’s back, still rubbing, now 
making small circles.
      “You are entitled to all the love each and every one of us can give,” Aragorn said, 
his voice so soft as to almost be missed. “I know sometimes it isn’t enough, and I’m 
sorry. You deserve love. You are love.”
      Saru sobbed, once, then drew back from Aragorn. He was smiling and crying. 
Reaching up, he touched the side of Aragorn’s face. “I see why Malacai loved you so 
much. Just then, it was like he was holding me.” Saru blinked, and two more tears fell. 
“He was the only one who ever really loved me that way, wasn’t he?”
      “Maybe,” Aragorn answered. “Malacai’s love, wherever he bestowed it, was a 
blessing and a miracle.” He kissed Saru’s forehead once more. “And I know he loved 
you. Like that. Like he loved Annaleh.” A pause, and Aragorn prayed silently that 
Legolas wouldn’t kill him too painfully after this was over. “May I kiss you? I remember 
just how he kissed me, and I would share that with you.”
      “Please.” Saru’s eyes didn’t stray from Aragorn’s face. If he thought of Legolas, 
he gave no sign, and that heightened sense of hearing every Ranger’s voice at once had 
left Aragorn for the moment, so he couldn’t know for sure.
      Aragorn hesitated a moment, drawing on the long-ago memory, then put his hand 
behind Saru’s head, burying his fingers in the younger man’s hair as Malacai had almost 
always done with him, tilted his head a little, and moved forward until their lips met. 
After a sweet moment, he opened his mouth and licked across Saru’s lips, compelling 
him to open his mouth. Saru complied, and Aragorn caressed his tongue lightly, teasing 
him, drawing him in so that Saru’s tongue slipped into his mouth without Saru’s 
conscious command of it. Aragorn sucked at the invader, then let go.
      “Malacai…” Saru wept again, and Aragorn stroked his hair until he quieted. 
When Saru drew back this time, it was with purpose, and he glanced at his son. 
“Mordecai, forgive me. I didn’t mean to belittle your dream. It was wrong.”
      “I’m not angry with you, Papa.” Mordecai looked stunned, but he moved forward, 
and, hand in hand, he and Saru went to Halbarad, and laid their hands on him. “We’re 
ready now, Lord Glorfindel,” the boy said.
      Together, Aragorn and Legolas rose and left the room. Behind them, Elladan went 
to Elrohir, who, in his need to get close to Halbarad, was getting in the healers’ way.
      Out in the corridor, Legolas grabbed Aragorn’s arm and dragged him to the first 
empty room.
      “Legolas, there are others I must-”
      The elf kicked the door shut, yanked Aragorn close, and slapped him smartly, 
though not all that hard, on his cheek. “That’s for kissing Saru without asking my 
permission