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Chapter Text

Right as they had brought the nearly unconscious Théodred into his and Elia's bedchamber, to lay him down as carefully as they could on the bed and started to undress him for a proper examination of his injuries, did Oberyn and Tyene show up after arriving through a smaller portal at the back of the golden hall of Meduseld.  

“We saw what happened in a water mirror and tried to gather my accessories to try to find out about possible poisons before coming!” 

That explained the huge bags they both had. Helping her father to unpack everything, the third Sand Snake tossed something to Aegon, who may be needed as a healer apprentice: 

“Aegon, crush this fresh garlic in a mortar with a pestle and mix it with the honey in this jar. Both are needed to prevent infections on the wounds.” 

“I know that already!” 

But getting a task to do, seemed to calm him down a little from possibly entering a panic attack over the situation, if only for now.  

“Damn orcs and their foul poisons…!” 

The deep gasp in her husband's stomach area was still bleeding, and they tried to stop it with some careful pressure by holding clean towels dropped in hot water against the wound. Théodred gasped in pain whatever they touched the wound, but they did not dare to give him anything for numbing the pain yet. Sometimes, even if it felt like torture for the injured person, the healers needed a reactions on that they did in order to know what to do next.  

“A clever plan, I must admit, to prevent the King of Rohan from taking a active part of the war. This sort of injury is so dangerous, because the wounds are often so near the internal organs, and even if he survives, the recovery time will be long, because the wound risks reopening if he moves around too much…” 

Elia knew what her brother meant. Far too often, this could lead to death because so many things could go wrong. 

“We must try to keep him alive. Rohan needs its King, or…” 

She could not finish the sentence. Théoden had sworn to serve his son as the First Marshal of the Riddermark at their coronation, but his age was not the only thing that risked to have him be one of the men who may never return home from battle. 

“Elia, you must have faith in his survival. This is not Rhaegar, who we gladly would leave to bleed to death at the Trident for what he did to you and the children he gave you.” 

Giving Oberyn a shaky nod, Elia kissed Théodred on a somewhat clean spot on his face before leaving the chamber to tell the children of the situation. Lying to them would not be a good idea, they would not be happy if the adults tried to keep any information from them and both the young Prince and Princess of Rohan were somewhat familiar with death after how a beloved female descendant of Balerion and her kittens had all died after a birth this very autumn, which went wrong despite the twins trying to help the poor female cat in her distress and even asking one of the stable grooms for some help with the delivery. Rather, Elia needed to tell the truth in a manner that revealed how serious this was, and the very unwanted reality that Théodred may not survive if things went horribly wrong. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X   

Of course, the news of the horrible injury which their father had gotten, as well the possibility of him maybe joining their already deceased paternal grandmother Elfhild and maternal grandmother Aria in the afterlife, did cause some distress in her twins. 

“Will papa be alright, Madre?” Andréth asked, her voice trembling as she openly cried and using a word more common in a younger age. At her side, Aégnor wiped his eyes with a sleeve from his tunic. 

“I can not foretell what will be the outcome, sweetie, but I shall pray to the Valar and Mother Rhoyne to let Feder live. We all need him, even if he shall take a long time to recover from this injury. Besides, do you not agree that there may be someone else who may miss him?”

It took them a moment to connect what Elia hinted to.

“Brego!” 

His current steed, sired by Silvermoon six years ago and named after the second King of Rohan. The young stallion had avoided death, last seen as he was taken into the royal stables to be taken care of by the stable grooms, but with the close connection between the horses and their riders, it was only natural that Brego would wonder where Théodred could be. 

“Can...we meet Feder after that the healers and tío Oby are done? He may want to know if Brego was injured too…” Aégnor wondered, looking so vulnerable in this very moment that Elia could not imagine a scene where he had just been crowned King of Rohan despite his young age. A scenario that none of the adults in the House of Eorl wanted now. 

“Yes, you can. Come on, my young descendants, and bring some tasty dandelion leaves to offer to both Brego and Silvermoon, so they act nicely,” Morwen spoke up, not showing her own worry for her oldest grandson. Éowyn, who had also seen the horrible injuries of her cousin, needed something else to think of as well, that could the former Queen Mother see at once, in the pale face of her oldest granddaughter. 

Outside, Laywyn was looking at the orc helmet which she had grabbed before the portal had closed. Somehow, the design did not match her own memories of what the orcs from Mordor would wear. And she had spent about forty years as the leader of the Rangers of Ithilien. Sauron had an eye painted in red as his symbol, not a white hand. 

“Saruman...you better not be the person behind this…!”

Her homeland did not need more enemies now, and since Saruman had been given the keys to Orthanc, giving him Isengard to dwell in from Beren, the nineteenth Steward of Gondor on the advice of her own ancestor Fréaláf, the tenth King of Rohan, both of the long-gone rulers hoping that he would prove an important ally. If Saruman indeed planned something suspicious, then those past 260 years of having that Wizard in Isengard had placed him right in a position to distract Rohan while Mordor first dealt with Gondor. 

“Rhaenys!” Laywyn called to the young woman when she spotted the oldest daughter of her niece-in-law there in the shadows of Meduseld, trying to hold herself together, “Please, use a water mirror to see if Éomer is alright! If this attack on your stepfather is an attempt to weaken Rohan through killing all the adult males in the House of Eorl, then he may be the next target!” 

They needed to make a counter-attack against Saruman somehow, if Théodred passed away from his injuries. Killing a King of Rohan, even if he was not doing it directly, was unforgivable and not even being a Wizard would spare Saruman from some form of punishment for it.  

By pure coincidence back up in the royal bedchamber, where he held the hand of his unconscious son in his own two hands as he knelt at the side of the bed and prayed to the Valar to let his only child live as the healers and Oberyn now carefully wrapped bandages over the now sewn closed wound to prevent further blood loss, Théoden had also realized the possible chance of Saruman being behind the attack. 

“If my son was attacked...could Boromir be next? Is that that Saruman plans, to give Sauron an easier time to destroy us all, with our expected leaders killed and leaving no clear successor to take over?” 

The oldest son of the ruling Steward of Gondor had not yet returned home from his long journey north, and with the current situation here in Rohan with Théodred fighting for his life here in the living world so he did not join their forefathers and Elfhild in the afterlife, it was impossible to tell if Elia and her birth family would be able to help Boromir in time, if he too was attacked by Saruman. 

Chapter Text

26 February T.A. 3019, Amon Hen: 

Boromir felt uneasy about Frodo being alone, away from the others in the Fellowship. Sure, he could understand that the hobbit was facing a difficult choice in choosing where to go next, and there had to be many thoughts in the mind of the Ring-bearer.  

“I will try to take a quick rest. My sleep at night has been restless lately because I worry about what may have happened in Gondor while I have been north and it have been difficult to sleep for as long as I would need,” he told the others, using his shield to cover his face from the sunlight and borrowing one of the bed rolls as an improvised pillow. 

“Sounds like a wise idea until Frodo comes back,” the Dwarf Gimli agreed, positioning himself to quickly wake up Boromir if it became needed, and using the time to check over his broad-bladed ax.

But soon, Boromir woke up again, like from a nightmare in how he suddenly sat up, and none of the others could miss the fear in his eyes as he gasped for breath, and how he held one fist tightly over the brooch which held his mantle together. 

“I dreamt a nightmare where my little brother was one of the men who fell at Osgiliath last summer…” he whispered, trying to remind himself that Faramir was still alive and back home in Minas Tirith. 

The One Ring. It had to be that cursed thing, trying to temper him and ensnare him with false promises. Boromir knew that his desire to protect his homeland and its people was both a great strength and a major flaw at the same time, two sides of the same coin. The soul-piece of Sauron within the Ring must be sensing his worries, and perhaps intending to use him. 

When the others were distracted by Aragorn telling the tales of Gondor and its past on the request of the other hobbits who knew next to nothing about the Mannish realm so far from their own Shire in the northern lands, Boromir carefully picked up his shield, weapons and sneaked away from the camp.    

Soon Boromir could see Frodo between the trees, sitting with his chin in hand, staring eastwards but seeing little with his eyes, an understandable sign that the Hobbit had not yet made his choice of where to go next. As he walked closer, Boromir felt the brooch with the sun and spear of House Martell somehow almost pulsating like a beating heart. 

“Give me the strength to resist the Ring, please…!” he begged, whatever it was to the Valar or the river goddess which Elia worshipped, and almost at once, an image of Faramir and Éowyn awkwardly smiling at each other with blushing cheeks from the coronation of Théodred and Elia in Rohan over four and a half years ago flashed in his mind. And a new image of Lothíriel, her large belly showing all the signs of that she soon would be a mother, as she gave Éomer one of her hair ribbons for good luck as he would ride out with his men. Finally, of Théodred and Elia, with their family. 

“Yes...I must resist...for them!” 

~X~X~X~X~X~X 

Suddenly Frodo awoke from his thoughts: a strange feeling came to him that something was behind him, that eyes were upon him. He sprang up and turned; but all that he saw to his surprise was Boromir, and his face was smiling and kind.

“I was afraid for you, Frodo,” the future Steward said, coming forward. “If Aragorn is right and Orcs are near, then none of us should wander alone, and you least of all: so much depends on you. And my heart too is heavy. May I stay now and talk for a while, since I have found you? It would comfort me. Where there are so many, all speech becomes a debate without end. But two together may perhaps find wisdom.”

“You are kind,” answered Frodo, “But I do not think that any speech will help me. For I know what I should do, but I am afraid of doing it, Boromir, afraid. ”

Boromir stood silent, but nodded faintly in understanding. Somewhere behind them, Rauros roared endlessly on. The wind murmured in the branches of the trees and made Frodo shiver in unease.

“Frodo... Do not choose Gondor, ” Boromir finally managed to say in a strained voice, holding desperately to the brooch as he felt the Ring start whispering in his ears again, “Please, please do not. There are many there who would fall for the Ring's powers, men who I can see myself in, and the wife of my best friend, Queen Elia of Rohan... nearly fourteen years ago, she and the children from her first marriage were almost murdered. If that man, who tried to have them murdered back then, would fall for the false promises which the Ring would temper him with .... ” 

He could recall Elia telling of Tywin Lannister, of his ambitions and goals for his family though the idea of marrying his only daughter into the royal family of Westeros before they lost their throne in that rebellion which had created a new dynasty and how he would become a perfect puppet in the hands of Sauron while still thinking that he would remain the one in control. 

“Boromir...are you afraid of what may happen if the Ring comes to Gondor? That people will be drawn to it, and try to take it?” 

Frodo meant no disrespect, but his voice held some alarm over this. 

“Yes. Yes, that is exactly what I am trying to say. The Ring is too dangerous to bring near Gondor...go east, Frodo! Go east! Do not come anywhere near the borders of the Kingdoms here, if Aragorn can lead you there! I must return home! My people, everyone I care for, they need me back in Minas Tirith! If you others go east, then I must go west and protect Gondor...” Boromir openly pleaded, sensing in his mind how the magic from Rhaenys and Aegon inside the brooch struggled against the Ring. Sauron was a Maia, near the powers of the Valar, and they were just mortals with inherited magic. The difference in power was beginning to reveal itself. 

“I hear your advice, Boromir, but why are you…”

But a strange roar was now heard in the wind behind them, and the glowing of Sting, the sword which Bilbo Baggins had given Frodo to help being ready on enemies being near, told them enough when its current owner checked by dragging the sword half-way out of its scabbard. 

“Run, Frodo. Run! Run!” 

Hearing the desperation in Boromir's voice for him to not stay here and risk getting caught by the enemy, Frodo obeyed, leaving the Man to face the Uruk-hai sent out by Saruman to catch the Ring-bearer and bring him as a captive to Isengard. 

On the other hand, the rest of the Fellowship had now noticed that Frodo had been away for a pretty long time, and that Boromir was nowhere to be seen either. Given the seriousness of the situation, and their own worries for Frodo, was perhaps not that strange that Samwise Gamree spoke what seemed to be on their minds: 

“We must try and find him at once. Come on!”

“Wait a moment!” cried Aragorn in an attempt to avoid the situation turning worse, “We must divide up into pairs, and arrange here, hold on! Wait!”

It was no good. They took no notice of him. Sam had dashed off first, out of concern for his master. Merry and Pippin had followed, and were already disappearing westward into the trees by the shore, shouting: Frodo! Frodo! in their clear, high hobbit-voices. Legolas and Gimli were running. A sudden panic or madness seemed to have fallen on the Company.

“We shall all be scattered and lost,” groaned Aragorn, hoping that Boromir, at least, had found Frodo and that the pair were on the way back to the camp. 

Aragorn sprang swiftly away and went in pursuit of Sam. Just as he reached the little lawn among the rowans he overtook the hobbit, toiling uphill, panting and calling: Frodo!

“Come with me, Sam!” he offered in a gentle voice, “None of us should be alone. There is mischief about. I feel it. I am going to the top, to the Seat of Amon Hen, to see what may be seen. And look! It is as my heart guessed, Frodo went this way. Follow me, and keep your eyes open!” He sped up the path.

Sam did his best, but he could not keep up with Strider the Ranger, and soon fell behind. He had not gone far before Aragorn was out of sight ahead. Sam stopped and puffed. Suddenly he clapped his hand to his head.

“Whoa, Sam Gamgee!” he said aloud, “Your legs are too short, so use your head! Let me see now! Something scared Mr. Frodo badly. He screwed himself up to the point, sudden. He made up his mind at last to go. Where to? Off East. Not without Sam? Yes, without even his Sam. That's hard, cruel hard.”

Sam passed his hand over his eyes, brushing away the tears. 

“Steady, Gamgee!” he told himself, “Think, if you can! He can't fly across rivers, and he can't jump waterfalls. He's got no gear. So he's got to get back to the boats. Back to the boats! Back to the boats, Sam, like lightning!” 

Sam turned and bolted back down the path, hearing the Horn of Gondor somewhere in the distance. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X 

Meanwhile, Merry and Pippin had been forced to come to a dead stop, else they would have run straight into some of the Uruk-hai which Boromir was trying to kill. 

“Do not come near, you have no armour as protection against their swords and arrows!” 

Cursing mentally as he raised his sword for a new blow and blocking another attack with his shield, Boromir wondered why they had failed to grab some of the Dwarven chainmail in Moria when the Fellowship had been there, and requesting the Elves of Lorien to adjust the size to better fit Merry, Pippin and Sam, since Frodo already was well protected by the coat of rare mirthil which he had gotten from Bilbo alongside Sting. Yes, it would have been stealing from the dead, a crime which was punishable in all the cultures Boromir knew of, but surely Gimli may have agreed on the logic that it was to protect the hobbits in the current situation and sometimes it was better to accept punishment for a crime at later date. 

“Watch your head, Boromir!” 

Grabbing a few good-sized stones, the two hobbits revealed that while their race had never been warlike, their skill in using all things of tools, bows and in this case, simple stones to try and hit a fatal hit to the heads of the Uruk-hai despite their helmets, was not to be underestimated.  

“Good hits, now run from here!”

Dropping his shield to blow his horn once again and then to use his sword in both hands, Boromir tried to keep a wider distance from the two hobbits so the enemies would not get their hands on them that easily. 

But in Minas Tirith, his father Denethor was seeing this scene happening in the Palantír, and for the current Steward of Gondor, his Heir refusing to bring Frodo and the One Ring to Gondor to try and hide it so Sauron would not get his hands on it right within his own domains, was a act of betrayal. 

Boromir! Bring the Ring to Gondor!

But what Denethor could not have known, was that his attempt to reach out to his oldest son would prove to be a fatal mistake. As he saw an black-feathered arrow bury itself into the chest of Boromir despite all his layers of protection, the brooch to his mantle was gleaming far too strong to be a reflection of sunlight and for a moment, the magic of the Palantír and the brooch linked together.  

Denethor was pushed away from the Palantír down on the floor like something invisible forced him back, blood dripping from his mouth as he felt a sudden pain in the left side of his chest, exactly the spot where Boromir had been shot. And then several more all over the front of his body. 

“This power...the magic...the descendants of...the Shadow of the East …!” 

He had used the Palantír to find out the true history of Elia and House Martell over the past years, and despite seeing that they were firmly against Sauron and his forces, them being descendants of Khamûl, the second most powerful Nazgûl after the Witch-King of Angmar, Denethor did not want to see House Martell overshadow the efforts of himself and his sons in this war.  

“Boromir…” 

But the internal bleedings from the arrow wounds, which he now had received in his son's place, overwhelmed Denethor when the image of Boromir now vanished and it was only with pure willpower, the same willpower that made him use the Palantír for years to contest his will against Sauron's and not being overpowered, that allowed him to get out of the chamber. 

“My son…” 

Despite attempting to not fall down the stairs, the inner bleeding made him lightheaded very fast and one wrong step as he tried to support himself against the wall, proved fatal.

“Lord Denethor!?” one of the servants called out at hearing the voice cry out, followed by the alarming sound of something landing at the end of the stone stairs. 

“Father!” 

However, Faramir would arrive too late to save his father from a deadly hit with his head on one of the middle stone steps, and since the inner bleedings was not visible on the outside of the body, everyone who gathered around the dead Steward believed that his death honestly was a accident caused by losing his footing on one of the upper steps for some reason and then falling down the very, very long and narrow staircase in the tower without managing to grab something in time to stop the fall. 

“Brother...please come home quickly! We need you here to lead us!” Faramir managed to whisper for himself, holding Denethor's dead body in his arms and crying in grief over what just had happened. Until Boromir came home or they had proper news about something happening to him as well, his younger brother would need to act as a temporary Steward. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X 

A mile, maybe, from Parth Galen in a little glade not far from the lake Aragorn found Boromir sitting with his back to a great tree, as if he was resting. But Aragorn saw that he was pierced with many black-feathered arrows; his sword was still in his hand, but it was broken near the hilt; his horn cloven in two was at his side. Many Orcs lay slain, piled all about him and at his feet.

“Boromir!” 

When Aragorn knelt beside him to check on the wounds which the arrows must have left inside his body, Boromir opened his eyes and strove to speak. At last slow words came:

“They have gone, the Halflings: the Orcs have taken them. But I think they are not dead, as the Orcs bound them before running off…” 

His grey, exhausted glance strayed to his fallen enemies around them both, twenty at least, and his eyes closed wearily. After a moment he tried to speak again, but Aragorn gently hushed him to be quiet and offered his own belt for Boromir to bite in, as Aragorn needed to remove the arrows. 

“My foster-father in Imladris and his twin sons would be very disappointed in me, if I had not learned how to operate wounds out in the wildness like this, though as Elrond himself have said and as I have learned, sometimes there is no time for some form of painkiller  to take effect…”

It was the understandable, muted howls of pain from Boromir that guided Legolas and Gimli to where the two Men were. They came from the western slopes of the hill, silently, creeping through the trees as if they were hunting. Gimli had his axe in hand, and Legolas his long knife: all his arrows were spent. When they came into the glade they halted in amazement; and then they hurried forwards to see if there was anything they could help with.  

“Legolas, help me support Boromir between us two. I have managed to remove the arrows, but I need to check over the wounds and clean them better at the boats. Gimli, please get ahead to the boats and see if you can get the fire alight again, most of the wounds need to be sewn and I must sterilize one of the needles to sew with to avoid Boromir getting a life-threatening infection later.” 

“My late uncle Óin would be pleased to hear such wisdom from someone else trained by a healer. He was the medic in the Company to reclaim Erebor and I can recall from my childhood how he would scold anyone who could not do any proper first-aid or similar treatment needed on wounds,” the Dwarf spoke, then hurrying along the path to do as Aragorn had requested. Once Boromir had gotten his injuries treated, they could talk about what to do now with Merry and Pippin taken as prisoners, and not knowing what had become of Frodo and Sam yet. 

Chapter Text

With Gimli having gotten the fire started again and boiling some water in a tea kettle which Merry had been carrying in his pack, Aragorn could start treating Boromir better. 

“You had good layers of protection, the wounds are not as deep as I feared. Expect some new scars once those have healed fully, though.” 

But Boromir, who had a better guess as to why the wounds were not worse, knew that he would need to thank Rhaenys and Aegon for using the brooch to indirectly save his life. He had a life-debt to the two oldest children of Elia now, and he intended to honor that no matter what. 

“Without them...I would likely have fallen for the whispers of the Ring, and possibly try to take it from Frodo by force. And...undoubtedly been killed today. ” 

He knew the damage so many arrows could cause in a body, having seen it in his soldiers back home in Gondor in battles against the orcs of Mordor. Get hit in a vital point like the lungs so you could not breathe or a big blood vessel so you would lose a huge amount of blood, and you would find yourself dead pretty quickly even in the hands of skilled healers. 

Once Boromir's wounds had been washed with some warm water, cleaned out with ahelas herbs and sewn together, they had to make a choice about what to do next. But when Aragorn was looking around for clues about what may have happened to Frodo and Sam, of which one was some prints of hobbit feet that had waded out in the water and back, two things stood out: 

One of the three boats from Lorien was visible on the other shore, two packs were missing, one certainly Sam's as it was rather large and heavy with cooking equipment because Sam was the best cook among the four hobbits. 

“This then is the answer: Frodo has gone by boat, and his servant has gone with him. Frodo must have returned while we were all away. I met Sam going up the hill and told him to follow me; but plainly he did not do so. He guessed his master's mind and came back here before Frodo had gone. He did not find it easy to leave Sam behind!” 

“But why should he leave us others behind, and without a word?” said Gimli, as he checked on the pulse of Boromir to ensure that he did not suffer more blood loss that they could have missed, “That was a strange deed!”

“And a brave deed,” Aragorn responded, “Sam was right, I think. Frodo did not wish to lead any friend to death with him in Mordor. But he knew that he must go himself. Something happened after he left us that overcame his fear and doubt.”

“We have all seen why; those hunting Orcs came on him and he fled as Boromir gave him enough time to do so,” Legolas reminded them, now returning after finding no more enemies around, carrying with him two smaller knives, leaf-bladed, damasked in gold and red; as well the sheaths, black, set with small red gems. 

“No orc-tools, those two fine handcrafts!' the Elf said, “They were carried by the hobbits. Doubtless the Orcs despoiled them, but feared to keep the knives, knowing them for what they are: work of Westernesse, wound about with spells for the bane of Mordor. Well, now, if they still live, our friends are weaponless. We will take these things for now, hoping to give them back.” 

This confirmed that for whatever reason, the hobbits had been the real targets, and why two Men, Elf and Dwarf, had needed to fight. Those huge orcs had been ordered to kill them, because they were far more dangerous thanks to them being used to dealing with the beings of evil. 

“Those orcs are not the normal kind sent out from Mordor,” Boromir spoke, recalling something he had noticed during the battle, “those are almost as tall as men, and their gear was different too. Upon their shields they bore a strange device: a small white hand in the centre of a black field; on the front of their iron helms was set an S-rune, wrought of some white metal.” 

Now that was a riddle indeed, as Aragorn and Boromir both tried to recall what they had learned about orcs during their lives and many battles. 

 “S is for Sauron,” said Gimli, “That is easy to read.”

“Nay!” Legolas protested, for even if his home, Mirkwood, was somewhat isolated, his father Thranduil had taught him about the Fallen Maia, as the Dark Lord was called among those who had survived the First Age when Sauron had served Morgoth, the first Dark Lord of Middle-earth, “Sauron does not use the Elf-runes.”

“Neither does he use his right name, nor permit it to be spelt or spoken,” Aragorn added in, “And he does not use white. The Orcs in the service of Barad-dur use the sign of the Red Eye. ”

After a moment, it clicked for Boromir what the S in white may stand for: 

“The S is for Saruman! Isengard is near the Gap of Rohan, he would be able to send out spies and scouts without the Rohirrim noticing it! And as Gandalf told us at the Council, Saruman has turned traitor against the West…!” 

Boromir felt a growing horror over what might happen in Rohan right now. Had Saruman somehow found out the truth of where Elia had come, and the portals between Rohan and Dorne? What if he targeted the royal family next, and tried to bring mistrust between the Rohirrim and the Dornish? But for the three others, that changed things a little.

“Our choice then,” said Gimli with a hand on Boromir's shoulder to make him listen to their talk, “is either to take the remaining boat and follow Frodo, or else to follow the Orcs on foot. There is little hope either way. We have already lost precious hours because of needing to fight the orcs and treating the wounds of our comrade here.”

“Let me think!” Aragorn requested, as he now was the leader of the Fellowship of the Ring since Gandalf had fallen in Moria, “And now may I make a right choice and change the evil fate of this unhappy day!” 

He stood silent for a moment, looking between the other shore and the trees. 

“I will follow the Orcs,'” he said at last, “I would have guided Frodo to Mordor and gone with him to the end; but if I seek him now in the wilderness, I must abandon the captives to torment and death. My heart speaks clearly at last: the fate of the Bearer is in my hands no longer. The Company has played its part. Yet we that remain cannot forsake our companions while we have strength left. Come! We will go now. Leave all that can be spared behind! We will press on by day and dark!” 

They drew up the last boat from the shore and carried it to the trees. They laid beneath it such of their goods as they did not need and could not carry away, before leaving Parth Galen. The afternoon was fading as they came back to the glade where Boromir had been injured. There they picked up the trail of the Orcs, as it needed little skill to find, and began to follow it. 

Four days passed as they followed the orcs. As much as Boromir tried to keep up with the others, he sometimes ended up slightly behind and needed to rest because while his wounds had been tended to, he had lost some blood and risked fainting if he overstrained himself.

“My friend, there is no shame in needing to rest more often than us. I would find it a lot more alarming if you tried to keep going on, and risk reopening your wounds,” Aragorn said at the end end of the second day, where Boromir was so exhausted after running most of the day that he almost fell asleep after the simple meal of sharing a lembas bread between them.  

“I know. I am trying to figure out how to present you three for the King of Rohan and his Queen. Knowing how things are, I bet that even the rest of the family must be gathered in Edoras.” 

For some reason, Aragorn suddenly looked like he did recall something.

“Even the Queen Mother?” 

Boromir was getting annoyed. For someone who had spent his whole life as the current royal descendant left, he really should have gotten some knowledge of Gondor's neighboring country because Rohan and Gondor had been allies for so long. 

“Last time I checked, Lady Morwen is the only Queen Mother currently in the House of Eorl, as her daughter-law Elfhild passed away in childbirth a little over 41 years ago!” 

Legolas and Gimli, who did not know much about the current rulers of Gondor and Rohan, choose wisely to be quiet while finishing the meal and let the two Men reveal things for them.  

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

But during those four days as half the members of the Fellowship was trying to chase the Uruk-hai bringing the captured Merry and Pippin towards Isengard, many things happened in Rohan: 

News about the attack on Théodred was spread thanks to messengers from Edoras, and they also carried a command from Elia, acting in her injured husband's stead. 

Evacuate as many villages as possible, to avoid the loss of innocent lives. Summon the adult men to fight, and have the youngsters between fifteen and eighteen, as well those men too old to fight, take the duty of protecting the people of Rohan alongside the shieldmaidens. 

Because of her pregnancy, Lothíriel was not able to travel to Edoras when she got the news about what had happened to the King, but she was very set on that her husband would travel to the capital and see if there was something he could help with. 

“Leave the evacuation of Aldburg to me! You and the men are needed to guard Rohan, let the youngsters feel like they are doing something useful by protecting the people!” she insisted, reminding him of how the Third Marshal and his Éored would defend Rohan against enemies. Aldburg was strong in defense, but the married couple had agreed that it was better to move its people to Dunharrow, to avoid that there risked to be many deaths among the civilians if the capital town of the Eastfold was attacked. 

“I am torn between leaving and worrying about you,” Éomer admitted, making a side glare towards her belly where their first child still rested inside. 

“The midwives said that the birth would most likely happen on one of the first seven days in March! It is more than enough time to arrive at Dunharrow and I will not abandon my people just for the comforts of Meduseld!” 

Still, Éomer did not feel fully comfortable with the idea of his young wife giving birth in a refugee camp than under the strong roof and walls of a proper longhouse. 

“Can you at least accept going through the portal to Sunspear and ask the midwives serving House Martell for help, if things start looking less than good while giving birth? You are important for so many, and I would never forgive myself if you lost your life in childbirth…” 

Knowing the tale of how the late Crown Princess Elfhild had lost her life at the birth of her son, merely two years before her husband became the seventeenth King of Rohan, Lothíriel could not blame the House of Eorl for having that fear showing up in their minds whatever one of their female family members was to have a baby. Childbirth was risky, for both mother and child, and none could foretell the outcome. Even a perfectly healthy woman in the best years of her life could lose her life without warning to some complication suddenly showing itself, despite that she may have survived several previous childbirths with no problems earlier. 

“I see no reason to refuse that, husband. Besides, wasn't Princess Arianne blessed with a son of her own not too long ago?” 

She was about to turn back to their home and personally pack the swaddling cloth and other things needed for their baby after birth, when something seemed to come up in her mind:

“Oh, and I need to borrow your spare set of riding boots again for the journey to Dunharrow! Do not dare to laugh, you have seen how swollen my ankles are in the evenings, those last weeks!”

Thanks to her nearly finished pregnancy Lothíriel had often found herself with swollen ankles and, with it being impossible to use her own footwear for the time being because of that little detail, she openly wore a spare set of Éomer for the comfort of the bigger size. 

“Never, my sweet full-figured swan.” 

It was worth having to duck his head aside for one of the knitted mittens made of finer lamb wool she tossed at him, as that was exactly the same manner of mild punishment which Morwen had done with all five of her children and three surviving grandchildren.  

Aldburg was not the only place that had gotten the command about evacuation from Elia. Right now, Lysa was checking over everything which her Rohirric household was able to bring along. 

“Bring the loom along or not...it is heavy, but it will be a pain to commission a new one if the house is set on fire by the enemies…” 

On the other hand, given that fabric always needed to be weaved after spinning linen and wool into thread, Lysa felt that the loom was too important to leave behind. 

“Mother! We have gathered all the livestock and bound them with rope so none escapes from the herds!” Celia reported from the yard, where she and Amanda had just helped a maid to place some sleeping rolls in a corner of a wagon. 

“Good. Also, girls, can you repeat the reason why we need to leave again despite just coming back home a few days ago?” Rhoyne asked, again acting as their governess when Lysa was busy with her role as the lady of the house. 

“There is a war going on, and Feder is out with the King to help defend the borders of Rohan. Queen Elia wants her people safe, so that is why we are going to Dunharrow.” 

After her sister, Amanda added in: 

“Dunharrow is safer than the farm for the moment, as a greater number of people are able to fight off enemies together.” 

Thanks to the fact that they were now believed to be dead in the same explosion that made the Eyrie into dust, Lysa had rejected the Arryn name for her and her children. So now, Celia and Amanda was free to view themselves as fully Rohirric as well, since Tirward and his family had adopted them in all but name already from the moment that Jon Arryn died and it would not be seen as kind towards Lysa that only her son got a paternal family to care for him. In Rohan, daughters were important as well, in a very different way than what they would often face in Westeros.  

“Mama!” Eorl called from his seat in the wagon where he had gotten his favorite toy to keep his focus on, “can we leave now?” 

Her son was too young to truly understand the meaning of war, only that it was something bad and that was why his papa was not home with them right now, but Eorl could see that his mother wanted to get the group start moving soon. 

“Yes. Father-in-law, are everything else ready?” 

Behind Lysa, Tirward's stepmother locked the door with a hidden snare through a small hole to pull down a small oak beam across the front door inside. This way, the door could not be opened while they were gone.  

~X~X~X~X~X~X 

The following morning when Elia got some help from the servants to get her husband clean over most of his body with wet rags, it was impossible to miss that Théodred had gotten a fever from the wound. 

“Not good. My brother has found no signs of poison in the wound, at least none that he recognizes immediately, but it seems like an infection has still gotten its claws in my husband…” 

The healers here in Edoras would do everything they could to ensure that Théodred indeed survived, but now Elia began to fear that maybe she had arrived too late. Even with saving him so quickly, the wound had been left open and there was no way of telling whatever the orc, serving Saruman, had dropped its sword into something nasty to make its opponents suffer. And it did not even need to be poison, sometimes dripping a weapon in contaminated water or the content of a privy was enough. 

“Elia...the children?” he whispered once he was clean again, dressed in a fresh tunic and laid back in bed. For her it felt so unreal, to see her normally strong and tall husband laying helpless like this. 

“Do you want to see them?”

“Want to tell them myself….that I am not going to give up my life so easily. I want to remain alive...for all of you.” 

His hand was trembling, a sign of how weak he was now, as he tried to raise it in order to touch her cheek, and Elia caught it as a sign of trusting him. 

While his daughter-in-law took care of his son, Théoden listened to his former advisers about the latest news. 

“Alburg is preparing to evaluate and bring its people to Dunharrow under the leadership of Lady Lothíriel, while your Sweostor-sunu and his men are guarding the borders of the Eastfold, sire. There is no news about their child being born yet.” 

Good, that meant Éomer was still alive so far, and he should have gotten the warning about that Saruman may be after his life as well, given his blood connections to the House of Eorl. 

“What about Dorne?” 

“Princess Arianne is gathering soldiers to join our forces through the portal. Her Prince Consort Daemon Martell is taking care of that, though he has been requested by his own in-laws to not join the fighting himself, for the sake of not leaving his wife a widow and his infant son fatherless.” 

That was understandable. Little Ramses Martell may be the heir to Arianne as her first child, but House Martell could not afford to lose the direct heirs after her, in this case her son, and his three maternal uncles Quentyn, Trystane and Mahaad. Elia, Rhaenys and Aegon followed next as Elia was the middle one of the three surviving children of Aria and Ihsan, as Aégnor and Andréth were the current heirs to Rohan. 

“Oh? Naneth, what is wrong? Has Gondor been attacked again?” the former King asked at seeing Morwen come towards the table, her face unreadable and holding a letter bearing the seal of the Stewards in her hands.

“My son... Steward Denethor II of Gondor is dead. His younger son Faramir writes that his father slipped on an upper step in a long staircase without managing to prevent the fall and injured his head on the way down. He got a fatal hit to his head against one of the stones, and with the way he landed at the bottom of the staircase, he would not have survived another such hard strike against his head…” 

Not the most honorable death as Denethor may have desired, but not the most shameful way of dying either. Accidents could be fatal and sometimes it was inner damage to the body or an infection related to the accident that killed a person, and Denethor had not exactly been a young man in the best years of his life. Morwen herself was eight years older than the now deceased Steward. 

“Lord Boromir has not returned yet from his northern journey, so Faramir is the acting Steward in his stead for now.” 

This changed some things between Rohan and Gondor, but on a whole, both the Kingdoms needed to focus on Mordor and the attacks. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X 

The dawn of 30 February: 

“Ow, ow, no Legolas, do not worry, it is just one of the wounds protesting that I tried to sleep on my stomach instead of my back…” Boromir said as the Elf came over to him. 

“Aragorn, Gimli, please get up, it is nearly dawn.”

Together the four comrades watched the dawn grow slowly in the sky, now bare and cloudless, until at last the sunrise came, pale and clear. The wind was in the East and all the mists of the night had rolled away; wide lands lay bleak about them in the bitter light.

Ahead and eastward they saw the windy uplands of the Wold of Rohan that they had already glimpsed many days ago from the Great River. North-westward stalked the dark forest of Fangorn; still ten leagues away stood its shadowy eaves, and its further slopes faded into the distant blue. Beyond there glimmered far away, as if floating on a grey cloud, the white head of tall Methedras, the last peak of the Misty Mountains. Out of the forest the Entwash flowed to meet them, its stream now swift and narrow, and its banks deep-cloven. The orc-trail turned from the downs towards it.

“Oh great, they better not have entered that forest to escape us! Even we in Gondor know better than entering too deep from the corners,” Boromir muttered, grabbing the brooch just to not feel too worried about Merry and Pippin at this moment. 

“Hm?” 

Following with his keen eyes the trail to the river, and then the river back towards the forest, Aragorn saw a shadow on the distant green, a dark swift-moving blur. He cast himself upon the ground and listened again intently. But Legolas stood beside him, shading his bright elven-eyes with his long slender hand, and he saw not a shadow, nor a blur, but the small figures of horsemen, many horsemen, and the glint of morning on the tips of their spears was like the twinkle of minute stars beyond the edge of mortal sight. Far behind them a dark smoke rose in thin curling threads.  

There was a silence in the empty fields, and Gimli could hear the air moving in the grass, but he could see on Boromir that he seemed to hope for something. 

“Riders!” cried Aragorn, springing to his feet, confirming what Boromir just had prayed for, “Many riders on swift steeds are coming towards us!'”

'Yes, there are one hundred and five. Yellow is their hair, and bright are their spears. Their leader is very tall,” said Legolas, and Boromir knew that it had to be Éomer, as Morwen Steelsheen had passed on her height, a sign of her Gondorian blood, to her descendants. 

Aragorn smiled. 

“Keen are the eyes of the Elves,” he said, to which Legolas responded:

“Nay! The riders are little more than five leagues distant.”

“Five leagues or one,” Gimli said as Boromir took a chance to quickly sit down on a stone to avoid feeling lightheaded again since they had not eaten anything since yesterday evening, “we cannot escape them in this bare land. Shall we wait for them here or go on our way?” 

“We will wait,” Aragorn decided as the leader of the small group, “I am weary, and our hunt has failed, not to mention that Boromir needs rest. Or at least others were before us; for these horsemen are riding back down the orc-trail. We may get news from them.”

“Or spears,” Gimli muttered with his hands holding his axe ready, hoping that it was people that Boromir or Aragorn may know. 

“There are three empty saddles, but I see no hobbits,” Legolas commented when the rider came slightly closer.

“I did not say that we should hear good news. But evil or good we will await it here.”

Aragorn had served the long dead King Thengel and Steward Ecthelion II under the alias Thorongil, to learn about Gondor and Rohan, but that was about forty years ago and now when he tried to say some greeting words in Rohirric, Boromir actually laughed despite the pain from his wounds. 

“Aragorn, your Rohirric is rusty as a weather-worn outdoor hasp,” Boromir said with a grin when Aragorn's current accent revealed that he had not been anywhere near Rohan and its people recently, “Even if you have been in those lands before, you have not spoken that language in many seasons, Thorongil, I hear that. Let me do the talking with the Riders of Rohan for now and train anew!” 

Now did Boromir finally remember why Aragorn had seemed oddly familiar when meeting him in Imladris, as if the oldest son of Denethor II had seen the unknown royal heir somewhere back home in Minas Tirith when he was really small. Now he knew, because Aragorn would often be acting as a unofficial adviser to his grandfather and his strongest memory was of the two men talking together in the gardens as he played with a favorite toy between them, something about how Ecthelion hoped that his grandson would be friends with Prince Théodred since the two heirs was born the same year and Thorongil joking about little Boromir better not be scared away by Morwen, who had became Queen Mother at the death of her husband not many weeks earlier. 

Chapter Text

Indeed it was Éomer and his men who came closer, now as Boromir could see the group slightly better. Three of the saddles were empty, hinting that some of the men must have lost their lives in battle, but no sight of Merry and Pippin. 

“What do you know of these horsemen, Aragorn?” Gimli asked in an uneasy voice, for all of that Boromir showed no worry, “Do we sit here waiting for sudden death?”

“I have been among them in my younger years,” answered Aragorn, recalling his time in the service of the late King Thengel, “They are proud and wilful, but they are true-hearted, generous in thought and deed; bold but not cruel; wise but unlearned, writing no books but singing many songs, after the manner of the children of Men before the Dark Years. But I do not know what has happened here of late outside what Boromir has told us, nor in what mind the Rohirrim may now be between the traitor Saruman and the threat of Sauron. They have long been the friends of the people of Gondor, though they are not akin to them. It was in forgotten years long ago that Eorl the Young brought them out of the North, and their kinship is rather with the Bardings of Dale, and with the Beornings of the Wood, among whom may still be seen many men tall and fair, as are the Riders of Rohan. At least they will not love the Orcs.” 

Now the cries of clear strong voices came ringing over the fields. Suddenly they swept up with a noise like thunder, and the foremost horseman swerved, passing by the foot of the hill, and leading the host back southward along the western skirts of the downs. After him they rode: a long line of mail-clad men, swift, shining, fell and fair to look upon.

Their horses were of great stature, strong and clean-limbed; their grey coats glistened, their long tails flowed in the wind, their manes were braided on their proud necks. The Men that rode them matched them well: tall and long-limbed; their hair, flaxen-pale, flowed under their light helms, and streamed in long braids behind them; their faces were stern and keen. In their hands were tall spears of ash, painted shields were slung at their backs, long swords were at their belts, their burnished skirts of mail hung down upon their knees.

"Edoras! Towards Edoras and the Golden Hall of Meduseld!" 

In pairs they galloped by, and though every now and then one rose in his stirrups and gazed ahead and to either side, they appeared not to perceive the four strangers sitting silently and watching them. The host had almost passed when Boromir stood up, and called in a loud voice:

“Riders of Rohan! What news from the alliance of the Sun Princess and the Heir of Eorl the Young?” 

With astonishing speed and skill the Rohirrim checked their steeds, wheeled, and came charging round at hearing the voice calling out in their own language. Soon the four companions found themselves in a ring of horsemen moving in a running circle, up the hill-slope behind them and down, round and round them, and drawing ever inwards. Both Boromir and Aragorn stood silent, and the other two sat without moving, wondering what way things would turn. Yet the sign of Boromir seemed to make the riders less likely to be threatening, even if they still were ready with arrows on their bows and spears. 

“As welcomed as your return back south is, Boromir, son of Gondor, it is not good things that have happened while you were gone. Saruman has tried to attack Rohan in order to prevent us from helping Gondor against Mordor, and on behalf of my cousin, the Queen consort has given orders to evaluate as many of the common people as possible.”

On behalf of my cousin. Boromir felt alarmed by how Éomer spoke. Had something happened to Théodred while he was gone, given the mention of Saruman? Was his good friend alright, or was it far more serious?

“Yet unusual comrades you bring with you back south. A Dúnedain, if the similar look to Queen Mother Morwen Steelsheen and her family is anything to base upon, an Elf and a Dwarf.”

Ah, of course it would be hard to ignore that Legolas and Gimli were not exactly fellow Men, unless you were blind in the eyes. 

“Legolas of the Woodland Realm in distant Mirkwood, and Gimli, son of Gloin from the Dwarven Kingdom of Erebor. They were sent as emissaries from their respective homes, and joined me and the Ranger Strider here on a mission south.” 

Aragorn naturally noticed that Boromir used the nickname he had as a Ranger, and guessed that the other Man did so because the Rider of Rohan impossibly could have been alive when he served King Thengel, but there was something about his height and manners that revealed some form of kinship to the late King and his Gondorian wife. 

“Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshal of Riddermark, lead me to Edoras, for it seems like I have much to be told about while I have been gone, but my comrades have a different mission that I can not take part of and also being in Edoras. Four days ago two of our other comrades were captured by the orcs which you and your man must have slain, and we wish to know if they managed to escape with their lives before you arrived to do the duty of protecting Rohan.” 

The Third Marshal looked a little alarmed all suddenly.

“That may be something of a problem,” he admitted to Boromir, switching to the Common Speech of the West for the sake of the strangers, “the Orcs are destroyed, yet we did search the area to make sure that none escaped and found none other bodies than those of orc-kind.” 

The four hunters gave each other a side-glare, hoping that this meant that the two captured hobbits had managed to escape. 

“They would be small. Only children to your eyes, unshod but clad in grey,” Aragorn spoke up.

“There were no dwarves nor children,” said Éomer, “we counted all the slain and despoiled them, and then we piled the carcasses and burned them, as is our custom with the creatures of evil. The ashes are smoking still.”

“We do not speak of dwarves or children. Our friends were hobbits,” Gimli said, a hand on his axe despite being mindful to not seem like he was about to attack the blonde Man. After all, it would not be a good impression and he refused to shame Erebor with his actions. 

“Hobbits?” repeated Éomer with a confused look, “And what may they be? It is a strange name.”

“A strange name for a strange folk, aye. But these were very dear to us. Recalling those words in the dream that troubled both me and Faramir right before the attack on Osgiliath and was the reason behind my journey north? They spoke of the Halfling. These hobbits are Halflings, and what they call themselves in their home far north,” Boromir hurried to explain, which seemed to help the husband of his younger cousin somewhat. 

“Halflings!” laughed the Rider that stood beside Éomer. “Halflings! But they are only a little people in old songs and children's tales out of the North. Do we walk in legends or on the green earth in the daylight?”

“A man may do both,” said Aragorn, “For not we but those who come after will make the legends of our time. The green earth, say you? That is a mighty matter of legend, though you tread it under the light of day!”

“Time is pressing,” muttered the Rider, not heeding Aragorn and turned to the Marshal, “We must hasten south, lord. Let us leave these wild folk to their fancies. Or let us bind them and take them to the King and Queen.”

“Peace, Eothain!” said Éomer in his own tongue, “Leave me a while. Tell the Éored to assemble on the path, and make ready to ride to the Entwade. Lord Boromir asked to be guided to Edoras, and that we shall do after this talk.”

Muttering Eothain retired, and spoke to the others. Soon they drew off and left Éomer alone with the four companions.

~X~X~X~X~X~X   

In the Old Palace of Sunspear, Arianne had left her chamber for a quick look on how things were going with gathering food for the Dunharrow refugees, which they would help through the portal. She took little Ramses with her, for despite that her son was only five days old, she knew that the people of Sunspear needed to see him as a sign that nothing wrong had happened to either the Ruling Princess or her little heir. 

“Good, this amount of food is a great start. It is impossible to say when the war will be over, and we can not say for sure if the harvest of Rohan this year will be successful without the farmers tending to their fields,” she said as she watched the city people come with baskets filled with food and other basic necessities such as woven fabrics for clothing and tents. 

“Ari! I am trying to help with the food here,” Mahaad spoke to his 13 years older sister when he saw her coming, carrying a wicker basket with fruits in his arms, showing that Mellario likely had told her youngest child to help so he did not feel like he was useless for being so young. 

“Yes. You have strong legs and can run errands back and forth if needed, sweet little brother.” 

Mahaad made a face and quickly backed a few steps when Arianne pretended to try kissing his forehead. 

“Do that with Daemon or Ramses instead!”  

It was not that Mahaad disliked being given such signs of affection from his mother, he simply wanted to prove himself a big boy at the moment and not the baby of the main Martell line anymore. Of course, Arianne had to smile at her youngest brother for his reaction. 

“Oh, I will do that when I find my husband somewhere here.” 

In one of the courtyards, Obara and Nymeria were overlooking the preparation of food that could not be served raw for eating. Such as baking bread and letting the sun and sea winds dry freshly caught fish hanging from several wires across the yard before preserving it in salt. 

“Your family seems to have a talent for helping out with hunting seabirds, Lord Selim,” Obara commented when spotting someone among all the common workers that was busy with the amount of seabirds caught this morning. When hearing that Arianne planned to help Rohan with food, the former Sultan of Rûm had offered to help out in whatever they could do. As revealed over the past days, being locked up in the palace for most of their lives, with no chances to leave and explore the world outside the palace, had led to Selim, his concubines, his daughters and his younger sons developing many methods to avoid boredom in their everyday life since most days was the same and one of these was competitions in being able to use the slingshot for hitting moving targets at a long distance. 

“We have to start showing ourselves useful in times like this since House Martell and Suleiman freed us, after being locked up like songbirds in a cage, my lord. And why not use what we once trained on? Besides, this is a good time to learn what we once were denied to do, because those skills could give us the ability to survive outside the palace that was our bird cage.” 

Dressed in simple clothing borrowed from the guards in the Old Palace, Selim himself showed no disgust to help pull feathers from the dead seabirds, take out the entrails and everything else needed to be done before the birds could be cooked for food. 

“Right, those seabirds are to be cut up in smaller pieces before being cooked and then laid in those larger pots to make stews and soup with other ingredients. If we can spare as much as possible of the cattle, domestic birds, goats and sheep that Rohan needs to survive, then they can afford to use more of the pigs for food because the sows have their offspring after little over three months of pregnancy and even young piglets can be emergency supplies,” Nymeria said as she checked on the list on what to do next for the two oldest Sand Snakes. Selim and his family did not need to worry about being served pork at meals against their birth religion since pigs were not common here in Dorne because of the hot climate, and had never been much of their cultural cuisine anyway. 

Even Doran and Mellario had found a way to help out, even if it was now Arianne who ruled Dorne. With all four of their children and son-in-law being down with the servants, they checked over letters and other written information that had arrived over the past days.  

“Have we sent out all the ravens to summon the soldiers that Dorne can afford to send out in battle without leaving the realm unprotected?” 

“Yes, all the noble families and landed knights have answered. Soon our army will gather here in Sunspear and arrive in Rohan through the portal,” Doran said after looking over the last letter and finishing a list for Arianne to have a look at when she came up to place Ramses back in the cradle inside the nursery. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X   

Boromir had joined with the Éored on their way towards the capital of Rohan, while the others had managed to borrow two horses named Arod and Hasufel, whose riders had fallen in battle yesterday when night had covered the Rohirrim. 

“Is this really wise, Aragorn To spit up like this?” Gimli wondered where he was sitting behind Legolas and tried his best to not fall off by holding his arms around the Elf, for the famed horses of Rohan were much bigger and taller than the mountain ponies normally used by the Dwarves of Erebor on travels. Since their leader was focused on the trail they now followed, Legolas responded: 

“I think it is better to let Boromir travel to the capital first, since he is known there, and we can join up later when we know better about the fate of Merry and Pippin.”

Before long they came to the borders of the Entwash, and there they met the other trail of which Éomer had spoken, coming down from the East out of the Wold. Aragorn dismounted and surveyed the ground, then leaping back into the saddle, he rode away for some distance eastward, keeping to one side and taking care not to override the footprints. Then he again dismounted and examined the ground, going backwards and forwards on foot.

“There is little to discover,” he said in mild frustration when he returned, “The main trail is all confused with the passage of the horsemen as they came back; their outward course must have lain nearer the river. But this eastward trail is fresh and clear. There is no sign there of any feet going the other way, back towards Anduin. Now we must ride slower, and make sure that no trace or footstep branches off on either side. The Orcs must have been aware from this point that they were pursued; they may have made some attempt to get their captives away before they were overtaken.” 

As they rode forward the day was overcast. Low grey clouds came over the Wold. A mist shrouded the sun. Ever nearer the tree-clad slopes of Fangorn loomed, slowly darkling as the sun went west. They saw no sign of any trail to right or left, but here and there they passed single Orcs, fallen in their tracks as they ran, with grey-feathered arrows sticking in their back or throat.

At last as the afternoon was waning they came to the eaves of the forest, and in an open glade among the first trees they found the place of the great burning: the ashes were still hot and smoking. Beside it was a great pile of helms and mail, cloven shields, and broken swords, bows and darts and other gear of war. Upon a stake in the middle was set a great goblin head; upon its shattered helm the white badge could still be seen. Further away, not far from the river, where it came streaming out from the edge of the wood, there was a mound. It was newly raised: the raw earth was covered with fresh-cut turves: about it were planted fifteen spears. The burial mound of the fifteen Riders of Rohan and twelve horses that Éomer had lost in the battle two days ago. 

“They died to defend their homeland, and shall be remembered by the living relatives they left behind.” 

Aragorn and his companions searched far and wide about the field of battle, but the light faded, and evening soon drew down, dim and misty. By nightfall they had discovered no trace of Merry and Pippin.

“We can do no more,” said Gimli sadly when they gathered together again, “'We have been set many riddles since we came to Tol Brandir, but this is the hardest to unravel. I would guess that the burned bones of the hobbits are now mingled with the Orcs'. It will be hard news for Frodo, if he lives to hear it; and hard too for the old hobbit who waits in Rivendell. Elrond was against their coming.”

“But Gandalf was not,” said Legolas when remembering that the Grey Wizard had thought that all four of the hobbits had a role in play. 

“But Gandalf chose to come himself, and he was the first to be lost. 'His foresight failed him,” Gimli reminded the Elf, and for a gloomy moment, they felt like they were back in Moria. 

“The counsel of Gandalf was not founded on foreknowledge of safety, for himself or for others. There are some things that it is better to begin than to refuse, even though the end may be dark,” Aragorn spoke, looking around again in case there was something they had missed, “but I shall not depart from this place yet. In any case we must here await the morning-light. Boromir is in safe hands with his Rohirric friends, so no need to fear for him at least ....”

But then Aragorn got silent, and when Legolas and Gimli followed his eyes into the border of Fangorn, a small ghostly figure could be seen in the shadows between the trees. A girl, not that old, but there was something about her grey eyes that seemed oddly familiar to the Third Marshal of the Riddermark, despite that her dark brown hair and skin colour hinted to a lineage further south. 

“ I am happy that Papa did not fall in the battle. Mama would be very sad to be a widow after less than a year of marriage. ” 

Then she vanished like morning mist, but none of them had sensed any ill will from the spirit. 

“I suppose that one of the Riders with Boromir is about to be a father soon? Perhaps the unborn little lass sensed her mother worrying for her husband and tried to have a personal check despite not being able to tell that her sire is fine,” Gimli managed to say in a slight wonder over what they just had seen. Aragorn and Legolas nodded, feeling that may be the best way of explaining the spirit. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X   

While the two Men, Elf and Dwarf could not have known that detail the previous day as they kept following the trail, Merry and Pippin were fine. They had managed to escape the Orcs and Uruk-hai just before the Éored led by Éomer had attacked, and somehow found themselves in the care of Treebeard, one of the most ancient Ents left in Middle-earth and brought to his home overnight. 

They woke in the bed of soft grass and moss to find a cool sun shining into the great court, and on to the floor of the bay. Shreds of high cloud were overhead, running on a stiff easterly wind. Treebeard was not to be seen; but while Merry and Pippin were bathing in the basin by the arch, they heard him humming and singing, as he came up the path between the trees.

“Hoo, ho! Good morning, Merry and Pippin!” he boomed, when he saw them, “You sleep long. I have made a hundred strides already today. Now we will have a drink, and go to Entmoot.”

He poured them out two full bowls from a stone jar; but from a different jar. The taste was not the same as it had been the night before: it was earthier and richer, more sustaining and food-like, so to speak. While the hobbits drank, sitting on the edge of the bed, and nibbling small pieces of elf-cake (more because they felt that eating was a necessary part of breakfast than because they felt hungry), Treebeard stood, humming in Entish or Elvish or some strange tongue, and looking up at the sky.

“Where is Entmoot?” Pippin ventured to ask.

“Hoo, eh? Entmoot?” said Treebeard, turning round to face his unusual guests, “It is not a place, it is a gathering of Ents which does not often happen nowadays. But I have managed to make a fair number of promises to come. We shall meet in the place where we have always met: Derndingle Men call it. It is away south from here. We must be there before noon.” 

On the way to the Entmoot, the same small spirit that Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli would see as well, passed over the area when Treebeard carried the hobbits there in his arms. 

“No worries, young ones. The spirits of the young Men living in those lands sometimes show up here in Fangorn. Sometimes I see them as grown-up members of their land, so I think that little one may soon enter the world from her mother.”

The Ent was not all wrong, for it was the unborn child of Éomer and Lothíriel who tried to make Éomer come home before the birth. The sort of spiritual restlessness that could often happen to the soul of a child yet to be born, in the remaining days before the birth. 

Chapter Text

The dawn of March 1, and its equivalent in Westeros, slowly rose. In both worlds, two important burials would be held. That of Cerseri Lannister, and Denethor II.   

Five days after her death by drowning alongside most of House Lannister by the hands of Khamûl, Cersei Lannister was buried by her husband. For a Queen consort, hailing from one of the most powerful families in Westeros, it was a very toned down and rather hurried burial, and the simplicity of it all would have been seen as a personal insult, both by Cersei himself and Tywin. On top of everything, the burial could not be held in the Great Sept of Baelor, as it had been ruined by the force from the burning hails and the holy oils making the resulting fires worse. So Robert and those of the royal court who could be present thanks to not being dead or suffering serious injuries, had to be in the Maidenvault. 

“Where is Myrcella and Tommen?” Stannis whispered to his brother, both of them dressed in black as an official sign of mourning, but neither focusing much on what the septon said about the deceased queen. Of course, the absence of the only princess and prince who managed to avoid being kidnapped, must have received attention. 

“Back up in the nursery, they witnessed their mother and most of her relatives die by drowning in front of her very eyes, and they may not react well on seeing how her swollen body may look below the closed lid of the coffin, with the Silent Sisters having done their best to make Cersei look less gruesome for this final appearance of hers as the Queen.” 

Robert knew that their arranged marriage had been unhappy from the start and that Cersei deeply resented him for some of the flaws between them even if both had their ghosts haunting the marriage, but he had recalled her mad rantings about that she had been fated for Rhaegar and by this, the now widowed Baratheon King intended to at least give Cersei one Targaryen theme in this burial:

The closed coffin with her body would be placed on a funeral pyre just like if she had married Rhaegar, and he had ordered that her ashes would be spread out in the Sunset Sea where Casterly Rock had been until only fourteen days ago. 

“In the end, we both had shadows that we wanted to love more, than the person at our side…” 

His shadow had been Lyanna Stark, or rather, who he had believed her to be, a female version of Ned because the current Lord Stark had been fostered alongside him in the Vale, while Cersei had never let go of the shadow that had been her possible life as the wife of Rhaegar. After all, she had insisted that Tywin had promised her that she would become the Queen consort of Westeros, only to find out that it was a very different royal groom that she would be wed to in the end.  

“May you get the Silver Prince in the next life of yours, Cersei, and I hope that he will not shame you like he did to Elia Martell.”  

That was all Robert could say as a farewell to his Lannister wife, as her coffin was placed on the pile of firewood that would soon be lit.

“Sire…” Margaery Tyrell made a deep curtsy for him when Robert was about to pass by her, “you will stop at nothing to get the royal children back, right?” 

Come back with Crown Prince Lyonel, so I do not miss the chance of becoming a Queen. Or did my late father Mace die in vain to try giving me a crown, since he saved your life in the Greyjoy Rebellion and got himself killed in that action instead? 

That was the unspoken meaning behind her question, as far as Robert could tell. But if the girl believed that she could trade Lyonel for Tommen as her future royal husband if his oldest son did not return, well, then Robert knew that she would get a nasty surprise at the reveal that he had set up betrothals for all the children now, and that Margaery could not expect help from the norm of a younger brother taking over a betrothal if the heir died before the marriage. 

“What? Finding me such a neglectful father that I would not try to get back my lost children and instead focus on finding a new wife as soon as possible so I had more heirs instead? Then you are wrong, miss Tyrell, very wrong.” 

It was rather enjoyable to see the not very well-hidden stunned look on the young brunette's face over his words. Sure, she was the granddaughter of the famed “Queen of Thorns” but not even Olenna Tyrell neé Redwyne was omniscient about various people nor could she always guess right in what someone might do, something the old woman would probably never admit to her granddaughter out of pride. 

Because of the trauma from witnessing the deaths of the current House Lannister, Myrcella and Tommen had changed. Any signs of their previously cheerful nature was gone, their sleep at night was often disturbed by nightmares of seeing the terrified Cersei trying to get air before her lungs was filled with water, that made them wake up screaming in terror and crying for their father, and now they did cling to Emma whatever she came to the nursery or the other nannies who worked below Holly as the main goveress.   

“Where are our brothers and sisters!? Where is Holly?!” Tommen pleaded as one of the older women tried to comfort him, wanting to see the missing siblings and things to return to normal. Mother was gone, no one could tell where his brothers and sisters were, and now he had heard that Robert would leave as well. 

“Sandor, where are they?” Myrcella asked, and before she could stop herself, she began to cry again because she missed her siblings. Normally Sandor would be rather awkward when one of the royal children cried, but now he used his cloak to shelter Myrcella from sight, so she could cry her heart out without someone noticing her eyelids become all swollen.    

“I will join the King to search for your brother and sisters, but we will not give up before they are back here.” 

Sandor refused to mention that there were many risks to come, that Robert actually would join a war that neither Myrcella or Tommen would be able to understand yet. Another world, and a overnatural being so evil in nature that even Westeros and Essos were threatened at this very moment unless this Dark Lord was defeated. 

“Can you give your father and uncle a blessing in being successful on this quest? I am sure that they would be happy about it,” Emma added in, taking out her own handkerchief to dry the tears that Tommen also had shed. The two blonde children could only nod, but at least they had calmed down now. 

“Master Clegane...we believe that your help may be a little needed in what we must do soon.” 

When King Robert Baratheon lit the burial fyre of Cersei outside on the courtyard, her daughter and son with Jaime did their best to escape the bath barrels the castle maids had prepared, because they understandably had gotten a fear of water from witnessing the death of their mother. 

“Stop howling like some kittens and let the maids clean you off! Do you want to be seen with dirty skin and unwashed hair in front of the fucking court?! If you do not bathe or at least keep yourselves clean, you will attract illness!” Sandor muttered as he helped to hold down Tommen in the bath barrel so the nursemaids could use cloth rags to rub his skin clean, speaking of his own experience from the Rebellion that gave Robert the crown and the Greyjoy Rebellion. Fleas and lice were just one of many ways to get sick from, especially in war when there was no way to escape the many soldiers around yourself. 

“FAAAAAATHEEEEER!!! ” 

Bathing Myrcella and Tommen with their current reaction to water was not the easiest task, but after a lot of struggles between the two children and the adults, at least the princess and prince had gotten clean for a while.

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

In Minas Tirith, a state burial for Denethor had also started. Black flags had been brought out, a sign of mourning in the capital city, and in all of Gondor, its people tried to wear black clothing, or whatever that was their darkest clothes, to show a final respect for the now deceased Steward. 

“Madam, there are two girls who are not here…” 

“No, leave the two foreign girls in their beds. The healer said that they both showed signs of having suffered a concussion alongside their other injuries, so they can not be outside for the stronger light and sounds from the mourning songs,” the matron told her younger co-workers, when overlooking that all the children in the orphanage was presentable enough to blend in among the people on the streets. 

In the large chamber at the upper level of the large house building where the girls would sleep at night, Sansa Stark had trouble with falling back into her earlier nap. Her bed was close to the open window, and even without the gentle wind carrying songs in an unknown tongue for her, it would have been impossible to not notice the black-clothed people in the street.  

“All black…?” her mind tried to register with some difficulty because of the concussion and needed to shelter her eyes from the daylight with a raised hand, “Have...the King...passed away…? King Robert...was he fatally injured by the hail…?” 

Her memories of five days earlier were irregular and indistinct, same for Arya who still was sleeping in the bed next to her own, but she did remember the burning hail, and the feeling of losing her footing before falling down. Somewhere in her memories was the sound of Father screaming their names as he pleaded for them to wake up and a white-clothed, blurry person standing with their back against her.  

“Sansa…” Arya muttered half-awake, “that bandage on my leg itches! ”

Arya had broken her left leg badly in the fall from the stairs, and currently had splints on each side of the broken bone, held tightly in place with long strips of linen. The younger Stark sister had been an energetic personality from birth, and Sansa did actually feel a little sorry for Arya, who hated to be bed-ridden whenever she was really sick. 

“You can not remove it yet, what if you heals wrong?” 

Sansa was only ten and Arya seven, but Maester Luwin had explained the risk of a broken limb healing wrong when Beth Cassel had gotten a broken finger from a awfully wrong throwing of the wooden ball in a ball game between the Stark sisters, Jeyne Poole and Beth half a year before the royal visit in Winterfell and surely neither sister wanted that to happen?

“I want Mother…and where is Father? Surely he should have come to get us now?” Arya added, voicing the very feeling that Sansa also felt. So far, there had been no one able to speak the Common Tongue of Westeros yet with them, everyone speaking a language they had never heard before, and while familiar with the tales of Old Nan back home in Winterfell, the idea of being in a different world altogether had not yet raised in their minds. As far as Sansa and Arya knew, they had been separated from their father and Robb, perhaps being taken to an orphanage somewhere in King's Landing because the smallfolk in the capital had not recognized them as a sister set among the many daughters of nobility at the royal court. 

As Boromir had not yet returned home, Faramir acted as the main mourner. The body of his father had now laid in state for four days, and today it would be placed inside the House of the Stewards. This was a building in the Hallows of Minas Tirith, situated near the House of the Kings on Rath Dínen. Capped by a great dome, and within was a wide vaulted chamber with shrouded walls, which in turn was filled with marble tables upon which were carved forms of sleeping men, the tombs of the Stewards.

“The carved form of your father shall soon be done, my Lord, it is just that the stone carvers will need some time to finish.” 

“Do not press them to hurry. There is a war going on, and their skills may be needed somewhere else.” 

Because Denethor had died so suddenly, the form carved with his likeness was not yet done, and until then, his tomb would have to be sealed with a simple roof of granite. But his name had already been carved in on the side: 

                                          DENETHOR II

                                    Third Age 2930 - 3019

                              Steward of Gondor 2984 -3019

Faramir took a deep breath, feeling a mixture of emotions as the body was laid inside the tomb and the granite roof slowly pushed into place. Between him and Boromir, there had never been any doubt that the older brother had been the favorite of their father, but as grew into adulthood, Faramir had seen what sort of invisible burden this was for his brother. 

“You loved Boromir, father, but even you had your shadows. You tried to see my brother as the image he upheld, not some of the flaws that he tried to hide from you.” 

But that shadow was gone now, and all Faramir could do was to pray to the Valar that Boromir could return home before Mordor unleashed a new attack on Gondor. It would be difficult, even if Boromir could inspire the soldiers to keep fighting, and Faramir wanted to ease some of that trouble for his brother as much as he could. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

In Meduseld, Elia knew that if the fever did not break soon, Théodred's life would be in danger as his body would react in the same manner as a heat stroke. A recurrent fever could last up for fourteen days, and the serious infection in his stomach wound was not helping. 

“....will not...leave….you…” her husband whispered as she gave him more water to drink, and then cleaned his sweaty face with a wet rag. He did not have much strength to speak, but she realized that he refused to die yet. 

“I know that you will keep fighting until your very last breath, beloved, and I trust you to not give up that eaisy,” she told him in a gentle tone, trying to be strong for his sake. Then, as if to distract them both for a moment, Balerion suddenly jumped up on the blankets. 

“Oh no, not on my husband right now, you old stable king,” Elia scolded the tomcat gently, and was about to lift off Balerion down on the floor before he tried to place himself on a currently not so well-chosen place to rest on her husband. 

“Meow. Meow! Meoooow!” 

In the next moment, Balerion put his ears back and growled in a warning manner, like he would do when he was getting ill-tempered, warning that it was only moments before he would prove why he was still the reigning feline king of the royal stables and attack another cat trying to challenge him. But his reaction was not aimed at the mother of his beloved owner, rather at something behind Elia. 

“Elia...something...white…behind you...” 

Now she could feel that something was not normal in the bedchamber. As if there was something else apart from themselves and Balerion. Something not quite of the living world, and did not feel exactly friendly. 

Out in the great hall, Andréth and Aégnor was getting a lesson from Éowyn and Allyria in how to knit, when the twins suddenly made the same moment by looking up. 

“Hey! Put down that sword, weapons are not allowed inside the Golden Hall!” Aégnor commented aloud, at seeing a faint image of a ghost not far from the throne. The ghostly man was dressed in white, but he had clear signs of belonging to House Martell in his looks and there was a familiar sun and spear symbol embrodied on a purse from his belt. 

My apologies, dear great-niece and great-nephew, descendants of my sister, but there is a sworn brother of mine that I need to drag away from your parents before he does something to anger your madre.

With those words, Lewyn Martell went towards the bedchamber where the King and Queen of Rohan was. 

“What…..madre!” Andréth called when his unspoken meaning sunk in, “Madre! Feder!” 

But when the door was opened, they only saw that Elia stood up, her back strainted, in open defiance and her eyes burning in wraith, between her injuried husband and the other ghost which also held a sword. A ghostly version of a ancient sword that Allyria knew from her childhood home. 

“How dare you show yourself in front of me now, after your betrayal against Dorne by choosing to be at the Tower of Joy and guard that wolf-bitch as she was carrying the bastard child of Rhaegar...Arthur Dayne?!” Elia spat out with pure venom in her voice. For it indeed was the spirit of the last Sword of the Morning from House Dayne that stood in front of the living Queen consort of Rohan, and it was only her that prevented him from coming closer to her vulnerable husband. 

Chapter Text

Elia glared at the ghost of Arthur Dayne, feeling how various emotions were boiling inside her mind.        

“I will repeat myself only once: How dare you show yourself in front of me again, Arthur!? Just how brazen are you, to not remain in the afterlife and let me live out my remaining lifespan in peace from the shadows of the past?!” 

Once upon a time, she had viewed him as a childhood friend and someone she could trust, but ever since she learned about that he had remained behind at the Tower of Joy to guard the pregnant Lyanna Stark, clearly choosing Rhaegar over his homeland and the Martell princess who had given the Targaryen prince two healthy children in their arranged marriage, Elia knew that her views on Arthur had been tainted by the betrayal she had felt at those news.  

“Elia…”

As weak as he was currently, Théodred could sense that the ghost did not hold any friendly intentions. There was a strange glare in the purple eyes, so alike those of Allyria and Lord Vorian Dayne yet where hers and her remaining sibling's eyes were honest most of the time, the eyes of the deceased Arthur held some form of barely hidden madness.  

Promised me...the Prince promised me....

Feeling her unease grow stronger, Elia refused to step away from the bed where her King and husband laid. She did not like that the ghost of Arthur held a ghost sword, and while that could not hurt a living being, a soul was an open target. And given the serious injuries of Théodred, he was basically on the border between life and death if the infection inside his stomach wound was not defeated soon. Even as a ghost, Arthur would have no problem separating the soul of the Rohirric King from his body of flesh and blood if he got close enough to the bed. 

“Do not even think of stepping closer, traitor.” 

Balerion growled again with flattened ears, as if to give some weight to what Elia had meant as a warning. Yet Arthur still raised his sword like he had not even heard Elia, and from the angle, if she did not stand there, Théodred would have been defenseless against a killing strike. 

“Arthur Dayne, dare to harm my husband and I will find a way to make Robert's warhammer fatally hitting Rhaegar's chest look like getting hit with a pillow on the face! ” 

Now the ancient magic of House Martell started to swirl around her, and it seemed to make Arthur actually pause, as if he had heard the warning but not yet truly realizing what she intended. 

Rhaegar...promised me. He told me that I would be given....

What he now mentioned, was something Elia had never imagined even in the worst of her nightmares in a scenario where Rhaegar forced her to accept Lyanna Stark as his mistress and having to watch the eleven years younger she-wolf carrying his bastard child in front of the whole court.  

Rhaegar promised me that I could become your lover, with Lyanna Stark giving him more children as a legal second wife as per ancient Valyrian customs. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

In the Temple of Shadows, Visenya was once again having a vision of the past. This time, she knew the place to be the Tower of Joy, where her original, stillborn body had both been created in the womb of Lyanna and never drawn breath. 

“You wanted to tell me something, my Prince?”

Rhaegar turned around to face Arthur Dayne, after looking up towards the tower window where Lyanna had her chamber. Now when the Stark daughter was into the fifth month of carrying his third child, there was no fear of a misscarriage. 

“Yes, Arthur. I have not been blind to how you have been looking at Elia, especially back at Harrenhal. Tell me, my friend, are you in love with my wife?” 

The younger son of House Dayne seemed to not be ashamed, despite that it was a rather personal question. 

“I have been since we were both young, but the late Princess Aria refused me as the groom of Elia on the grounds that I was a second son and could not even offer her a keep to be the mistress of. You see, my Prince, Elia has always been frail, and she needs someone to protect her…” 

For some reason, Rhaegar suddenly smiled at that information. 

“Well, I can offer a solution this way: Poor Elia is barren after Aegon was born, and Grand Maester Pycelle has never been wrong about such details before. He said that Viserys would be the last child of my Mother as well, and see, there have been no words about Mother falling pregnant again after his birth. If Lyanna keeps giving me the children that Elia can not, then my Martell princess can be free to... not share my bed anymore and surely she would not say no to a fellow Dornishman that she has known since a young age? You being in the Kingsguard would also offer a perfect excuse to be around her often, Arthur.”  

When Visenya realized the meaning of what her now deceased father truly had meant, her eyes widened in horror and abhorrence over how selfish Rhaegar did prove himself with those words. To insult his legal wife like that, after her duels in childbirth against the Stranger to give him Rhaenys and Aegon! 

And to basically hand her over to Arthur, like a piece of clothing he had grown tired of, all because Arthur was blind to what would be the most likely reaction that Elia indeed would have at the news of him staying at the Tower of Joy. 

“Damn you and your failure to see how people change with the passing of time, Dayne! You and Lady Elia would not be well-matched either, just like she was with my unfaithful father!!” Visenya screamed in the common tongue of Westeros as she cried in anger over how Elia had been treated by both her first husband and former childhood friend behind her back, “ DAMN YOU!! DAMN YOU, RHAEGAR TARGARYEN, FOR YOUR CURSED SELFISHNESS!! I HOPE THAT MY MASTER GET HIS HANDS ON YOUR SOUL AND MAKE YOU BE STUCK FOREVER IN THAT PITIFUL STATE YOU WERE AT YOUR DEATH, NEVER TO BE REBORN AND HAVING TO WATCH HOW MUCH HAPPIER YOUR WIFE AND CHILDREN ARE WITHOUT YOU IN THEIR LIVES!! ” 

Visenya knew that she had to keep her emotion in control, for the gathered magic inside the Temple would react on how she was the newest Consort of Khamûl because her share in said magic was not as stable as it would be with time. But in this very moment, when she felt so upset on behalf of the woman whose position her birth mother Lyanna had threatened through her own selfish actions, Visenya did not care for that. What she wanted right now, was for Elia to break free from the shadow of the two selfish men who could not see her true self. Not as a pawn to be used as they pleased, not a passive woman who could not take care of herself. But as a spiritually strong Princess of House Martell who had a mind, wishes and desires of her own. 

Taking a deep breath, Visenya began to sing. Not a song of power akin to what the Elves could do, but she still aimed it to break apart the mental idea of Elia that Arthur would be so fixated on.  

She is more than that!

More than just a frail health

And a fair face 

There is a mind in the body

Of this desert Princess! 

So much more

She is so much more!

A daughter, a sister

A wife and mother!

Born to be a Queen, 

beloved by all! 

Not a lifeless shadow 

which will never change

and always need protection!

With how upset she was over this discovery and and her magic acting out over just how little her birth father had cared for people around him as actual human beings rather than pawns to be used as he liked for things like the prophecy about the Prince that was Promised which actually referred to people Rhaegar would never meet face to face, Visenya drew the attention of the eunuch priests who had to anesthetize her before her magic went out of control. 

“So young, and yet she has such strong magic which can be dangerous if ill-used. If the Master is not gentle, she risks an early death if she is not allowed to rest between all the use of magic.”    

If that indeed happened, then Visenya would not be the first Consort to die from being drained of both magic and life energy from the Master of the Temple. It had happened many times over his long time as a wraith, especially in times of war against the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth. If the on-going War of the Ring went on for more than a year and longer than so, then there was a risk that one of the older Consorts would die and find herself replaced by a new, younger Consort with more magic for their Master to gather.   

~X~X~X~X~X~X    

Elia could feel her mind filling up with ice-cold horror over what Arthur just had revealed for all of them to hear so clearly. From how Allyria had covered her mouth with both hands and her eyes were wide open, she must feel the same horror over how lowly her second brother could sink just because he desired a woman out of his reach, and it was only the sight of her injured cousin on the bed that prevented Éowyn from grabbing his sword and try to challenge Arthur to a duel over insulting the honor of Elia in this manner. 

Rhaegar had promised Arthur something that would have ruined her whole future as a Dornish-born Queen consort of the Seven Kingdoms.

Mental images of what could happen, how Rhaegar would use that love affair to free himself from the arranged marriage between them, perhaps even to make Lyanna Stark his new wife and disinherit his two older children in favor of those the Stark mistress had given him. Finally, she managed to get her voice under control, and said in the most icy tone she could master: 

“Arthur Dayne, tell me. What is the most likely result of such a scenario? Well, let me give you one of the reminders about behavior that my father always insists on telling ignorant people: A love affair like that would be my doom. It would result in me losing the royal crown that mama unwillingly gave me though my marriage to Rhaegar because Aerys wanted the Targaryen blood in my veins, I would lose my place as the Queen consort because people would see it as proof of that damned prejudice about Dornish women being loose even after getting married and careless about the paternity of their children! Did you really think that there would be no danger about Rhaenys and Aegon being suspected to be YOUR bastards, and thus being a false royal princess and Crown Prince!? They would be stripped of their social rank and sent to the Faith as a silent sister and the Wall to swear the oath of the Night's Watch, neither one having children of their own to give them descendants and I would be written down as a faithless woman! In the best scenario, I would be sent back home to Dorne in disgrace, but in the worst scenario, my head would be separated from my body by a sword of axe held by a executioner and put on a pike as a warning to other royal wives about how important it is to keep yourself only to the royal husband they have wed!”   

By Mother Rhoyne, she was so distressed by this horrible, unbelievable revelation that she even referred to the late Aria Martell as mama, something she had not done since early childhood! And Arthur having the nerve of claiming that he had wanted to bed her under the excuse of loving her from a younger age, telling himself that she would be so unhappy about Rhaegar and Lyanna that she would risk herself and her children for romantic love which she had never felt towards Arthur?! Had Rhegar really thought of her so passive that she would accept Arthur in her bed as a lover without actually thinking ahead of what could happen if words of their “love affair” got known among people?

Elia...you deserved better! You deserve someone who understands and loves you, not an outsider that would let you live a lesser lifestyle than what you were born to. Not a husband that rules over a small keep and is little more than a barbarian, a kingdom with no culture and refinement... 

Hearing the insults aimed at himself and Rohan, Théodred felt his own anger start rising as well, and he managed to grab Elia's hand as a sign that this was not something she faced alone. Did the soul of the dead Dornishman really think so low of how Elia lived now, in a far happier marriage than her first one and having the joy of being the mother of his children? That she was even more miserable in the marriage with him than her first husband? And judging from what Elia said next, Arthur had indeed crossed a dangerous line: 

“Did you just revile the very husband that saved me and my older children from death because Rhaegar abandoned us? This kingdom, that offered me protection in a time of need, and even tried to help me find a way home despite at first not knowing that I came from a different world? The King who I call my second husband, and is willing to spend the rest of my life with because he has proved himself the very contrast to Rhaegar? The in-laws that actually treasure me for being more than just the wife and mother to a new King? This second son and daughter of mine, my third and fourth child born on the very 500th anniversary of this Kingdom being founded, who would not exist otherwise? ” 

For anyone who saw her face in this moment and witnessed the events of Kemet in the flashbacks to reveal the true origins of House Martell, it was like seeing Khamûl back when he was a mortal Farao. The fury in her black eyes, the merciless cold look that she would share with the second most powerful Nazgûl if he had been there behind her like a shadow. 

Elia? Elia, please! I mean it, it was for your sake! It was to spare you from death in childbirth… 

But Arthur was too late in his desperate attempts to plead mercy. He had been fixated on a fantasy of her as a young maiden, a shadow of her actual self, an idealized version that was nothing like the living woman in front of him. 

“No, Arthur Dayne. I reject you, Rhaegar and what you both desired without even asking me of what I thought of it. Return to whatever afterlife you have tried to escape, and I hope that it is to forever stand guard outside a ghost version of the Tower of Joy, a place where you can never leave! I am Princess Elia of House Nymeros Martell, daughter of the ruling Princess Aria Martell of Dorne, current Queen consort of Rohan and mother of its nineteenth King should the Gods allow him to live a long life, and I can see even more clearly why my parents refused you as a suitor for me!” 

While he did enjoy how Arthur stared in disbelief over what Elia said, as if he truly was seeing her properly for the first time, Lewyn knew that his niece would be much happier to just see his former sworn brother in the Kingsguard simply vanish. And this outburst of anger from their mother was shared by Aégnor and Andréth, who had enough of this unfamiliar ghost coming here and thinking himself a better man than their father. 

“Begone from our homeland and never come close to our mother again, false knight! ” 

“Madre would never leave feder for someone like you! ”   

 Hearing the two young furious voices yelling at him in the Rhoynish language, Arthur spun around, but even as he saw the ultimate proof of that Elia indeed had never become barren after the difficult birth of Aegon as Rhaegar claimed, since it was impossible to miss how much the royal twins of Rohan really did resemble their parents, it was too late for beg forgiveness. Because in this very moment they revealed themselves to have inherited a rare ability in House Martell; the ability to banish evil spirits and ghosts back to the afterlife. 

“Enjoy some time explaining yourself for abuela Aria, ealdermodur Elfhild and our three ealderfathu Sunnwyn, Mildwyn and Théodwyn!” 

Sensing the incoming power that doubled in strength thanks to the twins being right next to each other, Lewyn took a step back so he was not dragged along by mistake, allowing Arthur to be hit by the magical blast of magic and the disgraced Kingsguard member vanished out of the chamber like he had been a mere candle being blown out.  

Impressive ability already at this age, and a nice way to remove that fool, indeed. I could not have told him the truth any better myself, sweet niece, and you did point exactly the most likely result of what could happen if a Queen consort of Westeros was found out to be unfaithful. 

Hearing her uncle agree with her, Elia let herself start crying, almost clinging to the hand of Théodred as she feared to break apart. She cried from how deeply she felt the betrayal of both Rhaegar and Arthur in her heart, of how they could think of her as only a frail porcelain doll with no emotions of her own. Of how they could have caused her death and dishonor in a way which could have tainted her name forever in written Westerosi history about its Kings and their Queen consorts. 

“Mama and papa were right, even if they had never rejected him...Arthur could never have been a good husband, not with how he only seemed to view me as a helpless damsel in distress, forever in need of someone to protect myself! What could he have offered me in marriage, or even as a secret lover….?!” 

Her son and daughter rushed over to her, hugging their mother as their father refused to let go of her hand, giving his wife the best support he could in this moment. Elia needed it, the physical reminder of how her life had turned out so much better from the moment that portal had allowed Théodred to appear and saved her, Rhaenys and Aegon from a horrible, violent death on the order of Tywin Lannister. Arthur, who had been away at the Tower of Joy in Dorne, would never have managed that heroic deed in time and prove himself better than a traitor to his homeland and the Martell Princess he had sworn to protect as a Kingsguard member.   

Though she could not come with me for this, Aria is much more pleased over your second marriage than what she was over your first and she is very happy that you are having the chance to have a better chance of a love match, just like between herself and her own Prince Consort. She waits for Ihsan to come soon, she is feeling a little lonely without him at her side as in life, but would rather not stress him to join her that quickly.   

Drawing a deep breath, Elia managed a shaky smile between her tears at the memory of her mother being so happy with her father right up to that awful day when Aria had suffered a fatal heart attack out of the blue as she, Elia and Mellario, had agreed on the final embroidery details on the wedding dress for Elia in the colours of House Martell, the female ruler of Dorne dying from said heart attack only four short months before Elia would marry Rhaegar at the New Year celebration of year 280 after the Conquest of all Westeros sans Dorne. So for Elia at this moment, hearing from the ghost of Lewyn that her deceased mother would agree that her second marriage was far more of the happy family life Aria had desired for her only daughter.  

“Tell my modur and fathu to really give Arthur Dayne a taste of why there is a saying going “ Never underestimate a woman ” here in Rohan, ser Lewyn,” Théodred managed to request in a faint voice, and his uncle-in-law bowed as a sign of that he would follow that order. Then he vanished into the air like fine mist, now when Arthur was gone.

“Allyria, Éowyn, please bring a bowl with warm water, fresh bandages and Aegon alongside the healer that he is an apprentice to. I must tend to my husband and check if the wound has become inflamed again,” Elia managed to request, sending her twins out so she could focus on helping Théodred recover from his fever and injury. 

Of course, the court of Meduseld did not enjoy learning why there had been something odd happening in the sickroom of the King. 

“Claiming to love you despite that he should have been told stories of what happens to an unfaithful Queen consort? Just how blind can someone be to reality?!” Morwen almost yelled in fury when her granddaughter-in-law told them of Arthur. 

“And promising that you could be having a lover when he was the one who first dishonored your marriage vows by openly showing that he desired a mistress?! After that you nearly risked your life to give birth to Aegon?!”

With how similar their reaction was to those news, Morwen and Laywyn indeed proved themselves mother and daughter, as well as how much the former Queen Mother had adjusted to the realm of her husband. Théoden did not say anything, but his very aura and the tight hold on the quill, as he had been doing some required paperwork on behalf of his injured son because Elia could not do all of their duties alone, spoke enough of his thoughts about his daughter-in-law being betrayed in such a manner by her first husband and former childhood friend. But all three shared the same furious look when Aégnor mentioned what Arthur had called Théodred: 

“I hope that my dear Elfhild and my sisters indeed give him a lesson that lasts for eternity. Perhaps by using him as a hunting target or something, as archery was something that Mother taught all five of us the basics of, and Elfhild did try it as well.” 

Elia nodded in agreement, still feeling angry about how Arthur somehow thought of Théodred as inferior to himself or Rhaegar. There was just no way her mother-in-law and aunts-in-law would allow such a horrible insult towards Rohan and the House of Eorl go unpunished. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X    

Indeed, when Lewyn returned to the afterlife to see what happened, Arthur was being chased around like a rabbit being hunted. And it was not four riders, dressed in the style of Rohan, that rode after the disgraced Dayne, the late King Thengel and his son-in-law Éomund had joined up as well. After a,, it was the grandson of Thengel who Arthur had belittered, the successor to his own son. 

“My son is a far better husband than that inbred prince you chose to follow!” Elfhild screamed as she took the lead, holding up a shield that she tried to hit Arthur on the head with as her horse galloped past him. 

“Our sweet Brothor-sunu being a barbarian? Is that what you think of the Line of Eorl, the royal house of Rohan?!” 

Arthur had to turn around, as Sunnwyn now blocked his escape path. 

“The Golden hall of Meduseld being no better than a small keep?” Mildwyn growled as she teamed up with her older sister, now showing the opposite of the gentleness she was otherwise known for while she was alive.

“A Kingdom with no culture? With our own Naneth Morwen and other past Queens of Rohan working so hard to stay true to the origins of the Rohirrim?” Théodwyn wondered in a dangerously low voice and her spear raised for a strike down, with her husband next at her side. 

Letting Arthur face the fury of the Rohirric royal family, as Thengel ordered the younger generation to make Dornishman stop running, Lewyn knew that his sister Aria would enjoy this sight. Without doubt, she had been busy cooing over her great-grandson Ramses sleeping in the family cradle back home in the nursery of the Old Palace, because she had lost three possible children in miscarriages and lost two infant sons, Mors and Olyvar, in the cradle as a result of the inherited bad blood resulting from the infamous Targaryen inbreeding, an unwelcome gift from Daenerys Martell nee Targaryen, making them extra vulnerable to disease despite the fact that Aria, her father Maekar and grandfather Mahaad had all married spouses who were not related to House Martell. 

“I am sure that she will enjoy this scenario very much.” 

Smiling for himself as Arthur cried in vain for his help, Lewyn went to search for his older sister. 

Chapter Text

The sun had settled and its remaining lights slowly vanishing to give way for the night darkness, when Elia heard Éowyn call:    

“Brothor! You are finally here! Is everything alright back home in Aldburg? Have I become an aunt yet?”           

Of course Éowyn would ask about whatever Lothíriel had given birth yet before he left Aldburg, anything to avoid thinking of the worst possible scenario for her injured cousin.

“Not yet when I had left her in Aldburg, dear Sweostor of mine, I am afraid. But it should not be long before the birth.” 

Despite the late hour and the cooks having to scrape together a late dinner for the men by taking what they could find to make soup and serve with bread, the arrival of Éomer was much welcomed, especially when it turned out that Boromir had also come with him and could tell them what had happened on his own journey. But sadly, it also meant that they had to tell him that Denethor had passed away in his absence, in a sudden accident, and that he now was the ruling Steward of Gondor since five days prior.  

“Father is...gone? ” 

They all felt sympathy for his shock at those news, and what it meant for Boromir to learn about this major change in his life. Especially Morwen, who could recall how her late husband Thengel had reacted on getting the letter about his father Fengel dying and that his family had to move back to Rohan, because Thengel had become the new King of Rohan by being the only son of the previous King.  

“I am sorry that you have to learn the new sin this way, my poor boy.”

Morwen did not insult Boromir by calling him a boy, it was simply how he looked in this moment; a lost boy, who tried to find his own footing in order to not break down mentally. And it was this silent support of the familiar people around him that Boromir needed now as he wept in grief over not being at the side of Denethor when he passed away. 

Still, once he had been allowed to cry, Boromir could tell one detail that could be important further on in the war against Sauron: 

Namely, who the last royal heir of Arnor was, alongside his blood ties from the long deceased Princess Firiel, who was the reason why Aragorn also could claim the Throne of Gondor.  

“The last heir of Arnor?! He dared to hide his true origins from us!?” 

Despite her being upset over this information, out of the older generations in the House of Eorl, Morwen was the one who understood the meaning behind Aragorn hiding his true name. Sauron had not forgotten that it was Isildur who had cut off the One Ring from his finger in the Last Alliance, and the Dark Lord undoubtedly wanted to wipe out the whole bloodline of Elendil and the descendants of his two sons as revenge for them being part of his first defeat. 

“Still, he is going to get a nice little scolding from me about lying to Thengel and myself when I see him…!” the former Queen Mother promised, not noticing how Théoden and Laywyn shared a silent agreement behind her back that Aragorn, or Thorongil as they had known him as, better recall how their mother had been in character as the Queen consort of Rohan. Still, they did not protest, such a lie may have been used to protect his true identity but he had still lied to Morwen and Thengel. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

The following day, March 2:       

Edoras had not changed much from what Aragorn recalled of it nearly forty years ago. But there were some differences which could be seen when they rode closer. 

“As both Boromir and I mentioned back at the Council to inform those who have not been south laterly over the past years, the current King of Rohan is Théodred, the son of Théoden, who is still alive but chose to hand over the crown to his heir for health-related reasons.”

Before they rode off towards the gates again, Gandalf seemed to remember something else and harried to mentioned a useful information for them to know as foreigners here in Rohan:   

“Elia Martell. The Queen consort of King Théodred, she is from a country in the East that opposes Sauron, so please be mindful of what you say and behave when seeing her, she would prefer to not remember how she was treated in her first marriage. It is not my place to say what happened before she met her second and current husband, only that her widowhood was much welcomed since that marriage would have turned into a living hell otherwise.” 

All three of them nodded, and realized that Gandalf must have mentioned this for more than just the surprise of seeing a woman from the East as Queen consort of Rohan. 

This morning Elia had left Théodred in the care of Oberyn and the well-trained healers here in Edoras; there were some audiences from the common people and reports from across Rohan that she needed to hear personally. 

“So the evacuations are going well? That is good to hear, too often it is common farmers and other civilians who are the victims of war. The innocents who have no idea why their Lord suddenly demands them to join up for fighting far away from home…” 

Closing her eyes for a moment, she pushed down the memories of that horrible morning when she had learned that Rhaegar had vanished with Lyanna Stark, and what that action could lead to in the long run. Those fears had been confirmed at the news of Rickard Stark being murdered by Aerys alongside his heir Brandon, and how her insane father-in-law next had demanded the heads of Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon, the brother respective betrothed of the missing Lyanna Stark.  

“My Queen, there are some new riders coming…” 

Suddenly Morwen was heard with her voice rising to the point of almost shouting from the outside, so even those inside the Golden Hall could hear her: 

“I KNEW IT!! I knew from the first look on you all those years ago that you were one of the Dúnedain from the North, Thorongil!! ” 

Remaining in their seats at the long table there they helped Elia to check over the amount of paperwork that needed to be done, neither Théoden or Laywyn made any movement to go outside and stop Morwen from trying to slam her walking stick on top of Aragorn's head as punishment for lying about his name so many years previously. 

“Stand still!” 

Hearing that his comrades must have arrived, Boromir knew that this was perhaps a rather different welcome to Edoras than expected. 

“I will only go and check quickly on my wounds so nothing has changed,”  Boromir told Elia before he went back to the guest chamber. 

Soon the new arrivals had come up thr stone steps, but they also had to hand over their weapons before entering Meduseld itself.

“Gentlemen, please just surrender your weapons to Háma and get inside without arguments. That rule is to ensure that the royal family is protected inside Meduseld, not to make it easier to bring harm to us!” Elia requested a little loudly at seeing the Doorwarden entering an argument with one of the visitors, and he got all the weapons... 

Sans for the wooden staff that the oldest man did not hand over. 

“Is it really that hard to obey one of the most common rules of hospitality those days?” Elia muttered for herself as she wondered whatever she needed to raise from the throne and get things done herself. However, her grandmother-in-law fixed the problem by whacking the old man over the head with her walking stick from behind and Háma could add the staff to the weapons his men held.

“Get indoors with you all, do not waste time.” 

The threat of Morwen using her walking stick again made the four hurry inside. As they came closer, Elia realized that one of them was very familiar, though he looked very different from his last visit in Rohan this autumn. 

“Did you grow tired of your grey clothing and wanted to try matching the coat of Shadowfax, Gandalf?” she could not resist asking, despite her shock since Boromir had told of his death in Moria. 

“It is a long story to explain my changed appearance, my Queen.” 

Only now, with the schock over Gandalf passing, did Elia notice the other three. The dark-haired one was a little rugged, as expected by a long journey in the wilderness, but there was something in his eyes that told a different story. The shortest of them must be a Dwarf, based on what Boromir had told her, but he was every inch a warrior from the clothing he wore and looked pretty handsome for those who liked strong muscles and a fine beard. And the third one… he had to be an Elf, one of those immortal First Children of Eru. He was tall and fair in a manner that Rhaegar or any other Targaryen could never match, and yet he did not seem girlish at all. The sort of looks that blurred between men and women, was the closest thing Elia could explain. 

“Aragorn, I might forgive you for lying about yourself all those days ago, if you get into the chamber of the King and heal my grandson from his injuries.”

He was still sore from the bump in the head that Morwen had managed to give him before, so Aragorn took a wide step around the older woman to obey her request. 

“Yes, my lady.” 

While they had never seen Elia before, both Gimli and Legolas got an impression of her being tougher than what she seemed, especially as her black eyes spoke enough of that she was not sheltered from the cruel side of the world and was a survivor of previous hardships. Besides, as a Queen consort acting for her injured husband, she was the symbol of power in Rohan right now. 

“Blessed be those Halls by the Lady of Stars,” Legolas spoke up, kneeling as a sign of respect, since as a Queen Consort akin to his own mother back home in Mirkwood, Elia was the female half of a ruling couple over a realm. 

“We thank you for letting us come here, my Lady,” Gimli added, bowing just as deeply as he would do for the wife of his distant relative Dáin II, the current King under the Mountain in Erebor. 

Aegon had been watching over his sleeping stepfather to keep an eye out for any signs of him suddenly becoming worse. 

“Oh?”

A stranger appeared in the door. 

“Lady Morwen asked me to help the King.” 

The oldest son of Elia knew that there must be a good reason for Morwen to allow this man to come close to her grandson, given the situation and the need to keep Théodred protected from further harm that could kill him for real.

“Please be careful, the wound in his stomach are deep and we need our King alive to keep morale up for the people of Rohan, even if he can not join the fighting anymore for now.” 

Yet for a short moment, there seemed to be an unspoken, mutual understanding about something else between them. The last royal heir of Gondor who had hidden himself from Sauron nearly all his life, and the Targaryen heir who had rejected his paternal lineage because of the actions of his grandfather and sire. 

Chapter Text

2 March, Haven of Umbar:  

Seven days had now passed since that massive portal had been crafted out of the sea water and whirlwinds. Aemon had been free from his most recent fever this morning, so now all the siblings and cousins in House Baratheon could finally explore their current surroundings. Though because Sultan Suleiman had taken Umbar by force, this sadly meant that they had to stay within the palace area for their own safety, especially as they were young foreigners. 

“Holly said that there is a custom of concubines here in this part of the other world, so that is how she explained us three and why we look slightly different than our royal siblings. That we were born from different mothers than the main wife of our father,” Mya explained to Gendry as they walked along one of the palace roofs to see out in the distance over the rest of the haven and the sea from both sides. Some well-armed guards were following them not far behind, as Suleiman had made it clear that the Baratheon children and Brienne Tarth were guests under his protection until they returned to Westeros. 

“Concubines are a fancier word for mistresses, right? That sort of long-term lover who lives in the same household? I may be learning to become a blacksmith and aim for that sort of life away from the royal court, but my master is still very good at explaining other cultures outside Westeros. He says that if I get foreign customers, I must show respect for their background.” 

The crown prince of Westeros nodded. 

“At least it was easy to say that my mother, the legal wife, refused any competitors about sharing the bed of my royal father and you had to grow up in separate households, because in truth both yourself and Mya have commoners as mothers. It was more trickly with Eric,” Argella commented from where she was checking in a small basket for the right colour of dark blue silk thread to keep building up a small embroidery that would be turned into the coat of arms for House Tarth. At her side, Brienne and Mya were once again reminded that their thick fingers were not that suitable for finer sewing.

“Good thing that your septa is so clever.”

It had taken Holly some mixture of the truth and some white lies to explain why Eric was not the older brother of Shireen and Rhea despite looking like they really could be siblings for real, but rather an illegitimate cousin on both sides of their family tree. Calling him an “unplanned result” of the festive atmosphere on the wedding between Stannis and Selyse was actually a more polite manner of explaining how he had been begotten.  

Behind the older siblings, in the other end of the large chambers,  the younger ones and their cousins from Storm's End talked about the new clothing that they currently wore: 

“I like this style because we got to wear trousers just like you boys!” Rhea pronounced in joy, happy showing off the baggy trousers gathered in tightly at the ankle which she wore under the caftan robe. Because she and Aemon shared the same rare Targaryen looks among their relatives as well being only a handful of months apart in age, they had been mistaken for twins at first by the palace servants here in Umbar and Holly had needed to explain several times that no, they were actually first-cousins with their fathers being brothers married to different wives. 

“Brienne, how are the clothes that you got to borrow?”  

Because their original clothes had been ruined by the salty sea water, not so much the plainer undergarments of cotton for the legal-born children or linen for Gendry, Mya and Eric but especially the rather lavish clothes made from expensive silk and velvet worn by the royal and their two female cousins, all of them wore clothing that had been donated from noble families here in Umbar. Only Brienne, whose unusual body build and tall height had revealed early on that she would need male clothing despite being female, had gotten a robe and study trousers that clearly did not come from this city. Her height was rather rare, after all, so perhaps some person not hailing from Umbar had been requested to help.  

“They are comfortable, neither too small nor too large. And I must say, it is rather interesting that those are of a very different style than yours.” 

From what they had learned in their lessons about different cultures outside Westeros, both Lyonel and Argella believed that Brienne had gotten the clothing of a nomadic person, because when you did not leave in permanent settling and constantly traveled, you needed clothing that would last for a long time and not hinder any movements. 

“While it is a little odd to wear veils to cover our faces and hair, it is a good disguise as well if we would need to hide, as long as we would not have to speak,” Elinor commented as she and Argella tested to fasten said veils on their own without the help of servants, though Brienne had gotten a turban to wear like Lyonel, Gendry, Eric and Aemon because she could be mistaken as a man on a distance. 

They was well treated and could move freely as long as they took some guards along for protection outside their guest chambers, but despite getting a lot of board games to play between them, some nice toys for the three youngest ones and fabrics to embroider if the girls wished, especially as they could not read the script used here in Umbar or the ones used by Suleiman and his court, there was a feeling of restlessness in them all. 

“I wanted to go to the market to see the fabrics and clothing of this land!” Elinor complained as she looked out through the big window, “I want to see if there is anything similar to the clothing of Dorne, as I am betrothed to Quentyn Martell after all....” 

“Sweet sister, sometimes I think that the Martells have not requested you to come to Sunspear and be fostered there, because you are still a little too young. You are already eight years old, but I was stated to not be fostered by the Manderlys until the age of 12 and using the last four years before my wedding to become used to the North,” Argella muttered to herself as Lyonel tried to teach Gendry the rules of a board game. Granted, it had now been changed to that she would have joined Lord Stark, his heir and two daughters back to the North in 298 when Eddard and his three children had spent two years in the capital so Robb, Sansa and Arya learned more of the southern cultures than risking to come off as uncultured on a wider scale in adulthood. 

“Holly is back!” Aemon commented, and indeed Holly arrived with her brother Morgan after having a discussion with Suleiman and a few of his men. 

“My dear charges, out in the palace garden there is a newly started musical performance by some of the followers of Sultan Suleiman. He thought that you may like to see more of those who followed him as their leader in this war, as it is not merely people from his native Rûm choosing to rise up in rebellion against the Dark Lord.” 

“A musical performance and a chance to see more people? Of course!” Lyonel said on behalf of them all, happy for a reason to go outside. 

On the way to the music performance, Holly also told some more joyful news: Robert and Stannis were expected to arrive at Umbar that afternoon with a fleet of soldiers.  

“Father is also coming?” Shireen asked, since she and Rhea had not been sure if Stannis even knew that they had been kidnapped alongside their cousins. 

“Of course! Having the two heiresses to Storm's End stolen from their parents is not something that would be ignored! If our side of the family dies out, it is uncle Stannis and his descendants that will inherit the crown next!” 

Indeed, when they arrived near an area where exotic flowers and trees were blooming as a sign of spring being on its way, they passed an open space where performers entertained spectators. Many of them wore similar robes to the one Brienne had, but their fur-brimmed hats and some other details in the clothing were not like anything the younger newcomers had seen earlier. 

“Oh, a harp?”

The music instrument was crafted very differently from the harps used in Westeros, looking like a hunting bow made into a harp by setting it into a study wood piece for balance and then stringed. But the harpist was very good, careful movements revealed many years of training and refining this into an art. When looking closer, they could see how the harpist covered their face with a veil, but there was some escaping long black hair in tight curls hanging out from the fabice. Oddly enough the hands were also hidden in forearm long gloves of white silk, but they were slender with long fingers and slightly feminine. 

“Oh, I see why the servants of the Sultan wondered if I had some robes that I could lend out. Rare to see someone in my own height here,” the harpist suddenly spoke when seeing the new group of on-lookers, noticing what Brienne wore. Then, raising up to stand up in full height and removing the finely embroidered, dark blue face veil that she had been wearing, the woman revealed herself: she had mahogany brown skin, but around her mouth and eyes, almost like a strange mask spit apart in two halves, her skin was noticeably much paler. Yet it was the black eyes alongside the androgynous face that seemed to draw full attention despite the discolour of her skin. 

“Oh, looks like Margarey Tyrell may have suddenly gotten an unknown, fully grown adult rival about being a stunning beauty,” Argella realized when noticing how her twin brother and two half-brothers all seemed thunderstruck at the sight of the woman. Well, at least they were not alone in staring like idiots among the crowd, and personally Argella had always thought that youngful beauty in half-grown girls and maidens was nothing against the mature looks of adult women who had finished growing. Honestly, all the regions of the Seven Kingdoms had different beauty standards, Argella herself showed all signs of that she would inherit the fuller figure of her long-dead grandmother Cassana and her younger sisters was still too young to reveal which side of the family that they would take after, but Mya was pretty sturdy as well. 

“Keep eating like that, Argella, and you will look like one of those stuffed pig sows that is served on banquets. What sort of man wants an overweight wife, I wonder? Perhaps that Stark groom of yours will joke to his friends about having to marry a Princess that will personally come down to the kitchens to steal from the food storage between meals, all because you can eat vast amounts like your good-for-nothing father! ” 

Again Argella heard a haunting echo of Cersei in her mind. Those unwanted memories of her mother and how she would always complain about how Argella and Elinor took after their Baratheon blood more than the Lannisters. 

“I thank you all for watching, now I need to go and prepare for the banquet later this evening.”

With a smile that clearly was meant to seem inviting against the foreign royals, the woman covered her face again with the veil and left with the harp in her arms. 

“If she would show up at the royal court, I can imagine the alarm of the courtiers and nobles,” Brienne whispered to Argella, who nodded in agreement. Whoever this woman was, she clearly would have no trouble with possibly rising to the position of a royal mistress in no time at all, even if Cersei Lannister was replaced by another woman as Queen consort. They would need to watch the behavior of King Robert at the banquet later this evening. Hopefully, this woman was already married and thus would be out of his reach because of her marriage vows to be faithful to her legal husband. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

A few hours later, the Baratheon King and his brother arrived in Umbar. 

“Father! Uncle! You are here!” 

“Children! Are you alright? No one was injured? How did you end up as the guests of the ruler here?” 

While Robert had no problems with gathering all of his legal children in a bear hug, Stannis gave his two daughters a far more awkward hug but he showed on his face that he was relieved that they were at least alive and unharmed.

“Yes, we are being treated well here, no need to worry about that.”

On the other hand, Brienne, Mya and Eric all groaned in displeasure when spotting another person not far behind: 

“Oh no,” Eric whispered when seeing who it was. 

“NOT Lord Alester Florent!” Mya muttered under her breath, both she and Brienne had a history of being insulted by the Lord Florent for their lack of femininity and despite Eric being a great-nephew from his youngest niece Delena, he was generally not spared from any such scorn either. 

“Why did he have to come along? Because Lady Selyse is his niece, and Shireen and Rhea are the heiresses to Lord Stannis so far without a son!”

As Gendry did not know who the noble was, he got a little enlightened on the Lord Florent as they went towards the big throne chamber where the banuet would be held. 

Of course, even as their children explained some of the details that Robert and Stannis had only heard from Davos Seaworth, it was Holly who chose to say a plain truth:  

“King Robert and Lord Stannis of House Baratheon. This whole mystery is proof that your children are marked by an ancient power far beyond what most people would understand. Not to be saints or martyrs for the Seven-that-is-One, but the souls of a family that died a long time ago, and is slowly gathering together around the sole survivor of the event that killed most of them. The surviving sister of that life, who was reborn not long before the very Rebellion that gave your House the royal crown and the Iron Throne!” 

Holly could not reveal that it was Rhaenys, the oldest child of her cousin Elia, who indirectly was summoning the current lives of her past-life siblings to help her to free their once shared father from the Dark Lord. But in her disguise as a septa in the Faith, no one would question how she knew it. It was well-known that the servants of various faiths could have visions from their gods, after all.  

“Please explain what you know, septa Holly.” 

Hiding a smile over the irony that it was Rhaenys, the daughter of Rhaegar who had called the Baratheon children to her help, Holly obeyed.  

Soon, they met with Suleiman, who had dressed up in a manner of hiding that he actually was six respective four years younger than Robert and Stannis themselves. Still, despite Holly and Morgan needing to act as translators because of the different languages, he proved himself not a beginner at being a host for foreign guests. 

“I would not recommend insulting the main dancer who shall lead the entertainment while we enjoy the fine works of the cooks. That person is a master in the art of dancing and playing harp, and to insult the many years of training to become skilled enough to be allowed to perform for royalty...is not enjoyable for anyone who works so hard.” 

Robert, Stannis, their children and several Westerosi nobles were not the only guests in the great chamber. Many of the generals and army commanders under Suleiman had also gathered here, watching the newcomers with the eyes of hawks with clear intent to protect their Sultan if needed. One of them was actually sitting right next to Suleiman, not as a food taster but as the best man to act quickly if there was someone brazen enough to try an attack. 

“Domo! Domo!” 

However, now the attention fell upon a group of veiled dancers that had entered, and it was hard to miss the very tall main dancer in nearly see-through clothing of purple silk, only a loin cloth covering the most intimate body parts. It looked like a dress more than a robe, actually, oddly enough, especially when paired with all the gold jewelry, yet from the happy cheers of the men, the dancer was no stranger. 

“Oh, it is that harp-playing lady from earlier today!” Lyonel commented when he spotted some long gloves on the arms of the dancer and connected those alongside the height with what he recalled. 

“She must be a professional performer that follows the army, given their reaction,” Argella agreed, setting down her glass with apple juice on the tray that she had been seated at. 

“Alester. Alester Florent, keep your hands off the dancers, our host said! Even my brother is actually controlling himself with such a warning!” Stannis growled in obvious disapproval when his uncle-in-law reached out with his hand.

“So what? In the end, dancers as those are just fancier sex workers!” 

And with that comment, Alester grabbed the long of the tall dancer, stopping the dance movement forcefully. But that was not the only thing happening: 

The sound of the fabric tearing up as the dancer tried to get free by stepping back, the veil slipped off the head all together…. 

“HEY!! That is MY SPOUSE you are dishonoring in front of everyone!! ” the man next to Suleiman yelled, rising from his seat in anger over what he saw and grabbing out of habit after a sword at his side that was not there right now. 

“Ginghis, should you not already know what will happen next?” Suleiman asked calmly, as if he was looking forward to watching something. And indeed something unexpected happened now. 

“But my Lord, it is still my…!” 

In movements that were almost too fast to see, Alester Florent suddenly found himself grabbed at the throat, another hand on his tunic, and then the tall dancer threw him over the unexpectedly strong body as if he weighed nothing, slamming Alester back first into the stone floor. 

THUD!!

If the Lord of Brightwater Keep was stunned by shock and pain over the reaction to him grabbing the dancer, then he was very alarmed at feeling something sharp pointing at his manhood through his trousers, and the pain in his body did not allow him to switch the angle. A figure knelt over him, loose hair hanging freely now. 

“Grabbing me like that in front of my own husband... Are you a noble-bred man or a rutting pig? ” 

It was one of the hairpins crafted in gold and gemstones that the dancer now held to the manhood of Alester Florent, yet without the now ruined dress covering up the body, a clearly male chest was revealed, and the same face from the music performance out in the garden earlier today, much to the shock of the younger guests. 

“Domelvo. Castrating the male guests for being rude is a little out of line,” Suleiman spoke out, and the dancer raised up to his feet, seeming disgusted over something. 

“My apology, Lord Suleiman, but as I am not unfamiliar with how men can grab after dancers, thinking that their movements are an invitation to use the covered bodies for their own pleasure, I felt that a lesson was needed.”

As he talked, Domelvo stomped hard down on the manhood of Alester Florent with his shoe heel, not once but several times, making the other male Westerosi shudder in terror over the imagined pain. 

“Hmph. What does an uncultured barbarian know about finer art such as dancing?” Ginghis muttered, still upset but a little calm over that his spouse was dealing with the situation just as he would do so many years ago when they first met. 

“Oh, right, before I forget.” 

Taking out two other hairpins that still held up his hair somewhat, Domelvo placed them in front of Robert and Stannis. 

“One of my best spies, the formerly male courtesan Domelvo, married to my general Ginghis Khan. They have been in my service for the past fourteen years and I have never found a reason to kick them out. Those hairpins of his are a sign that you can ask for information as well, should it be needed,” Suleiman explained with a smile. 

“People are naive to think that a eunuch is harmless, just because he is missing his peaches of life, my Lord,” Domelvo replied bluntly with his arms crossed, and in near perfect Common Tongue of Westeros. Robert was not the only one to suddenly spit out his drink in shock. 

“ A eunuch?! ” Lyonel and Gendry shared the same shocked thoughts, yet they also had a minor blush both at seeing how well-sharped Domelvo was all over his body from his dance skills. If anything, he was pretty enough to pass himself off as a very tall woman, in the right clothing. 

“Ladies, keep dancing, this is not the right time or company for me to perform a striptease,” Domelvo told the other dancers, who all were female, with a meaningful glare over his shoulder towards the younger children Bowing for Suleiman and the other high-ranking guests, Ginghis joined Domelvo as he then left the banquet with his back straight and head held up high, as if he was not ashamed of being castrated. 

But there was one impression that would last far longer than just for tonight; By looking on Domelvo and seeing how attractive he was for a adult, Lyonel had come to the drawing realization to why he sometimes had difficult to see how many of the noble maidens was said to be fair and promising to become great beauties as they grew up. It was rather hard to ignore handsome young knights when they were around as well. 

Chapter Text

Despite the earlier beating from Morwen and scolding for lying about his name so long ago, Aragorn had not blamed her that much. Besides, with her oldest grandson so seriously injured that the King of Rohan could not lead his Kingdom in war against Mordor, a lot of pressure was put on the other adults in the House of Eorl to help him in whatever duties they could do in his stead. 

“You have done well in the medicinal treatment of his wound before I came. But yes, his recovery will take many weeks, if not the whole spring at the minimum, because of where his injury is placed.”  

Aegon made a sour face at that information, acting very much like his actual age. Not that he had any plans to try and speed up the recovery of his stepfather, he would never be forgiven for such a dangerous stunt by either his mother or the healers that were his teachers in the occupation, but rather over the unfortunate timing of it all.  

“I want to let that Wizard have a taste of how it feels to be helpless…!”

Rare were the times when he showed hints of his paternal blood, but in this moment Aegon would have reminded a lot about his ancestor Maekar Targaryen around the same age with the angry wrinkle between his eyebrows and unhappy face. 

“From what Boromir has told us about your maternal family, I am sure that Saruman will come to regret attacking the King of Rohan very soon.” 

Of course, Boromir had not told the Fellowship much details about their magic and such, but enough hints to reveal that House Martell would not let Saruman escape some form of punishment.   

~X~X~X~X~X~X

Now when her husband had been given medicinal treatment again and Aragorn could tell that he would survive though recovery would take long time, Elia took the chance to acting as a proper hostess to her new guests, with the household maids hurrying to serving a meal, Elia took the chance to at least explain some things that they were bound to notice during their stay here in Rohan. Just to be on the safe side, she went with the official story that her family had agreed to tell Boromir and Faramir in the past, that House Martell was the descendants of a very loyal maidservant to Khamúl and his family back when he was still the mortal Farao of Kemet in present-day Rhún. 

Once the meal was finished, Elia summoned the whole council for a talk about what to do next. The news of Théodred being out of danger was welcomed, even if they all felt less joyful over the fact that his recovery was going to likely last for several months.

“However, there is something important we must do, despite the threat from Mordor growing bigger everyday. We must deal with that traitor Saruman first, before he tries to literally stab Rohan in the back and weaken us even more against the possible attacks from Mordor.” 

The old warlords of Rohan nodded, understanding what she meant. If Rohan was attacked by Saruman from Isengard, then they would be unable to aid Gondor in later battles. 

“Madre,” Aegon spoke up from the other end of the Golden Hall, his eyes glowing in a manner that revealed that his foresight was acting up again, “We must defend Helm's Deep. When I held that strange helmet from the Uruk-hai now, I saw that Saruman planned an attack on it within the coming days.” 

Théoden was not alone in realizing what this very likely danger meant. Helm's Deep was the strongest fortress in Rohan, thanks to being a remainer from the time Rohan once had been part of Gondor. If the Hornburg fell, then Edoras would likely be the next target as the capital of Rohan. 

“Father-in-law, I want you to lead that defense if our riders can get to the Hornburg in time. Éomer, please help your uncle in this battle, but also send out riders with orders to check that all the nearby villages have been evacuated. Éowyn and Laywyn, I entrust the defense of Edoras, the Golden Hall and the rest of us in the House of Eorl to you two alongside the shieldmaidens.”

Elia did not need to mention that soldiers from Dorne would come and add to the numbers of defenders at both Edoras and the Hornburg. This was what Doran had been waiting for since eight years back, even now as the main   advisor to Arianne as the current ruling Princess of Dorne. 

As he naturally woke up from the sounds of activity outside the bedchamber, Théodred was informed by his twin children over what had happened since yesterday night.

“Your madre is clever as always. The shieldmaidens will have a good set of leaders in my fathu and cousin.” 

“I think any orcs that dare to come close to Edoras, will get shot by great-grandma Morwen as a warning of what to come,” Andréth said when recalling how the former Queen Mother was still fearsome with her old trusty hunting bow even in her high age. Her twin brother looked up from the list of information that Elia had entrusted them to tell their father. 

“Yes, great-grandma is actually a little scary at times…I think she would try to beat up that wizard in Isengard if she could do that.”

“Or ealder-fathu Laywyn.” 

Théodred would have laughed at how that comment reminded him of some very truthful tales of a younger Morwen during her time as Queen consort and his own childhood memories of Laywyn, had it not been for his stomach injury at the moment. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X

Acting as a messenger to Sunspear, Rhaenys told Arianne and the rest of her maternal family of what to come. The twenty-year-old ruling Princess of Dorne still needed to recover after the birth of Ramses, but with Daemon supporting his wife out to the balcony, Arianne could face the gathered troops of Dorne here in Sunspear: 

“People of Dorne! It is time to fulfill our oath to help Rohan in war, to defeat the Dark Lord who will try to attack our world as well, shall Middle-earth fall! The current King of Rohan saved my tía Elia and her older children, Rhaenys and Aegon, from a likely death caused by the actions of Rhaegar Targaryen! Shall we just stand back, passively witness how Sauron, this Dark Lord from Mordor, may try to offer the two remaining Targaryen to have the Iron Throne back, only for them to become puppets under his control?!”

A choir of responses was heard. Dorne had never forgotten how Elia had been dishonored twice by Rhaegar, even if the existence of Visenya Waters and the true drama at the Tower of Joy had never been revealed to the public. By mentioning the exiled Viserys and Daenerys Targayren possibly becoming the puppets of Sauron if he found a use for them, Arianne could unite her people to remember that House Targaryen had a very mixed history here in Westeros. 

“TO THE SPEARS!! ” 

Smiling over that Dorne would indeed help their allies, Arianne turned towards her family to divide their tasks. 

“Tío Oberyn, I want you to lead the soldiers to the Hornburg, and make sure to have both the ballistics and the wildfire ready for use. If those can be used to turn the battle into favor for us and Rohan, then our enemies will have a taste of what is to come.” 

Knowing the nature of her Sand cousins after growing up together, Arianne requested the three oldest to help defend Edoras with those Dornish soldiers who had never seen battle before or had been children during Robert's Rebellion, just like themselves. 

“Quentyn. My dear hermanito, do you understand why I am not letting you go out alongside Oberyn to the Hornburg this as your first battle?” Arianne asked, and her oldest brother looked her into the eyes, not doubting a moment about the possible reasons as he had heard them all his life. 

“I am not yet sixteen years old, with two months left to my name day despite being a handful of months younger than Rhaenys and roughly ten months older than Aegon. You want me alive, not merely for the sake of our parents, but because I am still your heir following Ramses and your oldest sibling.”

Smiling in pride, Arianne actually kissed Quentyn on the forehead despite that he had almost grown past her, with Arianne taking after Mellario with the same height of standing at five foot two. 

But Rhaenys had another goal in mind now when she was here in Sunspear. Walking down to the Sandship, she followed the tunnels and trapdoors down to the burial chamber of her original body alongside that of Morgan Martell. It almost seemed like he had waited on her, from how he smiled in joy at seeing her come in, carrying a touch so she could see in the underground darkness. 

“Mother, I welcome you,” the spirit of her past-life son greeted her, kneeling on the ground like he had done when she was Mara, the lost princess of Kemet. 

“My dearest son,” Rhaenys said in the voice of Mara, her eyes turning amber, “I have found out though the water mirrors about something that I do not like. A spiritual threat against poor Rhaella Targaryen, the paternal grandmother of this current life of mine, who is about to be reborn in a new body. I want to use the souls of her selfish parents, Jaehaerys and Shaera Targaryen, as well that of her unwanted brother-husband Aerys, to become the padlock for closing the portal at Dragonstone, before Sauron can threaten Westeros from that island.” 

Morgan Martell smiled in a manner that would have reminded a lot about Khamúl back as a mortal. 

“A much fitting punishment for the parents who failed to see that their own children were not a mirror image of themselves and their unnatural feelings for a opposite-sex sibling born to the same mother and father. And perfect for a cruel husband who should have died years earlier and leaving her free from the fate that she sadly ended up having. ” 

Taking hold of the spear still laying on top of the granite sarcophagus where her original body laid as a mummy for the afterlife akin to the beliefs of long-gone Kemet, Rhaenys felt her magic react stronger and stronger for each moment, like a heartbeat.

“Come, my son, let us give those fools a taste of real magic not depending on dragons.”

It was well past time to let some members of House Targaryen learn just how insignificant they were, as the last descendants of Tar-Minyatur, her cursed half-brother from her life as Mara. 

Chapter Text

While not knowing how many Uruk-hai that Saruman would send out from Isengard, Arianne and the rest of the Dornish nobles were in agreement that they needed to reduce the number of enemies before they got closer to Helm's Deep.        

“The fewer of those creatures to attack Helm's Deep and other important places in Rohan, the better,” Arianne ordered to the various heads of the noble families of Dorne, knowing that a move like this could turn the future battle into favor for Rohan and Dorne against Saruman. After all, even if the Uruk-hai was made into adult form already from the start and could be trained for battle quickly thanks to that, the traitor Wizard would exhaust his own resources if he was forced to produce new ones faster than expected.  

“As you wish, Princess!” 

This was not the time for old grudges, they needed to act united against a very dangerous enemy once again and defend their homeland together. 

So by sending out riders though smaller portals across Rohan, the Dornish warriors took the Uruk-hai army by surprise from behind, attacking the very rear of it where they could use arrows and catapults on a safe distance. 

“Trick them into following us into a chase through the portals! Let them have a taste of the Dornish desert heat and the sun cooking them alive inside that iron armour of theirs! And learn why our homeland was resisting the Targaryens for so long!” 

Lord Vorian Dayne led the defense line hidden in the Red Mountains around Starfall, and the soldiers of his House were not the only ones there, the people inside the castle were giving them aid by the use of siege weapons from the towers. The same weapons that once had been used against the Targaryen dragons, a legacy from the Rhoynar, and once again coming to use against a common enemy. 

“For Dorne! For House Martell!” 

~X~X~X~X~X~X 

Thanks to that Rohan had realized that Saruman had attacked its King and most likely had Isengard join Mordor, many Rohirrim warriors were already at Helm's Deep by the orders of Queen Elia, in order to help defend their homeland when the riders from Edoras arrived late in the evening with the setting sun of March 3th. One comfort was that the civilians from the villages around had already escaped up in the mountains, or towards Dunharrow with whatever they could bring along. Thanks to the portal in Sunspear, Oberyn and a good number of Dornish warriors had also arrived quickly to help with the last preparations for battle that could be fixed. 

“Direct news from my niece; The remaining soldiers in Dorne have managed to bring down 2 000 Uruk-hai over those two days by attacking the army from Isengard by attacks on the rear, and there is a expected 1 000 still out in the desert where the sands and lack of water together with the daily heat will kill them.” 

Théoden nodded, it may still be somewhere between 6 500 and 7 000 Uruk-hai on the way to Helm's Deep, but the odds were now slightly more even for the defenders. 

“Prince Oberyn, what are your suggestions for a strategy against the enemy when they come here, likely at nightfall?” Théoden wondered as he and his long-traveled guests wandered around on the wall to see how things were going. The younger brother to the Queen of Rohan looked up from the catapult he had been checking over, and two of his own men were setting in place. 

“We will keep the wildfire as a last resort, to surprise the enemy if they manage to break through the lines and we need to quickly lessen their numbers. That flammable liquid is dangerous, and it is not without reason that it is often likened to actual dragonfire.” 

Legolas and Gimli were, understandably, curious about the wildfire that Oberyn mentioned as a last resort, but they also looked a little unsettled at the mention of it possibly being like dragonfire. Especially as the Dwarven Kingdom of Erebor had been taken over by a dragon for nearly 200 years and Legolas could remember the story of his father Thranduil almost getting burned by a dragon during the War of Wrath against Morgoth at the end of the First Age.

“Good idea to keep that as a surprise for the enemy. The less Saruman expects us to use, the better.” 

Among them, both Dornishmen and Rohirrim were strengthening the wall and other parts of the Hornburg to the best of their ability with what little time they had left before the enemy arrived. 

“Cousin Arash, what can you sense from the earth?” Oberyn wondered, his oldest natural-born cousin being seated just outside the gate in a meditation pose, but with his sword laid across his knees.

“The same feeling as I have gotten from whatever I am around a Dornish keep that was burned by the Targaryen dragons. The loss of life, despair from deep within the earth. As if Mother Nature herself is crying and vowing revenge in some manner I can not yet explain.”  

Since the ancient magic of House Martell had awoken once again, Arash had found himself with the ability to feel a connection to the nature around him. but despite his best attempts so far, he could still not manipulate earth and rock in all their various forms into actually moving in the direction as he desired. Pushing them by first touching the natural material in the desired direction did go fairly well, but he wished to actually be able to levitate nearby pieces of earth and stone of numerous sizes and propel them at foes with punching or kicking motions.  

“Just get back into the keep before the enemy arrives and your old man should not have to worry yet about you joining him in the afterlife, cousin.” 

The Deeping Wall was twenty feet high, and so thick that four men could walk abreast along the top, sheltered by a parapet over which only a tall man could look. Here and there were clefts in the stone through which men could shoot with bow and arrows. This battlement could be reached by a stair running down from a door in the outer court of the Hornburg; three flights of steps led also up on to the wall from the Deep behind; but in front it was smooth, and the great stones of it were set with such skill that no foothold could be found at their joints, and at the top they hung over like a sea-delved cliff.

“Great work, this legacy from Gondor inherited by Rohan.” 

Gimli stood leaning against the breastwork upon the wall, while Legolas sat above on the parapet, fingering his bow, and peering out into the gloom in order to give a warning of the enemy coming closer thanks to his far better Elven sight.

“This is more to my liking,” said the dwarf, stamping on the stones below his feet, “Ever my heart rises as we draw near the mountains. There is good rock here. This country has tough bones. I felt them in my feet as we came up from the dike. Give me a year and a hundred of my kin and I would make this a place that armies would break upon like water.” 

“I do not doubt it,” Legolas smiled faintly, grateful for something else to think of for a moment, “But you are a dwarf, and dwarves are strange folk. I do not like this place, and I shall like it no more by the light of day. But you comfort me, Gimli, and I am glad to have you standing here with your stout legs and your hard axe. I wish there were more of your kin among us. But even more would I give for a hundred good archers of Mirkwood. We shall need them. The Rohirrim and the people of Queen Elia have good bowmen after their fashion, but there are too few here, too few.” 

“It is dark for archery,” Gimli muttered, shooting a dark glare at the distant torches “Indeed it is time for sleep. Sleep! I feel the need for it, as never I thought any dwarf could. Riding is tiring work. Yet my axe is restless in my hand. Give me a row of orc-necks and room to swing and all weariness will fall from me!” 

As they talked, Boromir joined them. He too desired to help in the fight, because he refused to let the arrow wounds from Amon Hen stop him from doing something else than just sitting around. 

“If we win this battle, I will travel to Minas Tirith as soon as I can. I have already been gone for many months and my people need me as the new Steward now that my father is gone.” 

The others had learned the details about Denethor dying on the way here, and understood how Boromir wanted to be where he was most needed. But with the armies of Isengard around, there had been a risk of Boromir being sighted by enemies if he rode towards the border of Gondor and not even the portals had been a safe choice at the moment. 

“Here they come,” Legolas commented, breaking the silence and it did not take long before the mortal men could spot the touches coming closer. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X    

Even if she was only there in spirit form, Rhaenys knew at once why her mother Elia had loathed Dragonstone and the time she had been there as the wife of Rhaegar. The presence of House Targaryen and their view of themselves was visible everywhere in the castle, and the still active volcano did not thing to brighten things up. An attempt to glorify themselves when there was no one who could prove otherwise, to create a false social status as far away as possible from their actual background as a family of low-class servants in the Valyrian Freehold. 

“Like ancestors, like descendants, I guess. If anything, Tar-Minyatur passed down delusions of grandeur to his own bloodline…” 

Ugh. And this was a family that actually was descendants to her own past-life father as well? A disgrace that he better never learn about, that was what House Targaryen was for Khamûl. 

“That damn portal...Morgan, what can you say about it?” she asked her past-life son, who looked up at the portal. 

“The same sort of feeling I always get when you or your descendants open a portal to Rohan, Mother. That it is dependent on a living person acting as the key to open it. I can not really tell how it was done with this one, but the portal is draining the life and magic from the person who opened it. A rather young one, around the age of your brother, and clearly not trained in how to use this kind of magic. And yet...this unknown person seems to hold a grudge strong enough to do this. ” 

Draining both life and magic? With how long the portal had been open, Rhaenys could imagine the worst outcome for that person if this kept up. If Sauron was using this to strengthen himself… 

“Even more reason to close this unwanted portal between the worlds. I do not know how Sauron got his hands on a person with magic to make this, but it is something I will need to check later. For now...there are some overgrown Targaryen brats that need to be beaten up as punishment for what they ended up causing by their selfish actions.” 

Rhaenys knew that she needed to hurry. The sooner that Rhaella was free from the ghosts of her former life before her incoming rebirth in a new body, the better. 

It did not take her long to find the ghost of Aerys II, because he kept muttering in the mad ways that had led to his eventual death. Besides, his appearance was hard to miss. 

“Kill them all...kill them all…. you! ” he snarled at spotting Rhaenys, who used her well-known similar looks as Elia as bait, “Traitorous whore! Dornish wench! A snake like all other Martells! You told Tywin's brat to kill me, did you?! To place that dirty son of yours on the Iron Throne instead of my Viserys! I will have you burned on the stake like the desert witch you are!” 

But Rhaenys had no trouble spinning around on her feet and using her spear to literally smack her grandfather in the face and toss him to the ground by brutal force from the training she had gotten from Oberyn and Laywyn as a way to  defend herself against dangers. Even ghosts could be hit, if you were a spirit as well. 

“You will not call my mother anything like this disdainful way of addressing, worthless piece of scum.” 

Not giving Aerys any time to respond or otherwise react, Rhaenys began to beat him up with her magic, effortlessly tossing him around and slamming him into the nearby pillars and floor like a ragdoll like how a very young child would do with toys during a temper tantrum. 

“I know what you said about me when I was first presented to the royal court, a few months after my birth. Smelling Dornish, you had the nerve to say despite accepting a Martell princess as the closest thing to a bride with Valyrian blood that you so desired for my father, and refused to hold me, unlike Grandmother Rhaella who warmly welcomed her first grandchild. DID YOU CONSCIOUSLY IGNORE THAT THE LAST THREE TARGARYEN KINGS EVEN EXISTED IN THE FIRST PLACE THANKS TO THE DORNISH BLOOD FROM MYRIAH MARTELL AND DYANNA DAYNE!?! The pure and ancient blood of Old Valyria, what a useless repeat of fucking nonsense after so many Westerosi spouses marrying into your damn House over the centuries!!” 

As Rhaenys proved herself to not be a passive princess that would never raise her voice or hand against someone else, Morgan clapped his hands in an ironic way of showing what he thought of Aerys, once again smiling very alike Khamûl.  

“Excellent choice of words, Mother. The inbreeding of House Targaryen and their habits of marrying close relatives would have driven them to extinction though eventual infertility and lack of any members of the opposite sex to marry, had some of those non-Targaryen marriages never happened. ” 

Now Rhaenys also smiled, and for a moment, she took the form of Mara where she would seem like a younger, female version of Khamûl when she smiled. 

“Time to rob you of all the things that you used for showing your power over others, grandfather,” she said with dear irony on addressing Aerys, who seemed to realise that the situation really was not going in his favor and actually looked somewhat terrified. 

“For example...that cursed tongue of yours, used to belittle and insult others around yourself!” 

With a spin of the spear in a circle, Rhaenys tore out the tongue of Aerys as he screamed. Blood splattered around him, but the daughter of Elia was not done yet. 

“Those hands that you used to beat and claw at grandmother like a savage animal! Those feet that she would be kicked by!” 

She stabbed each one of his hands with the spear, stamping hard several times on his fingers to break them, then doing the same to his feet. 

“Those damn eyes of yours, who were so displeased with how I took after my Martell mother rather than your pale son!” 

Oh so enjoyable it felt, to forcefully rip those eyes out from his face with the spear first stabbing one eye each and then pull them out under the screaming of agony from Aerys. 

“Mother, we are getting company, ” Morgan said, spotting how Jaehaerys and Shaera were coming after hearing the screams of their son, “ Wonderful, wonderful. Time for us to fight side by side again. ” 

Thanks to Jaehaerys being sickly all his life, thus not being a warrior at all, and Shaera having been one of those women who preferred to be known as a great beauty over learning anything that would cause her to be viewed as unfeminine, Morgan had not problems with catching the brother-sister pair inside a simple magical cage. 

“Come on, Morgan. We can not waste anymore time, My grandmother is not many hours away from being reborn.” 

Dragging the tortured and bleeding Aerys with her through a hold on the very edge of his clothing as if he was something unclean, Rhaenys went towards the giant portal over the volcano, Morgan right behind with his prisoners as well.

Chapter Text

While it was impossible to know if Saruman had already learned that Dorne had taken out some of his Uruk-hai prior to the battle, it did not matter now. Rain and lighting was creating a dramatic background for the nightly battle. 

“Legolas, anything else you have spotted?!” Aragorn called over the sound of brazen trumpets in the dark below. 

“Apart from the men of Dunland as the Rohirrim worried about? Not at the moment!”   

The enemy surged forward, some against the Deeping Wall, others towards the causeway and the ramp that led up to the Hornburg-gates. There the hugest Orcs and Uruk-hai were mustered, and the wild men of the Dunland A moment they hesitated and then on they came. The lightning flashed, and blazoned upon every helm and shield the ghastly hand of Isengard was seen. They reached the summit of the rock; they drove towards the gates.

“Let them have a taste of what awaits them,“ Théoden ordered with all the calmness he needed to show as a leader. 

At his order, an answer came: a storm of arrows from both Rohirric and Dornish achers met the enemies, and a hail of stones followed by those who had other weapons and could not reach that far yet. They wavered, broke, and fled back; and then charged again, broke and charged again; and each time, like the incoming sea, they halted at a higher point. Again trumpets rang, and a press of roaring men leaped forth. They held their great shields above them like a roof, while in their midst they bore two trunks of mighty trees. Behind them orc-archers crowded, sending a hail of darts against the bowmen on the walls.

“Planning to break through the gates? So predictable when storming castles and keeps,” Arash commented in an almost bored voice from his place, as the tree trucks, swung by strong arms, smote the timbers of the strengthened gate doors with a rending boom. If any man fell, crushed by a stone hurtling from above, two others sprang to take his place. Again and again the great rams swung and crashed.

“Enjoy some firelight for better sight.” 

A huge cauldron of boiling oil was emptied on the nearest attackers from above and then by dropping a torch, Arash set some of them on fire. Then, he finally did something had longed for: A huge boulder was lifted up in the air at his side, and the oldest son of the late Lewyn Martell showed his magical powers. 

“Time for some battle dancing with Lady Yavanna for you! ” 

With Arash making the boulder spinning at high speed by literally running on top of it and then twisting it around to start rolling in the desired direction, the attackers found themselves pushed off the ramp. 

“Get back up here, cousin, before the arrows hit you!” Oberyn was heard somewhere, pulling on the rope which was tied to his belt. 

Running in front of their men, Éomer and Aragorn halted before the gates. The thunder was rumbling in the distance now and the lightning flickered still, far off among the mountains in the South. A keen wind was blowing from the North again, the clouds torn and drifting, and stars peeped out; and above the hills of the Coomb-side the westering moon rode, glimmering yellow in the storm-wrack.

“We did not come too soon,” said Aragorn, looking at the gates. Even with Arash breaking off the attack, their great hinges and iron bars were wrenched and bent; many of their timbers were cracked.

“Yet we cannot stay here beyond the walls to defend them,” said Eomer, “Look!” 

He pointed to the causeway to show his point. Already a great press of Orcs and Men were gathering again beyond the stream. Arrows whined in the air, and skipped on the stones about them. 

“Come! We must get back and see what we can do to pile stone and beam across the gates within. Come now!”

They turned and ran. At that moment some dozen Orcs that had lain motionless among the slain leaped to their feet, and came silently and swiftly behind. Two flung themselves to the ground at Éomer's heels, tripped him, and in a moment they were on top of him, all while the Third Marshal cried out in surprise and anger, twisting around his sword to defend himself. But a small dark figure that none had observed sprang out of the shadows and gave a hoarse shout: 

“Baruk Khazad! Khazad ai-menu!” 

An axe swung and swept back. Two Orcs fell headless. The rest fled in terror for the Dwarven axe as Éomer struggled to his feet, even as Aragorn ran back to his aid.

“Master Arash, you as well!” 

The gate closed again after them, the iron door was barred and piled inside with stones, much of which Arash added some extra weight though some smaller rocks. When all were safe within, Éomer turned: 

“I thank you, Gimli son of Gloin!” he said, gaining back some colour in his face after the earlier shock, “I did not know that you were with us in the sortie. But oft the unbidden guest proves the best company. How come that you were there?”

“I followed you to shake off sleep,” Gimli responded, “but I looked at the hillmen and they seemed overly large for me, so I sat beside a stone to see your sword-play.”

“I shall not find it easy to repay you,” said Éomer in an honest voice.

“There may be many chances where the night is over,” laughed the Dwarf, “But I heard in Edoras that you had a lady wife and a small one to come home to, right? Would be sad if another wee lad or lass got fatherless in this war. As for me, I am content. Till now I have hewn naught but wood since I left Moria.”

None blamed Éomer for the faint blush on his cheeks at the reminder of yet another reason to remain alive, if everything went as planned Lothíriel was due any day now and he wanted both of them, mother and child, to be safe.  

“I hope that she is alright at this very moment.” 

Up above the gate, Oberyn crafted a magical shield along all the Hornburg and the wall to block the incoming shockwave as the Dornishmen sent caskets of wildfire flying from the catapults, some of them sending off a few hay balls filled with burning coal to start the wildfire. The Orcs and Uruk-hai were given no time to react, before a massive amount of sickly green fire explored across various spots where the caskets landed. The magical shield protected the Hornburg and the wall, but the enemy found themselves rapidly reduced in number. 

“Hah! Bet that Aerys would be choking in rage over how his wildfire instead is being used by us Martells for something else!” 

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

Old Palace, Sunspear: 

In fact, Lothíriel had entered labour late that afternoon, and her handmaids had brought her through the portal to get some help from the Dornish midwives just as her husband had requested. 

“This little one will arrive around dawn, for sure.” 

For now, the newest soon-to-be mother in the House of Eorl tried to just walk around the birthing chamber with two of her Rohirric maids supporting her between them, hoping that the movement would make the labour not be so outdrawn. 

“That soothing harp music is pleasant to hear, Lord Ihsan.”

The grandfather of the current Princess of Dorne smiled at the compliment he got for his music playing near a window, despite it being past midnight and it had been difficult for him to sleep tonight. 

“Some mothers and their unborn children relax better at hearing soothing music, which I have used a lot whenever one of my own descendants arrived into the world.” 

Yet as he began to play some more music for her, Ihsan could have sworn that he felt something else around Lothíriel. A presence that meant no harm to her or the baby, but familiar from his younger years. 

“So you are trying to finish what you promised to do at Summerhall and died for it…Maegor, the rejected Targaryen heir who became a Priest of Mother Rhoyne and joined up with your uncle, King Aegon V, in trying to force a end to the unwanted marriage between Rhaella and Aerys.” 

If Maegor was here and guarding Lothíriel, a complete stranger from another world, with such a sense of needing to shield her child from danger as a ghost here in the very heart of the Martell home, could it be that the unborn baby was Rhaella? 

“I see. Because he failed to protect her at Summerhall, he must be trying to keep the ghosts of Aerys, Jaehaerys and Shaera away from Rhaella and give her a chance to be free from her past life as a daughter of House Targaryen. After all, those three were the people who ruined her life the most…!” 

Changing the tune, Ihsan began to play a musical prayer to Mother Rhoyne to guide a mother and her child through a safe childbirth. But he did also play a protective chanting against evil. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X   

At Dragonstone, Rhaenys had arrived at the top of the volcano. Looking in disgust at Aerys, she threw him in front of the massive portal, Morgan doing the same with Jaehaerys and Shaera. 

“The Prince that was Promised coming from the bloodline of Aerys and Rhaella? Just pure nonsense from that damn woodwitch friend of Jenny of Oldstone, which you two used as a selfish justification to force your own children to marry each other! You were afraid of the growing friendship between my grandmother and Maegor, the cousin of yours who had been rejected for kingship in 233 because of his young age and who his father was!”

Rhaenys had read it, all the details, in old scrolls found in the temple to Mother Rhoyne in Sunspear. How Naerys Martell, as a Priestess in that cult, had became a foster mother for the orphaned Maegor Targaryen, the only offspring of the short-lived marriage between Aerion and Daenora Targaryen, after that both Daenora herself and her widowed mother Alys Arryn fell ill and died from tuberculosis before the end of the first year of Aegon V's reign. How Maegor had sworn the oath of a priest to Mother Rhoyne after coming of age, and whatever he visited his royal relatives, seemed to impress the thirteen years younger Rhaella into imagining a far different life than a Targaryen princess. 

“He had no right to influence her in that way! She was a royal princess, meant for her brother since birth! To keep the blood of Old Valyria pure!!” Shaera snarled, looking at Jaehaerys for support, and he said almost the same: 

“Our daughter was to be the mother of a foretold hero of humankind! And the blood of House Targaryen had been strained by all spouses from outside the family! To awaken the dragons once more, we needed to start the marriages within the family again….!?” 

Rhaenys broke off his rant with a slap from her spear, leaving a long bleeding wound along his mouth. The same old thing, that she had heard over and over again. 

“You feared that Maegor was her way of escaping what sort of life you planned for her, and married Rhaella to Aerys the same day as Betha Blackwood died from illness, making use of the crushing grief Aegon V, your own father, felt over the loss of his own wife, and ensured that he learned of the marriage too late to able to stop it, just as you escaped your own betrothals! Selfish! Selfish pair of offspring, selfish parents who were blind to reality!” 

Around them, images began to form. Memories of Rhaella, from various events of her life. 

I don't want to be married to Aerys, Maegor. I do not want to follow that barbaric custom from Old Valyria! 

The voice of a young girl, who was horrified over what her own parents intended for her. 

Maegor, dressed in the blue robes that marked him as a priest serving Mother Rhoyne, kneeling in front of Aegon V and Ser Duncan the Tall, inside the royal office, a heavily pregnant Rhaella sitting on the chair. Even Rhaelle and her only child Steffon was there. 

“You plan to end the marriage between Rhaella and Aerys by faking her death in childbirth, uncle?!” Maegor asked in shock, a similar look on the faces of Rhaelle and Steffon, over what Aegon just had told them. The King had a sorrowful look on his face, as he felt that there was no other way to explain what he planned. 

“I failed to protect Rhaella twice already, from being married to her own brother and from getting pregnant this young. It is well known that mothers in this age have a greater risk of dying in the birthing bed, because they are too young and their bodies are not ready for giving birth.”

Rhaelle shuddered, catching the unspoken meaning from her father. Both of Shaera and herself had been several years older when having their sons, Shaera had been eighteen when Aerys was born in 244 and Rhaelle herself had been seventeen in 246 when Steffon had arrived as the new heir to House Baratheon. To expect Rhaella to survive childbirth at fourteen....

Her second brother and only sister were mad, blind for the reality that everyone around them tried to point out. Could they not see that their daughter risked death, in a manner that could go wrong in so many ways? 

“Grandfather…” Steffon spoke up, “I do not want cousin Rhaella to die because of something that woodwitch has lied about! Aunt Shaera and uncle Jaehaerys are under her control, just as uncle Duncan is though Jenny!” 

“I know, Steffon. If she ensnared my oldest son by some help of that woodwitch or just using his dislike against his Barathron betrothal, I do not know,, but that commoner was the start of ruining everything that Betha and I hoped for our children and grandchildren. And Rhaella risks to pay the biggest prize of us all.” 

Aegon used a key to open the lock on a large truck in a corner, Ser Duncan picked up a large basket from inside and placed it on the desk, letting Aegon reveal several dragon eggs which had turned into stone over the passing of time. 

“I plan to use the words of that damn woodwitch against Jaehaerys and Shaera. If they are so desperate to make House Targaryen start marrying brother and sister to each other again, and force Rhaella to carry a child at this age to justify the idea of her child being the Prince that was Promised...well, surely they should not question the hope of the newborn getting a baby dragon to bond with, right? And that wildfire is said to be the nearest thing to dragonfire that currently exists.” 

Maegor paled as he realized the plan that Aegon had. 

“The young mother dying from unforeseen blood loss during the attempt to hatch a baby dragon, and her body being lost in the resulting explosion as the wildfire proved too unstable to control, leaving behind a newborn baby and her widowed brother, with no sister to replace her as his wife.” 

For some reason, Rhaella seemed to not be scared at all over what her grandfather planned. Instead, she looked up to face her relatives with a clear gaze of pure disgust. 

“I do not want this child that is growing inside me right now. It is a parasite, an unnatural monstrosity that could very well become a second coming of the King who you were named after, Maegor. Do you really think that I can love a child born from a marriage union that I never wanted from a young age? If I could…” 

A fury sprang up in her eyes, and she said the dooming words: 

“ If I could have managed it under the watchful eyes of everyone around me at Dragonstone where they are loyal to my damn parents, I would have killed the child and driven it out from my womb with moon tea several months ago. If I could choose infertility, then I would gladly accept it as a way to escape being chained to Aerys, all because my parents have been swayed by that cursed idea about the Prince that was Promised. ”   

Seeing how determined she was in this, perhaps her only remaining chance to escape with whatever help from the few allies she could have, Maegor rose to his feet and took her hands of Rhaella between his own. 

“Then I swear to become the older brother of you, in a new identity for us both far away from Westeros, where House Targaryen have no power or ability to find us. No marriage shall happen between us, for all of that you are a granddaughter of my uncle and no one would have raised any questions about such relatives marrying, and you shall be free to choose your own path in life...little sister.” 

Those honest words, spoken in such a tender and soft manner, made Rhaella cry. But it was tears of happiness, and of increasing hope. And Maegor was right, he was the only person who could whisk her away without risking losing everything, Aegon was the current King, and Rhalle and Steffon had the Stormlands to rule. 

“Let us pray for success at Summerhall, and that the baby inside Rhaella shall die in the cradle in the following months, if it is not a stillbirth or another one of the victims of the wildfire.”

It had not gone as they hoped. Aegon V and Ser Duncan, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, had died inside the burning palace when the wildfire indeed went out of control. Maegor trying to escape with an exhausted Rhaella by carrying her in his arms while Rhaelle and Steffon teamed up to block anyone from seeing them, leaving the newborn Rhaegar behind in the birthing chamber. 

“Get out! Get Rhaella out from this place before anyone comes here to see you take her away! Leave that little monster to burn!” the Dowager Lady of Storm's End screamed, before Steffon slammed the door shut so they could run away from the burning palace. 

The black smoke and heat from the fire around them had been overwhelming as Maegor carried Rhaella as quickly yet also as gently as he could. For the fourteen-year-old princess who had just delivered a baby, it was almost too much. 

“Grandfather...Ser Dunk…” 

“Do not worry, Rhaella, I have promised to give you freedom, and Uncle Aegon will have my hide in the afterlife if I break that promise now in this moment when we must hurry to get you away from your parents! I am only regretting that he and the Lord Commander were up in the Great Chamber when the wildfire went out of control…!”

She could hear his regret in the strained attempt to hold back his tears, and understood. But they could not grieve yet over the loss of Aegon, they needed to get as far away as possible before someone saw them. Even with their dark grey mantles with hoods, meant to hide their revealing Targaryen hair to be seen from a distance, there was a risk of someone spotting the footprints on the ground. 

“Over there!” 

Damn, Maegor realized with dread. Did anyone see them after all? Despite Rhaelle and Steffon trying to keep the servants away from the birthing chamber by handing out drinks with a sleeping drug inside as a false part of the celebration of a successful royal birth? 

A pain suddenly shot through his body, and he fell forwards. 

“Maegor!” Rhaella cried out, seeing in horror that he had been shot with an arrow from a crossbow into one leg, and it was her own parents and the wood witch who had followed them. One soldier standing next to her mother Shaera was holding the very crossbow that had been used. 

“Nice try stealing away our dear daughter for yourself, son of Aerion, but this is as far as you get. Rhaella is the wife of Aerys, and mother to his precious son. She belongs in the Red Keep as a proper Targaryen Queen consort, not as a beggar on some street in one of the Free Cities,” Shaera said in a mocking voice. 

Gritting his teeth from the pain as he turned around to face them, Maegor doubted that Shaera and Jaehaerys could have learned about the plan to try freeing Rhaella on their own. Both were clever, yes, but Rhaelle, whose marriage had been caused by Duncan marrying Jenny of Oldstone, could not have been the one betraying the escape plan. Nor would Steffon have done it, for he had never been accepting of his cousins marrying each other despite being brother and sister. It had to be the wood witch.  

“Cousins,” he said, using the family word that they hated to hear from him, “tell me: Is it really worth risking your own daughter's life and life-long health, just to try having a savior in the family? I think not. Rhaella is worth far more than a mere womb, someone who is a living person in her own right, not merely a puppet to use according to your own fake versions of grandeur and twisted desire for a sibling born from the same set of parents.” 

Not waiting for an answer, Maegor drew some of his blood from the wound on his fingers and placed his hand on Rhaella behind him. Exactly where her womb, now emptied of the child that she had never wanted in the first place, would be according to his lessons in how human bodies worked.

“Get your dirty hand off Rhaella! You are staining her with your mere presence!” 

Maegor only laughed, as if he had lost any control of his sanity. And Rhaella could feel a growing heat inside her womb, not painful like the awful labour pains she had felt before Rhaegar finally left her body. Rather, warm and gentle like Maegor had promised to be to her as a true brother.  

“Staining her? When she had to carry a child sired by her own flesh and blood brother? No...I am giving Rhaella the second-best gift I can give her at this moment, when I can not give her freedom: There shall be no sister for Rhaegar to wed, as per that unnatural custom you two have tried to bring back! Nor shall there be any female relatives close in age from the lines of cousin Vaella, or great-aunt Rhae and Daella for you to use as bride for him! Nor from the future children sired by Steffon! And any descendants of hers, male or female, shall also abominate the very idea of marrying their own siblings! ” 

When the meaning of his words seemed to dawn for Jaehaerys and Shaera, both their faces twisted into hate and disbelief. 

“You...you dare to claim that there will be only males in this generation to come?! To deny Rhaegar a wife with Targaryen blood?!” 

“KILL HIM!!” 

Against her horrified protests, screaming in horror for them to not do it, Rhaella saw the crossbows being ready for release. 

“NO!! PLEASE DON'T!! MOTHER, FATHER!! PLEASE, LET ME GO!! I HAVE ALREADY GIVEN A SON AND HEIR TO CARRY ON THE TARGARYEN NAME! I DO NOT WANT TO BE MARRIED TO AERYS!! I DON'T WANT TO CARRY ANY MORE OF HIS CHILDREN!!”

But Maegor smiled in defiance, despite his incoming death, holding one of her hands as a silent comfort into his last moment. 

“If I can not give Rhaella her promised freedom and will face the Stranger tonight alongside Uncle Aegon...then I will do him one final favor and bring along the very person who caused all this damn stupidity in the first place!” 

Again using his own blood, Maegor revealed one of the few remaining water magic tricks that the cult of Mother Rhoyne had not lost over time. And the small-grown, albino wood witch of Jenny found her throat slashed so deeply that she almost was beheaded as she collapsed in a pool of her own blood. 

“Rhaella....I am sorry for failing you tonight.” 

In the same moment as he said those final words to her over his shoulder, Maegor was shot with several bolts from the crossbows, each one hitting fatally as he fell backwards into her outreached arms, her horrified face being the last thing he saw with his eyes. 

“Maegor! NOOOOO!!! No, no! Please, do not leave me! You promised! NOOO!! Murderers! You are not my parents anymore, you are only a pair of murderers!” 

Even as she was grabbed by the soldiers and forced to let go of the impaled body which was left to rot, the group bringing her along back to the burning ruins of Summerhall, Rhaella kept screaming for Maegor and crying as if she had lost her common sense. And at the sight of Rhaegar, in the arms of a nursemaid who had managed to save him from a death by fire, something broke inside her. 

“I lost my true brother in all but blood...for this monster I never wanted?!”

The only thing that did not make her push away Rhaegar the same moment when her unwanted son was placed in her arms, was the overwhelming shock over everything she had lost this horrible night at Summerhall, when her freedom and a different life had been so close that she now felt it slipping away like fine smoke though her fingers. 

Chapter Text

Rhaenys did not need to see more visions of the horrible life Rhaella had suffered through, to know how her grandmother had been the victim from the actions of her own family members from the very moment she was born. For all around Rhaenys, she could feel the most common emotions from Rhaella; Resentment against her son and husband, unhappiness over her marriage with no way out despite her few remaining friends and allies trying to help her in many small creative ways behind the back of Aerys, disgust over every child in her womb being sired by her own brother, loneliness as the Kingsguard did nothing to help her…          

And an ever present desire to die. Death to escape the living hell Rhaella was trapped into, in the form of being forced to follow a Valyrian custom she hated. Death to escape the horrible memories of Summerhall, and the death of Maegor, whatever she saw Rhaegar. Death to be free from being bedded by her own flesh and blood brother, to be made to carry his children. Death to avoid the reawakening trauma of her first pregnancy and childbirth, whatever her moon blood stopped arriving as a foretelling of a new, unwanted child growing inside her again. 

Elia Martell, the fully grown Dornish daughter-in-law who had arrived like a gleam of hope in the darkness, by not being a close relative or too young to become a mother. Sweet Rhaenys, the granddaughter who had nothing of the Targaryen looks which Rhaella had grown to hate over the years. Little Aegon, who matched great-grandfather Maekar in looks so much that he would have been a perfect match if he had been scowling already as a baby.  

The news of Rhaegar vanishing with the Stark daughter, humiliating Elia twice and abandoning his own family. Viserys, in childish confusion over everything that was happening, repeating her own words that his sister-in-law was not to blame for the actions of his older brother, that Elia did nothing wrong to deserve what Rhaegar did to her, as she pleaded with him to say the same as she did:

“Elia did nothing wrong. It is Rhaegar who betrayed the marriage vows and abandoned his own family, his legal wife and young children. Elia did nothing wrong. Your brother is the one to blame for all of this. What sort of father and husband brings his own family into danger, by not being there and protecting them?! Elia is not the one to blame for our family losing the Iron Throne! She risked her life twice in the birthing bed to give him Rhaenys and Aegon, nearly dying to have them! Elia did nothing wrong! By running away with that Stark girl, Rhaegar openly showed that he cared nothing for his legal wife and his own children! Rhaegar abandoned them! He abandoned Elia, Rhaenys and Aegon for an ill-behaved, much younger girl who acted as if her betrothed having a natural daughter in the Vale is the worst thing ever to happen and a legal excuse to run away with a married father of two young children herself! Elia did nothing wrong to deserve this heartless treatment from Rhaegar! ”  

The cup of moon tea she had managed to scrape together, meant to kill the unwanted last child of Aerys in her belly. The overwhelming smell of blood as she began to bleed out alongside the ever so hated pains of labour starting, and then the fateful words which had broken Rhaella once for all: 

“It is a princess! A living princess! House Targaryen is blessed with a new daughter!” 

The cries of the female child over the storm outside the castle, sounding as if she was mocking Rhaella for holding on for so long to the promise of Maegor that she would not see a daughter wed to Rhaegar or another brother…   

“Elia....! Rhaenys! Aegon! Please....help....Maegor…” 

And then finally the long-awaited darkness of death. 

Rhaenys did not care that she was openly crying, but she was crying on behalf of Rhaella, who had died in despair and desperation for any confirmation that her daughter-in-law and young grandchildren were safe, after vanishing from the Red Keep during the Sack of King's Landing.  

“It is time to end this madness of House Targaryen. To end the name itself, and everything you built up over the past centuries. To end the illusions of glory. the self-justitations for actions that hurt others…. Morgan, remove the eyes of Jaehaerys and Shaera as punishment for their blindness about their daughter and her true self. Their ears that refused to hear her pleading to not be married to her own brother. The tongues, which they used to tell lies about why the marriage “needed” to happen. As they refuse to see, hear and talk the truth while being alive, then they have no use of those senses. ” 

“As you command, Mother. ”    

Even as a ghost, Morgan Martell had no problems with using raw strength and a simple dagger to do her request. Some things were better to do without magic, no matter how tempering it may feel. Rhaenys smirked to the sounds of anguish screaming as her past-life son made this seem like an art form that would have made Khamûl proud of his grandson, for sure. With their looks now matching Aerys once the maiming was done, no one could say that Jaehaerys and Shaera looked like they were not normal humans anymore. Too bad that she could not let them view themselves into a mirror or something such anymore, without their eyes.  

“I think I know the perfect way to make a fine blood seal so this portal is closed.” 

With no regrets, Rhaenys stabbed Aerys straight in the groin with her spear, deliberately straight on what he used to indirectly kill Rhaella several months after his own death. 

“You used this “flesh sword” to murder grandmother by knocking her up for the final time with a unwanted child of your seed, Aerys Targaryen. Now this unwanted blood in my own veins will be what I close the portal with.” 

Forcefully removing the spear from her despised grandfather, father of the man who had sired herself in this new life but never been a true father, and holding the bloody tip up towards the portal, Rhaenys unlocked her full magical power. 

  “ Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken!! ” 

The symbol of House Martell appeared in front of the portal, in the form of the same glowing orange light as the day when she needed to flee to this other world to save the unborn Morgan. But this time, the full force of the magic was actually strengthened, by her blood connection to the past Martell generations over thousands of years. Her own descendants, hailing from Morgan though his children and their offspring. Aerys and his parents were tossed into the middle of the seal by Morgan, into separate glass pyramids serving as their new prisons, as Rhaenys needed to focus on where to aim the magic, and indeed their maimed souls now became a padlock so that the portal could not be opened again. 

“Here is a final gift for you three selfish royal brats: You shall forever witness Rhaella in her new life and those lifetimes of her to come after that life, seeing her true self and never be able to torment her again!” 

With the power of the previous generations of House Martell, Rhaenys saw how not only was the portal closed above the vulcano, but the very island of Dragonstone and its castle was torn apart as if a powerful earthquake had focused on the island and said nature force coming back to the same starting point. 

“An excellent good-bye gift to the parents and brother that ruined the life of your current self's grandmother, Mother. They should enter true madness with time, over not being able to escape the seal and not be able to do anything to make Rhaella a “true” Targaryen princess again. ” 

With one final look on Dragonstone as the island was sinking into the sea, like a symbol for that House Targaryen basically was extinct. She and Aegon refused to have anything with their paternal family anymore, and with how Westeros had to focus on the threat from Sauron, any idea of attempting a Targaryen restoration to the Iron Throne had fallen very low on the to-do list for any possible remaining supporters of the previous royal dynasty. 

“Right, not all of the burial urns with the ashes of Targaryens deserve to be sunk into the sea. Apart from grandmother Rhaella, we shall bring Aegon V, for his attempt to save Rhaella from her unwanted life. His youngest son Daeron, who actually gave a true reason to break his betrothal with Olenna, by being drawn to his own gender and not wanting her to be trapped in a childless marriage which would never be consummated. The urn with the ashes of his father Maekar is buried beside his wife Dyanna Dayne at Starfall, and his youngest daughter Rhaelle is buried with the Baratheons at Storm's End, so it will be only those three urns to bring to Dorne.” 

It took her no effort to separate the urns she wanted to save, and held those into the air around her spiritual self for some moment. 

“I think it will be perfect that you will bury those urns in the family grave of Rhaegel Targaryen, his wife Alys Arryn, their three children and their only grandson Maegor at Sunspear, as they all secretly converted to the cult of Mother Rhoyne during their lives and Maegor himself served as a priest for the River Mother. Well, it is a suitable place for those few members of House Targaryen that broke away from their usual views and tried to show themselves as different.” 

Together, they returned to Dorne and the grave chamber below the Sandship. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

At Helm's Deep, the nightly battle had indeed not gone as hoped for the Orcs and Uruk-Hai. Against the Dornish-Rohirric alliance, and the back-up of wildfire, the number of enemies from Isengard had now sunk to a very low number.

“More oil! More oil and fire arrows over here!” 

Thanks to that the wildfire was still burning, the enemies could not come closer to the Hornburg and the wall, except for a few narrow spots between all the sickly green fires, and that was where the defenders now focused on. 

“Listen! The war horns of Dorne!” 

Indeed, as the sun was rising to greet the new dawn, there were the sounds of horns being blown in the distance. 

“Yes,” Théoden spoke in a hopeful voice at the sound, “Yes. The Horn of Helm Hammerhand shall sound in the valley...to answer our allies!” 

“Yes, my Lord!” 

One of the men serving Ekenbrand hurried to carry out the order, and the leaders of the defenders looked at each other. 

“We can not lose this battle. For the sake of the younger generation we are fighting to protect from this evil...and those to come!” 

As the Orcs were preparing to charge, the sound of the Dornish warhorn arose behind them, like a wind in the distance, and it grew to a clamour of many voices crying strange news in the dawn. The Orcs in the front nearest the wildfires, hearing the forewarning of death, wavered and looked back. And then, sudden and terrible, from the tower above, the sound of the great horn of Helm rang out in response. 

“Forth Eorlingas!” 

All that heard the sound of the horn trembled. Many of the Orcs cast themselves on their faces and covered their ears with their claws. Back from the Deep the echoes came, blast upon blast, as if on every cliff and hill a mighty herald stood. But on the walls men looked up, listening with wonder; for the echoes did not die. Ever the horn-blasts wound on among the hills; nearer now and louder they answered one to another, blowing fierce and free.

The land had changed as the night passed. Where before the green dale had lain only the evening before, its grassy slopes lapping the ever-mounting hills, there now a forest loomed. Great trees, bare and silent, stood, rank on rank, with tangled boughs and hoary heads; their twisted roots were buried in the long green grass. Darkness was under them. Between the Dike and the eaves of that nameless wood only two open furlongs lay. There now cowered the proud hosts of Saruman, in terror of the king and in terror of the trees. They streamed down from Helm's Gate until all above the Dike was empty of them, but below it they were packed like swarming flies. Vainly they crawled and clambered about the walls of the coombe, seeking to escape. Upon the east too sheer and stony was the valley's side; upon the left, from the west, their final doom approached.

There suddenly upon a ridge appeared a rider, clad in white, shining in the rising sun. Over the low hills the horns were sounding. Behind him, hastening down the long slopes, were a thousand men, both Rohirrim and Dornish, on foot; their swords were in their hands. Amid them strode Harmen Uller, tall and strong despite his age, alongside Ekenbrand. As he came to the valley's brink, the aged Lord of Hellholt set to his lips a great war horn and blew a ringing blast.

“To the spears! ”

 “Behold the White Rider!” cried Aragorn at the sight, “Gandalf has come again!”

“Mithrandir, Mithrandir!” Legolas called over the battle around him and Gimli as he teamed up back to back with Boromir, “This is wizardry indeed! Come! I would look at this forest, ere the spell changes!”

The hosts of Isengard roared as the new army tore into them like an axe cutting firewood in two, swaying this way and that, turning from fear to fear. Again the horn sounded from the tower. Down through the breach of the Dike charged the former Rohirric king's company. Down from the hills leaped Erkenbrand, lord of Westfold. Down leaped Shadowfax, like a deer that runs sure footed in the mountains. The White Rider was upon them, and the terror of his coming filled the enemy with madness. The wild men fell on their faces before him. The Orcs reeled and screamed and cast aside both sword and spear. Like a black smoke driven by a mounting wind they fled. Wailing they passed under the waiting shadow of the trees; and from that shadow none ever came again.

So it was that in the light of a fair morning Théoden and Gandalf the White Rider met again upon the green grass beside the Deeping-stream. There was also Aragorn son of Arathorn, Boromir of Gondor and Legolas the Elf, and Erkenbrand of Westfold, and the lords of the Golden House. About them were gathered the Rohirrim, and their Dornish allies: wonder overcame their joy in victory, and their eyes were turned towards the wood.

Suddenly there was a great shout, and down from the Dike came those who had been driven back into the Deep. There came Gamling the Old, and Éomer son of Éomund, and beside them walked Gimli the dwarf. He had no helm, and about his head was a linen band stained with blood; but his voice was loud and strong.

“Forty-two, Master Legolas!” he cried in pride at the sight of the Elf, “Alas! My axe is notched: the forty-second had an iron collar on his neck. How is it with you?”

“You have passed my score by one,” answered Legolas, trying to not be too alarmed over the injury Gimli had gotten, “But I do not grudge you the game, so glad am I to see you on your legs!”

“Welcome, Éomer, dearest sister-son!” said Théoden in clear relief at not having lost another close family member to death, “Now that I see you safe, I am glad indeed. For this is exactly that kind of news I wish to bring back to Edoras.” 

“Hail, fedra,” Éomer responded with a light bow on his head, “The dark night has passed and day has come again. But the day has brought strange tidings.”

He turned and gazed in wonder, first at the strange wood that seemed to have sprung out of nowhere overnight and then at Gandalf with a glare that was all Morwen. 

“Once more you come in the hour of need, unlooked-for,” he said.

“Unlooked-for?” said Gandalf, “I said that I would return and meet you here.”

“But you did not name the hour, nor foretell the manner of your coming. Even with our Dornish allies, strange help you bring to this valley. You are mighty in wizardry, Gandalf the White!”

“That may be. But if so, I have not shown it yet. I have but given good counsel in peril, and made use of the speed of Shadowfax. Your own valour has done more, and the stout legs of the Westfold-men marching through the night.”

Then they all gazed at Gandalf with still greater wonder. Some glanced darkly at the wood, and passed their hands over their brows, as if they thought their eyes saw otherwise than his.

“None in the Martell family have yet mastered the ability to make a full forest spring out from seeds in the ground overnight,” Oberyn informed with all the seriousness he could master as a not-ruling Prince of Dorne. To this, Gandalf laughed long and merrily despite the glares on him. 

“The trees?” the White Wizard said, “Nay, I see the wood as plainly as do you. But that is no deed of mine, nor that of House Martell. It is a thing beyond the counsel of the wise. Better than my design, and better even than my hope the event has proved.”

“Then if not yours or theirs, whose is the wizardry?” Théoden wondered, “'Not Saruman's, that is plain. Is there some mightier sage, of whom we have yet to learn?”

“It is not wizardry, but a power far older,” Gandalf responded: “a power that walked the earth, ere elf sang or hammer rang.

Ere iron was found or tree was hewn,

When young was mountain under moon;

Ere ring was made, or wrought was woe,

It walked the forests long ago.” 

None of them really felt for trying riddles right now, so it was rather welcomed to hear Griff call as he came running from the Hornburg after using a smaller portal to arrive there: 

“Éomer! Éomer! Come over to the Old Palace through the portal! There is someone waiting to meet you!” 

For a moment, no one caught the meaning, before it dawned on the Third Mashal what the younger boy ment. 

“Hold on, you can not possibly mean... tonight?! In the middle of this battle?! Oh, she is going to never let me forget this, risking my life in battle while she gives birth!”  

Dashing back to the Hornburg with his uncle also realizing what had happened, Éomer seemed to have forgotten any tiredness from a sleepless night. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

In the Old Palace, Lothíriel had just gotten her body washed clean after the birth, as well having other after-birth checkings to ensure that the placenta had come loose as it should and other things that would prevent unpredictable problems. 

“Look, Rhaenys looks like she is completely enchanted despite this child not being her own or a new close relative,” Mellario said at noticing how Rhaenys was holding the baby in her arms, and that she would not tear her eyes away from the little face. 

“You are loved, ” the oldest daughter of Elia whispered in a voice thick of emotions, “You are loved. You are longed-for. You will never be hurt again.” 

She was repeating almost the exact same words Rhaella had spoken to her infant self and to Aegon, when she met her two grandchildren. The words the last Targaryen queen consort had said to show herself as different from her brother-husband and his displeasure over how they took after Elia.  

You are loved.

“Lothíriel! Are you alright?!” a voice called over the sound of heavy, running footsteps towards the birth chamber. Once he showed up at the door, Éomer was indeed a sight, covered in blood and other signs of coming straight from a battlefield without giving himself a moment to change out of his armor. 

“You look like you are the one entering the world from the womb,” Lothíriel could not help but comment with a tired smile, for her husband was no stranger to help the mares giving birth to their valuable foals and if he only removed the armour, he did indeed look like he had been out in the stables to help in a such situation. 

“Being greeted by a blood-covered father is only fitting for a battle-born child,” Rhaenys added in, raising from where she had been sitting with crossed legs on some pillows and walking over to hand Éomer his firstborn child. The baby was not yet swapped, only covered with the soft cotton blanket, and this detail allowed the new father to feel the baby all the better in his arms. Yet, he did not seem that upset when Lothíriel told him that they had been blessed with a daughter tonight. 

“Elfhilda,“ Éomer managed to say in wonder as he looked at the baby girl in his arms, “after the mother of my cousin, who never got to wear the crown of a queen at the side of her husband. Elfhilda, the Battle-born and bringer of hope.” 

The name of her new self seemed to be what the soul of Rhaella inside the baby needed to hear, as well Éomer thanking Lothíriel for a such beautiful daughter that was indeed a bringer of hope for the future. Not doing anything to stop it from happening, Rhaenys felt how the last trace of her grandmother's self vanished with a faint smile of gratitude, leaving the baby a blank state to start over in this new life. At least, Rhaella Targaryen was at peace, free from her former life and able to break free from the horrors she had lived with. 

“You are loved,” she repeated almost soundlessly to the reincarnation of her grandmother, knowing that Elfhilda deserved all the love and care from this set of parents that was so different from Jaehaerys II and Shaera Targaryen. Rhaella had deserved better, much better than the horrible life she had suffered, and this new life for her was long overdue, she had only needed to be born to the right couple. 

Chapter Text

Selyse was walking back and forth on the ship's deck as they kept sailing towards the ancestral home of House Baratheon. It was the only way she revealed how deeply worried she was about her husband and her two daughters. 

Shireen and Rhea had been kidnapped in front of her very eyes.

She had no words for explaining the terror she had felt, when magic of all things had moved her, the girls, Mya, Eric and Brienne from the Great Hall of Storm's End and into the capital of all places. Where those monsters had been attacking. And her daughters had been taken hostages together with their cousins, both within the marriage bed and outside the marriage bed, as if those monsters wanted all the members of the new Baratheon generation to be threatened if Robert and Stannid did not obey whatever they were told. One mistake, and the whole House Baratheon may die out.  

“Stannis...Stannis, please, bring our girls back home safely....” she pleaded in her mind, her hands trembling, not from the cold sea winds but her own inner fears. 

Selyse had never been the most motherly of women, rather the type to prefer older children that could behave reasonable well and speak properly to people around, over wailing infants who was dependant on adults for everything and young toddlers who had those horrible daily tantrums, but she loved her daughters despite them not being the needed male heirs for Stannis and he was fond of his two children as well in his own manner without saying it. 

But in this situation, Selyse had never cursed her own limits as a Great Lady like she did now. She had failed to protect Shireen and Rhea, the two blessings in the marriage, and there was nothing she could do to aid Stannis on his mission to try saving them. Sure, she was two months away from having a third child, perhaps the son who could become a little brother to the girls, but what if Stannis and the girls never returned?!

Stannis, her stern, humourless but still loyal husband who had never broken his marriage vows. Shireen, the sweet-natured and clever oldest girl. Rhea, in every inch a miniature of Stannis and his personality with the Targaryen looks. 

Would she be finding herself alone at Storm's End, having to try raising a third daughter or much-needed son without those three alongside her as a family? 

Selyse feared for her husband and daughters in so many ways that she could not focus on anything else, praying to Elenei that the daughter of the sea god and goddess of wind would protect her family. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X 

In Winterfell, a similar feeling of dread had fallen over Catelyn Stark ever since she read the newest letter from Eddard. 

Sansa and Arya had been kidnapped by someone who held a grudge against House Stark for the Rebellion and what role Lyanna had played in it. 

The current Lord Stark knew his wife well enough to know that Catelyn would never believe him if he wrote that their daughters had been kidnapped by the aged-up “ghost” of the stillborn bastard child that Lyanna had borne Rhaegar, so instead he had written that someone had acted out of revenge for the Rebellion when the attack on the capital happened, taking use of that none of the Stark guards had been there with Eddard and his three children. 

“My girls...my poor girls! Cursed be that long-reaching shadow of the Rebellion, and how Lyanna is affecting the Stark family even now from beyond the grave!”

A cry came from the cradle next to her bed, reminding Catelyn of why she could not leave Winterfell now. It was not just for Bran and Rickon needing their mother and her own duties as Lady Stark, she had given birth to a third daughter mere days before her two older ones were stolen from him, in front of Eddard's very eyes as he was unable to stop it from his own injuries.

“Saya, I am so sorry...I hoped that we four would be able to travel south when you were a few months older and meet your sisters….” she whispered, taking the baby into her arms and cried. All Catelyn could do was to pray to the Seven and the Old Gods that Sansa and Arya would be found quickly and saved as soon as possible, so Eddard could bring them back home to Winterfell and herself, so they were safe. 

“Ned...please, please, bring them home…!” 

She could hardly know that Sansa and Arya were actually in a whole different world at that moment, and that any search for them in Gondor would be a nightmare because the Kingdom was pretty huge even now long past its glory days and that the girls was about to join the “Orphan labour force”, a legal system where the orphans in Gondor past the age of seven, was made to leave the orphanages and sent to work as young maids and farm-workers on various farms out in the countryside, if they were not already registered as apprentices in some craft inside the cities or the larger villages. 

Chapter Text

The news of the victory at Helm's Deep was much welcomed at Edoras, as was the birth of little Elfhilda. It did not matter that she was a daughter, the House of Eorl had gotten a new member on the current family tree and both she and her mother had survived the birth.        

“I am an aunt! I have got a sweet little niece!” Éowyn repeated for herself over and over in joy over the news, making a true smile for the first time since her cousin got injured. And given her worry about Faramir, as well her not so well-hidden frustration over that she could not help her betrothed due to the travel distance between Minas Tirith and Edoras, she needed something more joyful as distraction.   

“Feder is going to be so emotional at hearing that my cousin named his first daughter after my modur,” Théodred smiled at hearing the news about Éomer and Lothíriel being blessed with their first child on a such important victory for Rohan. 

“Yes. And what a dawn to be born at! I only hope that she will not be overshadowed by the memory of this victory when she grows up. It is never enjoyable to have your own birthday be forgotten in favor of something else.”

Elia had realized this problem many years earlier, thanks to Rhaenys being born the day after the winter solstice here in Arda, and the whole family had done their best to make her birthday a day of celebration as well. 

“Fair point. But she will be called Battle-born as a nickname, for sure.” 

It felt comfortable to see her husband a little more active, even if he still had to remain in bed and rest for his wounds. But he was no longer in danger of dying from a horrible infection, and had managed to stay awake for longer periods now. A good sign of recovery, despite it being slow.  

“Feder! Do you think that we may meet Elfhilda before long?” 

“And that she is just as small as cousin Loreza was, when she was born?” 

Seeing their father feeling good enough to sit up in bed for a while, had done some wonder for Andréth and Aégnor too. Théodred would still need to make a long recovery, but both Elia herself and their children were less afraid that they would lose him now.  

“I am surprised that you still remember Loreza as a baby, but then again, it is not that long ago and I am sure that some of those memories can still be recalled when seeing the swaddle blankets aunt Ellaria used for her,” Elia smiled, thinking of the three-year-old eighth and youngest daughter of Oberyn. While most of the next generation was old enough to realize what this horrible war was about, it felt like a small comfort that at least Loreza would be spared from any such memories.

~X~X~X~X~X~X    

On the other hand, something very different was happening in Isengard: 

Saruman could only stare at the devastation below the tower's balcony. The choice to join Sauron, all his work to breed new Uruk-hai, to try and weaken Rohan so Sauron would more or less have the conquest of the Mannish Kingdom served on a silver platter….

All of it was in ruins. He had failed to realize the powers of the Ents, Lady Yavanna's own creations, all because they were nearly extinct in numbers. To see them attack Isengard, storming the valley after breaking its gates and even breaking the dam so everything sans the tower of Orthane was flooded… 

And worse, something else was now coming straight towards the tower. 

“Oh no…”

All of his usual cunning and self-confidence was blown away by the sound of the dreaded cry he heard in the distance. One of the Nazgûl had come on their winged beasts, and would see his failure. 

“No, no, no, no…!” 

Even as Saruman hurried inside and locked every door he could, the force of a sand storm crossed the windows, breaking the glass. The winged fey-beast landed on top of Orthane, held on with its claws as it gave a warning roar to the Ents below. Much to the fallen Maia's dread, the sound of iron boots was heard against the stones of which the towers were built from. 

“You have failed my Master. ” 

Not the Witch-king of Angmar that forced up the doors to reveal himself, but Khamûl who was equally feared by the enemies of Sauron, and there was a very good reason why he was second-in-command to the Witch-king. 

“I had everything under control until this morning when Helm's Deep proved harder to defeat than I expected! Were it not for the current Queen consort of Rohan and her family, Rohan would have lost its King and fallen into chaos…!” 

Saruman was terrified, and he could feel a tighter hold around his throat where Khamûl used fine grains of sand to slowly choke him. 

“You still failed, craven Wizard. You are worthless as an ally now. No army, no way of sowing distrust between the powerful ones in Rohan...you are useless!! ” 

Just like Rhaenys had done with the ghost of Aerys the night before at Dragonstone, Khamûl tossed Saruman around and slammed him against the walls, like a upset child would do with a ragdoll during a temper tantrum, but both attacks were meant to show displeasure. And since Saruman was in the body of an old man, this meant that he suffered grave injuries whatever he was thrown against something. 

“Agh!” 

Even if Sauruman desperately summoned his staff in an attempt to defend himself, Khamûl had expected such a move and focused his sand on the staff, drying the wood so much that it broke in two halves, one top and one bottom, when Saruman grabbed it. 

“I witnessed how all you Nine were defeated by a group of untrained brats using wind and water magic on the 25th of February. Feeling upset over losing the hostages you intended to bring to Mordor for your Master?” 

In response, Khamûl almost choked Saruman for real. Below his hood, the golden mask with quartz for the eyes and obsidian acting in place for the pupils, were still unmoving but a burning glare could be felt behind the mask nonetheless.  

“Watch that tongue of yours, Wizard, or you shall find yourself without it. Do you even know how long it has been since someone with magical powers has been able to actually challenge us Nine? ”   

Gasping for breath as he knelt in terror, Saruman did not dare to try saying anything that would possibly result in Khamûl truly killing him. True, he was a Maia, but being bound to a body of flesh and blood had its disadvantages. Not to mention that if the Witch-king would somehow be killed, Khamûl would rise to become the leader of the Nazgûl, and be even more feared than what he was right now. The two most powerful Ringwraiths were different in basic personality and did not exactly hide that had it not been for Sauron, they would most likely have tried to kill each other a long time ago. 

“We will be keeping an eye on you, Wizard. ” 

But as the former Farao was about to leave Saruman with this warning, the palantír began to glow from its place in the middle of the other chamber. Yet it was not Sauron who tried to see what the Fallen Wizard was doing, but a very different image was visible:

An image of Elia, as she and Rhaenys were talking about something outside Edoras between them in private. Side by side, anyone who had seen Mara in her original life would see some strong similarity to this set of mother and daughter, for Elia had been looking nearly exactly the same as Mara in her twenties and even if she did look different from her past self, Rhaenys still radiated the same aura and mannerisms as the Princess of Kemet. 

A strange sound left Khamûl as he once again felt the old scar on his long-gone body acting up as if it was burning. Memories of that fateful day in the past when he had become a Ringwraith, the endless search for Mara and her descendants over the passage of time… 

“Hah...hah aha, ha ha...so this was your game, sweet Mara?” the Ringwraith laughed darkly, “Making one of your descendants so alike yourself in looks, and yourself as her daughter? Clever, my dear daughter, very clever! Nerfertari would have been proud of you using your mind like that! But no more! Now I finally know your current face, just like for your reborn siblings from my other wives and concubines! All of you teaming up together against me and Sauron? Let us all see who shall win!” 

With a powerful strike, Khamûl knocked Saruman unconscious, and put a magical seal on him to prevent the Wizard from remembering this vision of Elia and Rhaenys, and possibly trying to use that information for his own purposes once Khamûl had left Isengard. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

Back where they were outside Edoras, however, Elia and Rhaenys were unaware of what was about to happen. Instead, they talked about what to do if Khamûl indeed found out that Rhaenys was the current reincarnation of Mara. 

“I know that he is an enemy, Rhaenys, but at the same time, I feel some form of understanding of his actions and why he must have believed that Sauron could offer him help to get revenge on Tar-Minyatur. As a parent, the desire to protect my children from dangers and people who threaten them....”

A deep irony, indeed, for that Elia could feel sympathy for a Nazgûl of all beings, especially when it was such a contrast to Lyanna Stark and her selfish attempt to escape her expected duty as a daughter in one of the most high-ranked noble families in Westeros. 

“Madre, you have always been a realist and been able to think ahead of how all actions have their consequences. This has saved you many times, yet sadly, you can not stand people who are narrow-minded about their own behavior…?!” 

Suddenly, both mother and daughter felt a dark aura come closer. And a very unwanted scream was heard when Elia looked down on her left palm to see the glowing image of a spear. 

“Khamûl!?”

“He must have been near Isengard and seen it fall!” Rhaenys gasped in alarm over why her past-life father was here in Rohan, holding up her spear to cast a barrier around all of Edoras for protection. It was a good choice of action, for the fey-beast could cover vast distances with those wings. A smaller sandstorm was thrown against the barrier, likely to test her magical and spiritual strength in this life. 

“Do not underestimate us after all those years and times of Mara being reborn into her own blood descendants.... FARAO!! ” 

Focusing her own aura, Elia broke the sandstorm apart, revealing Khamûl standing in front of them. Expect that he was not wearing the normal black cloak and hood, but taking a ghostly form of his mortal self. 

“Impressive for the woman who you did choose as your current mother. You have birthed mighty descendants from your son, Mara. A good choice, a very good choice. ” 

Normally that would be a compliment that Elia had actually appreciated, had it just been a completely different situation and he was not a mortal enemy. 

“You are hardly here for mere smalltalk, are you?” she asked, making the Ringwraith focus on her. However, Khamûl only laughed as if it was something amusing she said. 

“As a fellow parent, would you not desire to see your surviving child healthy and strong to stand on her own two feet? Locking up the descendants of Neith was not something I am fond of, but I refused to see my bloodline die out for real, not when I did not know if Mara and her son had survived. And with them living in a golden cage, I could keep an eye on them. Lessening the numbers to one surviving woman or man per generation, made them easier to control. “ 

Elia knew that this was something Suleiman had mentioned as a guess to why Khamûl had acted like that with the descendants of Neith. To hear the former Farao basically confirm the reason, did not make the horrors less real. 

“Murdering your own descendants and keeping only one of them alive to be the main prisoner in that golden cage, are not proof of you being a caring ancestor.” 

She tried very hard to keep her fear hidden. The dark aura around Khamûl was overwhelming, but she had to stay strong for Rhaenys. 

“Too bad that you are not thirty years younger, you would have been an excellent addition to my current harem of mortal women with magical abilities. You have the ability to make people be unable to forget you, even years afterwards, do you know that? Such an unforgettable impression....that is worthy of a Queen! ” 

Rhaenys quickly cast a smaller barrier between them and Khamûl, yet something found itself fastened around the hand joints, fingers, ear lops, neck and forehead of Elia. 

“That is...the jewelry of my mother Nerfertari?” Rhaenys whispered in disbelief, seeing the once so familiar set of royal jewelry on the shocked Elia, who had expected to be attacked instead. Khamûl only smiled in a way that reminded very much of how he would look fondly at Nefertari when she was alive. 

“She would have wanted to pass down that as a memento of her to yourself and your female descendants, Mara. It has just taken me a very long time to find you again. ” 

An honest underestimation, with the fall of Kemet happening well over 4 000 years ago. 

“Father, I am only saying this once: You fell into the darkness for my sake, so I will be the one to break you free from those chains, one way or another!” 

Releasing her aura again, the ground below her began to glow a warm golden light as Rhaenys pointed her spear against Khamûl. He actually seemed to like the challenge, for he did not do anything else than mounting his fey-beast again. 

“I look forward to seeing you trying, my sweet Princess. If you fail, then I will promise this in return: Your descendants shall find themselves in a golden cage under my control as well! ” 

Not the most cheerful thing to say, but at least he had promised to not kill everyone in House Martell in front of her eyes and leave her as the only survivor, just like Selim had found himself many years earlier. 

“Do us a favor and finish to put the Lion Lord in his rightful place when you are doing this, he may have lost his ancestral seat and noble title, but there are still people who will try to follow his lead and try to restore him,” Elia added in, knowing that Tywin Lannister would find himself in hell with Khamûl around for the second time. 

“Oh, that ridiculous man who thinks himself a fearsome lion. Clearly he has not been taught that not even those large felines can defeat the sun and desert in the long run. No need to tell me what to do with him, I am still not done with punishing him for trying to have you murdered all those years ago. ” 

That was not surprising to hear from him, since Rhaenys had revealed Tywin Lannister as a danger to herself, Elia and Aegon four years ago when Arianne came of age. 

With the fey-beast rising into the air and turned back towards Mordor, Khamûl left them with one final scream echoing through the air. But both Elia and Rhaenys collapsed to their knees, trembling as their inner terror now taking control over them for real. 

“Madre! Rhaenys! What happened?! Did the Ringwraith try to kidnap you two to use as hostages against Rohan!?” the alarmed Aegon called as he came running, several soldiers behind him. 

“We must defeat Sauron...for the sake of our whole family…” Elia managed to say in a shaky voice, hiding the jewelry of Nerfertari from sight somewhat by pulling up her shawl over her head. She was trembling in her whole body, both from fear and the cold evening wind. Beside her, Rhaenys was staring hard in the direction where Khamûl had vanished, her eyes glowing amber as she began to cry in grief over the monster her once beloved father had become. 

Chapter Text

Everyone in the Golden Hall was very unnerved by what Rhaenys told them, about what Khamûl had promised her before departing. 

“What worries me the most, is that he somehow found out who you once was, sister….” 

His whole body language spoke of how scared Aegon actually was for his sister. And he had a very good reason for worrying about her: 

People would always talk about the burdens of kingship and how he would always have to try escaping the shadow of the deeds done by Aerys and Rhaegar, but what was the feeling of an iron ring around your head, compared to the horror of knowing that your previous self was the reason for your past-life father joining a Dark Lord and now posed a mortal danger to everyone? The burden of trying to defend your own descendants, among whom you had been reborn? And the unspoken guilt of bringing said descendants into this very danger that was the ongoing War of the Ring? 

“Aegon. He would have found out my current identity sooner or later, it was inevitable he would find enough clues to that mystery eventually. But if that means I have to act as a bait, so be it, to defend you all and my reborn siblings from my life as Mara.”

Rhaenys spoke the blunt truth, and no one could disagree. 

On the other hand, a far more peaceful meeting between relatives had just happened in the Old Palace;  

Even with the agreement to ride to Isengard to see what exactly had happened there the following day, Théoden still took some time to enjoy the first meeting with little Elfhilda, his great-niece. Just as his son had said when hearing her given name himself, the former King of Rohan felt very touched over that Éomer and Lothíriel had named their daughter after his late wife. 

“She is lovely, already at this tender age.”

Seeing the newborn girl with her little face as she slept peacefully inside her comfortable blanket, and feeling the weight of her in his arms, reminded Théoden once again about his personal desire to keep Rohan safe. His son may be the King now, but he wanted to do his share as a protector of their people. 

“I will return to Dunhollow with her at dawn, but I am afraid that this husband of mine must come with you because as the Third Mashal, he must think of Rohan and not be selfish.” 

Lothíriel poked her sleeping husband with her foot against his arm, where he was sleeping across the end of her guest bed in order not take up too much space for her, no doubt trying to recapture as much as possible of the sleep he was denied at Helm's Deep the previous night due to the battle. Elfhilda had fallen asleep with her little fist closed around his finger, but the infant girl had let go of the finger earlier and not woken up when being placed in the arms of her great-uncle. 

“Unfortunately, you are right, Lothíriel, we must see the full scale of damage done to the villages nearest Isengard and muster as many Rohirrim warriors as possible for riding to Gondor. We have agreed that the youngsters below the age of 18 shall remain in Rohan to help defend their homeland, and try to not take too many old men away from their families.” 

Lothíriel caught the meaning. Théoden knew that there was a risk that he would not return to Rohan alive if he led the army towards Gondor and aid her homeland against Mordor, only his body for burial, but he had lived with this his whole life and refused to back down. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

For all that were not hurt or wounded after the nightly battle at Helm's Deep, began a great labor; for many among the Rohirrim and Dornishmen had fallen in the battle and lay dead upon the field or in the Deep. No Orcs remained alive; their bodies were uncounted. But a great many of the hillmen had given themselves up when seeing how they were outnumbered; and they were afraid, and cried for mercy. The Men of the Mark took their weapons from them, and set them to work on digging.

“Help now to repair the evil in which you have joined,” said Erkenbrand with kindness because many of those hillmen, especially the younger ones who barely had reached manhood, had probably thought that battles were as in songs, glorious and not a single mention of the terrible scenes that reality would show; “and afterwards you shall take an oath never again to pass the Fords of Isen in arms, nor to march with the enemies of Men; and then you shall go free back to your land. For you have been deluded by Saruman. Many of you have got death as the reward of your trust in him; but had you conquered, little better would your wages have been.” 

The men of Dunland were amazed over this mercy, unaware that this once again was the command of Queen Elia as a reminder that most soldiers were common men who paid the highest price when lordings wanted to play war like a game, for Saruman had told them that the men of Rohan were cruel and burned their captives alive.

In the midst of the field before the Hornburg two mounds were raised, and beneath them were laid all the Riders of the Mark and Dornishmen who fell in the defense, those of the East Dales upon one side, and those of Westfold upon the other. In a grave alone under the shadow of the Hornburg lay Háma, the chosen bodyguard of Théoden on the request of his son in order to keep the former King safe from harm. He fell before the Gate.

On the other hand, the Orcs and Uruk-hai were piled in great heaps, away from the mounds of Men, not far from the eaves of the forest. And the people were troubled in their minds; for the heaps of carrion were too great for burial or for burning. They had little wood for firing, and none would have dared to take an axe to the strange trees, even if Gandalf had not warned them to hurt neither bark nor bough at their great peril.

“Let the Orcs lie where you have placed them,” said Gandalf to those who spoke of their worries to him, ”The morning may bring new counsel.” 

In the afternoon the chosen company for Isengard prepared to depart. The work of burial was then but beginning; and Théoden mourned for the loss of Háma, his protector, and cast the first earth upon his grave. 

“Great injury indeed has Saruman done to me and all this land ruled by my son,” he said; “and I will remember it, when we meet.”

The sun was already drawing near the hills upon the west of the Coomb, when at last Théoden and Gandalf and their companions rode down from the Dike. Behind them were gathered a great host, both of the Riders and of the people of Westfold, old and young, women and children, who had come out from the caves. A song of victory they sang with clear voices; and then they fell silent, wondering what would chance, for their eyes were on the trees and they feared them.

The Riders came to the wood, and they halted; horse and man, they were unwilling to pass as the first one. All of the trees were grey and menacing, and a shadow or a mist was hanging about them. The ends of their long sweeping boughs hung down like searching fingers, their roots stood up from the ground like the limbs of strange monsters, and dark caverns opened beneath them. But Gandalf went forward, leading the company, and where the road from the Hornburg met the trees they saw now an opening like an arched gate under mighty boughs; and through it Gandalf passed, and they followed him. Then to their amazement they found that the road ran on, and the Deeping-stream beside it; and the sky was open above and full of golden light. But on either side the great aisles of the wood were already wrapped in dusk, stretching away into impenetrable shadows; and there they heard the creaking and groaning of boughs, and far cries, and a rumour of wordless voices, murmuring angrily. No Orc or other living creature could be seen.

Legolas and Gimli were now riding together upon one horse; and they kept close beside Gandalf, for Gimli was afraid of the wood. Dwarves held a great respect for trees thanks to Yavanna being the Consort of Aulë, their Creator, and woe the fool who showed disrespect for the Earth Mother, as she was called among them. 

“It is hot in here,” said Legolas to Gandalf with a slight twitch in the pointed tip of his ears, “I feel a great wrath about me. Do you not feel the air throb in your ears?”

“Yes,” said Gandalf with calmness, making Boromir ask from his place in the group: 

“What has become of the miserable Orcs?”

“That, I think, no one will ever know,” was all Gandalf said as answer. 

They rode in silence for a while; but Legolas was ever glancing from side to side, and would often have halted to listen to the sounds of the wood, if Gimli had allowed it.

“These are the strangest trees that ever I saw, 'and I have seen many an oak grow from acorn to ruinous age back home in the Greenwood Realm. I wish that there were leisure now to walk among them: they have voices, and in time I might come to understand their thoughts.”

“No, no!” protested Gimli behind his back, “Let us leave them! I guess their thought already: hatred of all that go on two legs; and their speech is of crushing and strangling.” 

“Not of all that go on two legs!” Legolas hurried to try to calm his friend, “There I think you are wrong. It is Orcs that they hate. For they do not belong here and know little of Elves and Men. Far away are the valleys where they sprang. From the deep dales of Fangorn, Gimli, that is whence they come, I guess.” 

“Then that is the most perilous wood in Middle-earth,” said Gimli nervously, “I should be grateful for the part they have played, but I do not love them. You may think them wonderful, but I have seen a greater wonder in this land, more beautiful than any grove or glade that ever grew: my heart is still full of it. 'Strange are the ways of Men, Legolas! Here they have one of the marvels of the Northern World, and what do they say of it? Caves, they say! Caves! Holes to fly to in time of war, to store fodder in! My good Legolas, do you know that the caverns of Helm's Deep are vast and beautiful? There would be an endless pilgrimage of Dwarves, merely to gaze at them, if such things were known to be. Aye indeed, they would pay pure gold for a brief glance!”

“And I would give gold to be excused,” said Legolas in slight humor; “and double to be let out, if I strayed in!”

Their chance to talk about something else, seemed to ease the worries of the Dwarf and both Aragorn and Boromir nodded in silent agreement that they may be an unlikely pair of friends but had grown close over their journey so far.

“You have not seen, so I forgive your jest,” said Gimli in a better mood than before, before adding on; 

“But you speak like a fool. Do you think those halls are fair, where your King dwells under the hill in Mirkwood, and Dwarves helped in their making long ago? They are but hovels compared with the caverns I have seen here: immeasurable halls, filled with an everlasting music of water that tinkles into pools, as fair as Kheled-zâram in the starlight. And, Legolas, when the torches are kindled and men walk on the sandy floors under the echoing domes, ah! then, Legolas, gems and crystals and veins of precious ore glint in the polished walls; and the light glows through folded marbles, shell-like, translucent as the living hands of Queen Galadriel. There are columns of white and saffron and dawn-rose, Legolas, fluted and twisted into dreamlike forms; they spring up from many-coloured floors to meet the glistening pendants of the roof: wings, ropes, curtains fine as frozen clouds; spears, banners, pinnacles of suspended palaces! Still lakes mirror them: a glimmering world looks up from dark pools covered with clear glass; cities. such as the mind of Durin could scarce have imagined in his sleep, stretch on through avenues and pillared courts, on into the dark recesses where no light can come. And plink! a silver drop falls, and the round wrinkles in the glass make all the towers bend and waver like weeds and corals in a grotto of the sea. Then evening comes: they fade and twinkle out; the torches pass on into another chamber and another dream. There is chamber after chamber, Legolas; hall opening out of hall, dome after dome, stair beyond stair; and still the winding paths lead on into the mountains' heart. Caves! The Caverns of Helm's Deep! Happy was the chance that drove me there! It makes me weep to leave them.” 

“Then I will wish you this fortune for your comfort, Gimli,” said the Elf, “that you may come safe from war and return to see them again. But do not tell all your kindred! There seems little left for them to do, from your account. Maybe the men of this land are wise to say little: one family of busy dwarves with hammer and chisel might mar more than they made.”

Their talk helped to distract the other riders as well, bringing some welcomed chatter among the trees. 

“No, you do not understand,” said Gimli, muttering under his breath about how dense the Elvish Prince was about beauty in front of him even with the use of his good eyesight, “No dwarf could be unmoved by such loveliness. None of Durin's race would mine those caves for stones or ore, not if diamonds and gold could be got there. Do you cut down groves of blossoming trees in the spring-time for firewood? We would tend these glades of flowering stone, not quarry them. With cautious skill, tap by tap - a small chip of rock and no more, perhaps, in a whole anxious day - so we could work, and as the years went by, we should open up new ways, and display far chambers that are still dark, glimpsed only as a void beyond fissures in the rock. And lights, Legolas! We should make lights, such lamps as once shone in Khazad-dûm; and when we wished we would drive away the night that has lain there since the hills were made; and when we desired rest, we would let the night return.” 

The Elf took some moments of deep thinking. 

“You move me, Gimli,” he finally said, “I have never heard you speak like this before. Almost you make me regret that I have not seen these caves. Come! Let us make this bargain-if we both return safe out of the perils that await us, we will journey for a while together. You shall visit Fangorn with me, and then I will come with you to see Helm's Deep.”

“That would not be the way of return that I should choose,” said Gimli behind his back, “But I will endure Fangorn, if I have your promise to come back to the caves and share their wonder with me.”

“You have my promise,” Legolas smiled, “But alas! Now we must leave behind both the cave and the woods for a while: See! We are coming to the end of the trees. How far is it to Isengard, Gandalf?”

“About fifteen leagues, as the crows of Saruman make it.” said Gandalf at the front: “five from the mouth of Deeping-coomb to the Fords: and ten more from there to the gates of Isengard. But we shall not ride all the way this night.”

“And when we come there, what shall we see?” asked Boromir, “You may know, but none of us cannot guess.”

'I do not know myself for certain,” answered the wizard, “'I was there at nightfall yesterday, but much may have happened since. Yet I think that you will not say that the journey was in vain - not though the Glittering Caves of Aglarond be left behind.”

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

At last the company passed through the trees, and found that they had come to the bottom of the Coomb, where the road from Helm's Deep branched, going one way east to Edoras, and the other north to the Fords of Isen. As they rode from under the eaves of the wood, Legolas halted and looked back with regret. Then he gave a sudden cry.

“There are eyes!” he said in a loud voice, “Eyes looking out from the shadows of the boughs! I never saw such eyes before.”

The others, surprised by his cry, halted and turned; but Legolas started to ride back.

“No, no!” cried Gimli in alarm, “Do as you please in your madness, but let me first get down from this horse! I wish to see no eyes!”

Thankfully Gandalf came to the rescue:  

“Stay, Legolas Greenleaf! Do not go back into the woods, not yet! Now is not your time.”

Even as he spoke, there came forward out of the trees three strange shapes. As tall as trolls they were, twelve feet or more in height; their strong bodies, stout as young trees, seemed to be clad with raiment or with hide of close-fitting grey and brown. Their limbs were long, and their hands had many fingers; their hair was stiff, and their beards grey-green as moss. They gazed out with solemn eyes, but they were not looking at the riders: their eyes were bent northwards. Suddenly they lifted their long hands to their mouths, and sent forth ringing calls, clear as notes of a horn, but more musical and various. The calls were answered; and turning again, the riders saw other creatures of the same kind approaching, striding through the grass. They came swiftly from the North, walking like wading herons in their gait, but not in their speed; for their legs in their long paces beat quicker than the heron's wings. The riders cried aloud in wonder, and some set their hands upon their sword-hilts, especially the Dornish, who were used to their homeland and not exactly feeling at home with so many trees. 

“You need no weapons,” Gandalf hurried to say, “These are but herdsmen. They are not enemies, indeed they are not concerned with us at all.” 

So it seemed to be; for as he spoke the tall creatures, without a glance at the riders, strode into the wood and vanished.

“Herdsmen!” said Théoden in wonder, “Where are their flocks? What are they, Gandalf? For it is plain that to you, at any rate, they are not strange.”

“They are the shepherds of the trees,” answered Gandalf, “Is it so long since you listened to tales by the fireside, or telling them to your own grandchildren? There are children in your land who, out of the twisted threads of story, could pick the answer to your question. You have seen Ents, O Lord, Ents out of Fangorn Forest, which in your tongue you call the Entwood. Did you think that the name was given only in idle fancy? Nay, Théoden, it is otherwise: to them you are but the passing tale; all the years from Eorl the Young to Théoden the Old are of little count to them; and all the deeds of your house but a small matter.” 

The head of the House of Eorl was silent. 

“Ents!” he said at length, “Out of the shadows of legend I begin a little to understand the marvel of the trees, I think. I have lived to see strange days. Long we have tended our beasts and our fields, built our houses, wrought our tools, or ridden away to help in the wars of Minas Tirith. And that we called the life of Men, the way of the world. We cared little for what lay beyond the borders of our land prior to the arrival of my daughter-in-law and growing connections with the land of her birth. Songs we have that tell of these things, but we are forgetting them, teaching them only to children, as a careless custom. And now the songs have come down among us out of strange places, and walk visible under the Sun.”

“You should be glad, Théoden King,” Gandalf said, adressing him with his former title, ”For not only the little life of Men is now endangered, but the life also of those things which you have deemed the matter of legend. You are not without allies, even if you know them not.”

“Yet also I should be sad,” Théoden said in a thin voice, looking towards the direction of Edoras where his family was gathered in this moment, “For however the fortune of war shall go, may it not so end that much that was fair and wonderful shall pass for ever out of Middle-earth?”

'It may,” said Gandalf, “The evil of Sauron cannot be wholly cured, nor made as if it had not been. But to such days we are doomed. Let us now go on with the journey we have begun!”

The company turned then away from the Coomb and from the wood and took the road towards the Fords. Legolas followed reluctantly. The sun had set, already it had sunk behind the rim of the world; but as they rode out from the shadow of the hills and looked west to the Gap of Rohan the sky was still red, and a burning light was under the floating clouds. Dark against it there wheeled and flew many black-winged birds. Some passed overhead with mournful cries, returning to their homes among the rocks.

“The carrion-fowl have been busy about the battle-field,' said Éomer with displeasure, sending a mental prayer to the Valar that Elfhilda would be spared from a life where she would have to see the aftermath of a battle.

They rode now at an easy pace and dark came down upon the plains about them. The slow moon mounted, now waxing towards the full, and in its cold silver light the swelling grass-lands rose and fell like a wide grey sea. They had ridden for some four hours from the branching of the roads when they drew near to the Fords. Long slopes ran swiftly down to where the river spread in stony shoals between high grassy terraces. Borne upon the wind they heard the howling of wolves. Their hearts were heavy, remembering the many men that had fallen in battle in this place.

The road dipped between rising turf-banks, carving its way through the terraces to the river's edge, and up again upon the further side. There were three lines of flat stepping-stones across the stream, and between them fords for horses, that went from either brink to a bare eyot in the midst. The riders looked down upon the crossings, and it seemed strange to them; for the Fords had ever been a place full of the rush and chatter of water upon stones; but now they were silent. The beds of the stream were almost dry, a bare waste of shingles and grey sand.

“This has become a dreary place,” said Éomer with worry over the small amount of water in the stream, knowing how a drought would bring disaster to Rohan even if the winter had been generous with snow to melt into water for the soil, “What sickness has befallen the river? Many fair things Saruman has destroyed: has he devoured the springs of Isen too?” 

“So it would seem,” said Gandalf, and Théoden pretended to not hear Oberyn swearing the pains of a thousand poisonous scorpions stings upon Saruman over robbing Rohan of valuable water worth far more than gold and silver, as he commented: 

“Alas!' Must we pass this way, where the carrion-beasts devour so many good Riders of the Mark?”

“This is our way,” Gandalf insisted but with understanding for how it must feel for the former King, “Grievous is the fall of your men; but you shall see that at least the wolves of the mountains do not devour them. It is with their friends, the Orcs, that they hold their feast: such indeed is the friendship of their kind. Come!”

They rode down to the river, and as they came the wolves ceased their howling and slunk away. Fear fell on them seeing Gandalf in the light of the moon, and Shadowfax his horse shining like silver. The riders passed over to the islet, and glittering eyes watched them wanly from the shadows of the banks.

“Look!” said Gandalf with joy, “Friends have laboured here.”

And they saw that in the midst of the eyot a mound was piled, ringed with stones, and set about with many spears.

“Here lie all the Men of the Mark that fell near this place,” explained Gandalf.

“Here let them rest!” said Éomer in honest relief that his countrymen had received a proper funeral, 'And when their spears have rotted and rusted, long still may their mound stand and guard the Fords of Isen!”

“Is this your work also, Gandalf, my friend?” wondered Théoden, dismounting Snowmane to take up a fistful of earth and toss it upon the mound as a sign of respect from their former King, his sister-son doing the same on behalf of his cousin, “You accomplished much in an evening and a night!'

“With the help of Shadowfax - and others, ” Gandalf explained, putting extra weight on the last word, “I rode fast and far. But here beside the mound I will say this for your comfort: many fell in the battles of the Fords, but fewer than rumor made them. More were scattered than were slain; I gathered together all that I could find. Some men I sent with Grimbold of Westfold to join Erkenbrand. Some I set to make this burial. They have now followed your marshal, Elfhelm. I sent him with many Riders to Edoras. Saruman I knew had despatched his full strength against you, and his servants had turned aside from all other errands and gone to Helm's Deep: the lands seemed empty of enemies; yet I feared that wolf-riders and plunderers might ride nonetheless to Meduseld, while it was defended only by the old and shieldmaidens under the command of your sister and mother. But now I think you need not fear: you will find your house to welcome your return.”

“And glad shall I be to see both the Golden Hall and my gathered family again,” said Théoden and closed his eyes for a moment with the memory image of them, “though brief now, I doubt not, shall be my abiding there.” 

With that the company said farewell to the island and the mound, and passed over the river, and climbed the further bank. Then they rode on, glad to have left the mournful Fords. As they went the howling of the wolves broke out anew.

Chapter Text

There was an ancient highway that ran down from Isengard to the crossings. For some way it took its course beside the river, bending with it east and then north; but at the last it turned away and went straight towards the gates of Isengard; and these were under the mountain-side in the west of the valley, sixteen miles or more from its mouth. This road they followed but they did not ride upon it; for the ground beside it was firm and level, covered for many miles about with short springing turf. They rode now more swiftly, and by midnight the Fords were nearly five leagues behind. Then they halted, ending their night’s journey, for Théoden was weary and he was not the only one feeling that even a few hours of sleep earlier during the day had not been enough to make up for a long night of fighting.  

“Better to let us all rest, and the horses as well.” 

They came to the feet of the Misty Mountains, and the long arms of Nan Curunír stretched down to meet them. Dark lay the vale before them, for the moon had passed into the West, and its light was hidden by the hills. But out of the deep shadow of the dale rose a vast spire of smoke and vapour; as it mounted, it caught the rays of the sinking moon, and spread in shimmering billows, black and silver, over the starry sky.

“What do you think of that, Gandalf?” asked Aragorn as they all were on guard against possible movements in the dark, “One would say that all the Wizard’s Vale was burning.”

“There is ever a fume above that valley these days,” Éomer mentioned as he checked the hooves on Firefoot for any stuck stones that could harm his trusted warhorse, “but I have never seen something like this before. These are streams rather than smokes. Saruman is brewing some devilry to greet us. Maybe he is boiling all the waters of Isen, and that is why the river runs dry.”

Given what sort of things Saruman must have done to breed the Uruk-hai, none wanted to imagine what he may have in his mind, but Oberyn was not the only Dornishman thinking of that it was a good thing that the Valyrian Stronghold was long gone since several hundred years back, else Sauruman might have tried to make a alliance with the Dragonlords there. 

“Maybe he is,” said Gandalf, looking to be deep in thought, “Tomorrow we shall learn what he is doing. Now let us rest for a while, if we can.” 

They camped beside the bed of the Isen river; it was still silent and empty. Some of them slept a little. But late in the night the watchmen cried out, and all awoke. The moon was gone. Stars were shining above; but over the ground there crept a darkness blacker than the night. On both sides of the river it rolled towards them, going northward.

“Stay where you are!” Gandalf ordered, “Draw no weapons! Wait, and it will pass you by!” 

A mist gathered about them. Above them a few stars still glimmered faintly; but on either side there arose walls of impenetrable gloom; they were in a narrow lane between moving towers of shadow. Voices they heard, whisperings and groanings and an endless rustling sigh; the earth shook under them. Long it seemed to them that they sat and were afraid; but at last the darkness and the rumour passed, and vanished between the mountain’s arms.

Away south upon the Hornburg, in the middle night men heard a great noise, as a wind in the valley, and the ground trembled; and all were afraid and no one ventured to go forth. But in the morning they went out and were amazed; for the slain Orcs were gone, and the trees also. Far down into the valley of the Deep the grass was crushed and trampled brown, as if giant herdsmen had pastured great droves of cattle there; but a mile below the Dike a huge pit had been delved into the earth, and over it stones were piled into a hill. Men believed that the Orcs whom they had slain were buried there; but whether those who had fled into the wood were with them, none could say, for no man ever set foot upon that hill. The Death Down, it was afterwards called, and no grass would grow there. But the strange trees were never seen in Deeping-coomb again; they had returned at night, and had gone far away to the dark dales of Fangorn. Thus they were revenged upon the Orcs.

The company slept no more that night; but they saw and heard no other strange thing, save one: the voice of the river beside them suddenly awoke. There was a rush of water hurrying down among the stones; and when it had passed, the Isen flowed and bubbled in its bed again, as it had ever done. 

“Oh, bless the Valar that the water is returning. Rohan shall not have to suffer drought on top of the war,” Boromir said in relief as the water steadily rose to its usual level at this time of the year, with all the added water from melting snow both on the plains and far up in the mountains. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X 

The next day, March 5: 

It was indeed a sight that greeted them when they finally arrived to the valley where Isengard stood: 

“What happened here?” 

All about them now, as if there had been a sudden flood from far up in the mountains in the past days, wide pools of water lay beside the road, filling the hollows, and rills went trickling down among the stones.

At last Gandalf halted and beckoned to them; and they came, and saw that beyond him the mists had cleared, and a pale sunlight shone. The hour of noon had passed. They had come to the doors of Isengard.  

But the doors lay hurled and twisted on the ground. And all about, stone, cracked and splintered into countless jagged shards, was scattered far and wide, or piled in ruinous heaps. The great arch still stood, but it opened now upon a roofless chasm: the tunnel was laid bare, and through the cliff-like walls on either side great rents and breaches had been torn; their towers were beaten into dust. If the Great Sea had risen in wrath and fallen on the hills with storm, it could have worked no greater ruin.

The ring beyond was filled with steaming water: a bubbling cauldron, in which there heaved and floated a wreckage of beams and spars, chests and casks and broken gear. Twisted and leaning pillars reared their splintered stems above the flood, but all the roads were drowned. Far off, it seemed, half veiled in a winding cloud, there loomed the island rock. Still dark and tall, unbroken by the storm, the tower of Orthanc stood. Pale waters lapped about its feet.

“I did not send a rock-shattering attack aimed at Isengard during the fight, cousin. And it is Lemore and Holly who got the water magic from the Rhoynar, not me!” Arash whispered to Oberyn, returning the side-glare the younger Prince of Dorne sent him. 

Then, when Legolas turned Arod around, both he and Gimli spotted two small figures lying on it at their ease, grey-clad, hardly to be seen among the stones. There were bottles and bowls and platters laid beside them, as if they had just eaten well, and now rested from their labour. One seemed asleep; the other, with crossed legs and arms behind his head, leaned back against a broken rock and sent from his mouth long wisps and little rings of thin blue smoke.

“Those hobbits! Trust them to be where food is!” Boromir muttered, both he and Aragorn facepalming mostly to hide their respective amused grin at the scene, and Gimli cried out: 

“You rascals, you woolly-footed and wool-pated truants! A fine hunt you have led us, with Boromir struggling with the wounds he got in his attempt to shield you two! Two hundred leagues, through fen and forest, battle and death, to rescue you! And here we find you feasting and idling – and smoking! Smoking! Where did you come by the weed, you villains? Hammer and tongs! I am so torn between rage and joy, that if I do not burst, it will be a marvel!”

“You speak for me, Gimli,” laughed Legolas as he tried to keep the Dwarf from sliding off Arod by his movements, “Though I would sooner learn how they came by the wine.” 

While the Four Hunters found this a rather odd way to end their goal to free Merry and Pippin, For a moment Théoden and Éomer and all the other Men stared at the two hobbits in wonder. Amid all the wreck of Isengard this seemed to them the strangest sight. But before the former king could speak, the small smoke-breathing figure became suddenly aware of them, as they sat there silent on the edge of the mist. He sprang to his feet. A young man he looked, or like one, though not much more than half a man in height; his head of brown curling hair was uncovered, but he was clad in a travel-stained cloak of the same hue and shape as the companions of Gandalf had worn when they rode to Edoras. He bowed very low, putting his hand upon his breast. Then, seeming not to observe the wizard and his friends, he turned to Éomer and Théoden.

“Welcome, my lords, to Isengard!” he said in honest seriousness, “We are the doorwardens. Meriadoc, son of Saradoc is my name; and my companion, who, alas! is overcome with weariness” – here he gave the other a dig with his foot – “is Peregrin, son of Paladin, of the House of Took. Far in the North is our home. The Lord Saruman is within; the doors have been blocked by all the water, or doubtless he would be here to welcome such honorable guests….ow!” 

Mostly to please Gimli and to remind them about that this was not the Shire where they were part of the upper classes, Boromir tossed his filled water skin on Merry, knocking the hobbit over as a scolding for all the worries the Four Hunters had been facing about them since Amon Hen. 

“One thing you have not found in your hunting, and that’s brighter wits,” said Pippin, finding himself needing to hasty duck for the tossed Dwarf helmet that Gimli aimed at him, “Here you find us sitting on a field of victory, amid the plunder of armies, and you wonder how we came by a few well-earned comforts!”

“Well-earned? ” repeated Gimli with a scowl, holding up one of his axes as a warning to any more such comments, “I cannot believe that!’

The Riders laughed as the two hobbits found themselves facing this punishment by their non-hobbit companions from the Fellowship.  

“It cannot be doubted that we bear witness the meeting of dear friends,” Théoden spoke once Boromir and Gimli had run out of things within reach to toss at the hobbits, “So these are the lost ones of your company, Gandalf? The days are fated to be filled with marvels. Already I have seen many since I left my house; and now here before my eyes stand yet another of the folk of legend. Are not these the Halflings, that some among us call the Holbytlan?”

“Hobbits, if you please, lord,” said Pippin, mindful of the glare Gimli sent at him. 

“Hobbits?” wondered Théoden, “Your tongue is strangely changed; but the name sounds not unfitting so. Hobbits! No report that I have heard does justice to the truth.”

Spotting a chance to avoid getting another item tossed at him, especially with Boromir giving them a clear look that warned for any silly actions, Merry joined Pippin; 

“You are gracious, lord; or I hope that I may take your words. And here is another marvel! I have wandered in many lands, since I left my home, and never till now have I found people that knew any story concerning hobbits.”

“My people came out of the North long ago,” Théoden smiled, “But I will not deceive you: we know no tales about hobbits. All that is said among us is that far away, over many hills and rivers, live the halfling folk that dwell in holes in sand-dunes. But there are no legends of their deeds, for it is said that they do little, and avoid the sight of men, being able to vanish in a twinkling; and they can change their voices to resemble the piping of birds. But it seems that more could be said.” 

Stopping Merry and Pippin from going into a long talk about the pipeweed they had found, Gandalf directed everyone's attention towards the reason why the Riders had come here in the first place. 

“We still need to talk with Saruman. Where is Treebeard, Merry?”

“Away on the north side, I believe. He went to get a drink – of clean water. Most of the other Ents are with him, still busy at their work – over there.” 

Merry waved his hand towards the steaming lake; and as they looked, they heard a distant rumbling and rattling, as if an avalanche was falling from the mountain-side. Far away came a hoom-hom, as of horns blowing triumphantly.

“And is Orthanc then left unguarded?” asked Gandalf.

“There is the water,” said Merry, pointing towards the stairs where the water was almost up at the door, “But Quickbeam and some others are watching it. Not all those posts and pillars in the plain are of Saruman’s planting. Quickbeam, I think, is by the rock, near the foot of the stair.”

“Yes, a tall grey Ent is there,” Legolas confirmed, “but his arms are at his sides, and he stands as still as a door-tree.’

“It is past noon,” said Gandalf, “and we at any rate have not eaten since early morning. Yet I wish to see Treebeard as soon as possible. Did he leave me no message, or has the plate and bottle driven it from your mind?”

“He left a message,” Merry hurried to say, looking a little offended over the accussion that the food and drink would have made them forgotten, “and I was coming to it, but I have been hindered by many other questions and items tossed at me. I was to say that, if the Lord of the Mark and Gandalf will ride to the northern wall they will find Treebeard there, and he will welcome them. I may add that they will also find food of the best there, which was discovered and selected by your humble servants.” 

He bowed and Gandalf laughed in a more kind voice: 

“That is better! Well, Théoden, will you ride with me to find Treebeard? We must go roundabout, but it is not far. When you see Treebeard, you will learn much. For Treebeard is Fangorn, and the eldest and chief of the Ents, and when you speak with him you will hear the speech of the oldest of all living things.”

“I will come with you,” said Théoden, riding forwards, “Farewell, my hobbits! May we meet again in my house, where my son rules as the King! There you shall sit beside me and tell me all that your hearts desire: the deeds of your grandsires, as far as you can reckon them; and we will speak also of the herb-lore that your home may even share with the homeland of my daughter-in-law. Farewell!”

The hobbits bowed low as he rode past.

‘So that is the former King of Rohan and sire of the current one!’ said Pippin in an undertone, “A fine old fellow. Very polite. I am already getting curious about the King and his Queen, if they are like this too!”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Gimli huffered, recalling the first impression of Elia back in Meduseld. The Hobbits better act as true gentlemen in her presence, for she was the Queen. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X     

As the rest of the riders went on, Merry and Pippin told Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas and Gimli the full tale of what had happened for them during those past nine days, as well as how the Ents had flooded Isengard during the battle. 

On the eastern side of Orthanc, in the angle of two piers, there was a great door, high above the ground; and over it was a shuttered window, opening upon a balcony hedged with iron bars. Up to the threshold of the door there mounted a flight of twenty-seven broad stairs, hewn by some unknown art of the same black stone. This was the only entrance to the tower; but many tall windows were cut with deep embrasures in the climbing walls: far up they peered like little eyes in the sheer faces of the horns.

“Saruman, come out!” 

When no replay came, Oberyn used his spear to slam harder on the closed door. Again, no response.  

“Arash, wake him up if he is faking to be asleep so he will not have to greet us,” the Prince of Dorne ordered, pointing with his thumb towards the balcony. His baseborn cousin obeyed, kicking on the black stone that the tower was made of. It was only one kick, but the whole Orthanc shook and trembled as if being hit by an earthquake. 

“How quick to cause harm, just like the Eastern King you hail from!” a voice spoke, “Why must you disturb my rest? Will you give me no peace at all by night or day?”

Looking up towards the balcony, they saw Saruman. But while looking like an old man with white hair and beard, not unlike Gandalf in his current self, he spotted a black eye and other bruises on his face, Legolas could see reasonable fresh marks on his throat as if he had almost been strangled, and wounds that had been so violent as if they had been done in a fist fight. 

“Two at least of you I know by name. Gandalf I know too well to have much hope that he seeks help or counsel here. But you, Théoden Lord of the Mark of Rohan, are declared by your noble devices, and still more by the fair countenance of the House of Eorl. O worthy son of Thengel the Thrice-renowned! Why have you not come before, and as a friend? Much have I desired to see you, mightiest king of western lands, and especially in these latter years, to save you from the unwise and evil counsels that beset you! Is it yet too late? Despite the injuries that have been done to me, in which the men of Rohan, alas! have had some part, still I would save you, and deliver you from the ruin that draws nigh inevitably, if you ride upon this road which you have taken. Indeed I alone can aid you now.”

Éomer almost snarled, his eyes flashing in wrath. How dared Saruman speak like this to his uncle, after what nearly had happened to Théodred? 

“That is rich, coming from the one who tried to murder my son, rob Rohan of its King during a war and make Elia widowed for the second time!” 

Théoden looked up, and everyone could see his eyes bearing the same fury as his sister-son. On the leather gloves he wore, a small sun standing for Dorne was shining, and not just from it being gold embroidery glittering in the pale sunlight, it was a spell of protection Elia had crafted for her father-in-law when sewing those gloves for him, and now it sheltered him from falling under whatever false promises that Saruman tried to offer. 

“You speak of peace, Saruman,” he said, now in a clear yet ice-cold voice, “we will have peace, when you and all your works have perished – and the works of your dark master to whom you would deliver us. You are a liar, Saruman, and a corrupter of men’s hearts. You hold out your hand to me, and I perceive only a finger of the claw of Mordor. Cruel and cold! Even if your war on me was just – as it was not, for were you ten times as wise you would have no right to rule me and mine for your own profit as you desired – even so, what will you say of your torches in Westfold and the children that lie dead there? And they hewed Háma's body before the gates of the Hornburg, after he was dead. When you hang from a gibbet at your window for the sport of your own crows, I will have peace with you and Orthanc on behalf of my son, who trusts me to lead Rohan into battle on his behalf because of his injuries.”

The son of long-gone King Thengel and Morwen Steelsheen turned around, showing Saruman just how little effect his voice had. 

“On behalf of my son, King Théodred and his Queen consort Elia Martell of Dorne, I reject whatever you try to offer, Saruman, the traitor!” 

The Rohirric Riders gazed up at Théoden like men startled out of a dream. Harsh as an old raven's, their master’s voice sounded in their ears after the music of Saruman. But Saruman for a while was beside himself with wrath. He leaned over the rail as if he would smite the King with his staff, if Khamûl had not broken it and made it worthless. To some, suddenly it seemed that they saw a snake coiling itself to strike, and Arash aimed a new kick at the tower just to be ready for any foul tricks. 

“Gibbets and crows!” Saruman hissed, and they shuddered at the hideous change, “Dotard! What is the house of Eorl but a thatched barn where brigands drink in the reek, and their brats roll on the floor among the dogs? Too long have they escaped the gibbet themselves. But the noose comes, slow in the drawing, tight and hard in the end. Hang if you will! And you, Gandalf, enjoy the company of otherworld savages, horse-taming cut-throats and small rag-tags that dangle at your tail!” 

“Thatched barn?” Oberyn muttered loudly, looking insulted on behalf of his beloved sister and Arash mirrored his furious face, “There is several good reasons to why Elia prefers this “thatched barn ” over the damp stone castle that was Dragonstone and the Red Keep that reeked of Targaryen madness! That inbred unfaithful rat she had to call her first husband and sired her two older children, is the exact type to give marriages a bad name because he let his lower head control him the moment a younger woman caught his eye and did not respect his own, fully grown-up wife!” 

Both of them moved at the same time. Using his spear to aim against the face of Saruman, Oberyn sent up a miniature version of the Kemet cobra of sand that Khamûl favored, and with a new kick Arash caused Orthanc to tremble even more and Saruman had to cling to the rail of the balcony to not fall over. Somewhere, a small splash was heard. 

“Saruman!” Boromir called in a commanding voice, now acting as the ruling Steward of Gondor as they all saw how Saruman struggled to avoid being bitten even if the cobra was made of sand, “Give me the keys to Orthanc! You are no longer the Master of this tower, and as the current Steward, I reclaim it as a property of Gondor!” 

With a cry Saruman fell back, the keys falling from his belt and crawled away back inside as the sand cobra dropped the keys into the opened hand of Boromir from the balcony. The door was shut as the snake vanished into thin air.   

“The murderous rogue!” cried Éomer, over the cheers from the Dornishmen over that Oberyn and Arash had stopped something bad from happening. But Gandalf was noticing that Pippin had run off. 

“Here, my lad, I'll take that! I did not ask you to handle it,” the White Wizard cried, turning sharply and seeing Pippin coming up the steps, slowly, as if he were bearing a great weight. He went down to meet him and hastily took a strange, dark globe from the youngest hobbit, wrapping it in the folds of his cloak. 

“I will take care of this,”he said kindly, “It is not a thing, I guess, that Saruman would have chosen to cast away, it must have been near one of the broken windows, and rolled out from the kick sent upwards by Master Arash.” 

A shrill shriek, suddenly cut off, came from an open window high above.

“Sounds like Saruman did not enjoy losing one of the many treasures of Orthanc gathered there over many generations. But I do not want to enter the Tower with him still inside, because of whatever he may be trying to do,” Boromir admitted, glaring towards the folds of the cloak Gandalf wore, having a nagging feeling that he could guess what it was that Pippin had found. 

Once they had left the valley of Isengard behind, Boromir turned towards his friends. 

“I will travel towards Gondor at dawn. My people need me as their Steward and I can not remain away from them anymore. If Master Arash and a few others will act as my escort, the road home will be more safe.” 

The two cousins of House Martell entered a quick discussion, in their own mother-tongue: 

“Minas Tiríth is a city built of stone, your powers may be useful in an attack there from Mordor. ” 

“Only if you and some others in the family arrive to back me up eventually. Tossing away pieces of stone demands a full focus, and I can become injured like anyone else. I can not mash orcs and Trolls into flat things on the ground if I am half unconscious! ” 

For outsiders it may seem like they were bicking, but anyone who knew them would be able to tell that this was just their style of a heated debate. And given that Arash was four years older than Oberyn, it was only to be expected to happen since their childhood in the Old Palace. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X   

The sun was sinking behind the long western arm of the mountains when Gandalf and his companions had left Isengard behind. As there had not been any ponies better suited for the Hobbits coming with them from Helm's Deep, Gandalf took Merry behind him, and Aragorn took Pippin. 

‘Are we riding far tonight, Gandalf?’ asked Merry after a while. ‘I don’t know how you feel with small rag-tag dangling behind you; but the rag-tag is tired and will be glad to stop dangling and lie down.’

“So you heard that?” asked Gandalf, “Don't let it rankle! Be thankful no longer words were aimed at you. He had his eyes on you. If it is any comfort to your pride, I should say that, at the moment, you and Pippin are more in his thoughts than all the rest of us. Who you are; how you came there, and why; what you know; whether you were captured, and if so, how you escaped when all the Orcs perished – it is with those little riddles that the great mind of Saruman is troubled. A sneer from him, Meriadoc, is a compliment, if you feel honored by his concern.” 

He felt the Hobbit change position a little behind his back, looking at the other side of where they were riding. 

“Thank you!” said Merry, “But it is a greater honor to dangle at your tail, Gandalf. For one thing, in that position one has a chance of putting a question a second time. Are we riding far tonight?”

To this, Gandalf laughed. 

“A most unquenchable hobbit! All Wizards should have a hobbit or two in their care – to teach them the meaning of the word, and to correct them. I beg your pardon. But I have given thought even to these simple matters. We will ride for a few hours, gently, until we come to the end of the valley. Tomorrow we must ride faster.When we came, we meant to go straight from Isengard back to the King's house at Edoras over the plains, a ride of some days. But we have thought again and changed the plan. Messengers have gone ahead to Helm's Deep, to warn them that the father of the King is returning tomorrow. He will ride from there with many men to Dunharrow by paths among the hills. From now on no more than two or three together are to go openly over the land, by day or night, when it can be avoided.”

“Nothing or a double helping is your way!” Merry commented, “I am afraid I was not looking beyond tonight's bed. Where and what are Helm's Deep and all the rest of it? I don't know anything about this country.”

That was a reasonable question, even Gandalf could see it so, as Merry and Pippin had been with the Ents, not with their friends at the royal court and the dwellings of Men here in Rohan. 

“Then you’d best learn something, if you wish to understand what is happening. But not just now, and not from me: I have too many pressing things to think about.”

“All right, I’ll tackle Strider by the camp-fire: he’s less testy. But why all this secrecy? I thought we'd won the battle!”

“Yes, we have won, but only the first victory, and that in itself increases our danger. There was some link between Isengard and Mordor, which I have not yet fathomed. How they exchanged news I am not sure; but they did so. The Eye of Barad-dûr will be looking impatiently towards the Wizard's Vale, I think; and towards Rohan. The less it sees the better.”

The road passed slowly, winding down the valley. Now further, and now nearer Isen flowed in its stony bed. Night came down from the mountains. All the mists were gone. A chill wind blew. The moon, now waxing round, filled the eastern sky with a pale cold sheen. The shoulders of the mountain to their right sloped down to bare hills. The wide plains opened grey before them.

At last they halted. Then they turned aside, leaving the highway and taking to the sweet upland turf again. Going westward a mile or so they came to a dale. It opened southward, leaning back into the slope of round Dol Baran, the last hill of the northern ranges, greenfooted, crowned with heather. The sides of the glen were shaggy with last year’s bracken, among which the tight-curled fronds of spring were just thrusting through the sweet-scented earth. Thornbushes grew thick upon the low banks, and under them they made their camp, two hours or so before the middle of the night. They lit a fire in a hollow, down among the roots of a spreading hawthorn, tall as a tree, writhen with age, but hale in every limb. Buds were swelling at each twig’s tip.

“Gandalf, may I?” Boromir wondered with a pointed look towards his cloak, and the Wizard allowed a quick use when the Steward explained that he only would try getting in contact with Faramir in Minas Tirith to let his brother see that he was still alive and send over some orders for him to carry out on behalf of Boromir, because it would still take some days for him to come home to Gondor. 

“Wise decision to evacuate the civilian population and many others who are not soldiers. The fewer lives that are lost in this war, the better for the recovery of Gondor, should we win against Sauron.” 

As Boromir hoped, he could use the palantír from Isengard with no trouble as he was the legitimate Steward, and through the contact with the one in Minas Tirith, Faramir was overjoyed to learn that his older brother was fine and would come home soon.

“Thanks for letting me borrow it for a moment so I could do this, Gandalf. But keep it hidden, I am worried that Pippin held it back in Isengard.” 

Guards were set, two at a watch. The rest, after they had supped, wrapped themselves in a cloak and blanket and slept. The hobbits lay in a corner by themselves upon a pile of old bracken. Merry was sleepy, but Pippin now seemed curiously restless. The bracken cracked and rustled, as he twisted and turned. Even Merry could not help but wonder if he had gotten a sleeping place right over an ant-hill and now found himself attacked by the angry ants. 

“That—glass ball, now. Gandalf and Boromir seemed mighty pleased with it when they took it out earlier. They knows or guesses something about it. But does they tell us what? No, not a word. Yet I picked it up, and I saved it from rolling deeper into a pool somewhere. Here, I'll take that, my lad – that's all Gandalf told me. I wonder what it is? It felt so very heavy.”

Pippin’s voice fell very low, as if he was talking to himself.

“Hullo!” said Merry, turning over so they could see each other, “So that’s what is bothering you? Now, Pippin my lad, don’t forget Gildor's saying – the one Sam used to quote: Do not meddle in the affairs of Wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger.”

“But our whole life for months has been one long meddling in the affairs of Wizards,” protested Pippin, “I should like a bit of information as well as danger. I should like a look at that ball before Boromir leaves tomorrow and maybe even takes it with him to his homeland.”

“Go to sleep!” said Merry in a hushed voice, not wanting to wake up anyone around them, “You'll get enough information, sooner or later. My dear Pippin, no Took ever beat a Brandy-buck for inquisitiveness; but is this the time, I ask you?”

“All right! What's the harm in my telling you what I should like: a look at that stone? I know I can’t have it, with old Gandalf sitting on it, like a hen on an egg. But it doesn’t help much to get no more from you than a you-can’t-have-it so-go-to-sleep!”

“Well, what else could I say?” muttered Merry in the darkness. “I'm sorry, Pippin, but you really must wait till the morning. I'll be as curious as you like after breakfast, and I’ll help in any way I can at wizard-wheedling. But I can't stay awake any longer. If I yawn any more, I shall split at the ears. Good night!” 

Pippin said no more. He lay still now, but sleep remained far away; and it was not encouraged by the sound of Merry breathing softly, asleep in a few minutes after saying good night. The thought of the dark globe seemed to grow stronger as all grew quiet. Pippin felt again its weight in his hands, and saw again the mysterious red depths into which he had looked for a moment. He tossed and turned and tried to think of something else.

At last he could no longer stand it. He got up and looked round to see if anyone else was awake. It was chilly, and he wrapped his cloak about him. The moon was shining cold and white, down into the dell, and the shadows of the bushes were black. All about lay sleeping shapes. Aragorn near Boromir for the sake of the Steward possibly needing his healing wounds checked again. The two guards were not in view: they were up on the hill, perhaps, or hidden in the bracken. Driven by some impulse that he did not understand, Pippin walked softly to where Gandalf lay. He looked down at him. The wizard seemed asleep, but with lids not fully closed: there was a glitter of eyes under his long lashes. Pippin stepped back hastily, as if the sight of the not fully closed eyes was a confirmation that this was no use in doing. But Gandalf made no sign; and drawn forward once more, half against his will, the hobbit crept up again from behind the wizard's head. He was rolled in a blanket, with his cloak spread over the top; and close beside him, between his right side and his bent arm, there was a hummock, something round wrapped in a dark cloth; his hand seemed only just to have slipped off it to the ground.

Hardly breathing, Pippin crept nearer, foot by foot. At last he knelt down. Then he put his hands out stealthily, and slowly lifted the lump up: it did not seem quite so heavy as he had expected. 

“Only some bundle of oddments, perhaps, after all,” he thought with a strange sense of relief; but he did not put the bundle down again. He stood for a moment clasping it. Then an idea came into his mind. He tiptoed away, found a large stone, and came back.

Quickly now he drew off the cloth, wrapped the stone in it and kneeling down, laid it back by the wizard's hand. Then at last he looked at the thing that he had uncovered. There it was: a smooth globe of crystal, now dark and dead, lying bare before his knees. Pippin lifted it, covered it hurriedly in his own cloak, and half turned to go back to his bed. At that moment Gandalf moved in his sleep, and muttered some words: they seemed to be in a strange tongue; his hand groped out and clasped the wrapped stone, then he sighed and did not move again.

“You idiotic fool!” Pippin muttered to himself, his common sense trying to hammer down this idiotic idea like how old Bilbo would scold him for something stupid in his younger years so long ago back in the Shire, “You're going to get yourself into frightful trouble with both  Gandalf and Boromir for this. Put it back quick!” 

But he found now that his knees quaked, and he did not dare to go near enough to the wizard to reach the bundle. 

“I'll never get it back now without waking him,” he thought, “not till I'm a bit calmer. So I may as well have a look first. Not just here though!” 

He stole away, and sat down on a green hillock not far from his bed. The moon looked over the edge of the dell. Pippin sat with his knees drawn up and the ball between them. He bent low over it, looking like a greedy child stooping over a bowl of food, in a corner away from others. He drew his cloak aside and gazed at it. The air seemed still and tense about him. At first the globe was dark, black as jet, with the moonlight gleaming on its surface. Then there came a faint glow and stir in the heart of it, and it held his eyes, so that now he could not look away. Soon all the inside seemed on fire; the ball was spinning, or the lights within were revolving. Suddenly the lights went out. He gave a gasp and struggled; but he remained bent, clasping the ball with both hands. Closer and closer he bent, and then became rigid; his lips moved soundlessly for a while. Then with a strangled cry he fell back and lay still.

The cry was piercing. The guards leapt down from the banks. All the camp was soon astir.

“Pippin?!” 

“So this is the thief!” said Gandalf as he noticed the normal stone at his hand and hurried over. Hastily he cast his cloak over the globe where it lay. 

“But you, Pippin! This is a grievous turn to things!” 

He knelt by Pippin's body: the Hobbit was lying on his back, rigid, with unseeing eyes staring up at the sky. 

“The devilry! What mischief has he done – to himself, and to all of us?” Boromir cursed in alarm and worry, as the wizard's face was drawn and haggard. He took Pippin's hand and bent over his face, listening for his breath; then he laid his hands on his brow. The Hobbit shuddered. His eyes closed. He cried out; and sat up, staring in bewilderment at all the faces around him, pale in the moonlight.

“It is not for you, Saruman!” he cried in a shrill and toneless voice, shrinking away from Gandalf “I will send for it at once. Do you understand? Say just that!” 

Then he struggled to get up and escape, but Gandalf held him gently and firmly.

“Peregrin Took!” he said in the voice most Hobbits in the Shire would know him by, “Come back!”

The hobbit relaxed and fell back, clinging to the wizard's hand. 

“Gandalf!” he cried, “Gandalf! Forgive me!”

“Forgive you?” said the wizard kindly, “Tell me first what you have done!”

“I…I took the ball and looked at it,” stammered Pippin; “and I saw things that frightened me. And I wanted to go away, but I couldn't. And then he came and questioned me; and he looked at me, and, and, that is all I remember.”

“That won't do,” said Gandalf sternly. “What did you see, and what did you say?”

Pippin shut his eyes and shivered, but said nothing. They all stared at him in silence, except Merry who turned away, and Boromir who now blocked the covered palantír from sight with his body from Pippin. But Gandalf's face was still hard. 

“Speak! ” he and Boromir commanded as one. 

 In a low hesitating voice Pippin began again, and slowly his words grew clearer and stronger. 

“I saw a dark sky, and tall battlements,” he said, “And tiny stars. It seemed very far away and long ago, yet hard and clear. Then the stars went in and out – they were cut off by things with wings. Very big, I think, really; but in the glass they looked like bats wheeling round the tower. I thought there were eight of them, as a ninth one was away somewhere over the plains. One began to fly straight towards me, getting bigger and bigger. It had a horrible – no, no! I can't say. I tried to get away, because I thought it would fly out; but when it had covered all the globe, it disappeared. Then he came. He did not speak so that I could hear words. He just looked, and I understood.

‘‘So you have come back? Why have you neglected to report for so long? ’’I did not answer. He said: ‘‘Who are you? ’’ I still did not answer, but it hurt me horribly; and he pressed me, so I said: ‘‘A hobbit. ’’ Then suddenly he seemed to see me, and he laughed at me. It was cruel. It was like being stabbed with knives. I struggled. But he said: ‘‘Wait a moment! We shall meet again soon. Tell Saruman that this dainty is not for him. I will send for it at once. Do you understand? Say just that! ’’ Then he gloated over me. I felt like I was falling to pieces. No, no! I can't say any more. I don't remember anything else.”

‘Look at me!’ said Gandalf. Pippin looked up straight into his eyes. The wizard held his gaze for a moment in silence. Then his face grew gentler, and the shadow of a smile appeared. He laid his hand softly on Pippin's head.

“All right!” he spoke soon, “Say no more! You have taken no harm. There is no lie in your eyes, as I feared. But he did not speak long with you. A fool, but an honest fool, you remain, Peregrin Took. Wiser ones might have done worse in such a pass. But mark this! You have been saved, and all your friends too, mainly by good fortune, as it is called. You cannot count on it a second time. If he had questioned you, then and there, almost certainly you would have told all that you know, to the ruin of us all. But he was too eager. He did not want information only: he wanted you, quickly, so that he could deal with you in the Dark Tower, slowly. Don't shudder! If you will meddle in the affairs of Wizards, you must be prepared to think of such things. But come! I forgive you. Be comforted! Things have not turned out as evilly as they might.” 

He lifted Pippin gently and carried him back to his bed. Merry followed, and sat down beside him. 

“Lie there and rest, if you can, Pippin!” said Gandalf, “Trust me. If you feel an itch in your palms again, tell me of it! Such things can be cured. But anyway, my dear hobbit, don't put a lump of rock under my elbow again! Now, I will leave you two together for a while.”

With that Gandalf returned to the others, who were still standing by the Orthanc-stone in troubled thought. 

“Peril comes in the night when least expected,” he told them, “We have had a narrow escape!”

“How is the hobbit, Pippin?” asked Aragorn in worry.

“I think all will be well now,” answered Gandalf, “He was not held long, and hobbits have an amazing power of recovery. The memory, or the horror of it, will probably fade quickly. Too quickly, perhaps. Will you, Aragorn, take the Orthanc-stone and guard it? It is a dangerous charge, and Boromir can not bring it with him to Gondor”

“Dangerous indeed, but not to all,” Aragorn answered, ‘Apart from Boromir as the Steward and his brother as his heir, there is one who may claim it by right. For this assuredly is the palantír of Orthanc from the treasury of Elendil, set here by the Kings of Gondor. Now my hour draws near. I will take it.”

Gandalf looked at Aragorn, then at Boromir who nodded in agreement, and then, to the surprise of them all, he lifted the covered Stone, and bowed as he presented it.

“Receive it, lord!” he said: “in earnest of other things that shall be given back. But if I may counsel you in the use of your own, do not use it – yet! Be wary!”

“When have I been hasty or unwary, who has waited and prepared for so many long years? Arwen and I have been betrothed for 39 years this year because Elrond has made it clear that he will only allow a wedding when I have taken the throne of Gondor, rather than having her risk herself against the dangers of Mordor in the wilderness. He holds his only daughter too dear for letting her come near the armies of Sauron” wondered Aragorn with a thin smile, recalling the many times of his childhood in Imladris when Elrond had told stories of how unwise it was in the long turn to be hasty or reckless. 

“Never yet. Do not then stumble at the end of the road,” answered Gandalf, “But at the least keep this thing secret. You, and all others that stand here! The hobbit, Peregrin, above all should not know where it is bestowed. The evil fit may come on him again. For alas, he has handled it and looked in it, as should never have happened. He ought never to have touched it in Isengard, and there I should have been quicker. But my mind was bent on Saruman, and I did not at once guess the nature of the Stone. Then I was weary, and as I lay pondering it, sleep overcame me. Now I know!”

“Yes, there can be no doubt,” said Boromir with a glare towards the covered Stone in question, “At last we know the link between Isengard and Mordor, and how it worked. Much is explained for us now.”

“Strange powers have our enemies, and strange weaknesses!” added Théoden from his place, “But it has long been said: oft evil will shall evil mar. ”

“That many times is seen,” Gandalf agreed, “But at this time we have been strangely fortunate. Maybe, I have been saved by this hobbit from a grave blunder. I had considered whether or not to probe this Stone myself to find its uses. Had I done so, I should have been revealed to him myself. I am not ready for such a trial, if indeed I shall ever be so. But even if I found the power to withdraw myself, it would be disastrous for him to see me, yet – until the hour comes when secrecy will avail no longer.” 

But Oberyn and Arash had started to feel a now too familiar burn in the palms of their left hands, and did not doubt for a moment what this meant. Khamûl had been the missing Nazgûl that Pippin had not seen. 

“That hour has now come, I think,” said Aragorn, and Gandalf spoke up against it:

“Not yet. There remains a short while of doubt, which we must use. The Enemy, it is clear, thought that the Stone was in Orthanc – why should he not? And that therefore the hobbit was captive there, driven to look in the glass for his torment by Saruman. That dark mind will be filled now with the voice and face of the hobbit and with expectation: it may take some time before he learns his error. We must snatch that time. We have been too leisurely. We must move. The neighbourhood of Isengard is no place now to linger in. I will ride ahead at once with Peregrin Took, and Boromir following us at dawn. It will be better for him than lying in the dark while others sleep.”

“I will keep Éomer and ten Riders,” Théoden declared, “They shall ride with me when dawn arrives. The rest may go with Aragorn or Boromir and ride as soon as they have a mind.”

“As you will,” said Gandalf, “But make all the speed you may to the cover of the hills, to Helm's Deep!”

“Speaking about haste…” Oberyn started as the glowing image of the spear on his palm now was acting like a heartbeat to the point of becoming painful, “We have gotten unwanted company!” 

At that moment a shadow fell over them. The bright moonlight seemed to be suddenly cut off. Several of the Riders cried out, and crouched, holding their arms above their heads, as if to ward off a blow from above: a blind fear and a deadly cold fell on them. Cowering they looked up. A vast winged shape passed over the moon like a black cloud. It wheeled and went north, flying at a speed greater than any wind of Middle-earth. The stars fainted before it. It was gone.

They stood up, rigid as stones. Gandalf was gazing up, his arms out and downwards, stiff, his hands clenched.

“Nazgûl!” he cried, “The messenger of Mordor. The storm is coming. The Nazgûl have crossed the River! Ride, ride! Wait not for the dawn! Let not the swift wait for the slow! Ride!”

He sprang away, calling Shadowfax as he ran. Aragorn followed him. Going to Pippin, Gandalf picked him up in his arms. 

“You shall come with me this time,” he told the hobbit, “Shadowfax shall show you the famed speed of the Maeras.” 

Then he ran to the place where he had slept. Shadowfax stood there already. Slinging the small bag which was all his luggage across his shoulders, the wizard leapt upon the horse's back. Aragorn lifted Pippin and set him in Gandalf's arms, wrapped in cloak and blanket.

“Farewell! Follow fast, Boromir, as best as you can!” cried Gandalf to the others, “Away, Shadowfax! Towards Gondor and Minas Tirith!”

The great horse tossed his head. His flowing tail flicked in the moonlight. Then he leapt forward, spurning the earth, and was gone like the north wind from the mountains.

“A beautiful, restful night!” commented Merry to Aragorn, with everyone else running around to hasty pack their things and get ready to ride as well, “Some folk have wonderful luck. He did not want to sleep, and he wanted to ride with Gandalf – and there he goes! Instead of being turned into a stone himself to stand here forever as a warning!”

“If you had been the first to lift the Orthanc-stone, and not him, how would it be now?”said Aragorn as something to think deeper about, ”You might have done worse. Who can say? But now it is your luck to come with me, I fear. At once. Go and get ready, and bring anything that Pippin left behind. Make haste!”

Ten Dornish riders, and four Rohirrim who could speak the Sindarin language spoken in Minas Tirith, with Arash as their leader, agreed to join Boromir as his escort towards Gondor, while Oberyn took the rest back to Helm's Deep.

Chapter Text

The night between 5th and 6th March, Imladris: 

With sleep escaping her so far tonight, Arwen tried to pass time with some embroidery on some clothing for Aragorn that would be worthy to be worn on a King, should he take the Crown of Gondor. Somehow, she could sense that something was happening in the South, things which were not set in stone, changes which had not been possible about fourteen years earlier.   

“The current Queen consort of Rohan could not have known what sort of changes she would bring with her. Even Father was confused by her arrival, because his gift of foresight suddenly began to show different images of her and the symbol of her House…”

Magic had grown less common in the Race of Men over the Third Age, and much of it would be called a far cry from what could be witnessed in the First Age, long before her father had been born. Yes, Arwen knew that there were still sorcerers existing among Men, some born with their magical powers, or gaining them through various means, such as pleading loyalty to Sauron. 

“Yes?”

A knock had come from the door, and her father entered, dressed plainly as if he too was wearing the robe mostly to not be seen in his nightclothes, though that would have been no problem among the servants. Most likely, it was in case Bilbo may wander in the house again because of his own lack of sleep and needed someone to gently guide him back to his chambers. The elder Baggins was very old by the standards of the Shire now, after all. 

“Arwen, are you being kept up as well?” Elrond asked, joining her on the chairs facing the open windows. 

“Praying my brothers and the Grey Company shall reach Rohan soon, to help Aragorn. Praying for hope, and that the Shadow shall be defeated, should Frodo succeed with the burden he wore to carry on his shoulders.” 

For some people, Arwen may come off as somewhat passive, being traditionally feminine in both behavior and interests, but Elrond had lived for so long that he knew just how wrong it was to think of such women as weak and unable to defend themselves. Those people failed to see the “silk hiding steel” side of feminine women, as a saying from the ancient East went, and that such women could sometimes be successful in vastly different ways even without using weapons, if they knew how to use their own strengths and weaknesses correctly. 

“I am at least grateful that Samwise Gamgee chose to join his Master. A humble gardener he may be, with no idea of the dangers ahead. but that strong loyalty may be exactly what Frodo needs to succeed on this dangerous task. Sometimes, a loyal friend is exactly the right push out of doubt and fear of failure.” 

Yes. Many such stories of hope, often based on reality, were proof that they could not give up yet. Giving in to despair and doubt, would only gain Sauron an indirect victory over those who tried to fight him.

Taking a deep breath, Arwen began to sing. An ancient song of hope, without any real words, hailing from the very first days of the Eldar, carried by the night air towards the south. 

And Elrond knew that he was not imagining a responding song somewhere, in a long dead Mannish language from the East. The tongue of Kemet, and its oldest, reborn princess praying for the soul of the fallen father that she now had to face as an enemy. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

The lands of Rhûn, in the Temple of Shadows:

Sitting up in her bed, Visenya looked without a word on the bandages covering her more or less anywhere. When Rhaenys had closed the portal at Dragonstone, blocking Sauron from Westeros, the daughter of Lyanna had fallen unconscious from the huge strain on her body and magical powers. When she had woken up again, she found herself like this, bandages covering the marks with the Eye of Sauron that had marked her while the portal was open. 

“Heh…just how wrong was Rhaegar about you, dear sister Rhaenys? How could he miss the spark in your eyes, that could have been a warning that you were not what you seemed?” 

Well, personally Visenya did not hold a grudge against her older half-sister for closing the portal. If anything, that proved just how blund Rhaegar had been to the true selves of his legal wife and children she had borne him. Besides, it had been very enjoyable to sense the soul of Aerys getting a taste of his own medicine and then locked up forever with no chance to escape his prison. 

“On the other hand, I feel tainted with the symbol of Sauron on my own body…” 

Removing the bandages on her right arm, Visenya picked up a fruit knife from the bowl on the table next to the bed. 

“Just to change the shape into one of the symbols of Kemet, to honor my Master!” 

It did hurt a lot without anything to numb the pain, but Visenys gritted her teeth in an attempt to not start crying and kept going. But naturally, as she had started to carve the knife into her flesh on the right arm as well and the blood began to come out from the nearest cut, someone had to see her: 

“How do you feel now after resting for a day, Consort Visa….what?! You foolish girl, what are you doing?! You are not to remove the bandages after suffering such horrible injuries! And you can not hurt yourself like this!” 

It was one of the older priests crying out in alarm over what he just witnessed, rushing forwards to stop it. Cursing loudly in protest, Visenya still was a young girl compared to him and even an aged eunuch like this priest could have some hidden strength despite looking rather frail due to old age. As a result, the bloodied knife was taken out of her hand, far out of reach even if she would rise to her full height. 

“Give me the knife! I do not want the Master to see those marks on me when he returns! I need to reshape them into the Eye of Horus now when they are still fresh!” 

As illogical her reasoning sounded, Visenya was actually not the first Consort here in the Temple to try carving symbols of Kemet into her flesh as a sign of loyalty towards Khamûl. Still, the priest frowned at her, refusing to lower his raised arm that held up the knife out of reach for the currently youngest Consort of his Master. 

“We can do that once you have recovered from getting so much of your magic taken. And first speak to the other Consorts and priests as well, this sort of scarring is not something to do on your own, girl.” 

Ugh. Visenya knew that this verbal battle was already lost, the moment her foster mothers was mentioned. She may have joined their rank after Iset had died from old age some months ago, but Tuya and the other Consorts would still be the women who had raised her from infanthood ever since Lyanna Stark had proven herself far too immature and irresponsible for the role as a mother to a infant child that was dependant on the adults around for survival. 

“...fine, help me clean the cuts and redo the bandages, please?”  

She would admit defeat for now, if only to not end up getting several scoldings by everyone. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

In Dol Amroth, Princess Consort Sita had trouble sleeping, and it was not because of the strong light from the moon outside. Well, it was not that surprising, really, with a war going on and the threat of Dol Amroth being attacked. 

“Ugh…think of something more pleasant, think of something more joyful…” she tried to remind herself, rolling around under the blankets until she hit the sleeping form of her husband. 

“....hm, honey…” Imrahil muttered when her heel accidently hit his leg, long used to her being a restless sleeper at times, without waking up. 

“Sometimes I wish that I could fall asleep the moment my head hits the pillow, just like him…” 

Imrahil would only protest if she ended up pulling his own blankets along in her restless movements, as this would release the heat trapped between the blanket and his own body temperature. 

“You are restless because Lothíriel should be due any day now and you can not be at her side for comfort.”

Of course her husband should have guessed why she had been acting oddly the last few days. It was not only the war against Sauron weighing on her mind, but the birth of a new grandchild among everything else. 

“...yes, I feel guilty for not being there for our only daughter, especially as this is her first childbirth…” 

Turning around so they were now face to face, Imrahil hugged Sita. 

“Knowing our dear daughter, I am sure that we will get a letter soon about whatever the birth has happened or not. But now, please try to sleep instead of stealing my share of the blankets, beloved.” 

Knowing that she needed to sleep so she would not be tired during the day tomorrow, Sita tried to let his familiar body warmth help her relax enough to fall asleep. 

“It would be sweet with a granddaughter…” 

The familiar light snoring from Imrahil near her ear tolf Sita that he had already fallen back to sleep. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

Even Ihsan was still awake despite the late hour and sitting at the writing desk in his personal bedchamber, surrounded by many parchments, personal notes about the hieroglyphs that had been the writing system in Kemet and ancient books. 

“Even if Tywin Lannister was stripped of his noble title by Robert and tossed into the Black Cells for some days before Robert brought him along as a prisoner in the hope of exchanging him for the royal children and their cousins from Stannis, he is still a danger…” 

Ihsan did not doubt that there were many Westerland nobles who secretly plotted to free Tywin from his captivity when Robert had his focus on something else, like a battle that brought the Baratheon King away from the ship where Tywin currently was held as a prisoner. After all, the Lannisters had been the rulers of the Westerlands for so long that people simply could not imagine another noble family taking that place. It would be akin to House Stark suddenly losing the North to one of their bannermen families.

“This text here….traps in the royal tombs in Kemet to prevent grave robbers? Well, that sounds indeed like a classic in ancient times, even here in Westeros. Can not have the grave goods of a King or his relatives be stolen!” 

But the reminder of the traps built to safeguard the burial chamber of Princess Mara and Morgan, had sowed a seed for inspiration inside the mind of the former Prince Consort. 

“Heh…I may not be able to do magic, being an outsider married into House Martell, but I think Doran will agree that Tywin deserves every humiliation that we can throw at him, without killing him. Robert have already started, but we have not forgotten that had things done as Tywin wanted, poor Elia, Rhaenys and Aegon would have been dead at the end of the Sack of King's Landing, thanks to that they would have been in the way for Cersei getting a crown of a Queen set upon her golden head.” 

Smirking for himself in a manner that would have scared those who always dismissed him as a spineless, non-threatening man who always gave in to his late wife Aria when she had been alive, Ihsan began to make a draft of possible plans to let Tywin Lannister suffer the wrath of House Martell about what he had intended for Elia and her two oldest children. 

“ Ambinations for a family are one thing, Tywin Lannister, but even the merciless sun will kill even the strongest lion in the desert sands without water or shade. ” 

Moving the candle so its flame danced across a map of Westeros on the wall, Ihsan blocked the roaring lion of House Lannister from his sight. 

Chapter Text

Morning of March 6, Dunharrow in Rohan:   

Despite most of Dunharrow currently being a refugee camp with new Rohirric families arriving everyday from all across the Kingdom, given that Queen Elia had requested the evacuation so less lives risked to be lost in raids and attacks on the common villages, said families tried to get some form of normal life in the camp. 

One example was to send the older, preteen children to get water from the Snowbourn. After all, water was needed for cooking, washing and a lot of other things to make life somewhat more normal. 

“Excuse us! Let us through, please! We are carrying buckets filled with water here!” 

Celia and Amanda were trying to help out with whatever tasks that would not be too difficult, alongside other children around their age group. By helping out, they would not be in the way for the mothers cooking food on big fires just outside the tents or other adults helping to build up more temporary homes in the tents or caring for the livestock that many farming families had brought along from their homes. 

“Celia, a little more to the right!” 

The older daughter of Lysa heard the warning from her sister, and smoothly avoided tripping over a newly raised tent pole while still carrying the bucket of water. This was one of many examples of how the two former Arryn sisters tried to help each other, thanks to knowing of their respective struggles like the nearsightedness of Celia and Amanda in social situations outside the family. 

“Thank you for bringing us some of the water needed to make the midday meal and dinner later, children,” one of the mothers greeted the group, carrying an iron pot that was already filled with oatmeal. The cooking fires had also been going for a while since an hour or so before dawn, so many were already making things ready for the first meal of the day. 

Outside the portal between Harrowdale in the mountain side and the empty store building in the Old Palace, Lysa was helping to ensure that the offered food goods from Dorne was divided as equally as possible so that no family in the camp risked to be without. Next to her, Eorl was holding the back of her skirt with one hand and his favorite stuffed toy in the other hand, wanting to be near his mother for now. 

“About twenty more families arrived yesterday, the same hamlet since they arrived together and clearly knew each other, and they did warn of more to come. Those families who live the farest away from Harrowdale, naturally need the longest time to travel here and hope that they will not be attacked on the way.”  

“True enough,” Mellario agreed before turning her attention back to the Dornish men and women helping to divide the food, then lifting up a wax table in her hands to write a personal report for Doran and Arianne so they would know if something was not right in the calculations for the food. 

“Lady Lysa? Can you help to interpret a little? Some of the families are a little worried about the foodstuff given to them since they have elderly family members with difficulty to chew or infants still nursing at the breast,” one household maid hurried to call from where the food was being divided to families standing in long rows. 

“Of course!” Lysa responded, taking the hand of Eorl so they could walk together. Despite having lived in Rohan for not even five years and still was a far away in being as fluent in Rohirric as Elia was after nearly fourteen years, Lysa still took pride in that she now had been living enough long in Rohan to be able to act as an interpreter in situations like this. Of course, she knew that Celia and Amanda were far more fluent in Rohirric thanks to still being children that would catch on the everyday talk from anong playmates faster than a adult and her dear little Eorl knew very little of the Common Tongue in Westeros, being far more used to the language of Dorne than that of the Vale of Arryn. 

While their mother was helping out with the food now after breakfast, Celia and Amanda were tasked with babysitting some younger children, for there was more than one mother who needed a quick rest, especially if the families had newly arrived in Harrowdale and had spent a lot of time trying to unpack whatever they could bring along. 

“Sit down on the grass, all of you, else I will not play on the harp!” 

“Play for us, Celia!” 

Even with her congenital nearsightedness, Celia refused to let her handicap make her look passive or unable to take control of a situation herself. She may never become a shield-maiden, and Amanda could be a little too blunt at times because she did not always recall her social manners in the right moments, but Lysa had seen how both her daughters would thrive in Rohan as adults, rather than the stiffing expectations they would have faced in Westeros. 

“Right, be quiet so all of you can hear…” 

Celia began to play on the lyre that she had been gifted on her tenth birthday by Tirward, and Amanda began to sing when a familiar, simple melody was being played. 

In the distance, their step-grandparents were also listening, watching the children to see if there would be any trouble suddenly showing up. 

“It was a good choice, what the Queen did back then. Without our son entering her life, I am sure that Lysa would have been a lot more unhappy, struggling to have a healthy son from a much older husband who did not care for the two daughters she gave him.”

Stopping in her knitting for a moment to count the stitches done so far, Tirwald's stepmother added in without looking up from what she was doing with her hands:  

“Honestly, I would have liked to give her late father a firm hit over the head with your sword and then a long, verbal enlightenment to open his eyes to the mind-numbing idiocy of his actions and how this damaged whatever trust Lysa would have for him, husband. Selling off his younger daughter as a broodmare to a much older and childless bridegroom, while her sister gets the brother of her original betrothed?! Even if Lysa did fool around a little because she was curious about how it is to sleep with a man, that still does not justify the huge age gap she faced in her first marriage! Honestly, what is wrong with wanting to kiss a boy that is her own age and sometimes accidentally taking the next step as a result of the mood? ”  

Her husband nodded, knowing better than disagreeing with his second wife. Besides, even if they had never met Host Tully, the whole “forcing Lysa to marry a husband that was even older than himself”-thing had left a less than nice impression of the late Lord Tully for Tirwald and his family.   

“Well, it is perfectly natural to be curious about romance and sexual matters, as many are at that age when their bodies start to mature. Sadly, some cultures have very strict views on the virginity of young girls, especially those of high status, and getting forcefully married to such an old man, all to give him the heirs that he should have tried to beget many years earlier on a previous wife, was not the right way of handling such a situation with Lysa.”  

Lysa had not told her new parents-in-law the full details of her getting pregnant by Petyr outside marriage and forced into a traumatic abortion by Hoster when he found out, but they were not fully blind to a guessing of the reason to why Jon Arryn had been given her as a such much younger bride, and coming very close to the truth without even knowing about it.  

“Grandfather! Grandmother! Please help us gather the children again before something bad happens! I do not want Celia and myself to be scolded for bad babysitting!” Amanda cried out in distress to the old couple when the younger children chose to run in different directions, Celia cursing loudly over how they could not sit down nicely for a longer while.  

~X~X~X~X~X~X 

In Meduseld, the King and Queen were checking on the daily reports that had arrived this morning as well. 

“Mostly good news, thankfully. There have been a few attempted raids by the Uruk-hai and Orcs on families who are on the way to Harrowdale, but the Dornish riders across Rohan have managed to avoid too many deaths thanks to acting as escort and protectors for the families.” 

Théodred still needed to rest, but he had insisted on being laid down on a stretcher temporary out on a pair of benches in the Golden Hall, if only to be able to personally see what happened outside the royal bedchamber, and the household maids needed to change the bedsheets anyway. With a pillow to support his head and a thick blanket to keep warm, he was using the time to set his signature on various documents that Elia had read aloud for him. 

“That is good. I am annoyed that my injuries prevent me from leading the Rohirrim into battle against the enemy, but that can not be helped because Saruman wanted Rohan to become weakened with my death. Thankfully, I am not the only adult man in the House of Eorl right now, I trust my father and cousin to do their best in my stead.” 

Elia looked at her husband. He did try to hide it, but his body language spoke of a great wish to personally beat up Saruman for the murder attempt on him, and that was not a big surprise. The King of Rohan was expected to lead his people in both peace and war, so for Théodred, not being able to take a bigger part in the fighting against Mordor was a low blow against his pride as a warrior. 

“It would have been a great sorrow for us all if you had died, besorg. Aégnor would have to be crowned as a underage King in a very troubling time, and his grandfather would have to lead the Rohirrim in his place.”

“Yes,” her husband admitted, “that is why I tried so hard to stay alive, even with your medicinal treatment, until Aragorn arrived. I did not want to leave my beloved family behind, or leave my Kingdom without a leader.” 

Some time later, when Elia had gone outside to see how things were in the rest of Edoras, the King of Rohan noticed his stepdaughter sitting in a corner of the Golden Hall, fully focused on what appeared to be a sketch for a new painting. 

“Rhaenys, I can see that something is troubling your mind. Is it something you can talk about?” 

She looked up, and after some moments of thinking, she came over to his side. 

“I am scared, Feder. Because I dread that when Mara closed that portal between the two worlds so long ago…”

Ah, he could guess what she feared to say. He and Elia had talked about this just yesterday evening, before falling asleep for the night. 

“Rhaenys. Khamûl became a Nazgûl because he witnessed nearly everyone in his whole family be murdered by a treacherous son who desired Mara in the same unhealthy manners as the Targaryens, and he made that choice out of desperation to protect Mara and Neith alongside their unborn sons from the same fate. What if Mara had not managed to escape Tar-Minyatur, you wonder? Would Princess Nymeria of Ny Sar have an ally to become her husband and Prince Consort when trying to unite Dorne? Would the descendants of Mara and Morgan Martell have to suffer the same fate as the bloodline of Neith, locked up in a golden cage and facing the horror of being murdered in order to keep them under control? Would Morgan even have manage to be born alive, and not murdered right after birth by Tar-Minatyr to cause Mara anguish? ” 

Rhaenys took a deep breath, imagining those “what-ifs” scenarios in her head. Yes, the pregnant Mara had not been able to open the portal again and died in Dorne without ever seeing her homeland of Kemet again, but on the other hand, her son had managed to grow up and become the ancestor of House Martell without Sauron managing to find them, right up to the very moment when Théodred had showed up right in time to save his future family from a horrible death on the orders of Tywin Lannister. The mere idea of what sort of fate that Morgan could have faced, if Mara had not been able to escape, was clear. House Martell would never have come into existence. 

“You are right, Feder. Even if it was not intended at that time, Khamûl did indirectly save Mara and Morgan by giving her that order to bring herself and her unborn son to safety. By taking that risk with the portal, and facing the dangers of an unknown world, Mara ensured that her descendants in House Martell were given the chance to exist without the threat of Sauron hanging over their heads.” 

For Rhaenys, it felt better now to have heard such words that reminded her of things that could have been very different in the past. If anything, a proof of that small actions could have consequences on a larger scale than imagined. 

“I will keep making the outline of this drawing and see if I can find the right colors for it, if only to forget what is happening in the wider world for now.” 

The King nodded with a smile over that she seemed less sad now, sending her off to do what she enjoyed. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X 

In Minas Tirith, an evacuation of the civilian population was also going on. 

“On orders of Lord Faramir, everyone who is not a soldier or trained in the arts of healing needs to evacuate to the south and west parts of Gondor!”

Messengers were walking around in the streets on all the seven layers of the city, informing of what Faramir had ordered to do. 

“Those who have relatives out in the country that they can join, please inform the adminiastion in charge of the evacuation! The Orphan Labor Force are also helping to keep records of the families that may need to spit up for whatever reason!” 

In one of the state-owned city orphanages, a lot of families were asking the staff to help send their children with the Orphan Labor Force, especially those with many young children. 

“How many children? Which village? What sort of relatives do you have there?” 

Among everything else, Sansa and Arya was sitting in a corner of the orphanage building, dressed in the same light grey woolen dress as the other orphaned girls here, trying to see if they could spot their father or one of the familiar Stark guards who had joined them south to King's Landing to form a small household while the sisters and Robb was being educated in a more southern manner, to widen their world beyond the North because of their blood ties to southern noble houses and not having Argella be the one needing to adjust the most in her future as the next Lady Stark by marrying Robb. 

“Why is Father not coming here? Surely he or Robb would have sent out the guards to search for us, if they were injured?” 

Both of them still had a little unclear memories thanks to the concussions of the brain that they had gotten when the staircase had collapsed from the burning hail, but they did remember that something had happened in the capital of Westeros. 

“I do not know, Arya…I have tried to ask the women who work in this place, but no one seems to understand what I am saying!” 

It had came as a huge shock for Sansa, the moment when she had realized in horror that no one here seemed to speak the Common Tongue of Westeros or that the name of House Stark or their father got no signs of recognition, and she was scared of that this could mean for her and Arya. 

“I will ask again, please do not cause any trouble before I come back, Arya?” the older sister pleaded, knowing that her younger sister was being very restless after being in bed for many days and needed to walk with crutches due to her broken left leg. And Sansa knew the signs of Arya getting frustrated over something from their shared school lessons both at Winterfell and at the royal court in the Red Keep, she could see it in Arya now.   

“Yeah, yeah.” 

Sansa really did not want to leave Arya alone, but if there was someone asking for them, she had to let that person know that they were here.  

“Alright….” 

Naturally, just as Sansa feared before leaving, it did not take long for Arya to become bored. Even with her bright auburn hair, it was impossible to see Sansa clearly in the mass of adults and whatever they were carrying. 

“There is nothing fun to do here…we may not have school lessons, but I want to be outdoors!” 

Taking her crutches, the younger Stark daughter tried to walk around in hope of finding something to do even with a broken leg. 

In the small courtyard, a young girl who was maybe five years older than Sansa, was cutting up lemons to add in cups of drinking water for the gathered children. A kitchen maid from a noble household here in Minas Tirith, who had been sent from her workplace with a small donation to charity, and given permission to evacuate alongside the orphans later today. 

“The lady of the House felt sorry for all the chaos now during the evacuation, and sent over those as a treat for you who live here in the orphanage. No, no! Be careful, the juice is pretty acidic,” she warned one small boy who tried to take one of the peels in his hand for a closer look.

“Your mistress is very kind,” one girl smiled over the sounds of her friends who tried to taste on the lemon rinds: 

“Sour!” 

When Arya arrived, the older kitchen girl naturally could not help but notice her broken leg. 

“Oh, oh.”

“One of the two weird girls!”

“Yeah, those who can not speak Sindarin!”  

“Ehm! ” 

The kitchen maid faked a loud cough as a reminder that they should not speak in that way about others. It was a poor habit to have, and often the cause for bullying of other children. This girl had a broken leg, and should not have to face such treatment. 

“Be nice, or I will have to tell the Matron and her underlings about what you just said.” 

Arya, who had seen the lemons playing there on a wooden cutting board above the small marble table, knew that Sansa would have asked if there were some lemon cakes or some similar sweets. For them, being nobles used to sweets being available if they so desired between meals and a very different menu when food was to be served, it had been a shock to see the orphanage staff serve mosty bread, cheese, grains, vegetables and a soup or stew. Almost no meat at all, they had not seen any fish dishes and they could forget the idea of being served eggs yet at meals, as it was still a little too early in spring for chickens, ducks and geese to have started laying enough eggs for any excess eggs to be sold for money on the market by the farmer or those in the city who owned poultry.

“I want those lemons for my sister.” 

But the kitchen maid shook her head as a response, despite not really understanding what Arya had said. But her look at the lemon had spoken enough details. 

“Wait on your turn if you want to have some lemon water, there are some children ahead of you in the row, and I need to cut up the remaining ones.” 

However, Arya did not like the response. From her point of view, being refused like this, when she had been polite, felt like an insult. She was used to the servants of Winterfell being friendly to her by being one of the children to their employer, and her restlessness from the last couple of days did not help. 

“I said, I want those lemons for my sister!” 

In return for the more demanding tone, the kitchen maid gave her an annoyed glare. Honestly, who had been in charge of this girl and her upbringing? Was she coming from a noble background, sent to the orphanage temporarily to learn about how to not take things for granted or to learn some humility because she was a problem child in the classroom? Some noble families were said to use this method to deal with troublemakers among their children, according to gossip below the stairs. 

“Wait on your turn, ill-mannered brat. ”

Turning around, the maid began to chop up the remaining lemons without giving any more attention to Arya, who now let her impulsive side take control over what she felt to be an unfair treatment by a rude adult.  

“I ASKED FOR THOSE LEMONS FOR MY SISTER, STUPID WOMAN!!” she yelled in a loud voice, scaring a few of the other children to run a small distance away. And then Arya swung out with the right crutch because she would trip over if she used the left one, aiming for the maid. The adolescent narrowly avoided being hit in the head because even if Arya was much shorter no one wanted to be stricken with a stick in the head, but she tripped over and as the maid fell backwards on the stones, the crutch instead hit the wooden cutting board from the side. One lemon half, partly crushed from earlier, flew up across the air by the strike, and no one could act in time to prevent this acid citrus half from landing on the maid. 

“AAAAAAAAGH!!! ” 

A howl of agony echoed across the courtyard, catching the attention of those who were indoors or at the front of the orphanage building, the maid holding her hands over her left eye where the acid lemon juice had hit her eyeball. 

“What is going on here!?” the Matron called in her most authoritative voice, hurrying outside with a few of the female staff members right behind her. 

“That strange girl tried to hit the visiting kitchen maid for not giving her lemon water ahead of us!” 

“And caused that lemon half to land over her eye!” 

All the other children pointed at Arya, who realized that this was not going to be a good situation. Walking over to the maid, the Matron gently removed her hands to see the full damage. 

“Get her inside and help her flush that eye with plenty of water! Make sure to lift both the upper and lower eyelid from time to time to get all that acid out! And get a healer here!” 

Leaving the maid in the care of her staff, the Matron grabbed Arya hard around her arm. Then, raising her hand, the old woman proved herself to not be weak and frail despite her age as Arya almost was knocked over by the slap on her cheek. But the younger Stark daughter did not get many moments of shock over the physical punishment, or even time to get angry. 

“You!” the Matron hissed with a furious face as she pulled the stunned Arya almost face to face, “what in the names of the Valar was you thinking!? Have you never learned that citric acid can cause eye damage and even blindness if the juice enters the eye!?! If you think that you will escape punishment for this sort of behavior, forget it!” 

And with that warning, Arya found herself tossed forwards over the stone stable, the dress pulled upwards to reveal her bare buttcheeks and spanked forcefully with one of the crutches, and it was not taking long before she was crying and screaming from the pain.

“No! NO!! Stop it! Please stop! Please, do not hurt her anymore! Please, let Arya go! ” a horrified Sansa pleaded from where she was being held back by two older employees, preventing her from coming to her sister's aid or do anything else to interrupt the punishment. 

Finally, the punishment was over. But Sansa, who now hurried over to Arya and hugged her for comfort, could see that her sister honestly was terrified. 

“I am here, Arya, I am here…” Sansa whispered in her best attempt to calm herself as she held the trembling body of her crying sister close to herself. 

“Mother…I want Mother, Sansa…” 

Yet Sansa could not believe what she just had witnessed. Not even Maester Luwin would punish her or Arya in this way during the lessons in reading, writing and mathematics. Nor would Septa Mordane, and the septas in control over the school lessons of the noble girls at court tended to favor sending the troublemaker to sit in a “corner of shame” and still having to follow along in the lesson. How would Father react, if he learned that someone had dared to strike Arya in this manner?

“Write up in the younger girl's information papers about the eye damage she caused today. I am not a healer, but I would be surprised if that kitchen maid ends up becoming blind in that eye which the lemon juice hit. If so, the younger girl needs to work and earn money that will be given away as compensation.”

The Matron also gave order about that in the information papers about Sansa and Arya that had been created at their arrival to the orphanage, there would be a notification for any foster family out in the country of Arya being aggressive and needing strict discipline in the form of hard work and absolutely no cuddling that could rewake her old behavior which Ned had caused by his favoritism and escaping from consequences resulting from her actions. 

In short, Arya had just gotten a first, rather brutal taste of that not all adults would accept her behavior even if she was a young child, and that she actually could hurt other people without meaning it originally. 

Chapter Text

Haven of Umbar, 6th March:     

In one of the courtyards, the Baratheon children were busy trying to figure out what sort of magic they had personally, not as a unit. 

“Try being a little more smooth in your movements rather than waving your arms around blindly like that, Lyonel! Those fans are not a sword and shield of iron!” Argella called to her twin as she used the two steel warfans in her hands to aim a rather strong wind towards his face and the Crown prince of Westeros found himself wet all over again for the unnumbered time this morning thanks to said wind blowing the water over himself instead.  

“I am not the one being trained by Holly in how to use a hand fan gracefully in public, Aea! ” 

Somehow, Argella was actually the one with the ability to control winds and air, rather than Lyonel who instead had been gifted with water. However, neither twin complained about it. Both water and air could have either mascusline or feminine touches no matter what sort of gender the user had, as proved in how storms and hurricanes tended to be a mix of both winds and water. 

“Don't blow us around, Argella!” 

Not far from the twins, Brienne and Sandor were having a training duel to see just how much the oldest daughter of House Tarth seemed to be able to defend herself and others near herself with the use of magical incarnations to add to her sword and shield. 

“Come to me, Maat, and use me as your servant to ensure justice! ”

Despite her own conflicted feelings about her body and appearance, not always helped by that her two younger sisters had gotten most of the more traditional feminine looks that seemed to have literally skipped over her, Brienne had always been strong for her age even before starting to train in order to become a rare female knight and now proved this true as Sandor found himself with a very formidable opponent who could actually match his own strength. 

“Get him, Bria!” Shireen called in a slightly nervous voice as she watched the duel between the two sworn swords of her twin cousins, all while Rhea kept doing a different training with Aemon. 

“Toss bigger pieces of ice, Aemon,” the younger daughter of Stannis commented, as not even a noticeable big rock failed to break the magical shield around her. A new try from Eric, aided with the smithing hammer of Gendry, did not work either. 

“Well, I may not have gotten some of that magical stuff like you, but I think it is better to avoid unwanted attention anyway if I am to become a blacksmith,” Gendry said as Eric tossed back the hammer to him over the circular barrier where Rhea currently was. 

“I can send over the metal needed to forge my armor and such, if you do not settle down too far away at the end of your three years as a journeyman across Westeros! We siblings should help each other, right?” Eric offered, trying to pull apart some rocks that they would use again for training. 

“Elinor, how are your botanist powers going?” 

The second Baratheon princess had remained near the flower beds so far, trying to see if it was only pretty flowers that she could grow, or if it could be expanded to trees as well. Myra was helping her younger half-sister with some fertile soil to plant the seeds in. 

“I think I have managed to make the flowers bloom….. aaaaaah! ” 

Of course, because they had only awoken their powers fully very recently as a reaction to the danger which Sauron posed to Westeros, and therefore did not have years of secret training like the Martells, some form of mishap was bound to happen. After all, there was a difference between being born with a natural gift for magic, and actually knowing how to use it safely. 

“Oi, Elinor! Do not ensnare us again with those bloody flowers as if they were ropes!!” Sandor cursed as a literal sea of tall grass and uneven number of various flowers grew so hasty that it was even above the heads of him and Brienne.  

“I am sorry, Sandor! I am sorry!” An anxious response came from somewhere in the grass despite that Elinor could not see anyone, movements revealing where the various members of the younger Baratheon generation tried to find each other, calling out names and wondering just how much grass there was. 

“Oh, stop fussing over it, girl! Rather flowers with thorns than fire,” Sandor muttered, starting to cut through the grass with his sword in order to see where everyone was. He really meant it in that he preferred how none of the royal children or their cousins had gotten any magic power related to fire, the memory of Gregor burning half his face as a child was still very alive thanks to phantom pains and whatever he saw himself in a mirror. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X 

On the other hand, Robert and Stannis was trying to convince Suleiman that their children must be sent home for their own safety, but the Sultan of Rûm turned out to have several answers as to why it would be a bad idea: 

“Do you want those Wraiths on their flying beasts to try to kidnap your children again?! Behind your backs this time, and neither of you hearing about it before it may be too late? Magic powers or not, your children will still be targets because they are the heirs of the royal family of your realm, and Sauron will want them as hostages to use against you or as puppets for him to control! That is how he has kept control over the East of Middle-Earth for so long, and those Ringwraiths are just one of many ways for him to ensure that he stays in control from the shadows!”

He may be younger than the two Baratheon brothers, but Suleiman knew what he talked about. After all, he had only escaped such captivity by pure luck for his father when he pretended to not have slept with Suleiman's mother at all and thus she officially could leave his harem to be married to a trusted governor, when she was actually carrying the unborn Suleiman inside her body without it being visible underneath her clothing yet. 

“Damn! Whatever we do, that Dark Lord will try and catch them, right? And back home, things are not looking great either…” Robert muttered, hating this sort of situation where he could not fight as a solution. The political side of being a ruler was something he had never enjoyed, not even as a Lord Paramount of the Stormlands before taking the crown, mainly because he was a man that was most alive when fighting physically and Robert knew that this side of his personality did not work well with the petty, day-to-day bickering to be found in trying to run a kingdom, no matter how charming he could be so enemies could be turned into allies. After all, as he had found out in many hard ways despite trying to be more active in the political side of kingship over the past years, him being a good general in times of war, did sadly not mean he would make a good king in times of peace. Robert was no fool, but his kingship had forced him to face some of his worse flaws in a more serious light over time. 

“We are NOT bringing them along to the battlefield when we must fight those creatures! It is not a place for children! My daughters are only seven and four years old! And the youngest son of Robert is the same age as my youngest! Even with Sandor, Brienne, their natural siblings and septa Holly to defend them, they will not be anywhere near a true battle!” Stannis snarled with a furious look on his face, looking ready to actually punch Suleiman in the face if he even tried to suggest that. 

“Lord Baratheon, a fist to the face is not the answer here!” Morgan Sand hurried to add in from his place a bit further away, despite that his translations between the two languages had been thrown aside for the time being, for the three men could read each other's reactions from the raised voices, the body language and their reactions. 

“How about that they use their powers to help send our joined fleet on a faster speed for travel, and later stay under heavy guard on your ships?” the Sultan suggested in a neutral tone, and that seemed to be the way of avoiding a physical hit from Stannis.  

“Give us some time to think this through….please.”     

The last word was rather strained, but Suleiman understood why. This was a difficult choice for the Baratheon King and his brother, both as leaders and as fathers. Robert was newly widowed with only one young daughter and son left in the Red Keep if he failed to bring home his other children, and Stannis could not know if his wife Selyse may have a third daughter or a long-desired son at the end of her current pregnancy. 

Walking out on a balcony, the two brothers saw their children helping each other on the stone path below, trying to free a sibling or cousin from the remains of the flowers that Elinor had accidently wrapped around them. 

“Selyse would never forgive me if Shireen and Rhea were kidnapped again on the way home, and I did not know where they had been taken. So as much I dislike the idea of having them near a battlefield…” 

Stannis was gritting his teeth in frustration, and somehow, Shireen managed to hear it despite the distance to the ground. 

“Father, please do not hurt your teeth like that!” 

A simple request, but he was reminded of his grandmother Rhaelle gently telling him the same.

“Brother…do you not think there is a possible chance…that our children may be the key to victory? We have both fought those strange creatures, or orcs as Suleiman calls them, if they showed up in the Westerlands during our visits there before that great drought happened. If our children can help to delay their attacks on our soldiers, perhaps...” 

Robert had watched his children as they trained over the past days, and he could start to imagine how their powers could be used to gain an advantage in battle.

“Bring your own children if you so want, Robert, but I am not letting Shireen and Rhae enter danger!” Stannis growled at him, clearly showing that for all his awkwardness around his daughters, he did have some form of paternal instinct to want them to be safe. 

“Right, I get it, brother I will not talk more about it now.”

But Robert knew that they could not delay the choice of what to do, for long. Suleiman wanted to leave Umbar soon, for he had made it clear that he intended to sail with his armada of ships eventually, with or without the Westerosi warriors.  

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

In the Golden Hall of Meduseld; 

“Sister. Can we talk if you have time?” Aegon asked softly, in case he disturbed Rhaenys in the middle of her painting. 

“Yes.”

Putting down her brush, she turned around to face her brother.  

“That meeting with Khamûl…you are affected by it in more ways than just him finding out who you once was, right?” 

Her eyes were the familiar brown one, not the amber one that Princess Mara of Kemet would have when possessing her current self. 

“Even if he fell into darkness and became a servant of Sauron…he did it to protect me and Neith, Aegon, as well our unborn sons at that time. If anything, what does that tell of Khamûl as a father loving his children? That his paternal love was so strong that he was willing to do anything to ensure our survival. All of this reveals that, compared to a Ringwraith and our own stepfather, Rhaegar Targaryen was nothing else than being undependable in the role of a father and husband? He forced Madre to become pregnant with us when she had needed more time to rest between both pregnancies, and then had the fucking gall to claim that she was unable to have a third child as the reason why he ran off with Lyanna Stark!” 

Ah, Aegon realized, Rhaenys must have been reminded about their shared sore point that was the man who had sired them. Neither one of them had any high opinion about Rhaegar, not after how he basically had abandoned them and Elia at the mercy of Aerys while he vanished for months. 

“Yes…compared to them, even with everything Khamûl has done as a servant of evil, he was no father at all.” 

Rhaenys took a deep breath, but she still could not hold back her tears. The memory of Khamûl as Mara remembered him, and her own memories of Théodred all through everyday of her childhood until now. 

“Did that damn “Silver Prince” even care for us three at all as a husband and father, I wonder? Despite that Madre was his legal wife that he had wed in front of the entle court, and she risked her own life twice to give birth to us two? Or was he just waiting for a moment to find an excuse to toss us aside like we were worth nothing and replace us with a new family? A younger wife, easier to impress and control, that would fall on her knees in worship and treat him as if he was a gift from the gods, children that would look pale-skinned and more “proper” Targaryen than showing traits of the Martell family? No, Aegon, Rhaegar Targaryen may have sired us in the legal marriage between him and Madre, but he did not care for us at all, and he showed this by running off with Lyanna Stark. And if I ever meet a Westerosi that dares to claim that it is our Madre's fault that the marriage failed despite two heirs, then I will give a long sermon on his failures, including that he left us at the mercy of a abusive madman that was our own paternal grandfather, and why Rhaegar would NOT be an improvement over his father in the long run!” 

Aegon could tell from her body language that Rhaenys needed this rant, to get it out of her system. So he stepped forwards, and took her hands in his own: 

“Who can say where we will go? Who can promise what will be? But I will stay at your side, Rhaenys, as your brother. I will help you on the path that you must take as your promise to free your former father from the chains he is captured into. For all the evil things he have done, he was a different person once, and his fall into evil was triggered by the massive traumatic loss of everything that he held dear as the Farao of Kemet.” 

Their life here in Rohan was a far cry from how they would have lived as the children of Rhaegar, but both Rhaenys and Aegon had agreed several years ago that being a Targaryen Princess and Crown Prince would not be an enjoyable life. For Rhaegar had proved himself to not be reliable in acting as a true husband or father, or even as a helpful son, as poor Rhaella had bitterly found out during the Defiance of Duskendale when Aerys had been a prisoner for half a year and Rhaegar had never taken the chance during his absence to change Rhaella's living conditions inside Maegor's Holdfast or given her a chance to show what she was able of outside being a mother who struggled to have more living children. 

“We will fight together, little brother. All of House Martell, House Eorl, our other allies and my reborn past-life siblings, against the Dark Lord.”

Everyone had a strength of their own, but together, they would be more powerful than separate. 

Chapter Text

Gandalf was gone, and the thudding hoofs of Shadowfax were lost in the night, when Merry came back to Aragorn and Boromir also left with his mixed escort of Dornishmen and Rohirrim to ensure that he came to Minas Tirith without anything happening on to road, since the Steward was the leader of Gondor with no King upon its throne. Merry had only a light bundle, for he had lost his pack at Parth Galen, and all he had was a few useful things he had picked up among the wreckage of Isengard. Hasufel was already saddled. Legolas and Gimli with their shared horse stood close by.

“So four of the Company still remain,” said Aragorn when seeing them, “We will ride on together. But we shall not go alone, as I thought. Théoden is now determined to set out at once. Since the coming of the winged shadow, he desires to return to the hills under cover of night.”

“And then whither?” wondered Legolas. 

“I cannot say yet,” Aragorn answered, “As for the former king, he will go to the muster that he commanded at Edoras, four nights from now, since his son is in no state of leading his people into war because of the injury he suffered. And there, I think, Théoden will hear tidings of war, and the Riders of Rohan will go down to Minas Tirith. But for myself, and any that will go with me . . .”

“I for one!” cried Legolas, with Gimli adding on: 

“And Gimli with him!”

“Well, for myself,” Aragorn admitted, “it is dark before me. I must also go down to Minas Tirith, but I do not yet see the road. An hour, long prepared, approaches.” 

“Please don't leave me behind!” Merry begged in worry. “I admit that I have not been of much use yet; but I don't want to be laid aside, like baggage to be called for when all is over. I don't think the Riders will want to be bothered with me now. Though, of course, Lord Théoden did say that I was to sit by him when he came to his house and tell him all about the Shire.”

“Yes,” said Aragorn, “and your road lies with him, I think, Merry. But do not look for mirth at the ending. It will be long, I fear, ere Théoden sits at ease again in Meduseld with his family. Many hopes will wither in this bitter Spring.”

Soon all were ready to depart: twenty-four horses, with Gimli behind Legolas, and Merry in front of Aragorn. Presently they were riding swiftly through the night. They had not long passed the mounds at the Fords of Isen, when a Rider galloped up from the rear of their line.

“My lord,” he said to Théoden, “there are horsemen behind us. As we crossed the fords I thought that I heard them. Now we are sure. They are overtaking us, riding hard.”

Théoden at once called a halt. The Riders turned about and seized their spears. Aragorn dismounted and set Merry on the ground, and drawing his sword he stood by the former king's stirrup. Éomer and his esquire rode back to the rear. Merry felt more like unneeded baggage than ever, and he wondered, if there was a fight, what he should do. Supposing Théoden's small escort was trapped and overcome, but he escaped into the darkness alone in the wild fields of Rohan with no idea of where he was in all the endless miles? 

“No good!” he thought, and thus drew his small sword and tightened his belt.

The sinking moon was obscured by a great sailing cloud, but suddenly it rode out clear again. Then they all heard the sound of hoofs, and at the same moment they saw dark shapes coming swiftly on the path from the fords. The moonlight glinted here and there on the points of spears. The number of the pursuers could not be told, but they seemed no fewer than the royal escort, at the least.

When they were some fifty paces off, Éomer cried in a loud voice: 

“Halt! Halt! Who rides in Rohan?”

The pursuers brought their steeds to a sudden stand. A silence followed: and then in the moonlight, a horseman could be seen dismounting and walking slowly forward. His hand showed white as he held it up, palm outward, in token of peace; but the king's men gripped their weapons. At ten paces the man stopped. He was tall, a dark standing shadow. Then his clear voice rang out.

“Rohan? Rohan, did you say? That is a much welcomed word. We seek that land in haste from long afar.”

“You have found it,” said Éomer, “When you crossed the fords yonder you entered it. But it is the realm of Théodred the King. None ride here save by his leave. Who are you? And what is your haste?”

“Halbarad Dunadan, Ranger of the North I am,” cried the man, “We seek one Aragorn son of Arathorn, and we heard that he was in Rohan.”

“And you have found him also!” cried Aragorn in a manner that revealed that he must know the speaker. Giving his reins to Merry, he ran forward and embraced the newcomer. 

“Halbarad!” he said in joy, “Of all joys this is the least expected!”

Merry breathed a sigh of relief. He had thought that this was some last trick of Saruman's, to waylay Théoden while he had only a few men about him; but it seemed that there would be no need to die in Théoden's defense, not yet at any rate. He sheathed his sword.

“All is well,” said Aragorn, turning back, “Here are some of my own kin from the far land where I dwelt. But why they come, and how many they be, Halbarad shall tell us.”

“I have thirty with me,” Halbarad spoke with a light bow on his head, “That is all of our kindred that could be gathered in haste; but the brethren Elladan and Elrohir have ridden with us, desiring to go to the war. We rode as swiftly as we might when your summons came.”

“But I did not summon you,” Aragorn mentioned, “save only in wish. My thoughts have often turned to you, and seldom more than tonight; yet I have sent no word. But come! All such matters must wait. You find us riding in haste and danger. Ride with us now, if the father of the current King will give his leave.”

Théoden was indeed glad of the news. 

“It is well!” he said, “If these kinsmen be in any way like to yourself, my lord Aragorn, thirty such knights will be a strength that cannot be counted by heads.”

Then the Riders set out again, and Aragorn for a while rode with the Dunedain; and when they had spoken of tidings in the North and in the South, Elrohir said to him:

“I bring word to you from my father: The days are short. If thou art in haste, remember the Paths of the Dead. ”

“Always my days have seemed to me too short to achieve my desire,” answered Aragorn, realizing why Elrond must have sent those words to him, “But great indeed will be my haste ere I take that road.”

“That will soon be seen,” Elrohir agreed with the former foster son of his father, “But let us speak no more of these things upon the open road!”

And then Aragorn said to Halbarad: 

“What is that that you bear, kinsman?” 

For he saw that instead of a spear Halbarad bore a tall staff, as it were a standard, but it was close-furled in a black cloth bound about with many thongs.

“It is a gift that I bring you from the Lady of Rivendell,” answered Halbarad, “She wrought it in secret, and long was the making. But she also sends words to you: The days now are short. Either our hope cometh, or all hopes end. Therefore I send thee what I have made for thee. Fare well, Elfstone! ”

And Aragorn said: 

“Now I know what you bear. Bear it still for me a while!'” 

And he turned and looked away to the North under the great stars, and then he fell silent and spoke no more while the night's journey lasted. But Elladan and Elrohir did not doubt that Aragorn must be thinking of their sister, for they all three knew what sacrifice that Arwen had to do if she became the bride of Aragorn: 

By choosing to become a mortal, she would forsake her own immortality as an Elf, never seeing her family again once they left the shores of Middle-earth to live in Valinor, for the times of the Elves was coming to an end and their existing numbers sinking more and more for every Elf that chose to sail to Valinor. Even with the defeat of Sauron, the world had already changed so much that the Elves' way of living only made them further isolated from the rest of the world.

The night was old and the East grey when they rode up at last from Deeping-coomb and came back to the Hornburg. There they were to lie and rest for a brief while and take counsel. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X      

Pippin slowly awoke from his restless sleep, trying to recall what time it was on the journey towards Gondor. This was the second, no, the third night since he had looked in the Stone. And with that hideous memory he woke fully, and shivered, and the noise of the wind became filled with menacing voices.

A light kindled in the sky, a blaze of yellow fire behind dark barriers Pippin cowered back, afraid for a moment, wondering into what dreadful country Gandalf was bearing him. He rubbed his eyes, and then he saw that it was the moon rising above the eastern shadows, now almost at full. So the night was not yet old and for hours the dark journey would go on. He stirred and spoke.

“Where are we, Gandalf?” he asked, not seeing much difference in the landscape due to the night darkness. 

“In the realm of Gondor,” the wizard answered, “The land of Anorien is still passing by.” 

There was silence again for a while. Then, Pippin noticed something in the corner of his eye. 

“What is that?” cried Pippin suddenly, clutching at Gandalf's cloak, “Look! Fire, red fire! Are there dragons in this land? Look, there is another!”

For answer Gandalf cried aloud to his horse: 

“On, Shadowfax! We must hasten. Time is short. See! The beacons of Gondor are alight, calling for aid. War is kindled. See, there is the fire on Amon Dîn, and flame on Eilenach; and there they go speeding west: Nardol, Erelas, Min-Rimmon, Calenhad, and the Halifirien on the borders of Rohan.”

But Shadowfax paused in his stride, slowing to a walk, and then he lifted up his head and neighed. And out of the darkness the answering neigh of other horses came; and presently the thudding of hoofs was heard, and three riders swept up and passed like flying ghosts in the moon and vanished into the West. Then Shadowfax gathered himself together and sprang away, and the night flowed over him like a roaring wind.

Pippin became drowsy again and paid little attention to Gandalf telling him of the customs of Gondor, and how the Lord of the City had beacons built on the tops of outlying hills along both borders of the great range, and maintained posts at these points where fresh horses were always in readiness to bear his errand-riders to Rohan in the North, or to Belfalas in the South. 

“It is long since the beacons of the North were lit,” he said, “and in the ancient days of Gondor they were not needed, for they had the Seven Stones.”

Pippin stirred uneasily, not wanting to think of the Stone. 

“Sleep again, and do not be afraid!” said Gandalf in a soothing voice, “For you are not going like Frodo to Mordor, but to Minas Tirith, and there you will be as safe as you can be anywhere in these days. If Gondor falls, or the Ring is taken, then the Shire will be no refuge.”

“You do not exactly comfort me with such talk,” Pippin muttered, but nonetheless sleep crept over him. The last thing that he remembered before he fell into deep dream was a glimpse of high white peaks, glimmering like floating isles above the clouds as they caught the light of the westering moon. He wondered where Frodo was, and if he was already in Mordor, or if he was dead; and he did not know that Frodo from far away looked on that same moon as it set beyond Gondor ere the coming of the day.

Pippin woke to the sound of voices. Another day of hiding and a night of journey had fleeted by. It was twilight: the cold dawn was at hand again, and chill grey mists were about them. Shadowfax stood steaming with sweat, but he held his neck proudly and showed no sign of weariness. Many tall men heavily cloaked stood beside him, and behind them in the mist loomed a wall of stone. Partly ruinous it seemed, but already before the night was passed the sound of hurried labor could be heard: beat of hammers, clink of trowels, and the creak of wheels. Torches and flares glowed dully here and there in the fog. Gandalf was speaking to the men that barred his way, and as he listened Pippin became aware that he himself was being discussed.

“Yea truly, we know you, Mithrandir,” said the leader of the men, “and you know the pass-words of the Seven Gates and are free to go forward. But we do not know your companion. What is he? A dwarf out of the mountains in the North? We wish for no strangers in the land at this time, unless they be mighty men of arms in whose faith and help we can trust.”

“I will vouch for him before the seat of Denethor where Lord Faramir now holds for his brother until the return of Boromir,” Gandalf answered, “And as for valour, that cannot be computed by stature. He has passed through more battles and perils than you have, Ingold, though you be twice his height; and he comes now from the storming of Isengard, of which we bear tidings, and great weariness is on him, or I would wake him. His name is Peregrin, a very valiant man.”

“Man? ” said Ingold dubiously; and the others laughed.

“Man!” cried Pippin, now thoroughly roused, “Man! Indeed not! I am a hobbit and no more valiant than I am a man, save perhaps now and again by necessity. Do not let Gandalf deceive you!”

“Many a doer of great deeds might say no more,” said Ingold now when Pippin showed himself in better light from the touches, “But what is a hobbit?”

“A Halfling,” answered Gandalf, sounding almost like a classroom teacher trying to make his student sit down and listen for a full lesson with full attention. 

“Nay, not the one that was spoken of,” he added, seeing the wonder in the men's faces, “Not he, yet one of his kindred.” 

“Yes, and one who journeyed with him,” Pippin spoke up, “And Boromir of your City was with us, and he saved me in the snows of the North, but he was wounded when defending me from many foes, and is needing time to come here due to his injuries. But coming closer to home, he is!”

“Yes, and he has learned about the unfortunate passing of Lord Denethor from the House of Eorl,” Gandalf hurried to explain before someone wondered if Boromir even knew that he now was the ruling Steward.

“Lord Faramir hoped that the royal family of Rohan could tell his brother those news, if he returned the same way as he traveled north,” said Ingold, “Then pass on now quickly! For the acting Lord of Minas Tirith will be eager to see any that bear words from his brother, be he man or-” 

“Hobbit,” said Pippin, “Little service can I offer to your lord, but what I can do, I would do, remembering Boromir and his brave deed.”

“Fare you well!” Ingold spoke; and the men made way for Shadowfax, and he passed through a narrow gate in the wall. 

“May you bring good counsel to both Faramir and Boromir in their need, and to us all, Mithrandir!” Ingold cried as Shadowfax began to gallop again, “But you come with tidings of grief and danger, as is your wont, they say.”

“Because I come seldom but when my help is needed. And as for counsel, to you I would say that you are over-late in repairing the wall of the Pelennor. Courage will now be your best defense against the storm that is at hand and such hope as I bring. For not all the tidings that I bring are evil. But leave your trowels and sharpen your swords!” answered Gandalf over his shoulder.

“The work will be finished ere evening. This is the last portion of the wall to be put in defense: the least open to attack, for it looks towards our friends of Rohan. Do you know any of them? Will they answer the summons, think you?”

'Yes, they will come, and the warriors from the homeland of their Queen consort Elia Martell. But they have fought many battles at your back. This road and no road looks towards safety any longer. Be vigilant! But for Gandalf Stormcrow you would have seen a host of foes coming out of Anorien and no Riders of Rohan. And you may yet. Fare you well, and sleep not!” 

Gandalf passed now into the wide land beyond the Rammas Echor. So the men of Gondor called the out wall that they had built with great labor, after Ithilien fell under the shadow of their Enemy. For ten leagues or more it ran from the mountains' feet and so back again, enclosing in its fence the fields of the Pelennor: fair and fertile townlands on the long slopes and terraces falling to the deep levels of the Anduin. At its furthest point from the Great Gate of the City, north-eastward, the wall was four leagues distant, and there from a frowning bank it overlooked the long flats beside the river, and men had made it high and strong; for at that point, upon a walled causeway, the road came in from the fords and bridges of Osgiliath and passed through a guarded gate between embattled towers. At its nearest point the wall was little more than one league from the City, and that was south-eastward. There Anduin, going in a wide knee about the hills of Emyn Arnen in South Ithilien, bent sharply west, and the out-wall rose upon its very brink; and beneath it lay the quays and landings of the Harlond for craft that came upstream from the southern fiefs.

The townlands were rich, with wide tilth and many orchards, and homesteads there were with oast and garner, fold and byre, and many rills rippling through the green from the highlands down to Anduin. Yet the herdsmen and husbandmen that dwelt there were not many, and the most part of the people of Gondor lived in the seven circles of the City, or in the high vales of the mountain-borders, in Lossarnach, or further south in fair Lebennin with its five swift streams. There dwelt a hardy folk between the mountains and the sea. They were reckoned men of Gondor, yet their blood was mingled, and there were short and swarthy folk among them whose sires came more from the forgotten men who housed in the shadow of the hills in the Dark Years ere the coming of the kings. But beyond, in the great fief of Belfalas, dwelt Prince Imrahil in his castle of Dol Amroth by the sea, and he was of high blood, and his folk also, tall men and proud with sea-grey eyes.  

Chapter Text

Morning of March 6, the Hornburg of Helm's Deep: 

Merry slept very soundly until he was roused by Legolas and Gimli. 

“The Sun is high,” Legolas smiled, placing a plate of food next to Merry, “All others are up and doing. Come, Master Sluggard, and look at this place while you may!”

“Hard to think that there was a battle here three nights ago,” Gimli muttered, seeing the difference without any dead bodies around, “and here Legolas and I played a game that I won only by a single orc. Come and see how it was! And there are caves, Merry, caves of wonder! Shall we visit them, Legolas, do you think?”

The Elf gave the Dwarf a sad smile. 

“Nay! There is no time, my friend. Do not spoil the wonder with haste! I have given you my word to return hither with you, if a day of peace and freedom comes again. But it is now near to noon, and at that hour we eat, and then set out again, I hear.”

Merry got up and yawned. His few hours' sleep had not been nearly enough; he was tired and rather dismal. He missed Pippin, and felt that he was only a burden, while everybody was making plans for speed in a business that he did not fully understand. 

“Where is Aragorn?” he asked, between adding more pieces of food in his mouth. Plain bread and cheese with cold meat, and a tasty cider that had to be done on apples. Well, Merry would not complain about the food and look ungrateful for the amount he was given, during the travel between Rivendell and Moria Boromir had not exactly sugarcoated for the four hobbits how war affected food production when farms often was burned and the owners killed, their fields ruined with the crops still not harvested or the livestock slaughtered by the attackers and how food often could be rationed in order to not start starving from the food supplies suddenly echoed empty, because someone with money had given in to the temptation to hold a big party with many food dishes. In most cases, those who were used to being served several big meals with a lot of fancy food dishes a day risked being suspected in such a scenario, especially if they had already complained before about the food rations. 

“In a high chamber of the Burg,” Legolas answered his question, “He has neither rested nor slept, I think. He went thither some hours ago, saying that he must take thought, and only his kinsman, Halbarad, went with him; but some dark doubt or care sits on him.”

“They are a strange company, these newcomers. Stout men and lordly they are, and the Riders of Rohan look almost as boys beside them; for they are grim men of face, worn like weathered rocks for the most part, even as Aragorn himself; and they are silent,” said Gimli as he looked around. 

“But even as Aragorn they are courteous, if they break their silence,” said Legolas, “And have you marked the brethren Elladan and Elrohir? Less sombre is their gear than the others', and they are fair and gallant as Elven-lords; and that is not to be wondered at in the sons of Elrond of Rivendell.”

“Why have they come? Have you heard?” asked Merry. He had now dressed, and he flung his grey cloak about his shoulders; and the three passed out together towards the ruined gate of the Burg.

“They answered a summons, as you heard. Word came to Rivendell, they say: Aragorn has need of his kindred. Let the Dunedain ride to him in Rohan! But whence this message came they are now in doubt. Gandalf sent it, I would guess,” Gimli explained, since that sounded the most logical way of how the Grey Company had been called to aid Aragorn. 

“Nay, Galadriel,” said Legolas, “Did she not speak through Gandalf of the ride of the Grey Company from the North?”

“Yes, you have it,” Gimli signed, “The Lady of the Wood! She read many hearts and desires. Now why did we not wish for some of our own kinsfolk, Legolas?”

Legolas stood before the gate and turned his bright eyes away north and east, and his fair face was troubled. 

“I do not think that any could come, ” he answered eventually with a voice that Gimli could tell to be of sorrow and not so little hidden frustration, for Legolas had admitted to him in secret that he had not been at the Battle of the Five Armies despite being a adult long before said event and this was the reason to why he was a bit unfamiliar with death despite his skills as a warrior, “They have no need to ride to war in realms far beyond their borders; war already marches on their own lands.”

On the way, they saw Oberyn and several other Dornishmen check over the catapults for possible damage and whatever repairs that needed to be made, which was a wise choice if there would be a new attack coming from the enemy. Saruman and Isengard were no danger anymore, but the hordes of Mordor may still try to reach past the borders of Gondor. 

“See that tall man with the widow's peak and sharp nose over there, Merry? That is Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne, the younger brother of Queen Elia. A man with the true spirit of a warrior, and someone who has seen battle before. There is a good reason why he is commanding the troops from her homeland alongside the Rohirrim.”    

 For a while the three companions walked together, speaking of this and that turn of the battle, and they went down from the broken gate, and passed the mounds of the fallen on the greensward beside the road, until they stood on Helm's Dike and looked into the Coomb. The Death Down already stood there, black and tall and stony, and the great trampling and scoring of the grass by the Huorns could be plainly seen. The Dunlendings and many men of the garrison of the Burg were at work on the Dike or in the fields and about the battered walls behind; yet all seemed strangely quiet: a weary valley resting after a great storm. Soon they turned back and went to the midday meal in the hall of the Burg. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

At Dunharrow, Éowyn had taken use of the magical portals as a way to arrive faster to the refugee camp. And there was a very good reason why she had chosen to leave Edoras now when Helm's Deep no longer was threatened by Isengard and Saruman. 

“By the heavens, she is just too adorable! She is looking exactly like how I imagined a child between you and my Brothor! His eyes and a such tiny miniature of his jaw, and your skin tone with black hair!” 

Despite not being that familiar with the voice of her aunt from her time inside the womb because it was a rather fair amount of travel distance between Aldburg and Edoras even on the famed horses of Rohan, Elfhilda did not seem scared of the woman with the same pale blonde hair as her father, as Éowyn smiled at her. The female infant only whimpered a little as her manner of wondering where Lothíriel was. 

“I am here, sweetie….I am trying to sleep because while you are kind enough to not be a fussy baby, your mama worked very hard to bring you out into this world and I need sleep to heal better after your birth…” 

Somewhat absentminded because she was almost asleep, Lothíriel reached up with a hand to gently touch her daughter, and Éowyn bent down slightly so her sister-in-law did not have to move that much in her camp bed. 

“I will try to help the nursemaids keep Elfhilda pleased enough that she does not wake you, as long as she does not have to breastfeed.”

“She seems to like being held in the arms of someone when being awake and sleeping in that braided reed basket we have as a temporary cradle. Use that to keep her happy until feeding time…” 

Unsurprisingly, Lothíriel went out like a candle the moment she placed her head back on the pillow. Recalling how tired Elia had been after the birth of the twins almost nine years ago, Éowyn respected her need to sleep in peace and just not have to think of the baby until waking up. 

“Right, sweet Brothor-dohtor of mine,” she whispered to Elfhilda, “shall we let your modur sleep for a while?”

In response, Elfhilda yawned and blinked twice with her baby-blue eyes as if saying that she would take a nap too, and given her tender age, she could not be blamed. But when seeing this innocent little face, Éowyn felt a protective instinct awake in her, and something else that was less pleasant: 

The memory of how the body of her father Éomund had been brought home after that he had been slain in battle against orcs when she was just seven years old in 3002, and the death of her mother Théodwyn a few months later, after how her grief over losing her beloved husband had weakened Théodwyn during that fatal illness that took her life. 

“I am sorry, my dear children…I am really sorry for leaving you…I really want to stay with you…but without your Papa to be with us… ”

The regretful whispers of Théodwyn on her deathbed, after that her brother, sister and mother had hurried to arrive so she could be surrounded by her family. 

“War or not, you will not lose your father in battle as I did, Elfhilda, ” Éowyn promised her sleeping niece, knowing the huge risk that Éomer may not return home from the battlefield when the gathered forces of Rohirrim and Dornishmen left for Gondor. If she could ensure that Elfhilda could be spared from losing her father in the same manner as herself, then Éowyn intended to do so, even if it meant that she had to dress up like a male Rohirric soldier and use a false name to hide herself better. With long hair being common among both men and women here in Rohan, she would not stand out that much unless she had to undress herself from the layers of clothing and armor that hid her more feminine body shape. 

And in Meduseld, Aegon had finally found the time to tell his mother and stepfather something that honestly was not that important compared to the war, but could still be useful information for a later situation; 

“It is not our responsibility to locate Eddard Stark's daughters. In the middle of this war to determine the future of Middle-earth, finding two missing noble daughters from a different world simply can not be put on top of what is needed to do. Even with the portal at Dragonstone, we did not know that Sauron would send the Nazgûl to King's Landing, or that Khamûl would try to kidnap the younger Baratheon generation to be held hostage in Mordor.” 

Personally, Elia was not surprised to imagine a scenario where the magic of the Baratheon children had reacted on the Nazgûl and due to their lack of training, a smaller portal opened and vanished somewhere in the capital of Westeros without them realizing it. But that the daughters of Eddard Stark were the ones to end up in Minas Tirith of all places? Pure coincidence, it could just as easily have been someone else who fell through the temporary portal.

“Elia is right. Are finding those two young noble-born sisters and trying to return them to their father in the middle of this war really that important, compared to everything else?” Théodred added in from his sickbed, and his stepchildren hurried to say: 

“No, Feder!”

Neither Aegon or Rhaenys had expected their parents to say anything else, though. No marriages had ever happened between House Stark and Martell in the past, so Sansa or Arya were not blood relatives of theirs to protect, and honestly, this situation just proved one among many long-term problems of Eddard Stark trying to shelter his children from the real world outside Winterfell. The deaths of his father and oldest brother Brandon at the orders of Aerys, and Lyanna dying in the Tower of Joy after her disappearance with Rhaegar being one of the sparks for the Rebellion, could not always be used as an excuse for his parenting.  

“There are always some people going missing in conflicts like this, right?” Aegon wondered, “Apart from their social status that should have enabled some better protection of their household guards, the two Stark daughters are hardly unique in this sort of situation, apart from the fact that they ended up in another world?” 

It was not just them and their friends in Edoras who had found public security strongly strengthened ever since last summer. Even Aégnor and Andréth were no longer allowed to leave Meduseld without at least a trusted shieldmaiden and three household guards to protect them. 

“Exactly, Aegon. Some people sadly go missing forever, especially in a war zone because they are either killed by soldiers or dragged away as prisoners to be relocated in the country of the attackers, and in wars that stretch over a border between two countries, noble families face the risk of their relatives being kidnapped as hostages. Or in the case of daughters, finding themselves married off even at a young age for their claims to a family seat or castle, if their father and all known brothers are confirmed to be dead.”

Of course, Elia also had thought of something else that could result from this information: 

“But we thank you for telling us about the two Stark daughters, nonetheless. If Eddard Stark has the nerve to accuse Dorne of this as a “revenge kidnappning” because of his selfish sister, I will remind him that she openly cast away her expected responsibility and duty to marry well as a daughter of a noble house! She should have grown up knowing that arranged marriages are the norm for upper classes, and with no sisters to replace her as the bride, Lyanna would have to face the role of being a wife and mother whether she wanted it or not! Even any female cousins of hers from House Rogers in the Stormlands, into which her maternal aunt Branda married, might already have their own future secured by a similar engagement, or been far too young for marriage, not to mention that breaking a betrothal can have serious consequences! That idiotic girl throwing a childish tantrum over Robert siring a natural daughter before the betrothal? Mya was never going to be raised in the same household, and despite his flaws, Robert is not the WORST sort of man when it comes to marriage vows and cheating on said legal wife!” 

“Elia…you are really holding a grudge against that girl's narrow-minded view on her future and her acting as if she somehow would be an exception to the norm in what is expected of a noble daughter… ” the King of Rohan thought for himself as Elia made a minor rant over how foolish Lyanna Stark had proven herself to be and how this had led to her death at age sixteen, but on the other hand, seeing how the actions of Lyanna had also led to Elia being the one to almost lose her life and that of her own two children, he could not blame his wife for still harboring some negative feelings against the dead sister of Eddard Stark.  

And heavens help the current Lord Stark of Winterfell if he indeed accused Dorne for kidnapping his two missing daughters. House Martell would never accept that sort of action, not after how Elia had been humiliated in front of the whole Westeros not once but twice by Rhaegar, and Lyanna being involved on both occasions, whether it was involuntary at Harrendal, and everything pointing towards her acting much more voluntary the second time. 

“...and if someone dares to claim that girl would be happy as a replaceable royal mistress or that the Faith of the Seven would agree to Rhaegar having two wives like the first Aegon with his sisters as well that any sons of Lyanna would not pose the risk of becoming a new Daemon Blackfyre to my half-Dornish Aegon, I will personally slap some common sense into said person and force them to realize what sort of long-term disaster a such scenario would be!” 

Having blown off some steam through this rant about how Eddard Stark had learned nothing from the death of Lyanna about how necessary it was to to keep his own daughters under better surveillance at an early age to avoid a repeat of her legacy, Elia felt a little better. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

Back at the Burg, the midday meal was being served. Like the breakfast Merry had gotten earlier, it was simple food but as he had realized earlier, expecting anything else would only cause trouble. And any hobbit would know how it was with the food storage at this time in late winter, before the fields would be plowed and sown with the seeds that will hopefully be this year's successful harvest later this autumn. Because it was this time of year that food was really scarce, before the summer there were not many edible plants and herbs, no animals could be slaughtered and everything else that a farming community knew from previous generations. 

Théoden was already seated with his sister-son closest to the fireplace due to being members of the ruling family of Rohan, and as soon as Gimli, Legolas and Merry entered he called for Merry and had a seat set for him at his side. 

“It is not as I would have it,” said Théoden, “for this is little like my fair house in Edoras. And your friend is gone, who should also be here. But it may be long ere we sit, you and I, at the high table in Meduseld; there will be no time for feasting when I return thither. But come now! Eat and drink, and let us speak together while we may. And then you shall ride with me.”

“May I?” wondered Merry, surprised and delighted, “That would be splendid!” 

He had never felt more grateful for any kindness in words. 

“I am afraid I am only in everybody's way,” he stammered, “but I should like to do anything I could, you know.”

“I doubt it not,” said the former king with a kind smile, “I have had a good hill-pony made ready for you. He will bear you as swift as any horse by the roads that we shall take. For I will ride from the Burg by mountain paths, not by the plain, and so come to Edoras by way of Dunharrow where the Lady Éowyn awaits me. You shall be my esquire, if you will. Is there gear of war in this place, Éomer, that my sword-thain could use?”

“There are no great weapon-hoards here, fedra,” answered Éomer, having checked the storerooms earlier, “Maybe a light helm might be found to fit him; but we have no mail or sword for one of his stature. And we do not allow children to have a full set of armor, for they are not expected to be out in battle.”

Even if a King of Rohan had multiple sons to have as back-up spares to his oldest son and heir, no one with common sense would let a young prince risk his life in battle. That was something Dorne also agreed on, child soldiers were the result of a huge disaster that took all adult men and foolish ideas formed from idealized songs or stories where the gritty and often blood reality had been carefully rewritten to suit a more heroic theme. 

“I have a sword,” said Merry, climbing from his seat, and drawing from its black sheath his small bright blade. Filled suddenly with love for this old man, he knelt on one knee, and took his hand and kissed it. 

“May I lay the sword of Meriadoc of the Shire on your lap, Théoden, Lord of Rohan?” he cried, “Receive my service, if you will!”

'”Gladly will I take it,” said Théoden; and laying his long old hands upon the brown hair of the hobbit; he blessed him.

“Rise now, Meriadoc, esquire of Rohan of the household of Meduseld!” he said in a clear voice so everyone could hear, “Take your sword and bear it unto good fortune!”

“As a father you shall be to me,” promised Merry.

“For a little while,” Théoden agreed kindly, knowing that Théodred and Elia would be less worried for his safety if Merry was around, even if the hobbit might not follow him into battle. 

Chapter Text

As she kept sewing, Théodred watched Elia from his bed, taking a break from whatever he could do until his stomach wound had healed even more. He could see on her body language that despite putting up a brave front for their younger children and their people, she was not able to keep that mask up around him. After all, when you have been married for many years, the mood and feelings of the other partner could often be read easier.   

“Was I wrong for the outburst earlier?” she finally wondered with an unsure voice, “I have tried to put the whole deal with Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark in the past where it belongs, but…”  

She lost her words, and looked so uncharacteristically vulnerable that she for a moment reminded her husband of what she looked like at their first meeting. 

“Expecting someone to ignore that they once came very close to death thanks to the actions of someone else, is very insensitive towards the wronged person in question. Because of that selfish man you once called your first husband and a narrow-minded girl, who throught that he was the help out of a unwanted marriage, you and your children was almost murdered in a very brutal manner. Had not Rhaenys opened up that portal between Fangorn and the Red Keep long enough for me to arrive and save you three, there is no doubt that none of you would have been alive at the end of that horrible day. Would you expect me to forgive Saruman for almost killing me by the use of his Uruk-hai, Elia? That I would ignore him being the man behind the dead Rohirric families that have been killed so far, all because his creatures caught up with them before they managed to escape to Dunharrow?” 

“Forgive Saruman and ignore what he has done towards Rohan and its people!?!” Elia exclaimed loudly when she heard his words, ignoring the sewing so she would not pick herself in a finger with the needle, “What sort of nonsense is that?! You would be a fool to do so, and come off as a weak King in the eyes of our people!” 

“Exactly, And I can tell that there is something troubling you, Elia.” he responded, patting his hand on the blanket as a way of bidding her to come over and sit down at the edge of the bed instead of the corner so they did not have half the room between them.

“You had the rant against Lyanna Stark because the war against Mordor is awakening the unwanted memories of the last months as the wife of Rhaegar and how Lyanna is connected to that situation, correct?” 

Holding a grudge against others was a serious flaw at times, Théodred knew that, but when said grudge was a result of not just one very public humiliation but having to suffering it twice and a serious near-death experience that indeed would have been lethal in another outcome, it was harder to blame Elia for the thick scars those memories had left on her. After all, she would have been dead thanks to the long-reaching actions of Rhaegar and Lyanna.  

“Yes, Théo…the main reason for that rant against Rhaegar and Lyanna… I am having nightmares about the past again at night, ever since you got injured. And not only am I frozen stiff and unable to move, forced to see uncle Lewyn as he is being slain at the Trident alongside the Dornish soldiers, and seeing Rhagar win the duel against Robert, before he turns towards me with the same look of madness as Aerys in his eyes…”  

She had to swallow, the words felt stuck in her throat and she actually dreaded saying them. Even him gently holding her hand in his own as support, did not feel like the usual comfort. Her hands was trembling as she tried to tell her husband of the scenario that kept coming back in the nightmares: 

“ ...and he is coming towards you, where you lies unprotected on the ground, from the injury that the Uruk-hai caused you, his sword bloody from killing Robert and poses it ready for a killing strike that will take your life, all while Lyanna is standing somewhere behind him…laughing in mockery towards me, saying that I am worth nothing and that I would be better off dead, or as a passive servant, nothing else than a enslaved handmaiden, towards her and Rhaegar, my children robbed from me and never allowed to escape the shadow of the “superior” son that Rhaegar is saying that Lyanna will bear him. ”

Théodred winced in compassion at hearing her confessing this, seeing how Elia was near tears from having to remember the ghost scenes. No wonder Elia had needed to get that rant out of herself, with such nightmares haunting her at night. After all, Aerys had been only one thought of imagined treason away from burning Elia alive as a accomplice to Rhaegar in a possible coup to remove her father-in-law from power, and the same risk had fallen upon Rhaenys and Aegon despite their tender age, for Aerys never acted as if they were worthy of the Targaryen name and being his own children. Her life among the Targaryens had been a living nightmare during the Rebellion, and the current situation in the wider parts of Middle-earth had triggered those memories once again. 

“I am sorry that my injury awoke the nightmares that take the form of your worst fears, Elia.” 

“It is not your fault…”

And even if both of them were long dead, Théodred could understand the unspoken meaning of himself getting murdered by Raegar in the nightmare and Lyanna mocking Elia as this happened. It was her worst fears taking that form of Rhaegar and Lyanna, because Elia feared to lose him alongside everything that was meaningful in their marriage, and that loss would feel like those two had gained a victory from beyond the grave. 

“I do not know if it will help much against the nightmares, but let me remind you what the law says here in Rohan, my dear Sun Princess: You would have been legally allowed to leave Rhaegar in a divorce after that he so openly abandoned his legal wife and young children, he would have been declared a criminal for having seduced a underage girl as well breaking a legal betrothal between two other families, and Lyanna would have found herself stripped of her noble status for endangering so many people with her choice of action, as well finding out exactly what sort of lifestyle she would have without the protection of a powerful family or husband. Based on what lord Vorien Dayne confirmed from the Tower of Joy, Rhaegar would also have been castrated for “murder by childbirth” because the sixteen-year-old Lyanna was underage by the Rohirric laws when she died in childbirth, before getting his head separated from his body with a axe for the same crime.” 

Oh yes, even with her tears now falling freely, Elia did imagining their respective shocked reactions at hearing the outcome of the judges, to how Rhaegar would have faced death for his crimes, and even if she had survived the dangerous childbirth with his illegitimate daughter whose Targaryen looks revealed her paternity to the point that there was no mistake about who the sire was, Lyanna would be struggling to survive as a completely ordinary peasant girl without the expected protection as a daughter of House Stark, working as a maid on a bigger farm in order to feed and clothe herself, as well finding out just how much chores around the house and everything else a peasant woman would have to do everyday just for basic survival.   

“...I am really grateful that Rohan and Gondor would not let him slip away from any form of punishment for his idiocy, or that Lyanna would have to face the fact that her actions can affect so many more people than those intended…” 

Her tears were still flowing freely, but a burden had been lifted from her shoulders now when her husband knew about the nightmares and while they could not yet hug due to his injury, just seeing him alive was enough for her to feel better. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X   

At the same time, the Hornburg: 

They talked then together as they ate, until presently Éomer spoke. 

“It is near the hour that we set for our going, fedra,” he said,  “Shall I bid men sound the horns? But where is Aragorn? His place is empty and he has not eaten.”

“We will make ready to ride if we are to arrive at Dunharrow before it is time for the Rohirrim to ride together towards Gondor,” Théoden agreed, “but let word be sent to the Lord Aragorn that the hour is nigh.”

Théoden with his guard and Merry at his side passed down from the gate of the Burg to where the Riders were assembling on the green. Many were already mounted. It would be a great company; for Théoden was leaving only a small garrison in the Burg, though aided by the Dornishmen that Oberyn would leave there, and all who could be spared were riding to the weapontake at Edoras. A thousand spears had indeed already ridden away at night; but still there would be some five hundred more to go with the former king, for the most part men from the fields and dales of Westfold.

A little apart the Rangers sat, silent, in an ordered company, armed with spear and bow and sword. They were clad in cloaks of dark grey, and their hoods were cast now over helm and head. Their horses were strong and of proud bearing, but rough-haired; and one stood there without a rider, Aragorn's own horse that they had brought from the North; Roheryn was his name. There was no gleam of stone or gold, nor any fair thing in all their gear and harness: nor did their riders bear any badge or token, save only that each cloak was pinned upon the left shoulder by a brooch of silver shaped like a rayed star.

Théoden mounted his horse, Snowmane, and Merry sat beside him on his pony; Stybba was his name. Presently eomer came out from the gate, and with him was Aragorn, and Halbarad bearing the great staff close-furled in black, and two tall men, neither young nor old, so much alike were they, the sons of Elrond, that few could tell them apart: dark-haired, grey-eyed, and their faces elven-fair, clad alike in bright mail beneath cloaks of silver-grey. Behind them walked Legolas and Gimli. But Merry had eyes only for Aragorn, so startling was the change that he saw in him, as if in one night many years had fallen on his head. Grim was his face, grey-hued and weary.

“I am troubled in mind, lord,” he said, standing by Snowmane and his rider, “I have heard strange words, and I see new perils far off. I have labored long in thought, and now I fear that I must change my purpose. Tell me, Theoden, you ride now to Dunharrow, how long will it be ere you come there?”

“It is now a full hour past noon,” said Éomer as he looked up at the sky to confirm what time it was. “Before the night of the third day from now we should come to the Hold. The Moon will then be one night past his full, and the muster that my cousin commanded will be held the day after. More speed we cannot make, if the strength of Rohan is to be gathered.” 

Even with the many members of House Martell using the portals to transport Dornish soldiers and riders faster from all across Dorne, gathering with the Rohirrim together would take time. Aragorn was silent for a moment as he heard the guessed travel time. 

“Three days,” he murmured, “three days, and the muster of Rohan will only be begun. But I see that it cannot now be hastened.”

He looked up, and it seemed that he had made some decision; his face was less troubled. 

“Then, by our leave, lord, I must take new counsel for myself and my kindred. We must ride our own road, and no longer in secret. For me the time of stealth has passed. I will ride east by the swiftest way, and I will take the Paths of the Dead.”

Everyone of the Rohirric men who was close enough to hear those last four days, suddenly stared wide-eyed in disbelief at Aragorn as if he had gone mad. 

“The Paths of the Dead!? ” Théoden whispered, and trembled. 

“Why do you speak of them?! ” Éomer turned and gazed at Aragorn, and it seemed to Merry that the faces of the Riders that sat within hearing turned pale at the words. Even Oberyn, who normally was rather fearless, had chosen to not challenge fate when being near that gate because ghosts and wraiths could not be killed like mortal men of flesh and blood. 

“If there be in truth such paths,” said Théoden in an uneasy voice, “their gate is in Dunharrow; but no living man may pass it.” 

“Alas! Aragorn my friend!” said Éomer, “I had hoped that we should ride to war together; but if you seek the Paths of the Dead, then our parting is come, and it is little likely that we shall ever meet again under the Sun.”

“That road I will take, nonetheless,” Aragorn confirmed, “But I say to you, Éomer, that in battle we may yet meet again, though all the hosts of Mordor should stand between.”

“You will do as you will, my lord Aragorn,” said Théoden, “It is your doom, maybe, to tread strange paths that others dare not. This parting grieves me, and my strength is lessened by it; but now I must take the mountain-roads and delay no longer. Farewell!”

“Farewell, lord!” said Aragorn, “Ride unto great renown! Farewell, Merry! I leave you in good hands, better than we hoped when we hunted the orcs to Fangorn. Legolas and Gimli will still hunt with me, I hope; but we shall not forget you.”

“Good-bye!” Merry managed to say but with a bolt of sadness in his heart all suddenly. He could find no more to say. He felt very small, and he was puzzled and depressed by all these gloomy words. More than ever he missed the unquenchable cheerfulness of Pippin. The Riders were ready, and their horses were fidgeting; he wished they would start and get it over.

Now Théoden spoke to Éomer, and he lifted up his hand and cried aloud, and with that word the Riders set forth. They rode over the Dike and down the Coomb, and then, turning swiftly eastwards, they took a path that skirted the foothills for a mile or so, until bending south it passed back among the hills and disappeared from view. 

Aragorn rode to the Dike and watched till the king's men were far down the Coomb. Then he turned to Halbarad:

“There go three that I love, and the smallest not the least. He knows not to what end he rides; yet if he knew, he still would go on.”

“A little people, but of great worth are the Shire-folk,” Halbarad nodded, “Little do they know of our long labor for the safekeeping of their borders, and yet I grudge it not.”

“And now our fates are woven together,” said Aragorn, “And yet, alas! here we must part. Well, I must eat a little, and then we also must hasten away. Come, Legolas and Gimli! I must speak with you as I eat.”

Together they went back into the Burg; yet for some time Aragorn sat silent at the table in the hall, and the others waited for him to speak. 

“Come!” said Legolas at last, “'Speak and be comforted, and shake off the shadow! What has happened since we came back to this grim place in the grey morning?”

“A struggle somewhat grimmer for my part than the battle of the Hornburg,” answered Aragorn after a few more minutes to find the right words, “I have looked in the Stone of Orthanc, my friends.”

“You have looked in that accursed stone of wizardry!” exclaimed Gimli with fear and astonishment in his face, “Did you say aught to him? Even Gandalf feared that encounter.”

“You forget to whom you speak,” said Aragorn sternly, and his eyes glinted, ”Did I not openly proclaim my title before the doors of Edoras, before Queen Mother Morwen saw me and slammed her walking stick over my head for having used a false name in the court of her late husband? What do you fear that I should say to him?” 

“Nay, Gimli,” he then said in a softer voice, and the grimness left his face, and he looked like one who has labored in sleepless pain for many nights, “Nay, my friends, I am the lawful master of the Stone, and I had both the right and the strength to use it, or so I judged. The right cannot be doubted. The strength was enough, barely.”

He drew a deep breath. 

“It was a bitter struggle, and the weariness is slow to pass. I spoke no word to him, and in the end I wrenched the Stone to my own will. That alone he will find hard to endure. And he beheld me. Yes, Master Gimli, he saw me, but in another guise than you see me here. If that will aid him, then I have done ill. But I do not think so. To know that I lived and walked the earth was a blow to his heart, I deem; for he knew it not till now. The eyes in Orthanc did not see through the armor of Théoden; but Sauron has not forgotten Isildur and the sword of Elendil. Now in the very hour of his great designs the heir of Isildur and the Sword are revealed; for l showed the blade re-forged to him. He is not so mighty yet that he is above fear; nay, doubt ever gnaws him.”

“But he wields great dominion, nonetheless,” said Gimli, shuddering in worry for his own parents back in Erebor and what could be happening there in this moment, “and now he will strike more swiftly.”

“The hasty stroke goes oft astray,” Aragorn reminded them, “We must press our Enemy, and no longer wait upon him for the move. See my friends, when I had mastered the Stone, I learned many things. A grave peril I saw coming unlooked-for upon Gondor from the South that will draw off great strength from the defense of Minas Tirith. If it is not countered swiftly, I deem that the City will be lost ere ten days be gone.”

'Then lost it must be,” Gimli lamented in bitterness over what was about to happen. “For what help is there to send thither, and how could it come there in time? Prince Oberyn said that the fleet of Dorne is already sailing towards Gondor for help and will hopefully pick up another ally that they have found against Sauron, but he was worried about anything that could delay them.”

“I have no further help to send, therefore I must go myself,” said Aragorn, “But there is only one way through the mountains that will bring me to the coastlands before all is lost. That is the Paths of the Dead.”

Gimli paled at hearing the name, for even Dwarfs feared wraiths that could not rest in peace and took out their anger on innocent, living people. And of course, Sauron being rather fond of using the Nine as his most feared servants of Evil, was a good example. 

“The Paths of the Dead! It is a fell name; and little to the liking to the Men of Rohan, as I saw. Can the living use such a road and not perish? And even if you pass that way, what will so few avail to counter the strokes of Mordor?”

“The living have never used that road since the coming of the Rohirrim,” said Aragorn, “for it is closed to them. But in this dark hour the heir of Isildur may use it, if he dare. Listen! This is the word that the sons of Elrond bring to me from their father in Rivendell, wisest in lore: Bid Aragorn remember the words of the seer, and the Paths of the Dead. ”

“And what may be the words of the seer?” Legolas wondered.

“Thus spoke Malbeth the Seer, in the days of Arvedui, last king at Fornost,” said Aragorn:

Over the land there lies a long shadow,

westward reaching wings of darkness.

The Tower trembles; to the tombs of kings

doom approaches. The Dead awaken;

for the hour is come for the oathbreakers;

at the Stone of Erech they shall stand again

and hear there a horn in the hills ringing.

Whose shall the horn be? Who shall call them

from the prey twilight, the forgotten people?

The heir of him to whom the oath they swore.

From the North shall he come, need shall drive him:

he shall pass the Door to the Paths of the Dead.

“Dark ways doubtless,” said Gimli in unease, “but no darker than these staves are to me.”

“If you would understand them better, then I bid you come with me,” Aragorn offered, “for that way I now shall take. But I do not go gladly; only need drives me. Therefore, only of your free will would I have you come, for you will find both toil and great fear, and maybe worse.”

“I will go with you even on the Paths of the Dead, and to whatever end they may lead,” said Gimli.

“I also will come,” Legolas joined in, “for I do not fear the Dead.”

“I hope that the forgotten people will not have forgotten how to fight,” Gimli muttered aloud, “for otherwise I see not why we should trouble them.”

“That we shall know if ever we come to Erech,” said Aragorn, “But the oath that they broke was to fight against Sauron, and they must fight therefore, if they are to fulfill it. For at Erech there stands yet a black stone that was brought, it was said, from Numenor by Isildur; and it was set upon a hill, and upon it the King of the Mountains swore allegiance to him in the beginning of the realm of Gondor. But when Sauron returned and grew in might again, Isildur summoned the Men of the Mountains to fulfill their oath, and they would not: for they had worshiped Sauron in the Dark Years. Then Isildur said to their king: "Thou shalt be the last king. And if the West prove mightier than thy Black Master, this curse I lay upon thee and thy folk: to rest never until your oath is fulfilled. For this war will last through years uncounted, and you shall be summoned once again ere the end." And they fled before the wrath of Isildur, and did not dare to go forth to war on Sauron's part; and they hid themselves in secret places in the mountains and had no dealings with other men, but slowly dwindled in the barren hills. And the terror of the Sleepless Dead lies about the Hill of Erech and all places where that people lingered. But that way I must go, since there are none living to help me.”

He stood up. 

“Come!” he cried, and drew his sword, and it flashed in the faint afternoon light entering the hall of the Burg from its narrow slits to windows. 

“To the Stone of Erech! I seek the Paths of the Dead. Come with me who will!”

Legolas and Gimli made no answer, but they rose and followed Aragorn from the hall. On the green there waited, still and silent, the hooded Rangers. Legolas and Gimli mounted. Aragorn sprang upon Roheryn. Then Halbarad lifted a great horn, and the blast of it echoed in Helm's Deep; and with that they leapt away, riding down the Coomb like thunder, while all the men that were left on Dike or Burg stared in amaze.

And while Théoden went by slow paths in the hills, the Grey Company passed swiftly over the plain, and on the next day in the afternoon they came to Edoras; and there they halted only briefly, ere they passed up the valley, and so came to Dunharrow as darkness fell.

~X~X~X~X~X~X 

Early evening of March 7, Dunharrow: 

As the two members of the House of Eorl present at Dunharrow, it fell to Lothíriel and Éowyn to greet the newcomers.

“I am just grateful that Elfhilda is having her nap and will not wake up for now…”

As a light supper was served for the company, they talked together, and the two ladis heard of all that had passed since Théoden rode away from Edoras, concerning which only hasty tidings had yet reached the refugee camp; better details of the battle in Helm's Deep and the great slaughter of their foes, and of the charge of Théoden and his knights, then the eyes of them shone in pride. However, when Aragorn told them that he intended to go on the Paths of the ad, the mood changed. 

“Are you seeking death, heir of Isildur? For that is all that you will find on that cursed road. They do not suffer the living to pass,” Éowyn spoke with coldness, her eyes hardening just like those of Morwen when she found something to be a displeasure to learn about. 

“And who shall become the next heir of the royal line, if you are the only one left, my lord? Are you thinking so lowly of Lord Elrond, who you said to have fostered you? Shall his sons have to return to him with the news of you choosing death over life? When Elendil and his sons were distant descendants of his twin brother, Elros? Shall Lord Elrond have to learn that the bloodline of his brother has died out completely?” Lothíriel asked bluntly, with Elfhilda slowly awakening in her arms as she spoke. Had it been any other man, this reminder of his foster father in Imladris would have been a very well-aimed arrow of causing feelings of guilt, but Aragorn had expected some form of protest like this. 

“It is not madness, ladies,” he answered, “for I go on a path appointed. But those who follow me do so of their free will; and if they wish now to remain and ride with the Rohirrim, they may do so. But I shall take the Paths of the Dead, alone, if needs be.”

“Geh! ” Elfhilda cried out without warning as her mother and aunt gave Aragorn a shared look of disbelief over his refusal to change his mind, and despite her eyes not being able to focus on Aragorn, she still frowned in a way that non-verbally seemed to say “ I am not impressed with your act of foolishness, mister! ” Of course, even with no trace of her past personality left in her soul, something of the late Rhaella Targaryen still remained in her new life because she was so newly arrived into the world, being only three days old yet. 

“Taking after her father in how to look like a thunder-cloud is hanging over their heads, I see,” Gimli dared to laugh, and Elfhilda knotted her tiny eyebrows into an even bigger frown, as if daring the Dwarf to be laughing at her. For being such a young baby in arms, she sure had an impressive death glare already. 

“....just be aware, then, lord Aragorn,” Éowyn spoke after some silence, addressing him with a title, “that the ghosts of past Dornish warriors may be drawn to you summoning the dead. I would not be surprised if Prince Lewyn Martell, the uncle of Elia and her brothers, shall desire to be useful and wipe out the creatures of Evil, for he and half of their army fell in the battle where her first husband was slain. And that was not even to follow that detestable man as an army commander, but to protect Elia, who was being held as a hostage.” 

Elfhilda cried out again and drowned whatever her aunt had intended to say next, but the adults believe that it was just her feeling the mood around the table to be too uncomfortable for her own taste, rather than her soul reacting to the indirect mention of her past-life son Rhaegar. 

“No, it is sleeping time for this young lady, I fear. And I need to sleep when she does,” Lothíriel excused herself and brought her infant daughter with her. Soon the meal was finished and they went back to the tents for sleep. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X 

The early dawn of march 8;

The light was still grey as they rode, for the sun had not yet climbed over the black ridges of the Haunted Mountain before them. A dread fell on them, even as they passed between the lines of ancient stones and so came to the Dimholt. There under the gloom of black trees that not even Legolas could long endure they found a hollow place opening at the mountain's root, and right in their path stood a single mighty stone like a finger of doom.

“My blood runs chill,” said Gimli as he looked around, but the others were silent, and his voice fell dead on the dank fir-needles at his feet. The horses would not pass the threatening stone, until the riders dismounted and led them about. 

And so they came at last deep into the glen; and there stood a sheer wall of rock, and in the wall the Dark Door gaped before them like the mouth of night. Signs and figures were carved above its wide arch too dim to read, and fear flowed from it like a grey vapour.

“Nanaeth is safe in Valinor, Nanaeth is safe in Valinor…” Elladan whispered to himself at feeling the unpleasant atmosphere of this place, Elrohir touching his shoulder so they together pushed down the memories of the orc attack on their mother Celebrían over 500 years earlier, how she had been captured and tormented with a poisonous wound among her injuries, and how she had never fully recovered in mind or spirit after being rescued by her sons and physically healed by Elrond. 

“She is safe, brother. We were there, with our grandparents, Adar and Arwen, when she sailed to Valinor for healing in the Undying Lands.”

The company halted, and there was not a heart among them that did not quail, unless it were the heart of Legolas of the Elves, for whom the ghosts of Men have no terror.

“This is an evil door,” said Halbarad, “and my death lies beyond it. I will dare to pass it nonetheless; but no horse will enter.”

“But we must go in, and therefore the horses must go too,” Aragorn reminded them, “For if ever we come through this darkness, many leagues lie beyond, and every hour that is lost there will bring the triumph of Sauron nearer. Follow me!”

Then Aragorn led the way, and such was the strength of his will in that hour that all the Dunedain and their horses followed him. And indeed the love that the horses of the Rangers bore for their riders was so great that they were willing to face even the terror of the Door, if their masters' hearts were steady as they walked beside them. But Arod, the horse of Rohan, refused the way, and he stood sweating and trembling in a fear that was grievous to see. Then Legolas laid his hands on his eyes and sang some words that went soft in the gloom, until he suffered himself to be led, and Legolas passed in. And there stood Gimli the Dwarf left all alone. His knees shook in an uncharacteristic manner, as if he was a young Dwarf learning how to fight for the first time with real axes instead of the wooden ones used in training for young children, and he was wroth with himself. 

“Here is a thing unheard of! ” he told himself, “An Elf will go underground and a Dwarf dare not! ” 

With that he plunged in after the others. But it seemed to him that he dragged his feet like lead over the threshold; and at once a blindness came upon him, even upon Gimli Gloin's son who had walked unafraid in many deep places of the world.

Chapter Text

Rhaenys and Aegon had come over to the Old Palace, trying to clear their minds about everything that was bound to happen soon.      

“Just checking so I did not miss anything, cousins; you three oldest Sand Snakes are going to join tío Oberyn as the commanders for the Dornish soldiers that are joining the Rohirrim at Dunharrow, while your sisters stays here at home with the cousins from tío Doran, who are the main heirs currently and can not just dash out to face their deaths in a reckless manner.”

Aegon pointed at said trio, the oldest members in their generations, where they were busy checking so their respective set of armor was well maintained and got a confirming nod in return.  

“Arash is escorting Boromir to Minas Tirith and hopes to help the defense of the city with his earth powers. Lemore are among the leaders for the Dornish fleet that have just joined the one of Suleiman according to last reports, and Morgan is busy with his gift for understanding foregin languages that he has proved to great use there. Holly is still busy to try and give the Baratheons a crash course in how to control their magic powers due to not having a real chance to do it before in the Red Keep, as well that they only awoke their powers properly thanks to the portal at Dragonstone that Sauron opened and Rhaenys closed….” Sarella confirmed, before she was interrupted by her second eldest sister: 

“Sinking the whole Dragonstone island as a perfect way of telling Westeros that the Targaryen era really is over and that they are basically already extinct because Aegon has not been able to see either Viserys or Daenerys having children in the future! ” Nymeria laughed loudly, making the frowning Aegon try to hush her. 

“It is a result of them being the result of two generations of brother-sister marriages, and whatever strange connection with the dragons that lessened any damage earlier, that was all lost when the last dragon died out during the reign of Aegon III. Besides, with grandmother Rhaella having our father at the far too risky age of fourteen, Viserys will likely believe that Daenerys is ready for marriage and pregnancy at the same age, since no one will have told him that a far more likely result is her dying in childbirth alongside her baby because her body is not mature enough for that sort of womanly task that only fully mature women should undergo. And his obsession with regaining their royal status will cause his own death, unfortunately, because his entitled behavior will not impress everyone he meets. A fourteen year old girl is sadly very likely to lose that battle against the Stranger, and even if Viserys will have been a adult for a couple of years when he dies, not every man is even able of siring children, even on women who are perfectly healthy and is proved to be fertile.”

The main branch of House Martell had talked about what to do with the younger siblings to Rhaegar if they ever came in contact with the last two Targaryens, and came to the same decision as Doran had once told Arianne:  

The actions of Aerys and Rhaegar could never be forgiven, and while Viserys and Daenerys were not guilty of those crimes that had led to their family losing the Iron Throne, all bridges had been burnt between House Martell and House Targaryen when Rhaegar had abandoned his family and then Aerys using Elia and her children as hostages to make Dorne fight for him against the rebels. Without their royal title or anything else to offer as reward outside themselves in marriage, Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen was just another, sadly inbred, sibling set of descendants from the dragonriders of Old Valyria. And compared to the war against Saruron, who posed a risk for both worlds, anything related to the last two Targaryens fell really low on a “what to do next” list for House Martell and the rest of Dorne. 

“Yes, and I hope that Rhaegar is being roasted in some hell with the knowledge that it is partly his fault that his siblings are no longer royals,” Obara said in her typical fierce manner, never one to sugarcoat her words around her younger relatives who was above a certain age. In his corner of the group, Griff added: 

“Besides, even if the war against Sauron will not last for much longer, and we find them with the use of the portals for quicker traveling before Daenerys falls pregnant…it does not seem very likely that they may believe that Elia and her children survived.” 

“Sadly not, as you just pointed out, Griff. Last time Viserys saw us, I was a toddler of three years and Aegon was just over a year old. Such young children are, unfortunately, rather easily for a motivated adult to murder, even in ways that may look like death by illness or accident that can be blamed on a careless nursemaid or another person in change of those young children. It would be much easier to believe us to be a set of pretenders used to spreading lies about who we may be, some random street rats picked up from somewhere in Essos with no known parents yet having the “mix of blood” to make us look somewhat like how the real Rhaenys and Aegon may look like if they had lived to be our current ages, and us having no blood ties to House Targaryen at all.” 

Rhaenys knew enough stories of pretenders claiming to be important people to realize that Viserys would demand proof of their true identities if she and Aegon ever came face to face with them, and Aegon also doubted that the Targaryen siblings would react well on a refusal to either wed Rhaenys to Viserys, hardly the first uncle-niece marriage in the history of Westeros, or himself to Daenerys despite them being only roughly two years apart in age. Not to mention, the past two Targaryen Kings and their wives had been siblings born from the same set of parents, as far as anyone knew, Rhaegar could very well have planned to have his children follow that pattern, despite the protests of Elia and their own, confirmed abhorrence at the thought of being forced to follow such a disgusting tradition from a more or less extinct culture. 

“How is King Théodred doing?” 

A much welcomed change of conversation. 

“Better for each day that passes, but you know what the healers say about his type of injuries: slow recovery that needs weeks and sometimes even months, unless you want to be at the door to the afterlife again due to impatience and refusal to listen to people who actually have better knowledge of severe injuries than yourself….” 

Despite trying not to, more than one of them yawned. It was late at night and none of them wanted to get a scolding for wasting needed sleep by Ihsan if he found some of his grandchildren and the grandson of Lewyn still up at this time. The former Prince Consort had still not laid off his own habit of checking on them before he too went to bed, knowing that it could be an exciting adventure for young children and even teenagers to sneak around in the Old Palace at night.

Ensuring that Aégnor and Andréth also were asleep in their beds inside the nursery chamber, knowing that her two oldest children would come back to Edoras in the morning, Elia came to check on Théodred before she went to sleep on the palliasse next to the bed, knowing that he needed the comfortable bed much more than her and sharing the bed currently was not the best of ideas with his injuries. 

“I hope that Gandalf and Boromir soon reach Minas Tirith, hopefully not many days after each other.” 

“Yes, Gondor needs its current Steward back, and I am sure that Faramir wants his brother to help lead the defense of the city against Mordor. He is a skilled warrior as well, but no one can doubt that Boromir is the true warrior of them two.” 

Smiling at him when spotting no sign of discomfort for him thanks to the painkilling medicine that would help him sleep until dawn, Elia blew out the candle before she went to the palliasse. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

Once upon a time, Minas Morgul had been part of Gondor. Known as Minas Ithil, “Tower of the Moon,” the twin city of Minas Tirith before its fall to the forces of Sauron in the Third Age. Nowadays, all around the city, a sickly corpse-pale light was reflected instead of the moon light, an ever present feeling of decay, the meadows were filled with sick pale flowers, and Imlad Morgul began to steam cold poisonous vapors. At the head of the bridge crossing the stream the bestial and human figures that stood there were corrupted

“Why did my magical powers have to be spirit travel that I can not fully control when I am asleep…?” Quentyn muttered in unease, instinctively hiding in the shadows from any orc guards despite the fact that they could not see him. Rather, he was terrified of being spotted by the Nazgûl, for the very high risk of being caught by one of them before returning to his body and possibly being used as a hostage against his own family.

“Uh-uh…I better hide better!” 

It was Khamûl who came walking, revealing himself by the grains of fine sands that he swirled around himself. 

“Get out of my way, ” Khamûl hissed at some orcs, forcing them to the side with some use of his sand as he walked towards a long stair. Quentyn had planned to try returning to his body, but somehow felt that he needed to follow after his very distant ancestor. Carefully, in the distance, he did so, acting as if it was a game of hide and seek with his cousins. By pure luck, any scent of his soul was hidden from Khamûl thanks to the foul stench all over the city, because the orcs gathering as soldiers in large quantities here did not bother much to keep the streets clean. 

Once up inside a chamber of the very tallest tower of the city, the former Farao knelt in front of a mirror crafted from obsidian.

“You summoned me, Master? ” 

The mirror gleamed with red flames, before a figure made of darkness took shape inside the glass. Having lost his ability to assume a fair or manipulative form ever again since the Downfall of Númenor as Sauron's physical form was destroyed as his Creator remade the cosmos, this was how the Dark Lord mostly looked those days outside the Eye.

“Yes, Khamûl. I have been noticing that you seem to have been a little bit … distracted lately over the past days, since you returned here from Isengard.”

The dark form made a movement with his “hands”, and Khamûl barely held back a scream in pain as the old scar on his chest felt like it was burning, far worse than the times when he sensed one of Mara's descendants being close, as Sauron showed his displeasure over his behavior. And the Ring of Power on his finger began to spread the spider-web-like dark markings on him again, despite his body being long gone. Flashback images of that fateful day, the loss of Kemet and his family… 

The faces of Milce and Tar-Minyatur. The two halves of the biggest mistakes in his life, to accept her as a concubine in his harem and bed her so she would have that thrice-cursed son of hers…  

Despite not having a clear face in his current form, Sauron watched with a neutral yet still almost bored facial expression as he released Khamûl, seeing the Ringwraith gasp in pain. If he had still a body, Khamûl would collapse to the floor from how much he was trembling badly enough to not keep his balance.

“Remember to follow my orders, Khamûl. Or I will take your precious little temple, with all your current mortal Consorts, to add as hostages…alongside those. ” 

Around him, several magical “bubbles” appeared. Yet it was the contents which frightened Khamûl, as so many times before when those would appear: 

The souls of Nerfertari, Neith's mother Isetnofret, his other wives and those of his children who had not managed to follow Mara to the other world through the portal before it was closed, each one trapped in a separate bubble. Rather than being on the path towards the afterlife after their horrible deaths, Sauron had caught their souls by his more rarely-used power as a necromancer, realizing their value as pawns to keep Khamûl under his thumb.  

“Master…no, no, please! Leave my original family out of this!” Khamûl pleaded, his body language speaking of growing desperation as he grabbed in vain after the bubbles that kept the souls trapped. 

“Do as I command…and they will not be hurt,” Sauron replied in a manner that did not allow any refusals, “Besides, I may still be searching for the One Ring…but finding the current selves of your remaining children and add their souls to this little collection would be a sweet bonus to ensure your loyalty. After all, I know that your love for your children and wives was what allowed me to make you my servant.”

Kneeling lowly like a submissive slave in fear for his family getting punished for his behavior over the past days, Khamûl could only promise to obey whatever Sauron would order him to do next in the war. 

“I need to tell this to Rhaenys and my parents as soon as I come back home!” Quentyn thought for himself in horror at what he just had witnessed, covering his mouth with his hands in order to not be heard through a careless sound of fear. Seeing Sauron vanish from the mirror and taking the bubbles with him, the oldest son of Doran and Mellario decided to hurry away before Khamûl came closer to his hiding spot. 

Of course, Khamûl was not aware of what a living descendant of his had witnessed right now, and as soon as he had arrived to his chambers, locking the doors to be left alone, he let out a scream towards the heavens in anger and grief over how he was not able to free the souls of his family from Sauron.   

~X~X~X~X~X~X 

Back in the Old Palace, Quentyn woke up with a jerk when his soul returned to his body. 

“Damn…not only are most of his original family prisoners to Sauron, but now we have even more reason to try and find that temple with the mortal Consorts of his that Khamûl mentioned to Rhaenys and tía Elia…!” 

Even if none of them knew why Khamûl kept collecting mortal women with magical powers as Consorts, that was a question for another time. Quentyn had to tell his family of what he had found out tonight, and he could only hope that this information could give a clue on what to do with their ancestor. 

Chapter Text

Morning of 9 March, Third Age 3019, the Old Palace in Sunspear: 

Just as Quentyn himself had been when witnessing the shocking scene, the rest of the Martell family was horrified to hear what he had found out during the night.       

“Monster…monster, monster! I can not find another word for this Dark Lord and his twisted idea of ensuring that your ancestor remains at his side as a servant!” Mellario whispered in her native tongue, her horror very visible on her face as she could not stop thinking of a similar scenario happening to her husband, their children and everyone else they held dear. Not to mention, it reminded awfully close to the events fourteen years ago during the Rebellion, when Elia and her children had been held as hostages by Aerys, in order to make Dorne fight for the Targaryen dynasty against the rebels led by Robert Baratheon.  

“You speak for us all, dear,” Doran whispered to his wife, laying his hand on her shoulder as a way to show support for her reaction.  

“Actually, this says a lot about that despite basically being a overnatural being, Sauron has studied mortals long enough to find out how to use their weaknesses and turn them into his servants of evil. Wanting eternal life because some ruler fears death, the request for revenge for something that happened a very long time ago…” Daemon admitted in unease from his place next to Arianne, feeling the same unspoken fear as his mother-in-law. Against his shoulder, Ramses was sleeping as the infant heir to Dorne had refused to get back to sleep without some close body contact from either parent. 

“Rhaenys? Is it yourself or Mara that is crying now?” Arianne asked in worry, seeing the strange reaction of her younger cousin. The oldest daughter of Elia was staring blankly out in space, not focusing on anything, yet the flow of tears did not seem to stop after that horrible reveal from Quentyn. 

“Everyone…everyone…” she whispered in a thin voice, empty of any other feeling than horror and sorrow. 

“I think it is both of them who are crying right now…Mara for learning that the souls of her original family are held as hostages by Sauron in order to make Khamûl be reminded of why he chose to become a Nazgûl and joining the Dark Lord, and Rhaenys for fearing that we may end up in the same situation….” 

A small jerk from Rhaenys was noticed when she heard her uncle say this, and the new tears was a sign of him being correct. 

“ ...I… ” 

It was the voice of Mara, which came out from her mouth as the eyes changes into amber: 

“ ...I know that it is a very small chance for Father to make amends, after everything he has done as a servant of Sauron, even if he may end up regretting some of those actions…but I refuse to let my birth mother and everyone else he once held dear, be used against him! ”

Given her own memories of that horrible day, no one of the present Martell members blamed Mara for wanting to try freeing her birth family. 

“Of course, Mara. Those are the souls of people who you loved as the Princess of Kemet, it is a perfectly normal human reaction to desire that they should regain their freedom instead of spending eternity as captives, but please, do not do anything in a manner that may bring harm to Rhaenys,” Doran gently responded and gave Rhaenys a comfort hug, again reminding the soul of his niece that this current body of hers risked injury if something went wrong. 

“It may be wiser to make a plan first, and then see what sort of move Sauron does next to Gondor and Rohan. Everything points towards that he will first lay a siege of Minas Tirith, since Gondor lies closest to Mordor, but we have also seen that he has sent out armies towards the Kingdom of Dale, and its neighbors, the Dwarven Kingdom Erebor,” Ishan reminded his younger relatives in a grave voice, and at hearing that reminder, more than one of the younger Martells mentally cursed the fact that they were unable to spread out so far north, but a Dornish army risked to be mistaken for Easterlings in the service of Mordor and they could not afford to risk losing needed soldiers in a such misunderstanding. 

“If Master Gimli is a prime example of the Dwarves as warriors, then we can trust that Erebor will not leave the Kingdom of Dale alone in this fight while we are stuck to the south. It may be a serious loss of lives, but if they win…” 

All they could do now, with no other way to send aid, was to pray that Erebor and the Kingdom of Dale would manage to stand together against the Enemy. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

Meanwhile, the travel towards Dunharrow for the Rohirrim and Dornish riders led by Oberyn and Harmen went smoothly even if it the paths though the hills were slower than riding straight across the steppes of Rohan.

“No potatoes at all?!” the riders heard Merry express in honest disbelief and almost terror at hearing Tirwald telling him about what sort of world that Elia and Lysa came from as a way to pass the time. 

“That is correct, and while Dorne does not have the right climate for growing potatoes, Lysa believes that if this crop was to be intruded to Westeros, the commoners would quickly welcome it after a few doubtful first years because they do not know how to cook it or what dishes to make with this, in their eyes, unknown root vegetable.”

“No potatoes….no potatoes…” Merry whispered for himself, his face blank in horror over the very idea of there being places where potatoes were unknown as a source of food. Of course, Gandalf had mentioned that potatoes was being grown in Rohan and Gondor despite not yet being counted as a staple food, and as a Hobbit, Merry knew that some crops simply needed a certain climate to be grown in else the attempted harvest became a massive failure and sometimes simply could not be grown for various reasons. 

“I think you broke him with this information, Tirwald! That neither your Lysa or Queen Elia even knew of potatoes before coming to Rohan!” one Rider joked from behind them, as the pony Stybba stopped next to the path to snack on some grass while the still shocked Merry did nothing to stop it from taking this small break.  

“Stybba, no sneaking off from work before the pre-agreed break at midday,” Tirwald ordered gently, taking the reins so the pony kept walking beside his own warhorse. 

At his side, Théoden could see Éomer being in deep thought where they rode at the lead. With little doubt, his sister-son was thinking of his young wife and child that would await them at Dunharrow, whatever it may be the last meeting between them as a new family, if he may not return from Gondor. 

“Are you worried for Lothiriel and Elfhilda, Sweostor-sunu?”  

“Of everything that may go wrong, fedra. That Lothiriel may join the numbers of widows from this war, and Eldhilda being one of the many children to lose a feder…” 

Of course. It was the same feeling that Théoden himself struggled in his heart, the knowledge that his survival in the war could not be guaranteed, and the family members that would be left behind. Truly, he did not know who would take his death the worst: Morwen, who already had lost three of her five children with Thengel since her own widowhood started, or Laywyn, who was his sole sister still alive, the two of them being oldest siblings yet also already having outlived the three younger sisters. 

“A bitter reality to face, indeed, and many would wish it to be different. But remember, for what little comfort it may bring, that we are fighting in this war for future generations like Eldhilda and my own grandchildren, Éomer. Were your father still alive, he would not hesitate to ride to Gondor and fight in the battles to come, if it meant he could secure a future for his descendants where they can live in freedom without any threat from Mordor, just as I myself intend to do.”

Had Théoded not been so gravely injured at the end of the previous month, the former King did not doubt that his son would join in and tell his cousin the same thing, because Théoded was a married father and husband as well. With this vulnerable facial expression, his sister-son looked younger than his actual age, maybe because he had realized the odds stacked against them even with the allies they now had thanks to Elia, and what they would leave behind while riding towards Gondor.

“I know, fedra, and it burdens my heart to know the unwanted outcomes that we may face.”

 It was bittersweet, they both knew it, to be fighting for the freedom of Middle-earth yet also knowing that your own life may be among those lost to ensure that the survivors would be free from Sauron. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

In Gondor, something different was happening: 

Now after Gandalf had ridden for some time the light of day grew in the sky, and Pippin roused himself and looked up. To his left lay a sea of mist, rising to a bleak shadow in the East; but to his right great mountains reared their heads, ranging from the West to a steep and sudden end, as if in the making of the land the River had burst through a great barrier, carving out a mighty valley to be a land of battle and debate in times to come. And there where the White Mountains of Ered Nimrais came to their end he saw, as Gandalf had promised, the dark mass of Mount Mindolluin, the deep purple shadows of its high glens, and its tall face whitening in the rising day. And upon its out-thrust knee was the Guarded City, with its seven walls of stone so strong and old that it seemed to have been not builded but carven by giants out of the bones of the earth.

Even as Pippin gazed in wonder the walls passed from looming grey to white, blushing faintly in the dawn; and suddenly the sun climbed over the eastern shadow and sent forth a shaft that smote the face of the City. Then Pippin cried aloud, for the Tower of Ecthelion, standing high within the topmost walls, shone out against the sky, glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver, tall and fair and shapely, and its pinnacle glittered as if it were wrought of crystals; and white banners broke and fluttered from the battlements in the morning breeze' and high and far he heard a clear ringing as of silver trumpets.

So Gandalf and Peregrin rode to the Great Gate of the Men of Gondor at the rising of the sun, and its iron doors rolled back before them.

“Mithrandir! Mithrandir!” men cried at seeing Gandalf, for despite his changed colors he still wore the same face and voice from before, “Now we know that the storm is indeed nigh!”

'”It is upon you,” said Gandalf, “I have ridden on its wings. Let me pass! I must come to your Lord Faramir, while his stewardship in place of his brother lasts. Whatever betide, you have come to the end of the Gondor that you have known. Let me pass!”

Then men fell back before the command of his voice and questioned him no further, though they gazed in wonder at the hobbit that sat before him and at the horse that bore him. For the people of the City used horses very little and they were seldom seen in their streets, save only those ridden by the errand-riders of their lord. And they said: 

“Surely that is one of the great steeds of the King of Rohan? Maybe the Rohirrim will come soon to strengthen us.” 

But Shadowfax walked proudly up the long winding road.

For the fashion of Minas Tirith was such that it was built on seven levels, each delved into the hill, and about each was set a wall, and in each wall was a gate. But the gates were not set in a line: the Great Gate in the City Wall was at the east point of the circuit, but the next faced half south, and the third half north, and so to and fro upwards; so that the paved way that climbed towards the Citadel turned first this way and then that across the face of the hill. And each time that it passed the line of the Great Gate it went through an arched tunnel, piercing a vast pier of rock whose huge out-thrust bulk divided in two all the circles of the City save the first. For partly in the primeval shaping of the hill, partly by the mighty craft and labour of old, there stood up from the rear of the wide court behind the Gate a towering bastion of stone, its edge sharp as a ship-keel facing east. Up it rose, even to the level of the topmost circle, and there was crowned by a battlement; so that those in the Citadel might, like mariners in a mountainous ship, look from its peak sheer down upon the Gate seven hundred feet below. The entrance to the Citadel also looked eastward, but was delved in the heart of the rock; thence a long lamp-lit slope ran up to the seventh gate. Thus men reached at last the High Court, and the Place of the Fountain before the feet of the White Tower: tall and shapely, fifty fathoms from its base to the pinnacle, where the banner of the Stewards floated a thousand feet above the plain.

A strong citadel it was indeed, and not to be taken by a host of enemies, if there were any within that could hold weapons; unless some foe could come behind and scale the lower skirts of Mindolluin, and so come upon the narrow shoulder that joined the Hill of Guard to the mountain mass. But that shoulder, which rose to the height of the fifth wall, was hedged with great ramparts right up to the precipice that overhung its western end; and in that space stood the houses and domed tombs of bygone kings and lords, for ever silent between the mountain and the tower.

Pippin gazed in growing wonder at the great stone city, vaster and more splendid than anything that he had dreamed of; greater and stronger than Isengard, and far more beautiful. Yet it was in truth falling year by year into decay; and already it lacked half the men that could have dwelt at ease there. In every street they passed some great house or court over whose doors and arched gates were carved many fair letters of strange and ancient shapes: names Pippin guessed of great men and kindreds that had once dwelt there; and yet now they were silent, and no footsteps rang on their wide pavements, nor voice was heard in their halls, nor any face looked out from door or empty window.

At last they came out of shadow to the seventh gate, and the warm sun that shone down beyond the river, as Frodo walked in the glades of Ithilien, glowed here on the smooth walls and rooted pillars, and the great arch with keystone carven in the likeness of a crowned and kingly head. Gandalf dismounted, for no horse was allowed in the Citadel, and Shadowfax suffered himself to be led away by a stable groom at the soft word of his master.

The Guards of the gate were robed in black, and their helms were of strange shape, high-crowned, with long cheek-guards close-fitting to the face, and above the cheek-guards were set the white wings of sea-birds; but the helms gleamed with a flame of silver, for they were indeed wrought of mithril, heirlooms from the glory of old days. Upon the black surcoats were embroidered in white a tree blossoming like snow beneath a silver crown and many-pointed stars. This was the livery of the heirs of Elendil, and none wore it now in all Gondor, save the Guards of the Citadel before the Court of the Fountain where the White Tree once had grown.

“The same embroidery that Aragorn pointed out to be a symbol of his House…2 Pippin recalled as he followed after Gandalf. Already it seemed that word of their coming had gone before them: and at once they were admitted, silently, and without question. Quickly Gandalf strode across the white-paved court. A sweet fountain played there in the morning sun, and a sward of bright green lay about it; but in the midst. drooping over the pool, stood a dead tree, and the falling drops dripped sadly from its barren and broken branches back into the clear water.

“That tree…?” Pippin glanced at it as he hurried after Gandalf. It looked mournful, he thought for himself, and he wondered why the dead tree was left in this place where everything else was well tended.

Seven stars and seven stones and one white tree.

The words that Gandalf had murmured came back into his mind. And then he found himself at the doors of the great hall beneath the gleaming tower; and behind the wizard he passed the tall silent door-wardens and entered the cool echoing shadows of the house of stone.

They walked down a paved passage, long and empty, and as they went Gandalf spoke softly to Pippin: 

“As you likely saw from a few remaining solid black banners hanging from a few windows on various buildings when we rode through the City, Minas Tirith were in mourning not too long ago for the death of the previous Steward, Lord Denethor, father of Boromir, but Gondor can not afford the unusual time of mourning their late leader because of the war. As you know, Boromir is likely to return to Minas Tirith within the coming days, but until then, his brother Faramir is in charge. Now, you do not need to worry about offending him in any manner as long as you recall your manner, Faramir is more of a scholar at heart, and I am sure that your presence will be welcomed as a distraction among everything he must handle for his brother.”

Gandalf halted before a tall door of polished metal.

“See, Master Pippin, there is no time to instruct you now in the history of Gondor; though it might have been better, if you had learned something of it, when you were still birds-nesting and playing truant in the woods of the Shire, or when Boromir tried to tell you about his homeland. Recall your upbringing as the heir to Paladin Took, current Thain of the Shire, and act as if you were presenting the Shire for the wider world, let the race of Men learn all about the many sides of Hobbits but do not disgrace your culture by any foolishness!” 

Pippin could only nod, imagining a mental image of the not very happy reactions of his parents, the whole Took clan and all the wealthier Hobbit families if they were to learn that he somehow had shamed the Shire in front of not only Aragorn as the last King, but pretty much a lot of other powerful Men here in Gondor. 

Chapter Text

Just before dawn of 9 March, Temple of Shadows: 

“What is this?”  

Visenya could sense something different. Not anything related to the ongoing War of the Ring or anything such, just… 

A “crack” in the spiritual world, so to say. And it somehow was connected to House Stark, her maternal family. 

Litter-sister! I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry! I only wanted to defend my human against that false stag! I didn't intend to become the cause of you dying in my stead! 

Who was the owner of that voice? Not really human, but a sense of a wild beast at the same time? Who howled like a wolf in such sorrow and despair?

“Who are you?!” Visenya called, and then she saw something inside her mind: 

Five newborn direwolf pups lying near a dead mother, killed by a stag's massive horn in her throat, with a sixth, albino in color, some distance away. Her Stark cousins with the pups, but each of them looked older than what they were now. King Robert and Queen Cersei, with only three children, each one of those looking pure Lannister rather than having the classical Baratheon colors or body build. Arya and her direwolf attacking the Lannister-looking Crown Prince, and then the younger Stark daughter throwing small rocks on her direwolf to make it run away from her…

“We have a wolf,” Cersei Lannister said. Her voice was very quiet, but her green eyes shone with triumph. And the dawning look of pure horror on the face of Sansa as she seemed to realize what the Queen meant: That she would face the punishment that Arya should have gotten, by losing her direwolf all because Eddard Stark failed to teach his younger daughter that she could not act as she always pleased without thinking ahead. 

Eddard Stark beheading the direwolf that Sansa had been given, by using Ice, the sword of their House. 

The vision ended almost as soon as it had come, but Visenya had seen enough to realize what it had been about: 

That somehow, thanks to running away or otherwise willfully ignoring the school lessons about how to act for someone of her rank, Arya and her impulsive behavior caused something which ended in catastrophic consequences for the innocent Sansa, who found herself punished instead of her sister. Both sisters had lost their direwolves thanks to the attack on the Crown Prince, but Sansa was the one worst affected by the loss, since Lady had been killed. 

“Lady!” Visenya called, trying to reach out for the soul of the direwolf who had been killed by her uncle in that alternative world, “Lady! Come here, your mistress is needing you by her side!” 

She may want Eddard Stark to realize his flaws as a father to both his daughters, as well helplessness over not being able to protect them against unwanted dangers in form of humans around them, and trying to push her female cousins out of that sheltered upbringing that made them so naive about how the real world did not as in a song, but Visenya was still a far step from the worst cruelty that could be found in both House Stark and Targaryen. 

“You are a Stark of Winterfell, Sansa, even if you may come off as more southern than your siblings! If you need a direwolf at your side as the ultimate proof of that despite taking after House Tully in your coloring, then I can show one small act of mercy despite being the one to dump you and Arya here in this world!”

Perhaps she would never reveal herself to her Stark relatives due to preferring to have no one in Westeros know about her, but perhaps with Lady beside her, Visenya had little doubt that Sansa would grow into a stronger person in her own manner. Among all that naivety, there was a kindness of Sansa that was needed more in the world. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X     

Southern Gondor, a temporary overnight camp for the people who had left Minas Tirith over the passing days and week: 

Sansa had awoken all suddenly, having a feeling that someone, or something, was calling out for her. 

“Who…?” 

Mindful to not wake up Arya beside her, Sansa walked towards the edge of the campm trying to not shiver without the blanket in the early hours of dawn. 

“Somewhere…to the north….” 

Despite not being able to understand the language spoken by the strangers around them in the unknown city, Sansa had understood that the vast number of people leaving said city was actually an evacuation of some kind, on firm orders from the city leaders. That all those men, women and children were fleeing from an incoming danger. 

“Is there…going to be a war? Or some other sort of conflict that will pose a danger to the common people?” 

Her concussion from the badly remembered Nazgûl attack on King's Landing had not yet completely healed, but Sansa had at least stopped to feel a haunting headache whatever she was awake and she was also not nauseous with sudden movements. But Arya did not seem to have the same luck, for she had no memories at all from their time in the capital and kept wondering why they were not back home in Winterfell with their parents and siblings. 

“I hope that she will be quiet today and not cause another scene that will earn her a slap or worse from one of the adults….”

Thanks to that memory loss, Arya did not believe Sansa when the older sister had been trying to tell her that Jon Snow had been banished to the Wall and the Night's Watch for attacking Crown Prince Lyonel during the royal visit in Winterfell. While the younger sister had a bad habit of calling people liars, the worst hurt had come from Arya actually trying to pummel Sansa with her own fists during that outburst of anger, or even with the crutches she needed for her broken leg. 

“Hello?” Sansa called softly, making a quick curtsy to the guard on the outskirts of the camp, and he pointed to a certain place just outside the camp, probably because he thought her early awakening at this time had a cause in having to answer the call of nature. 

Despite the faint light of pre-dawn, Sansa did not feel frightened at seeing a pair of golden eyes come closer to her. Whatever this was, it did not mean any harm to her. 

“Hello?” she whispered again, reaching out with a hand, trying to appear harmless yet not worth attacking. And what came out to be visible… 

A direwolf. The very beast that was the symbol of House Stark. Somehow, she could sense a connection with this one, that it was not yet fully grown, and used to the presence of humans. 

“.... Lady? ” 

Sansa did not know where that name came from or how she knew it to be a female, only that the name formed in her mouth with no problems, alongside a strange, difficult to explain sorrow in her heart that made her start crying. Whimpering softly at seeing the young girl cry, Lady slowly came up and gently licked her face, using her rough tongue to dry the tears that Sansa could not stop. 

When Sansa and Lady came back to the camp, the guards naturally noticed that Lady did not exactly match any of the breeds of dogs that had been spotted in the camp as the numbers of refugees came and went. However, Sansa using her simple belt as a leash, and managing to make a few simple commands to Lady to make her appear harmless, seemed to work in making Lady come off as a result of those more wolf-alike crossbreds that sometimes was bred to make hunting dogs or guard dogs for those who had money. 

“Sansa!” 

Arya came towards them, as fast she could with the crutches, and her eyes went wide over seeing Lady. 

“Is that a direwolf?! A real one?! ” 

But suddenly, Sansa had a strange feeling that her sister would be wise in holding her distance, as if Lady did not trust her sister for some reason. 

“Arya, wait, do not touch…?!” 

Too late. Lady changed in a moment, growling in warning with her ears back and teeth bare. Had Sansa not held both hands on the leash around the neck, she knew that Arya risked getting injured because Lady did not want her close. 

“What? The direwolf is the symbol of our House…” 

And then it happened. More than just a gentle nip, but rather a serious attempt to bite her outreached hand really hard, and Arya jerked back with a cry of pain, her face showing shock over this response.  

“W-what…w-why…?” 

All her usual self-confidence seemed to have vanished, instead looking a little scared when Lady growled a new warning. 

“Oi, little girl!” one guard called in the Westron spoken here in Gondor, “that wolf-like dog clearly does not trust you around herself or her chosen owner! Keep your distance from that dog!” 

What neither Arya or Sansa understood in that moment, was that Lady's last memories before her death in an alternative universe of Westeros, happened to be of that world's Sansa Stark desperately pleading for her life in vain, and that she somehow knew that the alternative Arya Stark was the cause of that whole mess. 

So for Lady, there was only one way to make things happen now when she was “reunited” with Sansa in this other world: Ensuring that this younger version of Arya Stark learned the hard way that the words and actions of a single person can damage others in far-reaching ways the first person can't always imagine. And that thanks to the whole event with her litter-sister Nymeria attacking Joffery Baratheon and the grief of the original Sansa that she had sensed in the last moments alive, Lady did not trust Arya anymore at all because her alternative self's lack of discipline or other form of punishments for her violent reactions when being angry and habit of getting away with her poor schooling in social manners, had proved to have fatal risks for others. 

And if Lady ever saw Eddard Stark again, he would find himself with a painful bite in his dominant hand and viewed as untrustworthy by this sweet-natured direwolf as well, all thanks to a alternative version of himself being the one to kill her with his family sword, with the echo of Sansa being kept away from the scene despite her still desperately pleading for Lady's life being heard through the spiritual link between her and Lady as the greatsword Ice was brought down to her neck. 

Chapter Text

Even if Faramir had been the spare as the second son and Boromir the heir as the oldest of the two brothers, the late Denethor knew what sort of foolish idea it would be in the longer run by not having both his sons have the same kind of education and preparation to become the next Steward of Gondor.

“At least all that hard work as I was schooled by my tutors, have really paid off in this unexpected situation…”  

No one had expected Denethor to die while Boromir was away on his mission that he still had not returned from, and Faramir knew that while his paternal cousins would have jumped in to fix the most pressing stuff if he had been sent out on a mission to Ithilien around the time that his father suddenly died, but Faramir was still the one to do most of the duties for now  until that Boromir returned.  

“I hope that my brother manages to come home before Sauron sends out an army from Mordor to attack Minas Tirith. If he was captured…” 

Faramir did not want to imagine what a terrible loss of moral a such scenario would be for the soldiers of Gondor, and for himself, to see Boromir suffer a similar fate as Celebrimbor, the Elf who had crafted the nineteen Rings of Power under the guideline of Sauron.  

“Lord Faramir! Gandalf is here and he has said that Lord Boromir likely has passed the border between Gondor and Rohan by now!” a servant suddenly reported to him, after taking a quicker path through a hidden corridor for servants so they did not disturb their employers while doing their chores. 

“Gandal is here and my brother is within the borders of Gondor?!” Faramir repeated, suddenly forgetting his tiredness for a moment. Finally, some other form of good news outside that the evacuation of the city population had gone well thanks to clear orders and trying to organize everything even though the decision came at short notice. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X 

The door opened after Gandalf had knocked on it, but no one could be seen to open it. Pippin looked into a great hall. It was lit by deep windows in the wide aisles at either side, beyond the rows of tall pillars that upheld the roof. Monoliths of black marble, they rose to great capitals carved in many strange figures of beasts and leaves; and far above in shadow the wide vaulting gleamed with dull gold, inset with flowing traceries of many colours. No hangings nor storied webs, nor any things of woven stuff or of wood, were to be seen in that long solemn hall; but between the pillars there stood a silent company of tall images graven in cold stone.

Suddenly Pippin was reminded of the hewn rocks of Argonath, and awe fell on him, as he looked down that avenue of kings long dead. At the far end upon a dais of many steps was set a high throne under a canopy of marble shaped like a crowned helm; behind it was carved upon the wall and set with gems an image of a tree in flower. But the throne was empty. At the foot of the dais, upon the lowest step which was broad and deep, there was a stone chair, black and unadorned, and on it sat an adult man, his appearance close enough to Boromir to reveal them as brothers from the same set of parents. He watched the wizard and hobbit as they paced the long floor towards him, until they stood three paces from his footstool. Then Gandalf spoke: 

“Hail, Lord Faramir, brother of Boromir, Steward of Minas Tirith! I hope to come with counsel and tidings in this dark hour. If it eases your heart to know, so do I believe that your brother shall soon be here as well, for he departed not long after me, though you shall have to excuse that he did not get to borrow one of the famed Meraras of Rohan for a faster ride.” 

Though Faramir were happy to see Gandalf, both could not deny the shadow of darkness over this situation. 

“I am glad to have you here, Gandalf, those dark times, any form of hope is needed. But I see that you have brought someone with you as well?”

Still recalling what Gandalf had said earlier about that he basically was presenting the Shire as the future Thain, Pippin tried to not do anything foolish, though knowing himself, that was asking to happen in some form because he was the youngest of the four hobbits in the Fellowship of the Ring.  

“Peregrin Took of the Shire in Eriador, sir,” he addressed Faramir and knelt in respect, for he knew that Boromir would have wanted his brother to be treated with the same respect as he himself got from the hobbits.  

“From Arnor? Sounds like quite a tale to hear.” 

Giving the servants a request for some food and drink to be served for all three, Faramir bid Gandalf and Pippin to tell the whole story of what had happened since the previous summer. 

Once all this had been told, Faramir realized something that Elia had mentioned in her letters to him and Boromir, since she had wanted them to know of a detail that the Martells had found through the water mirrors. Elia and her family had not been able to confirm this suspicion so far, but Faramir could connect the dots with what Pippin and Gandalf mentioned of having seen in Moria. 

“I see…” he thought for himself, drinking a little from his goblet as excuse for not talking, “This fits in with Rhaenys being the current reincarnation of Princess Mara of Kemet, the older one of the two daughters of Khamûl who survived the massacre of their family and the devastating ending of the Golden Age of their homeland. Fourteen years ago, she was still a toddler at three years old, her powers having newly awoken…of course, having complete control over this vast amount of magic would be too much to expect from such a young child, even if she must have tried to hide herself from Khamûl. Her memories may be gone, but still spiritually remembering the loss of her earlier family in Kemet, and the wish to avoid such a tragedy again…with how protective Rhaenys is of her whole family, it is no wonder.” 

At least the orcs in Moria had not been sent through the random portals to Gondor or Rohan, that would have been a hell to deal with. Instead Rhaenys must have reacted somehow to Tywin Lannister being a threat to herself, her mother and brother, and trying to weaken his resources as both the Head of House Lannister and the Warden of the Westerlands in Westeros. 

“You said that this sword was found at the start of your journey towards Imladris?” Faramir wondered, as he looked over the small weapon that Pippin wore. For a Man or an Elf, it would be nothing else than a dagger, but for a hobbit or a child, it was as perfect as a sword. 

“It came out of the mounds that lie on the borders of my country,” said Pippin, “But only evil wights dwell there now, and I will not willingly tell more of them.”

Well, the mention of wights did not surprise Faramir. Arnor had a long history, and given that the Witch-King of Angmar had been fighting against the northern kingdom, it was not impossible that ghosts could not find peace in death or hear the call to the Halls of Mandos.   

“Since you have come here, Pippin….would you like to aid Minas Tirith as a soldier? My brother may be the Steward, but I can accept the oath in his place until his return and you can swear it to him directly. 

Going back to the chair of the Steward and seating himself there again, Faramir laid the sword along his lap, and Pippin put his hand to the hilt, and said slowly after Faramir:

“Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Peregrin son of Paladin of the Shire of the Halflings. ”

“And this do I hear, Boromir son of Denethor, Lord of Gondor, Steward of the High King, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valour with honour, oath-breaking with vengeance.” 

Then Pippin received back his sword and put it in its sheath. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

Even at the beginning of Gondor as a Kingdom, its rulers had been well aware of the need for resting stations where messenger riders could give the horses food and water, as well an overnight shelter as a place for resting to both animal and rider. After all, even the most well-trained and long-lasting horse had its limits to how far it could travel in one day. 

“Even if we are in a hurry to Minas Tirith, we can not have those four-legged friends strain themselves so hard that they will risk becoming ill,” Boromir said as he checked on the gelding he had gotten to borrow in Rohan. 

“Yes. Even the famed Meraras like Shadowfax need to rest once in a while, and we all know how a lack of food and water can affect your energy to do something.” 

Taking a chance to meditate on the ground with crossed legs, Arash could feel something in the distance. No danger from the direction of Mordor as he could tell, but rather the movements of the population of Minas Tirith on their way south and west. 

“Boromir, we may not have many days left before Sauron attacks Minas Tirith, do you have any suggestions on how to handle a possible siege?” 

“I need to discuss this with my brother and the other commanders left in the city, but I was hoping for you to somehow find a way to put a distance between the city walls and any siege towers that the orcs may bring along. After all, keeping our soldiers forced to the walls would make it harder to defend the main gate,” the Steward answered, watching the Dornishman cross his arms in deep thought for ideas. 

“A long enough distance so any siege towers do not reach the walls, you say? Well, I may be able to do that if I can find enough seeds for a massive barrier of thorny plants like non-decorative rose bushes and hawthorn, but any form of catapult can be tricky because they are meant to attack the target from a longer distance....”

Using a stick to make some quick drawings on the ground, Arash began to make a basis for his ideas. He knew that they would soon set off again, once the horses were ready for another day of long travel, but having a mental seed to “grow” possible ideas from, was also good.

“Hm, I will need to borrow a map of Minas Tirth and the area around to make some calculations once we get to Minas Tirith, and probably see how far the city's own catapults can reach, in order to map out a circle around the city…a massive hedge of thorns, so the orcs can not climb over it that easily even with armor, thick enough to cause trouble for orcs and possibly leaving a single, very narrow opening so they will have to drag any siege towers and other such weapons though, one by one. Delaying their own attacks so the defenders of Minas Tirith get more time to make a responding counterattack and be ready to attack…” 

Lucky for Arash, mathematics had been one of the school subjects in which he was a good student as a boy back when growing up in the Water Gardens with his siblings and cousins from Aria, so he knew that the long-deceased Lewyn Martell and his paramour Rhoyne would be proud of him as their eldest son if he succeeded in using this knowledge now in a great time of crisis. 

Chapter Text

Knowing that there was little he could do in Rohan or Gondor for now while the Rohirrim was gathered at Dunharrow and the Dornish soldiers soon joining them as well, Doran focused all attention on Dorne, especially as Arianne sometimes needed to focus on little Ramses as a mother. 

“Are you feeling that all this is too much for you, Mellario?” he asked after hearing the footsteps of his wife coming closer. Doran knew that she was afraid of the war, and how it could affect Dorne and their whole family. To be honest, he could not blame her if she did have a desire to return to Norvos; Back when they had wed, no one had been able to warn the Prince of Dorne and his bride from Norvos that one day, Elia and her children would one day cause a storm that literally uprooted everything they had expected from life. 

“Perhaps once I would have said so, yes, but now? I would never forgive myself if I were to escape Dorne for my own selfishness and abandon my family in a time of crisis. Besides, we do not just have four children anymore, we have a grandson to care for and love, as well.” 

Doran nodded. This was part of why he had fallen for Mellario in the first place. That she was blunt and honest about reasons behind her choices, yet also tried to find a way to explain why she may do something which went directly against what people expected of her. 

“Are you thinking of trying to put up a magical barrier around Dorne again? Because I do not think there would be any other reason for you to make a circle around your homeland on the map,” Mellario commented when noticing the table with maps at his side, and she could see on his body language that she had hit a mark. 

“...I am afraid that someone in the Red Keep may use Robert's absence to cause trouble in the rest of Westeros in his name. The Tyrells, for example, because Olenna is a Redwyne by birth and she may try something behind the back of her grandson, reaching out to her birth family to use the royal fleet or something.” 

The former Princess Consort facepalmed, seeing his point. That old Dowager Lady of House Tyrell was a pain in the neck, and a very good example of how powerful men tended to underestimate the female gender because of how women often used the expected social behavior in public to hide their brilliant minds. 

“Come on, Doran, let's borrow your youngest nieces for a helpful family dance to spread out that barrier down in the palace gardens. We do not need any idiotic foolishness from north of the Red Mountains now, we have a otherworld in-law family and their homeland to help protecting against Sauron!” 

On the way down to the gardens and picking up the four youngest children of Oberyn from the nursery, Mellario guided Doran in a classic waltz from Norvos that was pretty common here in Dorne as well. She did not see it, but she did feel something from his hands as they spun around in the corridors, the former ruling Prince sometimes using his walking stick to help his balance a little. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X

The four youngest Sand Snakes were very eager to do something with their uncle and aunt, for while they did understand that there was something unusual going on, a little bit of normality was welcomed to keep them from being too affected by the unspoken fear and anxiety that the adults could not really hide. 

“Around, around! Tio Doran!” four-year-old Loreza pleaded to him, and he obeyed to the best of his ability. 

“Ok, that is enough, darling. Think of that old injury….” 

Seeing that her husband was getting tired, and trying to mask possible phantom pains from his groin area though it, Mellario asked the girls if they could be so sweet and bring his wheelchair to the garden. Rather than having to carry one wheelchair across all the stairs in the Old Palace if Doran needed to get to different rooms if he had a bad day with his pains, Mellario had ordered several ones to be made and for those to to be placed on the different levels of the palace that Doran most commonly used. 

“Yes, tia Mellario!” 

And of course, the moment the four younger Sand Snakes was out of sight and hearshot, something seemed to cause their two youngest sons to cry out from another part of the garden: 

“MÃE!! ” 

“Yes, boys?” Doran called, placing his walking stick so he stood more comfortable on his bad leg. Since Trystane and Mahaad were only little over a year apart in age, it was nothing strange with finding them together if they wanted to be left alone from their female cousins. And Quentyn was trying his best to be a good big brother to them as well despite the age difference.   

“Uncle Doran, something just showed up in front of us!” Griff explained, guiding his two younger second-cousins along the nearest shortway and Quentyn at the back to ensure that neither Trystane or Mahaad tripped without warning, using the “uncle” as a sign of how close the older generation was and how they had no problem with being addressed as honorary uncles or aunts by the offspring of their cousins. But it was the items in their arms that alarmed both Doran and Mellario. At first look, it looked like stones, but when being brought closer, details on the surplace was a good cause for alarm for anyone who had grown up with tales of dragons: Egg-shaped, tiny scales, and unnatural colors. 

Dragon eggs. 

“Oh no. No, no, no, no! NO!! We are not going to have those magical beasts around in the middle of everything else! The world is better off without those flying lizards of fire and doom! ” Mellario exclaimed in a manner that was all unlike her usual self, snapping the dark green dragon egg from her second youngest son and then chased the confused Mahaad around his father for a few steps before managing to also grab the other egg in pale cream streaked with gold from him. 

“Ma, give that back!” 

But Mellario refused to give back the eggs, showing that despite her short stature that had been passed down to Arianne, she was very skilled in holding her ground against children demanding something back. 

“Mellario is right. Those may be stone now, but if the magic causes those to hatch…” Doran whispered, his face pale in alarm as Quentyn let him touch the black dragon egg with scarlet ripples and swirls. 

“That is why we brought the eggs here as soon as we found them laying in the other end of the garden,” Griff said, and Quentyn mentioned that they had heard a strange sound from the flower bushes while their cousins had helped Doran with the barrier, and spotted those eggs lying under said flower bushes. 

“Good work in bringing them here before anyone else found those eggs, boys. But we have to remove those at once, because we can not risk that those dragon eggs somehow are brought to life through our gathered family magic and hatches!”

Then, tapping the surface of the nearest pool with his cane, Doran brought up an image of Ser Ulwyck Uller, the uncle of Ellaria, on his ship as one of the commanders of the Dornish fleet in the war against Sauron. 

“Ulwyck! Ser Ulwyck!” 

The aged knight looked around for a moment, before noticing the small portal to the side and knelt as a sign of respect. 

“Yes, Prince Doran?” 

“A problem just showed up, that can be troublesome in the longer turn.” 

Placing herself beside her husband, Mellario kept a eye on him as he ordered: 

“Toss those damn things overboard and make sure that they sink to the bottom of the sea, so the unborn dragon hatchlings inside will never draw breath or manage to reach the surface, should they somehow be brought to life with magic!” 

While Ulwyck was surprised that House Martell somehow had gotten their hands on dragon eggs, he knew why Doran gave this order to get rid of them. Dragons meant death and destruction, never bringing anything good along. If the last two Targaryens somehow learned about those three eggs, it would also mean unwanted attention from north of the Red Mountains. And given what the Rohirrim had told about the dragon that had once driven out the Dwarves from their Kingdom in Erebor, they could not risk Sauron getting his hands on those eggs. 

“At once, my Prince and Princess! Men, get me an empty chest and some good-sized rocks to act as weights once they are tied to the chest!” 

Once the three eggs were placed in a locked chest, and several smaller rocks tied to it with strong ropes so it would not float up again to the surface even in powerful storms that could rip up things from the bottom because of the sheer force involved, Ulwyck and one of his sailors threw the chest overboard.

~X~X~X~X~X~X    

Not too long afterwards: 

“Dragons eggs?! Here in the gardens of the Old Palace when you tried to place the barrier around Dorne?! ” 

Hearing about this from her parents, it was understandable that Arianne got scared and hugged her young son closer to herself in terror. Daemon also looked visibly shocked at learning what his three brothers-in-law had found in the gardens.

“T-t-there should not be any such eggs left in Westeros….most of them were lost in Summerhall, and if there were any hidden at Dragonstone, Rhaenys sank them to the bottom of the sea alongside the whole island…” 

Then, she recalled a detail from the history of the Targaryen dynasty that generally was not remembered that much: Elissa Farman stealing three dragon eggs from Dragonstone, and selling those to the Sealord of Braavos so she could afford a huge ship for her desired adventures. 

“Of course…that sort of stuff that suddenly shows up all suddenly way later in the future. We should have expected something such…” the ruling Princess muttered, mirroring her mother in how she would facepalm in a situation that would give her an unwanted headache from overthinking. 

“Try to see it from this view, Ari; We should not have to worry about Viserys and Daenerys somehow getting their hands on those eggs in the future. For even if they would not be able to hatch the eggs, it is still a symbol for them as a family hailing from Old Valyria and as a family of dragon-riders. A threat that we can not allow to take root for the sake of peace under the Baratheon dynasty.” 

“I know, papa…and thank you for dealing with those damn eggs as soon as possible,” Arianne responded, sounding just as tired as Doran felt himself. Well, it was not so strange, she had an infant son to care for, alongside her duties as the ruler of Dorne. Even with an army of maids in the nursery for Ramses, having a war threatening Dorne was not exactly helping. 

Chapter Text

Acting as their host, Faramir allowed Gandalf and Pippin to have the same house as Gandalf would have on his rare visits in Minas Tirith, on the grounds that Gandalf's good advice could be needed pretty quickly. As they left the great hall, Pippin could hear Faramir tell one man who had arrived just before they left: 

“Let it be known to the other captains and soldiers that I have now sworn the companion of Mithrandir to the service of Gondor on behalf of my brother, and he shall be known as Peregrin son of Paladin and taught the lesser pass-words.” 

Their guide brought them from the doors of the hall, and then led them across the Court of the Fountain into a lane between tall buildings of stone. After several turns they came to a house close to the wall of the citadel upon the north side, not far from the shoulder that linked the hill with the mountain. Within, upon the first floor above the street, up a wide carven stair, he showed them to a fair room, light and airy, with goodly hangings of dull gold sheen unfigured. It was sparely furnished, having but a small table, two chairs and a bench; but at either side there were curtained alcoves and well-clad beds within with vessels and basins for washing. There were three high narrow windows that looked northward over the great curve of Anduin, still shrouded in mists, towards the Emyn Muil and Rauros far away. Pippin had to climb on the bench to look out over the deep stone sill.

“Are you angry with me, Gandalf?” he said, as their guide went out and closed the door, “I did the best I could.”

“You did indeed!” said Gandalf, laughing suddenly; and he came and stood beside Pippin, putting his arm about the hobbit's shoulders and gazing out of the window. Pippin glanced in some wonder at the face now close beside his own, for the sound of that laugh had been gay and merry. Yet in the wizard's face he saw at first only lines of care and sorrow; though as he looked more intently he perceived that under all there was a great joy: a fountain of mirth enough to set a kingdom laughing, were it to gush forth. 

“Even a small person such as a Hobbit can be of value in great times of need. Just look at Bilbo back in his younger years, and how he helped with reclaiming Erebor for the Line of Durin! Without his help, there is a high chance that Sauron would have tried to tempt Smaug into serving him now in this war, and a fire dragon attacking armies is asking those soldiers to be burned to death with no chance of making any difference!” 

He fell silent and sighed. 

“Well, no need to brood on what tomorrow may bring. For one thing, tomorrow will be certain to bring worse than today, for many days to come. And there is nothing more that I can do to help it. The board is set, and the pieces are moving. One piece that I greatly desire to be here in Minas Tirith is Boromir, for the sake of this city and the realm that he now rules. I must go, Pippin. I must go to this lords' council that Faramir asked me to take part of and learn what I can. But the Enemy has the move, and he is about to open his full game. And pawns are likely to see as much of it as any, Peregrin son of Paladin, soldier of Gondor. Sharpen your blade!” 

Gandalf went to the door, and there he turned.

“I am in haste Pippin,”  he said, “Do me a favour when you go out. Even before you rest, if you are not too weary. Go and find Shadowfax and see how he is housed. These people are kindly to beasts, for they are a good and wise folk, but they have less skill with horses than some. They are not quite the same horse masters as the people of Rohan, different cultures and all that.” 

With that Gandalf went out; and as he did so, there came the note of a clear sweet bell ringing in a tower of the citadel. Three strokes it rang, like silver in the air, and ceased: the third hour from the rising of the sun.

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

The sun was now shining warm and bright as Pippin closed the door and went down the stair to look around the street, the towers and tall houses cast long clear-cut shadows westward. High in the blue air Mount Mindolluin lifted its white helm and snowy cloak. Armed men went to and fro in the ways of the City, as if going at the striking of the hour to changes of post and duty.

“Nine o'clock we'd call it in the Shire,” said Pippin aloud to himself, feeling his stomach demand something more of a proper meal than what he and Galdaf had eaten over the past days, “Just the time for a nice breakfast by the open window in spring sunshine. And how I should like breakfast! Do these people ever have it, or is it over? And when do they have dinner, and where?” 

Presently he noticed a man, clad in black and white, coming along the narrow street from the centre of the citadel towards him. Pippin felt lonely and made up his mind to speak as the man passed; but he had no need. The man came straight up to him.

“You are Peregrin the Halfling?” he wondered in courteously, as if he wanted to be sure that it was not the wrong person, “I am told that you have been sworn to the service of the Lord and of the City. Welcome!” 

He held out his hand and Pippin took it.

“I am named Beregond son of Baranor. I have no duty this morning, and I have been sent to you to teach you the pass-words, and to tell you some of the many things that no doubt you will wish to know. And for my part, I would learn of you also. For never before have we seen a halfling in this land and though we have heard rumors of them, little is said of them in any tale that we know. Moreover you are a friend of Mithrandir. Do you know him well?”

“Well,” said Pippin, “I have known of him all my short life, as you might say; and lately I have traveled far with him. But there is much to read in that book, and I cannot claim to have seen more than a page or two. Yet perhaps I know him as well as any but a few. Aragorn was the only one of our Company, I think, who really knew him.”

'Aragorn?' wondered Beregond in a way that revealed that Aragorn had done a really good job in hiding his real identity decades earlier, “Who is he?”

“Oh!” stammered Pippin, recalling what Boromir and Aragorn had told him about why Gondor did not have a King, “he was a man who went about with us. I think he is in Rohan now.” 

"You have been in Rohan, I hear. There is much that I would ask you of that land also; for we put much of what little hope we have in its people. But I am forgetting my errand, which was first to answer what you would ask. What would you know, Master Peregrin?"

"Er well," Pippin muttered, “if I may venture to say so, rather a burning question in my mind at present is, well, what about breakfast and all that? I mean, what are the meal-times, if you understand me, and where is the dining-room, if there is one? And the inns? I looked, but never one that I could see as we rode up, though I had been borne up by the hope of a draught of ale as soon as we came to the homes of wise and courtly men.” 

Beregond looked at him gravely. 

“An old campaigner, I see,” he said, “They say that men who go warring afield look ever to the next hope of food and of drink; though I am not a travelled man myself. Then you have not yet eaten today?”

“Well, to a degree,” Pippin admitted, “Lord Faramir was kind to offer a decent meal of the basic foods for breakfast while we talked, but it seems to not have been enough.”

His stomach growled again, Pippin feeling like he was making a joke of himself, and Beregond laughed. 

“At the table small men may do the greater deeds, we say. But you have broken your fast as well as any man in the Citadel, and with greater honour. This is a fortress and a tower of guard and is now in posture of war. We rise ere the Sun, and take a morsel in the grey light, and go to our duties at the opening hour. But do not despair!' He laughed again, seeing the dismay in Pippin's face. 'Those who have had heavy duty take somewhat to refresh their strength in the mid-morning. Then there is the nuncheon, at noon or after as duties allow; and men gather for the daymeal, and such mirth as there still may be, about the hour of sunset. Come! We will walk a little and then go find us some refreshment, and eat and drink on the battlement, and survey the fair morning.” 

“One moment!” said Pippin with blushing cheeks over his not very quiet stomach, “Greed, or hunger by your courtesy, put it out of my mind. But Gandalf, Mithrandir as you call him, asked me to see to his horse Shadowfax, a great steed of Rohan, and the apple of the king's eye, I am told, though he has given him to Mithrandir for his services. I think his new master loves the beast better than he loves many men, and if his good will is of any value to this city, you will treat Shadowfax with all honour: with greater kindness than you have treated this hobbit, if it is possible.”

“Hobbit?” asked Beregond.

“That is what we call ourselves,” Pippin explained quickly.

“I am glad to learn it,” said Beregond, “for now I may say that strange accents do not mar fair speech, and hobbits are a fair-spoken folk. But come! You shall make me acquainted with this good horse. I love beasts, and we see them seldom in this stony city; for my people came from the mountain-vales, and before that from Ithilien. But fear not! The visit shall be short, a mere call of courtesy, and we will go thence to the butteries.”

Pippin found that Shadowfax had been well housed and tended. For in the sixth circle, outside the walls of the citadel, there were some fair stables where a few swift horses were kept, hard by the lodgings of the errand-riders of the Lord: messengers always ready to go at the urgent command of Faramir or his chief captains. But now all the horses and the riders were out and away. Perhaps one of them would come across Boromir on his way to the city, and bring those news to Minas Tirith. 

Shadowfax whinnied as Pippin entered the stable and turned his head. 

“Good morning!” said Pippin, “Gandalf will come as soon as he may. He is busy, but he sends greetings, and I am to see that all is well with you; and you resting, I hope, after your long labours.”

Shadowfax tossed his head and stamped. But he allowed Beregond to handle his head gently and stroke his great flanks.

“He looks as if he were spoiling for a race, and not newly come from a great journey,” said Beregond in awe, “How strong and proud he is! Where is his harness? It should be rich and fair.”

“None is rich and fair enough for him,” said Pippin. “He will have none. If he will consent to bear you, bear you he does; and if not, well, no bit, bridle, whip, or thong will tame him. Farewell, Shadowfax! Have patience. Battle is coming.”

Shadowfax lifted up his head and neighed, so that the stable shook, and they covered their ears. Then they took their leave, seeing that the manger was well filled.

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

After a much welcomed meal of bread, butter, cheese and winter apples with ale, where Pippin and Beregond told the other about their homelands and the customs, they could see how the city was now fully awake as well. 

The sun was now climbing, and the mists in the vale below had been drawn up. The last of them were floating away, just overhead, as wisps of white cloud borne on the stiffening breeze from the East, that was now flapping and tugging the flags and white standards of the citadel. Away down in the valley-bottom, five leagues or so as the eye leaps, the Great River could now be seen grey and glittering, coming out of the north-west, and bending in a mighty sweep south and west again, till it was lost to view in a haze and shimmer, far beyond which lay the Sea fifty leagues away.

Pippin could see all the Pelennor laid out before him, dotted into the distance with farmsteads and little walls, barns and byres, but nowhere could he see any kine or other beasts. Many roads and tracks crossed the green fields, and there was much coming and going: wains moving in lines towards the Great Gate, and others passing out. Now and again a horseman would ride up, and leap from the saddle and hasten into the City. But most of the traffic went out along the chief highway, and that turned south, and then bending swifter than the River skirted the hills and passed soon from sight. It was wide and well-paved, and along its eastern edge ran a broad green riding-track, and beyond that a wall. On the ride horsemen galloped to and fro, but all the street seemed to be choked with great covered wains going south. But soon Pippin saw that all was in fact well-ordered: the wains were moving in three lines, one swifter drawn by horses; another slower, great waggons with fair housings of many colours, drawn by oxen; and along the west rim of the road many smaller carts hauled by trudging men.

“That is the road to the vales of Tumladen and Lossarnach, and the mountain-villages, and then on to Lebennin,” said Beregond when noticing where Pippin was looking, “'There go the last of the wains that bear away to refuge the aged, the children, and the women that must go with them. They must all be gone from the Gate and the road clear for a league before noon: that was the order. It is a sad necessity.”

He sighed. 

“Few, maybe, of those now sundered will meet again. And there were always too few children in this city; but now there are none - save some young lads that will not depart, and may find some task to do: my own son is one of them.” 

They fell silent for a while. Pippin gazed anxiously eastward, as if at any moment he might see thousands of orcs pouring over the fields. 

“What can I see there?' he asked, pointing down to the middle of the great curve of the Anduin, “Is that another city, or what is it?”

"It was a city," Beregond explained, "the chief city of Gondor, of which this was only a fortress. For that is the ruin of Osgiliath on either side of Anduin, which our enemies took and burned long ago. Yet we won it back in the days of the youth of Denethor, the late Steward: not to dwell in, but to hold as an outpost, and to rebuild the bridge for the passage of our arms. And then came the Fell Riders out of Minas Morgul."

“The Black Riders?” said Pippin, opening his eyes, and they were wide and dark with an old fear re-awakened.

“Yes, they were black,” Beregond nodded, “and I see that you know something of them, though you have not spoken of them in any of your tales.” 

“I know of them,” Pippin confirmed softly,”but I will not speak of them now, so near, so near…” 

He broke off and lifted his eyes above the River, and it seemed to him that all he could see was a vast and threatening shadow. Perhaps it was mountains looming on the verge of sight, their jagged edges softened by wellnigh twenty leagues of misty air; perhaps it was but a cloud-wall, and beyond that again a yet deeper gloom. But even as he looked it seemed to his eyes that the gloom was growing and gathering, very slowly, slowly rising to smother the regions of the sun.

“So near to Mordor?” said Beregond quietly, “Yes, there it lies. We seldom name it; but we have dwelt ever in sight of that shadow: sometimes it seems fainter and more distant; sometimes nearer and darker. It is growing and darkening now; and therefore our fear and disquiet grow too. And the Fell Riders, less than a year ago they won back the crossings, and many of our best men were slain. Boromir it was that drove the enemy at last back from this western shore, and we hold still the near half of Osgiliath. For a little while. But we await now a new onslaught there. Maybe the chief onslaught of the war that comes.”

“When?” asked Pippin nervously, “Have you a guess? For I saw the beacons last night and the errand-riders; and Gandalf said that it was a sign that war had begun. He seemed in a desperate hurry. But now everything seems to have slowed up again.”

“Only because everything is now ready,” said Beregond, “It is but the deep breath before the plunge.”

“But why were the beacons lit last night?”

“It is over-late to send for aid when you are already besieged,” answered Beregond, “But I do not know the counsel of the Lord and his captains. They have many ways of gathering news. But Faramir have called us to not doubt the people of Rohan, for they have been dealing with Saruman until now and have not been able to send help as quickly as possible. But if you would know what I think set the beacons ablaze, it was the news that came yestereve out of Lebennin. There is a great fleet drawing near to the mouths of Anduin, manned by the corsairs of Umbar in the South. They have long ceased to fear the might of Gondor, and they have allied them with the Enemy, and now make a heavy stroke in his cause. For this attack will draw off much of the help that we looked to have from Lebennin and Belfalas, where folk are hardy and numerous. All the more do our thoughts go north to Rohan; and the more glad are we for these tidings of victory that you bring. And yet…”

He paused and stood up, and looked round, north, east, and south.

“The doings at Isengard should warn us that we are caught now in a great net and strategy. This is no longer a bickering at the fords, raiding from Ithilien and from Anorien, ambushing and pillaging. This is a great war long-planned, and we are but one piece in it, whatever pride may say. Things move in the far East beyond the Inland Sea, it is reported; and north in Mirkwood and beyond; and south in Harad. And now all realms shall be put to the test, to stand, or fall under the Shadow. Yet, Master Peregrin, we have this honour: ever we bear the brunt of the chief hatred of the Dark Lord, for that hatred comes down out of the depths of time and over the deeps of the Sea. Here will the hammer-stroke fall hardest. And for that reason Mithrandir came hither in such haste. For if we fall, who shall stand? And, Master Peregrin, do you see any hope that we shall stand?” 

Pippin did not answer. He looked at the great walls, and the towers and brave banners, and the sun in the high sky, and then at the gathering gloom in the East; and he thought of the long fingers of that Shadow: of the orcs in the woods and the mountains, the treason of Isengard, the birds of evil eye, and the Black Riders even in the lanes of the Shire and of the winged terror, the Nazgûl. He shuddered, and hope seemed to wither. And even at that moment the sun for a second faltered and was obscured, as though a dark wing had passed across it. Almost beyond hearing he thought he caught, high and far up in the heavens, a cry: faint, but heart-quelling, cruel and cold. He blanched and cowered against the wall.

“What was that?” asked Beregond, “You also felt something?”

“Yes,” muttered Pippin in unease, “It is the sign of our fall, and the shadow of doom, a Fell Rider of the air.”

“Yes, the shadow of doom,” Beregond agreed, “I fear that Minas Tirith shall fall. Night comes. The very warmth of my blood seems stolen away.”

For a time they sat together with bowed heads and did not speak. Then suddenly Pippin looked up and saw that the sun was still shining and the banners still streaming in the breeze. He shook himself. 

“It has passed,” he said, “No, my heart will not yet despair. Gandalf fell and has returned and is with us. We may stand, if only on one leg, or at least be left still upon our knees.”

“Rightly said!” cried Beregond, rising and striding to and fro. 

“Nay, though all things must come utterly to an end in time, Gondor shall not perish yet. Not though the walls be taken by a reckless foe that will build a hill of carrion before them. There are still other fastnesses, and secret ways of escape into the mountains. Hope and memory shall live still in some hidden valley where the grass is green.”

“All the same, I wish it was over for good or ill,” said Pippin, “I am no warrior at all and dislike any thought of battle; but waiting on the edge of one that I can't escape is worst of all. What a long day it seems already! I should be happier, if we were not obliged to stand and watch, making no move, striking nowhere first. No stroke would have been struck in Rohan, I think, but for Gandalf.”

“Ah, there you lay your finger on the sore that many feel!' said Beregond, “But things may change when Boromir returns. Both he and Lord Faramir is bold in their different ways, Lord Faramir more bold than many deem; for in these days men are slow to believe that a captain can be wise and learned in the scrolls of lore and song, as he is, and yet a man of hardihood and swift judgement in the field. But such is Faramir. Less reckless and eager than Boromir, but not less resolute. Yet what indeed can he do right now, even with Rohan doing their best to come as soon as possible to our aid? We cannot assault the mountains of yonder realm. Our reach is shortened, and we cannot strike till some foe comes within it. Then our hand must be heavy!” 

He smote the hilt of his sword. Pippin looked at him: tall and proud and noble, as all the men that he had yet seen in that land; and with a glitter in his eye as he thought of the battle. 

“Alas! My own hand feels as light as a feather,” he thought, but he said nothing, “A pawn, did Gandalf say? Perhaps but on the wrong chessboard.”

So they talked until the sun reached its height, and suddenly the noon-bells were rung, and there was a stir in the citadel; for all save the watchmen were going to their meal.

“Will you come with me?” asked Beregond, “You may join my mess for this day. I do not know to what company you will be assigned; or the Lord may hold you at his own command. But you will be welcome. And it will be well to meet as many men as you may, while there is yet time.”

“I shall be glad to come,” said Pippin, “I am lonely, to tell you the truth. I left my best friend behind in Rohan, and I have had no one to talk to or jest with. Perhaps I could really join your company? Are you the captain? If so, you could take me on, or speak for me?”

“Nay, nay,” Beregond laughed, “I am no captain. Neither office nor rank nor lordship have I, being but a plain man of arms of the Third Company of the Citadel. Yet, Master Peregrin, to be only a man of arms of the Guard of the Tower of Gondor is held worthy in the City, and such men have honor in the land.”

“Then it is far beyond me,” said Pippin, “Take me back to our room, and if Gandalf is not there, I will go where you like as your guest.” 

~X~X~X~X~X~X    

While Pippin shared a meal with the Third Company, and later met Bergil, the son of Beregond, something different was happening in Minas Morgul: 

Despite the vast distance to the Temple of Shadows, Khamûl had sensed Visenya doing some form of magic again, this very morning. It was though the magic that bound her to him as a Consort.

“ She is not afraid of risking her own life, that little Consort of mine. And yet…she is amusing in her own way, first helping to open that portal to the other world, and having an inner resentment towards certain people in that world. ” 

But this morning, Visenya had not acted out in rebellion or something like that. More like… 

An act of compassion? Khamûl wondered for himself. For who? What could have made her use her magic in such a way? A mystery, that was what Visenya was, even if she had spent all her life in the Temple. Serving him out of her own will, like she wanted to spite someone who had once desired a very different life for her. 

“ No. I must focus on what orders the Dark Lord gives me. I do not have time to let my thoughts run freely. ” 

Not if Sauron risked punishing his captured wives and children for his poor performance. And perhaps Visenya would not do that again, because she was not a fool. Playing with fire could quickly become deadly, after all. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X     

In the night Pippin was awakened by a light, and he saw that Gandalf had come and was pacing to and fro in the room beyond the curtain of the alcove. There were candles on the table and rolls of parchment. He heard the wizard sigh, and mutter: 

“When will Boromir return? Faramir fears for his brother.” 

“Hullo!” said Pippin in a sleepy voice, poking his head round the curtain that was hung up around the bed, “I thought you had forgotten all about me. I am glad to see you back. It has been a long day.” 

“But the night will be too short,” said Gandalf in a grave voice that awoke worry for anyone who would have heard him, “I have come back here, for I must have a little peace, alone. You should sleep, in a bed while you still may. At the sunrise I shall take you to Faramir again. No, when the summons comes, not at sunrise. The Darkness has begun. There will be no dawn. ”

A distant cry from one of the Black Riders on their fey beasts was heard as he said this. 

Chapter Text

9th March, Dunharrow in Rohan:   

Although Elfhilda was not the only new baby to be born here in the refugee camp for the population of Rohan over the past weeks, Lothiriel and the other mothers did agree that complaining about the current living conditions would not change anything. Rather, it was better to pray for the war to end soon, so they could return to their familiar homes and the comforts of everyday life. 

“Are you wondering where your feder is because you have not seen him for a few days, sweet brothor-dohtor?” Éowyn asked as she held her niece towards her shoulder, feeling that Elfhilda seemed to be very interested in the world around her despite being so small, mostly when she had her needs tended to and in general, was comfortable.  

“My ladies,” one of the men serving in the household of Aldburg said with a bow as he entered the tent, “Lord Théoden and Lord Éomer have been spotted on the way back from Isengard.”

Oh, that was much welcomed news. Aragorn and his group had told them of what had happened in Isengard before leaving for the Path of the Dead, but it felt a lot better to know that their male relatives were coming here to Dunharrow. 

While there was still a little bit for the Riders to come, they took a chance to overlook how things were in the camp, and the three oldest Sand Snakes as well the other Dornish commanders came to report. 

“Our Padre should be pleased to see all the Dornish warriors that have come here over the passing days,” Obara said with pride, and for good reason, the various banners of the Dornish noble Houses were seen in the outer parts of the refugee camp. 

“And no attack on Edoras yet from what we have seen in the water mirrors. This confirms that Minas Tirith is the most likely target of Sauron if he sends out his army, because Gondor is literally next to Mordor.” 

But more than one person in the camp was looking towards the setting sun, as if they had gotten a strange feeling that the dawn would feel awfully drawn out. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

Day was waning. In the last rays of the sun the Riders cast long pointed shadows that went on before them. Darkness had already crept beneath the murmuring fir-woods that clothed the steep mountain-sides. Théoden and his group rode now slowly at the end of the day. Presently the path turned round a huge bare shoulder of rock and plunged into the gloom of soft-sighing trees. Down, down they went in a long winding file. When at last they came to the bottom of the gorge they found that evening had fallen in the deep places. The sun was gone. Twilight lay upon the waterfalls. 

All day far below them a leaping stream had run down from the high pass behind, cleaving its narrow way between pine-clad walls; and now through a stony gate it flowed out and passed into a wider vale. The Riders followed it, and suddenly Harrowdale lay before them, loud with the noise of waters in the evening. There the white Snowbourn, joined by the lesser stream, went rushing, fuming on the stones, down to Edoras and the green hills and the plains. Away to the right at the head of the great dale the mighty Starkhorn loomed up above its vast buttresses swathed in cloud; but its jagged peak, clothed in everlasting snow, gleamed far above the world, blue-shadowed upon the East, red-stained by the sunset in the West.

Merry looked out in wonder upon this strange country, of which he had heard many tales upon their long road. It was a skyless world, in which his eye, through dim gulfs of shadowy air, saw only ever-mounting slopes, great walls of stone behind great walls, and frowning precipices wreathed with mist. He sat for a moment half dreaming, listening to the noise of water, the whisper of dark trees, the crack of stone, and the vast waiting silence that brooded behind all sound. He loved mountains, or he had loved the thought of them marching on the edge of stories brought from far away; but now he was borne down by the insupportable weight of Middle-earth. He longed to shut out the immensity in a quiet room by a fire.

“It would be nice with some rest from all the riding and outdoors…” 

He was very tired, for though they had ridden slowly, they had ridden with very little rest. Hour after hour for nearly three weary days he had jogged up and down, over passes, and through long dales, and across many streams. Sometimes where the way was broader he had ridden at the former king's side, not noticing that many of the Riders smiled to see the two together: the hobbit on his little shaggy grey pony, and the Lord of Rohan on his great white horse, because it would have reminded of how Théoden in his younger years would take Théodred out for a private father-son bonding time or with Andréth and Aégnor enjoying time with their paternal grandfather in the days before the war broke out. Then he had talked to Théoden, telling him about his home and the doings of the Shire-folk, or listening in turn to tales of the Mark and its mighty men of old. But most of the time, especially on this last day, Merry had ridden by himself just behind the old warrior, saying nothing, and trying to understand the slow sonorous speech of Rohan that he heard the men behind him using, and the tongue of Dorne, the realm from which Queen Elia hailed. Rohirric was a language in which there seemed to be many words that he knew, though spoken more richly and strongly than in the Shire, yet he could not piece the words together. At times some Rider would lift up his clear voice in stirring song, and Merry felt his heart leap, though he did not know what it was about.

All the same he had been lonely, and never more so than now at the day's end. He wondered where in all this strange world Pippin had got to; and what would become of Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli. Then suddenly like a cold touch on his heart he thought of Frodo and Sam. 

“I am forgetting them! ” he said to himself reproachfully, “And yet they are more important than all the rest of us. And I came to help them; but now they must be hundreds of miles away, if they are still alive.” 

He shivered, feeling like a very poor friend for not thinking that much of the two Hobbits who had gotten separate from the Fellowship at Amon Ereb. Hopefully Sam, who was a really good cook by Hobbit standards, would still be able to feed his Master Frodo with whatever they could find to make a meal from, while coming closer to Mordor.  

“'Harrowdale at last!” said Éomer in happiness that they finally were there, “Our journey is almost at an end.” 

They halted. The paths out of the narrow gorge fell steeply. Only a glimpse, as through a tall window, could be seen of the great valley in the gloaming below. A single small light could be seen twinkling by the river.

“This journey is over, maybe,” said Théoden, “but I have far yet to go. Last night the moon was full, and in the morning I shall ride to Edoras to the gathering of the Mark.”

“But if you would take my counsel,” said Éomer in a low voice as he looked at his maternal uncle, “you would then return hither, until the war is over, lost or won.”

Théoden smiled. 

“Nay, son of my heart, for so I will call you, do not make me seem older than my actual years!” He drew himself up and looked back at the long line of his men fading into the dusk behind, “Long years in the space of days it seems since I rode west; but never will I refuse to protect my homeland. If the war is lost, what good will be my hiding in the hills? And if it is won, what grief will it be, even if I fall, spending my last strength? But we will leave this now. Tonight I will lie in the Hold of Dunharrow. One evening of peace at least is left us. Let us ride on!” 

In the deepening dusk they came down into the valley. Here the Snowbourn flowed near to the western walls of the dale, and soon the path led them to a ford where the shallow waters murmured loudly on the stones. The ford was guarded. As the group approached many men sprang up out of the shadow of the rocks; and when they saw who the leader was, they cried with glad voices: 

“Lord Théoden! Lord Théoden! The father to the King of the Mark returns!”

Then one blew a long call on a horn. It echoed in the valley. Other horns answered it, and lights shone out across the river. And suddenly there rose a great chorus of trumpets from high above, sounding from some hollow place, as it seemed, that gathered their notes into one voice and sent it rolling and beating on the walls of stone.

So the former King of the Mark came back victorious out of the West to Dunharrow beneath the feet of the White Mountains. There he found the remaining strength of his people already assembled; for as soon as his coming was known captains rode to meet him at the ford, bearing messages from Gandalf as well Théodred and Elia back in Edoras. Dunhere, chieftain of the folk of Harrowdale, was at their head.

“At dawn three days ago, lord,” he said with a deep bow, “Shadowfax came like a wind out of the West to Edoras, and Gandalf brought tidings of your victory to gladden our hearts. But he brought also word from you to hasten the gathering of the Riders. And then came the winged Shadow.”

“The winged Shadow?' Théoden wondered, 'We saw it also, but that was in the dead of night before Gandalf left us.” 

“Maybe, lord,” Dunhere responded, “Yet the same, or another like to it, a flying darkness in the shape of a monstrous bird, passed over Edoras that morning, and all men were shaken with fear. For it stooped upon Meduseld, and as it came low, almost to the gable, there came a cry that stopped our hearts. Then it was that Gandalf counselled Théodred King not to have the men assemble in the fields, but to meet you here in the valley under the mountains. And he bade us to kindle no more lights or fires than barest need asked. So it has been done. Gandalf spoke with great authority. We trust that it is as you would wish. Naught has been seen in Harrowdale of these evil things.”

Théoden remembered what he had been told about Khamûl suddenly showing up right in front of Elia and Rhaenys when they had been outside the gates of Edoras, yet his step-granddaughter protected her mother with holy magic. A servant of evil, so dangerously close to his family…no, there had to be a reason for it. 

“It is well,” said Théoden, 'I will ride now to the Hold, and there before I go to rest I will meet the marshals and captains, since my son is unable to ride out in war yet due to his injury. Let them come to me as soon as may be!” 

The road now led eastward straight across the valley, which was at that point little more than half a mile in width. Flats and meads of rough grass, grey now in the falling night, lay all about, but in front on the far side of the dale Merry saw a frowning wall, a last outlier of the great roots of the Starkhorn, cloven by the river in ages past.

On all the level spaces there was great concourse of men. Some thronged to the roadside, hailing the king and the riders from the West with glad cries; but stretching away into the distance behind there were ordered rows of tents and booths, and lines of picketed horses, and great store of arms, and piled spears bristling like thickets of new-planted trees. Now all the great assembly was falling into shadow, and yet, though the night-chill blew cold from the heights no lanterns glowed, no fires were lit. Watchmen heavily cloaked paced to and fro.

Merry wondered how many Riders there were. He could not guess their number in the gathering gloom, but it looked to him like a great army, many thousands strong. While he was peering from side to side the king's party came up under the looming cliff on the eastern side of the valley; and there suddenly the path began to climb, and Merry looked up in amazement. He was on a road the like of which he had never seen before, a great work of men's hands in years beyond the reach of song. Upwards it wound, coiling like a snake, boring its way across the sheer slope of rock. Steep as a stair, it looped backwards and forwards as it climbed. Up it horses could walk, and wains could be slowly hauled; but no enemy could come that way, except out of the air, if it was defended from above. At each turn of the road there were great standing stones that had been carved in the likeness of men, huge and clumsy-limbed, squatting cross-legged with their stumpy arms folded on fat bellies. Some in the wearing of the years had lost all features save the dark holes of their eyes that still stared sadly at the passers-by. The Riders hardly glanced at them. The Pukel-men they called them, and heeded them little: no power or terror was left in them; but Merry gazed at them with wonder and a feeling almost of pity, as they loomed up mournfully in the dusk.

After a while he looked back and found that he had already climbed some hundreds of feet above the valley, but still far below he could dimly see a winding line of Riders crossing the ford and filing along the road towards the camp prepared for them. Only the king and his guard were going up into the Hold.

At last Théoden's company came to a sharp brink, and the climbing road passed into a cutting between walls of rock, and so went up a short slope and out on to a wide upland. The Firienfeld men called it, a green mountain-field of grass and heath, high above the deep-delved courses of the Snowbourn, laid upon the lap of the great mountains behind: the Starkhorn southwards, and northwards the saw-toothed mass of Irensaga, between which there faced the riders, the grim black wall of the Dwimorberg, the Haunted Mountain rising out of steep slopes of sombre pines. Dividing the upland into two there marched a double line of unshaped standing stones that dwindled into the dusk and vanished in the trees. Those who dared to follow that road came soon to the black Dimholt under Dwimorberg, and the menace of the pillar of stone, and the yawning shadow of the forbidden door.

Such was the dark Dunharrow, the work of long-forgotten men. Their name was lost and no song or legend remembered it. For what purpose they had made this place, as a town or secret temple or a tomb of kings, none could say. Here they laboured in the Dark Years, before ever a ship came to the western shores, or Gondor of the Dunedain was built; and now they had vanished, and only the old Pukel-men were left, still sitting at the turnings of the road.

~X~X~X~X~X~X   

Merry stared at the lines of marching stones: they were worn and black; some were leaning, some were fallen, some cracked or broken; they looked like rows of old and hungry teeth. He wondered what they could be, and he hoped that Théoden was not going to follow them into the darkness beyond. Then he saw that there were clusters of tents and booths on either side of the stony way; but these were not set near the trees, and seemed rather to huddle away from them towards the brink of the cliff. The greater number were on the right, where the Firienfeld was wider; and on the left there was a smaller camp, in the midst of which stood a tall pavilion. From this side a rider now came out to meet them, and they turned from the road. As they drew near Merry saw that the rider was a woman with long braided hair gleaming in the twilight, yet she wore a helm and was clad to the waist like a warrior and girded with a sword.

“Hail, Lord and descendant of Eorl the Young!” she cried, “'My heart is glad at your returning.'

'And you, Éowyn,” Théoden smiled at his sister-daughter, “is all well with you? I hope that both Lothíriel and Elfhilda are well, too.”

“All is well,” she answered, not feeling offended with her brother hugging her quickly and then rushing off to find his wife and young daughter, “All is well. It was a weary road for the people to take, torn suddenly from their homes. There are many worries about how this may affect the usual time for sowing the seeds that are hoped to become the harvest of this autumn, for it is long since war has driven us from the green fields; but there have been no evil deeds. All is now ordered, as you see. And your lodging is prepared for you, fedra; for I have had full tidings of you and knew the hour of your coming.”

A loud wail from a baby greeted them as the handmaidens of Lothiriel hurried to serve a meal for the arrival of their Lord, Théoden and everyone else that would be in the tent. 

“Yes, yes, you can scold me all you want, Elfhilda, for missing your first days of life and not helping your mother!” Éomer laughed, despite how his daughter had managed to grab hold of a small braid near his ear and now pulled very hard on it, her tiny little fists surprisingly strong. 

“She has inherited your lungs, for sure.”  

With the memory of Elfhild in his mind, it gladdened Théoden to see that his niece by marriage was standing up on her own two feet. Sure, she looked very tired, and possibly felt ready to collapse down in her bed as soon as she was able to since it was not even a week since her delivery, but there was no alarming fever shine in her eyes that could betray that she would be a victim of the birthing bed just like his own wife so long ago. 

“Elfhilda is reminding us to not run away like cowards when the time for battle comes, already trying to sound like you commanding your men, brothor,” Éowyn joked as her niece finally spared their ears for a little bit, because it took a lot of her own breathing to wail like that. 

“Sorry, sweetheart, you are eighteen years too young to be allowed to fight as a shieldmaiden like your fathu.” 

Somehow, Elfhilda did actually manage to look offended at hearing that, how that even was possible for a baby in her tender age, and responded with an even louder cry as if protesting that she was not some passive wallflower that would always need protection from others or being unable to defend herself in other ways. 

“Alright, alright, Elfhilda! But only if you are really serious about it and do not treat it like some hobby that you will get bored of quickly!” 

Théoden did actually smile at hearing how much his sister-son sounded like his own father Thengel in some of his earliest memories, when Laywyn had insisted on training to become a shieldmaiden and the King of Rohan saying almost the exact same words to all four of his daughters when they had gotten basic training for self-defense. 

“Sounds like my girls when they were that age and acted like they wanted to take part in some discussion with their sisters or us adults,” Oberyn laughed as he entered the tent, showing no discomfort over the crying infant in the background as Éomer tried to calm down Elfhilda, Lothíriel eventually taking mercy on her husband and freeing his braid from the tiny fist.

“Miss Obara, how many soldiers have gathered here?”

Having arrived behind her father, the oldest Sand Snake did straighten her back, looking very much like a commander hoping to to do right: 

“Eight thousand Riders of Rohan, and six thousand Dornish soldiers. The remaining Rohirrim who have not come here, are below age eighteen and past seventy, with the duty to help protect the borders of Rohan so it is not completely emptied of menfolk, my Lord. And Dorne needs its spare soldiers ready for the same defense, as well helping Rohan.” 

Ah, exactly what Théodred and he had talked about. Drafting every man past a certain age and all boys above a certain age to fight was only done when it was a really desperate situation.  

Like how it could have been, had Rhaenys never opened that portal so his son could save Elia and change her possible fate of death with her two young children. A scenario where Théodred might never find the right woman to marry and enjoy the joys of fatherhood, and Saruman successfully kills him. 

While the group was eating the late evening meal, Merry got to hear exactly what the Path of the Dead meant, and how no one in Rohan really was comfortable with the mention of this place:

“Folk say that Dead Men out of the Dark Years guard the way and will suffer no living man to come to their hidden halls; but at whiles they may themselves be seen passing out of the door like shadows and down the stony road. Then the people of Harrowdale shut fast their doors and shroud their windows and are afraid. But the Dead come seldom forth and only at times of great unquiet and coming death.” 

A omen of death, in other words. And no one could tell for sure why Aragorn had chosen that path. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X   

Not long after that they had eaten, there was a noise outside, a man's voice crying the name of Théoden, and the challenge of the guard. Presently the captain of the Guard thrust aside the curtain: 

“A man is here, lord,” he explained, “an errand-rider of Gondor. He wishes to come before you at once.”

“Let him come!” Théoden requested. A tall man entered, and Merry choked back a cry; for a moment it seemed to him that Boromir had returned for whatever reason that could have prevented his journey to Gondor. Then he saw that it was not so; the man was a stranger, though as like to Boromir as if he were one of his kin, tall and grey-eyed and proud. He was clad as a rider with a cloak of dark green over a coat of fine mail; on the front of his helm was wrought a small silver star. In his hand he bore a single arrow, black-feathered and barbed with steel, but the point was painted red. He sank on one knee and presented the arrow to Théoden. 

“Hail Lord of the Rohirrim, friend of Gondor!” he said, “Hirgon I am, errand-rider of Faramir, who bring you this token of war. Gondor is in great need. Often the Rohirrim have aided us, but now the Lord Faramir asks for all your strength and all your speed; lest Gondor fall at last.”

“The Red Arrow!” whispered Théoden, holding it, as one who receives a summons long expected and yet dreadful when it comes. His hand trembled. 

“The Red Arrow has not been seen in the Mark in all my years! Has it indeed come to that? That the strength and all the speed of the Rohirrim is needed?”

“That is best known to yourself, lord,” answered Hirgon. “But ere long it may well come to pass that Minas Tirith is surrounded, and unless you have the strength to break a siege of many powers, the Lord Faramir bids me say that he judges that the strong arms of the Rohirrim would be better within his walls than without.” 

Théoden saw in the corner of his eye how Éowyn had paled at the sight of the arrow. If her betrothed sent out this arrow to Rohan with prayers for help, the situation in Gondor was desperate and Faramir fearing that Minas Tirith risked falling to the armies of Mordor.

“But he knows that we are a people who fight rather upon horseback and in the open, and that we are also a scattered people and time is needed for the gathering of our Riders. Is it not true, Hirgon, that the Lord of Minas Tirith knows more than he sets in his message? For we are already at war, as you may have seen, and you do not find us all unprepared. Gandalf the Grey has been among us, and even now we are mustering for battle in the East.”

“What the Lord Faramir may know or guess of all these things I cannot say,' answered Hirgon, “But indeed our case is desperate. My lord does not issue any command to you, he begs you only to remember old friendship and oaths long spoken, and for your own good to do all that you may. It is reported to us that many kings have ridden in from the East to the service of Mordor. From the North to the field of Dagorlad there is skirmish and rumour of war. In the South the Haradrim are moving, and fear has fallen on all our coastlands, so that little help will come to us thence. Make haste! For it is before the walls of Minas Tirith that the doom of our time will be decided, and if the tide be not stemmed there, then it will flow over all the fair fields of Rohan, and even in this Hold among the hills there shall be no refuge.” 

“Dark tidings,” said Théoden, “yet not all unguessed. But say to Faramir that even if Rohan itself felt no peril, still we would come to his aid. But we have suffered much loss in our battles with Saruman the traitor despite our attempts to lessen it in the years before, and we must still think of our frontier to the north and east, as his own tidings make clear. So great a power as the Dark Lord seems now to wield might well contain us in battle before the City and yet strike with great force across the River away beyond the Gate of Kings. But we will speak no longer counsels of prudence. We will come. The weapontake was set for the morrow. When all is ordered we will set out. Eighteen thousand spears, a union of Rohan and Dorne, I might have sent riding over the plain to the dismay of your foes. It will be less now, I fear; for my son will not leave his strongholds all unguarded. Yet fourteen thousands at the least shall ride behind me. Say to Faramir that in this hour, in place of my son who still needs to recover, I will come, acting as the King of the Mark for my son and grandson, I will come down to the land of Gondor, though maybe I will not ride back. But it is a long road, and man and beast must reach the end with strength to fight. Even with the portals of House Martell to shorten the journey and to save strength for everyone coming, we can not promise an exact date for our arrival.” 

At the mention of how they were unable to say exactly how much time they would spare with the portals to shorten the journey to Gondor or at least trying to bring the massive army as close to its borders as possible, Oberyn took the chance to explain why, such as the risks of being found out and the portals being targets for attacks as well how exhausting it would be for him and his three eldest daughters to use their inherited magic in a such manner. 

“It is very taxing the longer we use the magic, and if we are not careful, it may actually drain us so much that we risk death.”  

How could they not forget how the Baratheon children had fainted from honest exhaustion that had left them to spend the following days in bed, after how much they had needed to use their magic for preventing the intended destruction of King's Landing and Storm's End from the attacks which Sauron had sent from Dragonstone? And how Rhaenys had needed them all as support to defend Dorne in the same manner, despite herself being the current reincarnation of Princess Mara of Kemet? 

Understandably, Hirgon looked devastated at hearing how they could not guarantee when they would arrive, but it was better than the Rohirrim and Dornishmen not being able to give any aid at all. 

“At the least we will do that,” said Théoden, “But I myself am new-come from battle and long journey, and I will now go to rest. Tarry here this night. Then you shall look on the muster of Rohan and ride away the gladder for the sight, and the swifter for the rest. In the morning counsels are best, and night changes many thoughts.”

With that Théoden stood up, and they all rose. 

“Go now each to your rest,” he said, “and sleep well. And you, Master Meriadoc, I need no more tonight. But be ready to my call as soon as the Sun is risen.”

“I will be ready,” said Merry, ”even if you bid me ride with you on the Paths of the Dead.”

“Speak not words of omen!” said the former king, “For there may be more roads than one that could bear that name. But I did not say that I would bid you ride with me on any road. Good night!”

“I won't be left behind, to be called for on return!” muttered Merry, “I won't be left, I won't.”

And repeating this over and over again to himself he fell asleep at last in his tent.

In the tent of Éomer and Lothiriel: 

Her husband had fallen asleep rather quickly, understandable tired after the long riding, and Lothiriel did just enjoy the feeling of his strong arms around her, Elfhilda sleeping between them. 

“Will this…be our final night together as a family? Not even a week after that she joined us and made us parents for the first time?” 

As she prayed for that Elfhilda would be spared from losing her father in battle and not facing a life where she would never know her sire, Lothiriel had no idea what Éoywn truly planned, for the niece of Théoden hadn't completely lied about temporarily riding to Edoras with the army the following day to pick up a few more things they would need for an extended period into the camp, the sort of stuff for female needs that often made itself reminded despite trying to pack well when traveling. 

“I hope that Lady Morwen and Laywyn can manage to ride here soon even without the portals, to meet you, Elfhilda, the newest family member in the House of Eorl.” 

“Mw,” was all she got in response from the sleeping baby. Personally, Lothiriel thought that her sister-in-law had a good point: without looms to weave new fabric on, finding old rags for those female needs would be troublesome for all the women and girls old enough to have that monthly visitor. 

“Your aunt should return soon with a escort back to Dunharrow, Wildfola is young and strong, he will carry her swiftly across the land of Rohan, like the wind she named him for.”  

And a few days needed to travel between Edoras and Dunharrow was only natural. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X   

Merry was woken by a man shaking him. 

“Wake up, wake up. Master Holbytla!” he cried; and at length Merry came out of deep dreams and sat up with a start. It still seemed very dark, he thought.

“What is the matter?” he asked.

“The lord calls for you.”

“But the Sun has not risen, yet,” said Merry, pushing his blanket away.

“No, and will not rise today, Master Holbytla. Nor ever again, one would think under this cloud. But time does not stand still, though the Sun be lost. Make haste!” 

Flinging on some clothes, Merry looked outside. The world was darkling. The very air seemed brown, and all things about were black and grey and shadowless; there was a great stillness. No shape of cloud could be seen, unless it were far away westward, where the furthest groping fingers of the great gloom still crawled onwards and a little light leaked through them. Overhead there hung a heavy roof, sombre and featureless, and light seemed rather to be failing than growing.

Merry saw many folk standing, looking up and muttering: all their faces were grey and sad, and some were afraid. With a sinking heart he made his way to the tent of Théoden. Hirgon the rider of Gondor was there before him, and beside him stood now another man, like him and dressed alike, but shorter and broader. As Merry entered he was speaking to Théoden.

“It comes from Mordor, lord,” he said, “It began last night at sunset. From the hills in the Eastfold of your realm I saw it rise and creep across the sky, and all night as I rode it came behind, eating up the stars. Now the great cloud hangs over all the land between here and the Mountains of Shadow; and it is deepening. War has already begun.”

For a while Théoden sat silent. At last he spoke. 

“So we come to it in the end,” he said; “the great battle of our time, in which many things shall pass away. But at least there is no longer need for hiding. We will ride the straight way and the open road and with all our speed. The muster shall begin at once, and wait for none that tarry. Have you good store in Minas Tirith? For if we must ride now in all haste, then we must ride light, with but meal and water enough to last us into battle. Even if Oberyn sends people though the portals and has food and water ready at every place we make time for a break, so the horses get to rest, it will be difficult to make the exact needed amount.”

“We have very great store long prepared, Lady Yavanna blessed Gondor with a mighty harvest this passing autumn and not all of it has been eaten yet over winter or been intended as the seeds for the harvest of this year,” answered Hirgon, “Ride now as light and as swift as you may!” 

“Then call the heralds, Éomer,” Théoden said to his sister-son, “Let the Riders be marshalled!”

Nodding to his uncle, Éomer went out, and presently the trumpets rang in the Hold and were answered by many others from below; but their voices no longer sounded clear and brave as they had seemed to Merry the night before. Dull they seemed and harsh in the heavy air, braying ominously.

Théoden turned to Merry. 

“I am going to war, Master Meriadoc,” he said, “In a little while I shall take the road. I release you from my service, but not from my friendship. You shall abide here, and if you will, you shall serve the Lady Éowyn who will govern the folk in my stead alongside Lady Lothiriel.” 

“But, but, lord,” Merry stammered, feeling his heart sinking, “I offered you my sword. I do not want to be parted from you like this, Théoden Lord. And as all my friends have gone to the battle, I should be ashamed to stay behind.”

“But we ride on horses tall and swift,” Théoden responded with a sad look on his aged face, “and great though your heart be, you cannot ride on such beasts.”

“Then tie me on to the back of one, or let me hang on a stirrup, or something,” Merry pleaded, “It is a long way to run; but run I shall, if I cannot ride, even if I wear my feet off and arrive weeks too late.”

Théoden smiled. 

“Rather than that I would bear you with me on Snowmane,” he said, “But at the least you shall ride with me to Edoras and look on Meduseld; for that way I shall go. So far Stybba can bear you: the great race will not begin till we reach the plains.”

Then Éowyn rose up. 

“Come now, Meriadoc,” she said, “I will show you the gear that I have prepared for you.” 

They went out together. 

“This request only did Aragorn make to me,” said Éowyn as they passed among the tents, “that you should be armed for battle. I have granted it, as I could. For my heart tells me that you will need such gear ere the end.”

Now she led Merry to a booth among the lodges of the king's guard and there an armourer brought out to her a small helm, and a round shield, and other gear.

“No mail have we to fit you, or any from Dorne, sadly, for time-pressing reasons,” said Éowyn with a look over what they had managed to find, for humans with dwarfism was the closest size to Hobbits outside children and neither was common in Dorne or Rohan, “nor any time for the forging of such a hauberk; but here is also a stout jerkin of leather, a belt, and a knife. A sword you have.”

Merry bowed, and the lady showed him the shield, which was like the shield that had been given to Gimli, and it bore on it the device of the white horse. 

“Take all these things,” she said, “and bear them to good fortune! Farewell now, Master Meriadoc! Yet maybe we shall meet again, you and I.”

So it was that amid a gathering gloom Théoden made ready to lead all his Riders on the eastward road. Hearts were heavy and many quailed in the shadow. But they were a stern people, loyal to their lord who rode into battle for his injured son who would have risked death otherwise, and little weeping or murmuring was heard, even in the camp in the Hold where the exiles from across Rohan were housed, women and children and old men. Doom hung over them, but they faced it silently.

“Return home, Men of Rohan and Dorne!” a voice suddenly cried out in the distance, and for those who looked up to the Hold, Lothiriel could be seen with Elfhilda in her arms, standing tall and proud despite openly crying over that this could be her final sight of Éomer, “Return home, for your families!” 

The cry was repeated by other wives and mothers, many who held up their children to remind their menfolk of why they rode into battle. Even old grandfathers who did the same with their grandchildren, letting the small ones sit on their shoulders for a better view. 

“For the new generations to come!” 

And Éomer was not the only father among the Riders who straightened his back at hearing those words. 

Two swift hours passed, and now Théoden sat upon his white horse, glimmering in the half light. Proud and tall he seemed, though the hair that flowed beneath his high helm was like snow; and many marvelled at him and took heart to see him unbent and unafraid.

There on the wide flats beside the noisy river were marshalled in many companies well nigh five and fifty hundreds of Riders fully armed, and many hundreds of other men with spare horses lightly burdened. A single trumpet sounded. Théoden raised his hand, and then silently the host of the Mark began to move. Foremost went twelve of the king's household-men, Riders of renown. Then Théoden followed with Éomer on his right. He had said farewell to Éowyn and his family above in the Hold, and the memory was grievous; but now he turned his mind to the road that lay ahead. Behind him Merry rode on Stybba with the errand riders of Gondor, and behind them again twelve more of the king's household. They passed down the long ranks of waiting men with stern and unmoved faces. But when they had come almost to the end of the line one looked up glancing keenly at the hobbit. A young man, Merry thought as he returned the glance, less in height and girth than most. He caught the glint of clear grey eyes; and then he shivered, for it came suddenly to him that it was the face of one who chose the risk of death in battle in order to protect loved ones. 

On down the grey road they went beside the Snowbourn rushing on its stones; through the hamlets of Underharrow and Upbourn, where many sad faces of women looked out from dark doors; and so without horn or harp or music of men's voices the great ride into the East began with which the songs of Rohan were busy for many long lives of men thereafter.

From dark Dunharrow in the dim morning

with thane and captain rode Thengel's son:

to Edoras he came, the ancient halls

of the Mark-wardens mist-enshrouded;

golden timbers were in gloom mantled.

Farewell he bade to his free people,

hearth and high-seat, and the hallowed places,

where long he had feasted ere the light faded.

Forth rode the king, fear behind him,

fate before him. Fealty kept he;

oaths he had taken, all fulfilled them.

Forth rode Théoden. Five nights and days

east and onward rode the Eorlingas

through Folde and Fenmarch and the Firienwood,

six thousand spears to Sunlending,

Mundburg the mighty under Mindolluin,

Sea-kings' city in the South-kingdom

foe-beleaguered, fire-encircled.

Doom drove them on. Darkness took them,

Horse and horseman; hoofbeats afar

sank into silence: so the songs tell us.

~X~X~X~X~X~X   

It was indeed in deepening gloom that Théoden came to Edoras, although it was then but noon by the hour. There he halted only a short while and strengthened his host by some three score of Riders that came late to the weapontake. But he took time to say his farewells to his family members there. 

“I feel worthless for not being able to ride at your side one last time at such a critical time, Feder,” Théodred admitted, showing no shame for the tears flowing from his eyes as father and son hugged for what could be the last time. 

“Rohan will need its King alive, and I may have joined your mother in the halls of my ancestors within the coming years anyway.” 

“I am proud to be your son, feder.”   

Knowing the high risk that he would not return home alive, Théoden chose to give all four of his grandchildren a gift of heirlooms that would have been intended for their respective coming of age when their eighteenth birthdays came. 

“For Rhaenys; this gold medallion which I gave to Elfhild when starting our courtship. Aegon, this dagger for self-defense which I personally got from my own father Thengel around the same age as you are now. Aégnor, this brooch in gold with garnets. Andréth, this gold necklace with a rare diamond from when my late father married your great-grandmother Morwen, which your grandmother Elfhild was planning to carry at our coronation, if she had lived.” 

By giving all four of them those family heirlooms alongside four commissioned swords meant for them in adulthood, Théoden showed that he had always seen Rhaenys and Aegon as his grandchildren, despite the two older children of Elia not sharing any blood ties to the House of Eorl at all. 

“Thank you…ealderfeder…” 

And of course, Morwen and Laywyn were not reacting well to the knowledge that this could be the last time they saw him alive.

“Damn it, Oden! ” Laywyn cursed in Rohirric, using a nickname on him that she had not said in many years since they both had entered adulthood so long ago, as she hugged her only brother, openly crying in anger, “Damn it…why must all four of my younger siblings join feder in the afterlife before myself?! Why must I be the one to outlive you all, when I am the firstborn!? ” 

Morwen said nothing at first, but her tears spoke enough grief over having to lose yet another family member to death, for all of that death in battle was seen as an honorable death by the Rohirrim. When Théoden hugged his long-lived mother, she lifted something over his head. 

“My first gift ever from Thengel. A pendant with the engraved image of an upturned horseshoe, for luck in the shared interest in hunting that led to our first meeting. So you can hunt down and kill as many enemies as you can, before joining everyone in our family in the Halls of your forefathers.” 

“Thank you, Modur.” 

Finally, it was Elia who would bid her father-in-law this last farewell. She made a deep curtsy which went all the way down to the floor of Meduseld, a sign of respect that she had never given Aerys, and looked him straight into the eyes as she said: 

“Thank you for everything over those fourteen years since I was blessed to be saved by your son, Théoden King. It is something that I will always treasure for the rest of my life, no matter how many years I may have left.” 

By addressing him with his old title, Elia made a point in how much she valued Théoden as a presence in her life. 

“May you always bring the light of the sun to Rohan, Princess Elia Martell.” 

Bowing her head, Elia took those words to her heart. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X 

Now having eaten with them and said those farewells to his family members, Théoden made ready to set out again, and he wished his esquire a kindly farewell. But Merry begged for the last time not to be parted from him.

“This is no journey for such steeds as Stybba, as I have told you,” Théoden responded, “And in such a battle as we think to make on the fields of Gondor what would you do, Master Meriadoc, sword-thain though you be, and greater of heart than of stature?”

“As for that, who can tell?” answered Merry, “But why, lord, did you receive me as sword-thain, if not to stay by your side? And I would not have it said of me in song only that I was always left behind!”

“I received you for your safe-keeping,” Théoden spoke in a slightly more stern voice that told Merry to give up, “and also to do as I might bid. None of my Riders can bear you as burden. If the battle were before my gates, maybe your deeds would be remembered by the minstrels; but it is a hundred leagues and two to Mundburg where Boromir is lord and Faramir acting in the stead of his brother. I will say no more.”

Merry bowed and went away unhappily, and stared at the lines of horsemen. Already the companies were preparing to start: men were tightening girths, looking to saddles, caressing their horses; some gazed uneasily at the lowering sky. Unnoticed a Rider came up and spoke softly in the hobbit's ear.

“Where will wants not, a way opens, so we say,” he whispered, “and so I have found myself.”

Merry looked up and saw that it was the young Rider whom he had noticed in the morning. Though like earlier. he already wore a helmet that did not reveal too much of his face, only he seemed to be rather young due to the lack of beard. Maybe a just-of-age youth who took the place of an already slain father or elder brother? 

“You wish to go whither the Lord of the Mark goes: I see it in your face.”

“I do,” Merry admitted honestly.

“Then you shall go with me,” offered the young Rider, “I will bear you before me, under my cloak until we are far afield, and this darkness is yet darker. Such good will should not be denied. Say no more to any man, but come!”

“Thank you indeed!” said Merry, “Thank you, sir, though I do not know your name.”

“Do you not?” said the Rider softly, as if Merry had missed him being addressed by one of the older Riders as a fellow member of the Aldburg household serving Éomer and Lothiriel, “Then call me Dernhelm.” 

Gazing at the banner with the white horse of Rohan, and all the men around him before allowing himself a final look on his son, daughter-in-law and his four grandchildren where the guards was lighting up the darkness with torches, Théoden reminded himself of why he was riding out in this war: 

“So...it is before the walls of Minas Tirith, that the Doom of our Time will be decided. ” 

“Now is the hour! Riders of Rohan! ” they heard Éomer call to the gathered men who could see the royal family of Rohan gathered in front of the doors to Meduseld, “ Oaths you have spoken! Now to fulfill them all! To Lord and Land! ”  

The speech was short, but reminded the Rohirrim that they had sworn to not only fight for Théodred as King of Rohan and Lord of the Mark, but for their homeland as well.

~X~X~X~X~X~X

Thus it came to pass that when Théoden set out to lead the Rohirrim and Dornishmen led by Oberyn in battle against Mordor, before Dernhelm sat Meriadoc the hobbit, and the great grey steed Windfola made little of the burden; for Dernhelm was less in weight than many men, though lithe and well-knit in frame, basically confirming the likelihood of having come of age this very winter. Almost like Pippin, Merry thought of his cousin as they joined the massive number of horses and Riders around them, who still had four years before coming of age on his 33th birthday by Hobbit customs.  

On into the shadow they rode. In the willow-thickets where Snowbourn flowed into Entwash, twelve leagues east of Edoras, they camped that night. And then on again through the Folde; and through the Fenmarch, where to their right great oakwoods climbed on the skirts of the hills under the shades of dark Halifirien by the borders of Gondor; but away to their left the mists lay on the marshes fed by the mouths of Entwash. And as they rode rumour came of war in the North. Lone men, riding wild, brought word of foes assailing their east-borders, of orc-hosts marching in the Wold of Rohan.

“'Ride on! Ride on!” cried Éomer, “Too late now to turn aside. The fens of Entwash must guard our flank. Haste now we need. Ride on!” 

And so Théoden departed from his own realm which he had handed over to his son not so many years past, and mile by mile the long road wound away, and the beacon hills marched past: Calenhad, Min-Rimmon, Erelas, Nardol. But their fires were quenched. All the lands were grey and still; and ever the shadow deepened before them, and hope waned in every heart.

Chapter Text

10th March, Sunspear in Dorne: 

Even if the darkness from Mordor was not reaching Dorne, they could sense its presence through the portal between the Old Palace and Dunharrow. 

“Ugh…that darkness is really creeping me out, with how it blocks out the sun in Middle-earth and gives off a feeling that the sun may never be seen again! Just how powerful is Sauron really, as a fallen Maia once serving the Gods of Arda?” Mellario admitted without shame for her being scared of said darkness, holding her content grandson in her arms so Arianne and Daemon could take a nap without risking being woken up by Ramses crying. 

“I agree, Mellario. And while we can not do anything about the darkness, we can still make plans to try ruining his plans for conquering the Free Peoples of Middle-earth.” 

Between Doran and Ihsan where they were sitting on the floor of all places, a literal sea of scattered parchments, old thick books and half-finished drawings was around the father and son pair.  

“...are the two of you planning something of a trap? For Khamûl, I mean, given what a risk it is that he may try to attack Oberyn and the older Sand Snakes once he can smell that they are sharing blood with Rhaenys?” 

Ihsan stopped writing for a moment at the question from his daughter-in-law. 

“More or less, yes. I have been studying the hieroglyphs, the writing system of Kemet, by using the flashbacks of how Princess Mara lost her family and her father fell into the service of Sauron, so I am trying to figure out a trap for Khamûl by using the magic of his former realm. Hopefully, it may help us to weaken him in some form…” 

“You may need a little help from me in this. ” 

The unexpected voice of Morgal Martell caused them all to twitch in fright, as Mahaad showed up in the door but there was something different about him. His eyes were amber like how it would be for Rhaenys when Mara was possessing her body, and it was an adult male voice speaking when he opened his mouth. 

“M…Morgan? W-why are you possessing our youngest?” Doran asked, taking a deep breath to calm down his heart. 

“I am unfortunately a bit limited in how I can help you as a spirit that have never been reborn in a new body like my Mother over the passing of generations, and Mahaad surprised myself by offering himself as temporary host body when we discussed the various pros and cons that I would have with his siblings and cousins. ” 

Of course. Arianne needed to focus on her role as a leader and new mother. The ability to spirit walk in his sleep made Quentyn a bit risky as a host, and Trystane was needed here in Sunpear to act as a central point for the protective barrier around Dorne, since his magical ability was something akin to creating a unbreakable shield of magical energy around himself and he could also expand this into a barrier to protect more people. Understandably, Morgan was worried about messing things up for the two older sons of Doran and Mellario if he was to try possessing one of them. 

“Are Oberyn rubbing off on everyone in the next generation by doing things without telling the parents?” Ihsan joked in a deadpan manner, somehow not surprised at all but also knowing that his younger son could not be blamed for something like this. 

“The Martell free spirit, Padre…”  

Anyway, Mahaad walked over to sit down between Doran and Ihsan, so Morgan could see how far they had come until now. 

“Quite a good start, I must say, for that you didn't know about this writing system until a few years ago. And it is good that you are teaming up, the more people to help out, the less risk of getting screwed up. ” 

“Hah, and there are people north of the Red Mountains who think that this life-long hobby of mine, to study ancient texts and languages, is just a waste of time when they are the ignorant ones of how little they may know of their own history outside the tale of their family origins and ancestors! They would not be able to read the rune script of their ancestors at all, if they tried!” Ihsan smirked without openly boasting about his own ego.  

“Ramses, please be as smart as your great-grandfather but be a little more self-confident around those northern fools who have this mentioned illiteracy about their own ancestors,” Mellario joked to her grandson, who naturally ignored everything thanks to being fast asleep in her arms. 

“Ah, he must be sleeping really nice if he is drooling in his sleep,” Doran said, offering his wife a piece of cloth so she could wipe that off from the little face. 

Much like Mellario, Ellaria Sand also felt unnerved by the darkness in Middle-earth despite being in sunny Dorne. Furthermore, knowing how he could be at times, she worried about Oberyn becoming careless in a coming battle against the armies of Mordor. Sure, her father and uncle were helping out in the war as well, but with Oberyn being a long-time lover and father to her four daughters, it felt rather natural to be alarmed about him. 

“He is a good warrior, but even the very best ones can still be defeated and killed by an enemy…” 

Would her sweet Eliana, Obella, Dorea and Lorzea risk facing a future where they had to grow up without Oberyn? The same fate that so many other children risked in every war, the loss of a father that some of them were too young to remember properly as they grew up?

“Mother, you are having your head up in the clouds! We are supposed to be helping the children from Rûm now on how to learn Dornish!” Obella commented, pulling on the sleeve of her mother for attention. 

“Oh, I am sorry, girls. And you are right, I was going to help teaching his wives in the language classes too.” 

Given that the former Sultan Selim of Rûm had quite a high number of younger children born to different concubines, Oberyn had tasked the younger Sand Snakes with teaching those sons and daughters to learn how to speak Dornish so they could better blend into their new homeland and culture with time. It was also a welcomed distraction for the children about the war, since they were too young to do anything more meaningful due to their age. 

“Lord Suleiman did ask for his father and younger half-siblings to be given sanctuary to start a new life here in Dorne if our plan to install him as the new Sultan was successful, of course we must uphold our part of the deal.” 

In fact, the former Sultan had come to see Doran about something, and naturally found himself taking part of the discussion about how to trap Khamûl in a manner so he could not use his powers as a Ringwraith. 

“How about something like this?”

Drawing a basic seal in a circle on parchment, they agreed that holy symbols from Kemet could be drawn around it. But the big problem was the needed chant to make the seal effective. 

“Morgan…I fear that you may be the one needed to do the chant, since you are the only one who can speak the language of Kemet without problems and your birth father was a priest…” 

Mahaad crossed his arms, the amber eyes looking at the parchment drawing. 

“Mother will likely be busy acting as bait for the trap, so yes, I will have to do it so no one of you gets in danger. I only need Mahaad to stand close to the the magical circle so my spiritual power is near. ” 

No one felt that Rhaenys was going to enjoy her part of the plan, as the bait. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X    

The Stormlands, Storm's End: 

Given how the heavily pregnant Selyse, her two daughters and all the bastard children of Robert had suddenly vanished like mist in the morning sun, the whole castle staff entering a state of panic was to be expected when none of them could be found anywhere. 

“Oh…my Lady….” 

And of course, the news of everyone in the younger generation being kidnapped and somehow taken to a different world of all things, sounded almost too impossible to be true. But no one had yet forgotten how a mixed barrier of wind and seawater had protected Storm's End from that massive fire pillar aiming straight at the castle not even a month ago. With that in still fresh memory, the idea of magic returning and a different world… sounded almost logical.

“While I regret not being able to join Stannis and King Robert on this mission to free our kidnapped children from those monster riders who took them, I am not so careless as to risk this little one that is still sleeping inside my womb! I would be a horrible wife and mother if I were so foolish as to do something to cause this child to be born way too early for survival! ” 

In fact, Selyse was showing off the very side of her that Stannis slowly had grown to be attracted to, in his own manner, over their marriage. That she was aware of her own limitations, and was able to think in most situations with a clear head. 

“Maester Cressen.” 

The old Maester was surprised at being addressed, when Selyse first had made a few movements to go inside the castle and rest in her own bedchamber after the long journey by ship. 

“Yes, my Lady?” 

“Have the maids collect something for all the children, something that belongs to each one from a younger age. Nothing that they would miss at returning home. I…wish to make a prayer to Eleni about the children and my husband returning home safely. Before this little one is born.” 

All the present servants understood the hidden meaning. A pleading to Elenei, as the daughter of the storm god and goddess of the sea, to protect her missing family members when Selyse herself was unable to do anything in this situation. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

Meanwhile, in King's Landing: 

Work to remove debris and other parts of the ruined houses after that strange hail storm was still ongoing. Andrew Estermont, acting as regent while the King and his brother were gone, would not let anyone help out to escape this work. 

“Ugh…so heavy…” 

For many of the noble heirs, among them Robb Stark, this was a taste of a situation where their noble status was not allowing them to slip away from unpleasant work. In fact, Andrew saw this as a perfect chance to let them realize just how different their upbringing was, compared to the children of commoners who had to start working from an early age. 

“Oi, Stark!” someone called as Robb finally was freed of the heavy log that he had been carrying alongside a few others, “are your father still rambling about your sisters being kidnapped by a Targaryen ghost or something?” 

The heir to Winterfell made a face in discomfort. Somehow, words had been spread about Lord Eddard Stark witnessing both his daughters being kidnapped in the attack, and for some crazy reason, he had been heard talking about his late sister Lyanna, the Tower of Joy where she had died and how his failure to save her back then was coming back in the form of a Targaryen ghost. 

“Father suffered a concussion of the brain as they fell down the stairs that were broken by the hail. The Maesters caring for him and other injured people in the Red Keep says that this is why he is talking as he does, that he is mixing up the events inside his mind and is remembering the past…” 

Since Robb had not been present to witness Visenya, his unknown cousin, kidnap Sansa and Arya to Gondor of all places, there was little he could do to make people ignore nasty gossip that Lord Stark somehow had lost his mind. 

“Yeah, right. As if a ghost would kidnap someone of flesh and blood!” 

“He has spent too many years up in the frozen North, not even letting his own children be fostered out among his bannermen! Too little travel outside Winterfell to be familiar with the wider world outside their own home!” 

“Country bumpkins with no court manners, ha, ha!” 

“And this is the family that King Robert plans to marry his oldest daughter, Princess Argella, into?” 

And what did hurt more than anything, was how Robb was powerless against those words of open disrespect against House Stark spoken by people who had nothing to fear in this situation, since he was used to the North respecting and being loyal to House Stark. Here in the south, he was getting an awful awakening of how naive he had been to think that House Stark would be respected in the same manner here in the south thanks to his father being a foster-brother and long-time friend of King Robert, and how sheltered his life had been until the royal visit. This feeling of helplessness was horrible for Robb, who was not used to it, especially as he feared for the missing Sansa and Arya to be among those dead bodies that could still be uncovered somewhere. 

“Oi, Stark, return to work or you will be scolded!” Galladon Tarth ordered, preventing a fight from breaking out. Walking after Galladon with his head low, Robb wished that his mother Catelyn could be there, with his father still healing from his head trauma. 

Chapter Text

In the end, Robert and Stannis had been forced to agree with Suleiman that sending their children back to Westeros, was literally asking for them to not be safe from the Nazgûl and a new kidnapping attempt with their fathers unable to hurry after them again. 

“I really do not like it, I really do not!” Stannis kept muttering under his breath, gritting his teeth with his characteristic scowl on his face. 

“I would have preferred them back home, too, as far away from this as possible, brother,” Robert said, where they were watching the surrounding lands seem both familiar and unfamiliar as the fleet of Eastern, Dornish and a few Crownlands ships was sailing towards Gondor. Seeing how Stannis was in no mood for talking, Robert turned his attention anywhere else: 

“How is it going up there, Argella?” 

Up in the main mast of the front ship where the Baratheons and Suleiman were sailing, the oldest Baratheon princess was using her steel fans to create winds which allowed the fleet to sail faster. 

“If this does not allow this fleet to sail faster, Father, I do not know!” 

Her power over winds and air had proven to become very useful in the attempts to reach Gondor at the highest speed the fleet could make. The sooner they arrived alongside the Anduin river to reach Minas Tirith, the more damage the very presence of those soldiers could hope to give the armies of Mordor in the expected battle. 

Inside his private cabin, Suleiman had a meeting with the three younger Sand children of the late Lewyn Martell. 

“Cousin Elia have confirmed that the Rohirrim and the Dornish soldiers there have started their journey towards Gondor to give aid to them as well.” 

Pointing at a map, Lemore showed where the large army on horses most likely was right now. 

“Well, Gondor shall not have to complain about being left alone against Sauron, for sure. While none of us can tell when we will arrive, we are not ignoring that Minas Tirith will be the site of Sauron trying to break the people of Gondor. The loss of a capital or other important cities really lowers morals in a war.”

Suleiman was also pleased to hear that his father and the rest of the expanded Rûm sultan family had not fallen ill in some form yet. 

“The dangerous thing with two worlds suddenly coming into contact are the risks of unknown diseases that can easily be transformed into a pandemic because one world is not immune to the illnesses which can be found in the other one. It is why we in Dorne are really strict with those who travel between Edoras and Sunspear, placing them in isolation and limited contact with just a few people, for at least one week's time, to not cause an outbreak which can prove fatal if nothing is found early.” 

“Good work to avoid that sort of scenario, indeed. And I guess that Elia, Rhaenys and Aegon must have fallen sick to some of the illnesses that can be found in Rohan and build up their immune systems against said illnesses.” 

They were all familiar with stories of how long-distance travelers was a good example of spreading diseases, infecting a whole village or town, as they wandered from place to place. 

“By the way…” Suleiman wondered, “I heard that King Robert, for some reason, has brought his father-in-law along in chains like a prisoner. Care to explain that, if you know why?”

The two sisters and brother looked at each other.

“Somehow, Khamûl seems to have found out that Rhaenys is Mara reborn…and that Tywin Lannister was behind the attempted murder of Eia and her young children, on that very day as Théodred first met them. You see, he once wanted his own daughter to marry her first husband…”

“Oh, dear Gods.” 

Suleiman could imagine the scenario looking very much at how Princess Mara had nearly been killed in her first life and how this action, driven by his own ambition as well desire for power though his daughter as the Queen consort instead, would lead to Tywin Lannister becoming a target for the second most powerful Nazgûl's wrath. 

“He is lucky to still be alive, I must say. Given that Khamûl is second only to the Witch-King of Angmar, then he likely intends for this Tywin Lannister to suffer brutally for the crime of trying to harm his precious Mara in her new body.” 

 ~X~X~X~X~X~X 

On the other hand, Lyonel was trying to do something very private that he really did not want his father or siblings to notice: 

“There is nothing wrong with liking both genders, or just one, young prince. Unlike what your dominant religion in Westeros seems to teach, sexuality is not that easily arranged neatly into what is normal and abnormal. Quite a lot of my old customers were only attracted to men aka their own gender, or switching between men and women depending on who they wanted to bed.”

As a former courtesan in a all-male brothel which had been placed in a Mannish town in southern Mordor, Domelvo was not that surprised that Lyonel had come to him with a lot of questions that he seemed unwilling to ask anyone else. While Domelvo had left that lifestyle behind over fourteen years ago after being redeemed by Gingis so they could marry, his experience of life as a worker in the red-light district, allowed him to have a quite a board knowledge about sex and similar things that were related to that side of human nature. 

“Um…Holly has said the same thing when we began to ask her about this last year, so Argella is pretty honest about the fact that she is drawn to Brienne…”

As embarrassed that Lyonel was to reveal this, Domelvo kept a neutral face. 

“That tall, blonde young lady with freckles and your raven-haired twin sister? Yes, even those who are not living up to beauty standards, can still have their admirers and lovers who do not care about how they may look.”

Really, Domelvo thought for himself, this otherworld prince was not so different from the young boys at the brothel, who were trained for the work they would start doing once they had turned fifteen years old. The main difference was that Lyonel was expected to remain faithful to the noble girl he had been betrothed to a few years earlier, because they would be legally married and hopefully have children together as the fruits of the marriage alliance. 

“Are you worried that your future wife will think of you as easily controllable by the use of your cock? That she is raised to think of men as only thinking of sex and not being too bright in the upper head?”

“Um, yes…her paternal grandmother is quite known as the one controlling the family…and she is often using her older age to get away with quite mean things to say by claiming her memory to not be as good as in the past…” 

In fact, that was precisely why Lyonel secretly had some dread about marrying Margarey Tyrell once he had come of age. That the teachings of Olenna Tyrell neé Redwyne to her granddaughter would make her believe that he was simpleminded and could be controlled in bed. 

“Then I will give you some good advice on how you can shock her into realizing that she can't always be the smart one in a marriage. And one of those is to dress modestly yet also acting seductive at the same time.”

Something about the almost triumphant smile actually unnerved Lyonel for some reason. Not that Domelvo planned planned to have sex in front of him, but to show that behavior and style of dressing could be used to almost literally kick the common sense out of the skulls of others. 

“GINGIS!! Get your lazy ass into our cabin and give me a little help here!”

Wolf whispers and friendly teasing were heard, as if everyone believed that Domelvo was calling his husband for a round in the bed.   

 ~X~X~X~X~X~X 

On the other hand, Tywin Lannister could, safely, be said to NOT be in a good mood. Not at all. 

“Damn you, Robert Baratheon! Treating me like some common thief right after witnessing Cersei, my siblings and their families drown, and throwing me into the Black Cells, before I was chained up here below deck!”

As Robert had stripped Tywin and House Lannister of their position as Warden of the Westerlands, it naturally also had led to Tywin not being present at the burial of Cersei before the small Westerosi fleet hastily gathered at King's Landing had moved through the portal to the Heaven of Umbar. 

“Lord Tywin?” 

It was a loyal Lnnister knight, who had managed to sneak down under the excuse of bringing the food ration to Tywin. 

“I have heard that this whole fleet is aiming for a battle somewhere, on land in a more distant place. If we use the expected chaos and King Robert being too busy in fighting, we will manage to free you then!” 

Tywin said nothing as the plate of food and cup of water was set down in front of him, but the news was welcomed. 

“Robert will regret treating me like this.” 

But as the knight tried to sneak back to his compaions in the plan to free Tywin, he found himself knocked out by a smithing hammer from behind. In fact, the other three had been knocked out earlier. 

“By all the Gods of both worlds! Just how stupid does they think our royal sire to actally be? Just because my half-siblings and cousins were not brought to Mordor, does not mean that the former Lord Lannister can walk around freely when he was demanded in exchange for them not being harmed by those wraiths on their flying beasts!” Gendry muttered in disbelief that the knight honestly believed that Robert did not expect a plot to free Tywin Lannister under his nose. 

“Mya? Brienne? Please help me drag this fellow and his companions over to face Father before they awaken and tell him that they planned to free Lannister after we have arrived in Gondor!” 

Really, sometimes Gendry was very grateful for that unless someone did really look close on his face, he looked like any other youth from the Crownlands with some Stormland blood in his veins. It was perfectly normal for children like him to exist, with a Stormland King sitting on the Iron Throne and naturally would attract his fellow Stormlanders to flood to the capital in the hope of finding work in some form. 

“Just because I do not have magic like the others, does not mean that I can be useful in other forms despite my age.”

With the two women arriving to help, Gendry knew that he had done something that would gain praise from pretty much all the Baratheons. 

Chapter Text

12 March, year 3019 of the Third Age:   

The second day of the darkness had come a few hours ago. Thankfully for those who was in Minas Tirith, a small glimmer of hope in the middle of this dark day arrived when a cry was heard:  

“Lord Boromir! It is Lord Boromir!”   

“Tell Lord Faramir that his brother is home!”  

Indeed, it was the current Steward and his escort who finally arrived back to his birth city, and most likely in the nick of time before the armies of Mordor had found him. 

“Brother!” 

The two sons of Denethor hugged each other as soon as Boromir dismounted, allowing themselves a quiet moment of joy over being reunited. But only for so long, they knew that the situation was dire. 

“How is everything going with getting ready for battle, little brother?” 

“The civilians of Minas Tirith have been evacuated, and we have tried to gather food in case of a siege of Minas Tirith from the armies of Mordor while they attack. Not much that we could collect, but it is right now in the middle of winter and spring, the time just before spring begins in earnest and the fields can be sown. If it had been autumn, after the harvest…”

Nodding, Boromir patted the shoulder of his brother to show that he did agree with what Faramir had done so far while ruling Gondor in his stead, especially given how sudden the death of their father had been, less than a month ago. This was a very good example of why they had gotten the same education, in order to be able to help each other in a crisis despite their different personalities. 

“You have done well, little brother, and I am very, very grateful for you defending Gondor and its people for me until my return. Because I know that you would never abandon those who need us in those difficult times.”

Letting their foreheads touch, this was how Boromir thanked his brother without more words to say.  

“Come, my escort and I need to rest after escaping the armies of Mordor, but we also need to make everyone ready for battle.” 

Gandalf and Pippin met the brothers in the Tower Hall, where Boromir smiled in amusement at seeing the Hobbit dressed as a member of the city guards. 

“Boromir. It is good to see you returned and in good health.” 

“At your service, Steward Boromir…ow!” 

Of course, Pippin still proved himself by trying to make a proper greeting and learned the hard way from his slammed-together heels that there was a reason why the Mannish soldiers wore boots. 

“What a tale all this about the Fellowship is going to spread over time, if we win the war. A hobbit as a member of the guards of Minas Tirith, never happening before!” Boromir said to not let Pippin think that he had messed up. Then, at seeing their maternal uncle Imadril coming to meet them as well, Boromir knew that the Prince of Dol Amroth needed a inspiration that was bound to light up his spirit: 

“Great news for you and aunt Sita in the middle of everything, uncle; Lothíriel gave birth to a daughter, Elfhilda, around dawn on March 3th. Right as the battle of Helm's Deep ended in victory for the Rohirrim.” 

“A granddaughter?! My dear little swan princess, a mother!” Imadril repeated in shock over those news, then demanded any more details of what Boromir knew of the newest family member. 

After a much-welcomed simple meal and a few hours of resting, Boromir ordered the soldiers in charge of the catapults to see how far their throw would reach. 

“Alright, Arash, let us see where to put that massive hedge of thorns that you talked about earlier.” 

When they found the test-stone that had fallen at the longest distance from Minas Tirith, Arash formed a circle with the city in the center. Since the armies of Mordor were likely intending to put Minas Tirith under siege, stopping their siege machines from coming too close to do serious damage was important. 

“Boromir….the plains and farms outside Minas Tirith, they risk being set on fire by the enemy as a way to lower our morale,” Faramir pointed out. 

The Steward nodded, trying to think of a solution. 

“The problem is that with this darkness, we all know that it is not rain clouds around….” 

Lucky, Arash recalled something that Dorne had great use of in the past.

“I can try to contact my sisters in the Dornish fleet through a water mirror and ask if they can send over a pourdown to wet the ground across the plains and the houses on the farms. It would be less exhausting with the distance they still have until they get here, and even if the farms would be set on fire, the orcs will have a lot less fun if it is all smoke that they get.”

That was the best idea they had for now, and after planting the seeds of the rose, holly, blackberry and hawthorn bushes that would form the foundation of the hedge, Arash also crafted two moats, one on each side of the growing hedge and quickly filled with water from Anduin, to further making the attack on Minas Tirith more difficult for the armies of Mordor. 

“A single, very narrow opening in the hedge which is higher than the City Wall, two moats that stop the siege machines that they will bring. If this can delay their attacks enough for the united Rohirrim and Dornish army to arrive as well as the fleets led by Sultan Suleiman and my sisters, I think we can avoid too much damage to Minas Tirith and the loss of many soldiers.” 

That was all Arash could do for now, and he needed to preserve his use of earth magic until the battle started, unless he would not be able to help out, but Boromir knew that this new, added defense would make a major difference. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X

In Meduseld, Rhaenys was trying to keep herself busy with painting, just to keep her thoughts away from the war. Yet, she could not really keep her focus, as proved by several half-finished drawings around her. 

“Ealderfeder…everyone…” 

Right now she was painting a drawing of Théoden, so that his face would not be forgotten by his grandchildren as they grew older, but her hands were trembling slightly as a sign of her inner chaos. 

“Curse you, Sauron…curse you, for hearing about the magical power of the Farao of Kemet and desiring to have that as part of your reign of terror and darkness!!”  

Of course words about Khamûl's magical control over sand would be spread across the borders, to realms and rulers far away. With Kemet as one of the most powerful empires of the East during that era thanks to his own father and grandfather rebuilding Kemet by being powerful rulers once taking the throne and skilled war-generals themselves, it would have been impossible to prevent whispers of awe and fear about his powers. Their dynasty was a far cry from the previous one, where the tradition of family inbreeding and sibling marriages like the Targaryens had weakened the last rulers to the point of leaving two, both physically and mentally handicapped children as its last Farao and Queen consort, leaving a opening for a possible civil war that would have harmed Kemet itself if the grandfather of Khamûl had not been acting so quickly. 

“Father…I know that redeeming yourself after all those years and horrible deeds as a Ringwraith is impossible…but what if I just want you to finally stop being a wraith and entering the afterlife?” 

Just him being a wraith like this, felt like a mockery of how belief in the afterlife had been back in Kemet. Like Sauron openly showed how the Ringwraiths were little more than puppets controlled by long strings from his hands, not caring about how they once had been mortal Men with their own personalities, cultural beliefs and differences. 

“Damn it!” 

Feeling her tears build up like burning water as she tried to not cry, Rhaenys hated this feeling of powerlessness. Of how she needed to defend her current family and homeland against the very man who they could track their origins to, through Morgan and her previous self as Mara.

“Ugh…”

But then, something around her could be sensed. A faint trace of magic. An echo of a song that was forgotten in the East sans a single Temple. A song which would only be sung in order to infect everlasting harm and torture on a enemy, to drag them back from the afterlife and denying them the chance to escape the mortal world. And the name which had been connected to the soul in life this one…

Rhaenys opened her eyes wide in shock when hearing it: 

“Rhaegar Targaryen?! ” 

Who knew the name of her birth father here in Middle-earth outside Rohan? Who? Who? Who? AND WHY?! 

For a moment, Rhaenys lost control due to her own resentment of Rhaegar, whose name she so desired to forget and never be mentioned again around her for as long as she lived. Because whatever it was deliberately or not, his actions did remind a lot about Tar-Minyatur and how his very existence had brought ruin to Kemet, all because he was a royal, self-centered, mentally stunted brat who wanted the world to be in awe of himself, despite being below mediocre by royal standards. In appearance they would be quite different, but in character, they were very alike. 

“Do not remind me of each other…both of you! Stop haunting me and my family like unwanted ghosts of the past! ”

With narrowly keeping her magical outburst under control, Rhaenys slashed the illustrations of Rhaegar and Tar-Minyatur into tiny pieces. She did not need any reminder of those two men right now, not with everything on stake. 

In the Temple of Shadows, Visenya had also sensed the presence of Rhaenys for a moment, yet she was not so surprised over how her elder half-sister had reacted to the mention of Rhaegar Targaryen in the song she had just sung. 

“You carry a heavy burden on your shoulders though my Master and what danger he means to you and everyone else in House Martell, sister, and you have every right to hate the man who sired us on different mothers in this life. But do not think too much of him, I am dealing with him for you, Aegon and lady Elia.” 

Restarting her song, Visenya focused once more on torturing the soul of Rhaegar Targaryen that had been wandering aimlessly around like a ghost in the East since his death and which she had caught just yesterday. It was quite enjoyable for Visenya to think of how it must feel for the few remains of his ruined mind to see how his torturer was no one else than the second daughter he had desired, born from Lyanna Stark as he had believed poor Lady Elia to be barren after the difficult birth of Aegon, when Elia in reality had just needed to avoid a third pregnancy with the same time gap of six months between the birth of Rhaenys and the begetting of Aegon. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X

Around afternoon of March 13, the soldiers in Minas Tirith could spot torches and other blazes in the darkness behind the massive hedge Arash had created the previous day.

“So it begins,” Boromir muttered before ordering everyone to be ready for defending the White City, for while the cousin of Elia had tried his best to not have the hedge be easily destroyed by being set on fire, the soldiers of Gondor still needed to fight. 

“Be mindful of anything thrown from the catapults that they may try to get over the hedge! They can still get a lucky stray hit or two even with the hedge adding a wider distance to the City Wall!” 

Preparing their own catapults for defense and the archers ensuring that they had their quivers filled to the rim with arrows where they was standing on the City Wall to defend the Great Gate of Minas Tirith, Faramir as their leader due to him having lead the Rangers of Ithilien and thus was familiar with this long-distance weapon himself, they could see how the orcs and trolls had quite difficult with the hedge. 

“Nice and thick hedge of thorns you got there, Master Arash, not one that is easily climbed over or cut apart!” 

Thanks to the massive thorns, a lot of orcs found themselves impaled despite their armor, as Arash swept his hand so the roots twisted themselves around like a natural spear wall. 

“Climbing on the impaled bodies will not work either, and it is time to remove those!” 

The long, thorny vines slapping away any torches that were thrown at the hedge, instead setting a couple of the siege towers pushed forwards by trolls on fire, forcing the orcs to waste even more time on putting those out. 

“The hedge will not keep them away forever, be ready!” 

True, some of the trolls were now pushing the siege towers towards the single, narrow opening in the hedge, and while it was a trap itself, the men were ready.

“You are soldiers of Gondor, ” Boromir told the men who were nearby, “Whatever that happens now in this battle, you have sworn to give your lives to defend the White City and your homeland from its enemies. Now prove that oath of service true! ” 

And they sent off a massive stone in one catapult, its landing partly ruining the first siege tower which was being pushed through the narrow opening in the hegde with great difficulty. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X

Very early pre-dawn of March 14, a different part of Gondor: 

Even with the portals to save time while traveling the long way to Gondor and to spare the horses so they would not be worn out at the time of battle, there was still the danger of orc scouts spotting the massive army. 

In one part of the temporary camp, a tall figure loomed up and stumbled over Merry where he had tried in vain to take a nap, cursing the tree-roots. He recognized the voice of the Marshal, Elfhelm.

“I am not a tree-root, Sir,” he said and rolled himself out from below his cloak, “nor a bag, but a bruised hobbit. The least you can do in amends is to tell me what is afoot.”

“Anything that can keep so in this devil's mirk,” answered Elfhelm, taking back his helmet that had fallen off him as he stumbled forwards, “But my lord sends word that we must set ourselves in readiness: orders may come for a sudden move.”

“Is the enemy coming then?” asked Merry anxiously, “Are those their drums? I began to think I was imagining them, as no one else seemed to take any notice of them.”

“Nay, nay,” Elfhelm responded with a quick look so he had not dropped something else, “the enemy is on the road not in the hills. You hear the Woses, the Wild Men of the Woods: thus they talk together from afar. They still haunt Druadan Forest, it is said. Remnants of an older time they be, living few and secretly, wild and wary as the beasts. They go not to war with Gondor or the Mark; but now they are troubled by the darkness and the coming of the orcs: they fear lest the Dark Years be returning, as seems likely enough. Let us be thankful that they are not hunting us: for they use poisoned arrows, it is said, and they are woodcrafty beyond compare. But they have offered their services to Lord Théoden.. Even now one of their headmen is being taken to him. Yonder go the lights. So much I have heard but no more. And now I must busy myself with my lord's commands. Pack yourself up, Master Bag!”

He vanished into the shadows. Merry did not like this talk of wild men and poisoned darts, but quite apart from that a great weight of dread was on him. Waiting was unbearable. He longed to know what was going to happen. He got up and soon was walking warily in pursuit of the last lantern before it disappeared among the trees.

Presently he came to an open space where a small tent had been set up for the king under a great tree. A large lantern, covered above, was hanging from a bough and cast a pale circle of light below. There sat Oberyn, Théoden and Éomer, and before them on the ground sat a strange squat shape of a man, gnarled as an old stone, and the hairs of his scanty beard straggled on his lumpy chin like dry moss. He was short-legged and fat-armed, thick and stumpy, and clad only with grass about his waist. Merry felt that he had seen him before somewhere, and suddenly he remembered the Pukel-men of Dunharrow. Here was one of those old images brought to life, or maybe a creature descended in true line through endless years from the models used by the forgotten craftsmen long ago.

There was a silence as Merry crept nearer, and then the Wild Man began to speak, in answer to some question, it seemed. His voice was deep and guttural, yet to Merry's surprise he spoke the Common Speech, though in a halting fashion, and uncouth words were mingled with it.

“No, father of Horse-men,” he said, “we fight not. Hunt only. Kill gorgun in woods, hate orc-folk. You hate gorgun too. We help as we can. Wild Men have long ears and long eyes; know all paths. Wild Men live here before Stone-houses; before Tall Men come up out of Water.”

“But our need is for aid in battle,” said Éomer from his place, “How will you and your folk help us?”

“Bring news,” said the Wild Man, “We look out from hills. We climb big mountain and look down. Stone-city is shut. Fire burns there outside; now inside too. You wish to come there? Then you must be quick. But gorgun and men out of far-away,” he waved a short gnarled arm eastward, “sit on horse-road. Very many, more than Horse-men.”

“How do you know that?” asked Éomer.

The old man's flat face and dark eyes showed nothing, but his voice was sullen with displeasure. 

“Wild men are wild, free, but not children,” he answered, “I am great headman, Ghan-buri-Ghan. I count many things: stars in sky, leaves on trees, men in the dark. You have a score of scores counted ten times and five. They have more. Big fight, and who will win? And many more walk round walls of Stone-houses.”

“Alas! he speaks all too shrewdly,” said Théoden, “And our scouts say that they have cast trenches and stakes across the road. We cannot sweep them away in sudden onset.”

“And yet we need great haste,” Éomer replied, “Mundburg is on fire!”

“Let Ghan-buri-Ghan finish!” requested the Wild Man, “More than one road he knows. He will lead you by road where no pits are, no gorgun walk, only Wild Men and beasts. Many paths were made when Stonehouse-folk were stronger. They carved hills as hunters carve beast-flesh. Wild Men think they ate stone for food. They went through Druadan to Rimmon with great wains. They go no longer. Road is forgotten, but not by Wild Men. Over hill and behind hill it lies still under grass and tree, there behind Rimmon and down to Din, and back at the end to Horse-men's road. Wild Men will show you that road. Then you will kill gorgun and drive away bad dark with bright iron, and Wild Men can go back to sleep in the wild woods.”

Éomer and his uncle spoke together in their own tongue. At length Théoden turned to the Wild Man. 

“We will receive your offer,” he said, “For though we leave a host of foes behind, what matter? If the Stone-city falls, then we shall have no returning. If it is saved, then the orc-host itself will be cut off. If you are faithful, Ghan-buri-Ghan, then we will give you rich reward, and you shall have the friendship of the Mark and the homeland of its current Queen forever.”

“Dead men are not friends to living men, and give them no gifts,” said the Wild Man, “But if you live after the Darkness, then leave Wild Men alone in the woods and do not hunt them like beasts any more. Ghan-buri-Ghan will not lead you into trap. He will go himself with father of Horse-men, and if he leads you wrong, you will kill him.”

'So be it!' said Théoden, and given the history of the Drúedain being mistaken for savages in the past, requesting an end of those hunts and ignorance of them being fellow Men instead of odd-looking beasts, was reasonable to give. 

“How long will it take to pass by the enemy and come back to the road?” asked Éomer when he made a mental count of all the men and horses with them, “We must go at foot-pace, if you guide us; and I doubt not the way is narrow.”

“Wild Men go quick on feet,” said Ghan, “Way is wide for four horses in Stonewain Valley yonder,” he waved his hand southwards, “but narrow at beginning and at end. Wild Man could walk from here to Din between sunrise and noon.”

“Then we must allow at least seven hours for the leaders,” said Éomer after doing a second mental count, “but we must reckon rather on some ten hours for all. Things unforeseen may hinder us, and if our host is all strung out, it will be long ere it can be set in order when we issue from the hills. What is the hour now?”

“Who knows?' said Théoden in a regretful voice with a glare towards the darkness covering the sky and Oberyn himself had very difficult to guess the exact time himself, “All is night now.”

“It is all dark, but it is not all night,” said Ghan, “When Sun comes we feel her, even when she is hidden. Already she climbs over East-mountains. It is the opening of day in the sky-fields.”

“Then we must set out as soon as may be,” Éomer suggested, “Even so we cannot hope to come to Gondor's aid today.”

Merry waited to hear no more, but slipped away to get ready for the summons to the march. This was the last stage before the battle. It did not seem likely to him that many of them would survive it. But he thought of Pippin and the flames in Minas Tirith and thrust down his own dread.

All went well that day, and no sight or sound had they of the enemy waiting to waylay them. The Wild Men had put out a screen of wary hunters, so that no orc or roving spy should learn of the movements in the hills. The light was more dim than ever as they drew nearer to the beleaguered city, and the Riders passed in long files like dark shadows of men and horses. Each company was guided by a wild woodman; but old Ghan walked beside the king. The start had been slower than was hoped, for it had taken time for the Riders, walking and leading their horses, to find paths over the thickly wooded ridges behind their camp and down into the hidden Stonewain Valley. It was late in the afternoon when the leaders came to wide grey thickets stretching beyond the eastward side of Amon Dîn, and masking a great gap in the line of hills that from Nardol to Din ran east and west. Through the gap the forgotten wain-road long ago had run down, back into the main horse-way from the City through Anorien; but now for many lives of men trees had had their way with it, and it had vanished, broken and buried under the leaves of uncounted years. But the thickets offered to the Riders their last hope of cover before they went into open battle; for beyond them lay the road and the plains of Anduin, while east and southwards the slopes were bare and rocky, as the writhen hills gathered themselves together and climbed up, bastion upon bastion, into the great mass and shoulders of Mindolluin.

The leading company was halted, and as those behind filed up out of the trough of the Stonewain Valley they spread out and passed to camping-places under the grey trees. Théoden summoned the captains to council. Éomer sent out scouts to spy upon the road; but old Ghan shook his head.

“No good to send Horse-men,” he said, “Wild Men have already seen all that can be seen in the bad air. They will come soon and speak to me here.”

The captains came; and then out of the trees crept warily other pukel-shapes so like old Ghan that Merry could hardly tell them apart. They spoke to Ghan in a strange throaty language.

Presently Ghan turned to Théoden.

“Wild Men say many things,” he said, “'First, be wary! Still many men in camp beyond Din, an hour's walk yonder,” he waved his arm west towards the black beacon. 

“But none to see between here and Stone-folk's new walls. Many busy there. Walls injured but still stand up: gorgun knock them down with earth-thunder and with clubs of black iron. They are unwary and do not look about them. They think their friends watch all roads!” 

At that old Ghan made a curious gurgling noise, and it seemed that he was laughing.

“Good tidings!” cried Éomer with some hope in his voice, “Even in this gloom hope gleams again. Our Enemy's devices oft serve us in his despite. The accursed darkness itself has been a cloak to us. And now, lusting to destroy Gondor and throw it down stone from stone, his orcs have taken away my greatest fear. The out-wall could have been held long against us. Now we can sweep through the plains if once we win so far.”

“Once again I thank you, Ghan-buri-Ghan of the woods,” Théoden thanked with true, honest gratitude, “Good fortune go with you for tidings and for guidance!”

“Kill gorgun! Kill orc-folk! No other words please Wild Men,” answered Ghan. 'Drive away bad air and darkness with bright iron!”

“To do these things we have ridden far,” said Théoden, 'and we shall attempt them. But what we shall achieve only tomorrow will show.”

Ghan-buri-Ghan squatted down and touched the earth with his horny brow in token of farewell. Then he got up as if to depart. But suddenly he stood looking up like some startled woodland animal snuffling a strange air. A light came in his eyes.

“Wind is changing!” he cried, and with that, in a twinkling as it seemed, he and his fellows had vanished into the glooms, never to be seen by any Rider of Rohan again. Not long after far away eastward the faint drums throbbed again. Yet to no heart in all the host came any fear that the Wild Men were unfaithful, strange and unlovely though they might appear. This much-needed help would not be forgotten or thought of as ill-intended in the future. 

“We need no further guidance,” said Elfhelm, “for there are riders in the host who have ridden down to Mundburg in days of peace. I for one. When we come to the road it will veer south, and there will lie before us still seven leagues ere we reach the wall of the townlands. Along most of that way there is much grass on either side of the road. On that stretch the errand-riders of Gondor reckoned to make their greatest speed. We may ride it swiftly and without great rumour.”

“Then since we must look for fell deeds and the need of all our strength,” Éomer suggested, 'I counsel that we rest now, and set out hence by night, and so time our going that we come upon the fields when tomorrow is as light as it will be, or when our lord gives the signal.”

To this his uncle assented, and the captains departed. But soon Elfhelm returned.

“'The scouts have found naught to report beyond the grey wood, lord,” he said, “save two men only: two dead men and two dead horses.”

“Well?” wondered Éomer with some badly hidden alarm that Boromir could be one of the dead men, “What of it?”

“This, lord: they were errand-riders of Gondor; Hirgon was one maybe. At least his hand still clasped the Red Arrow, but his head was hewn off. And this also: it would seem by the signs that they were fleeing westward when they fell. As I read it, they found the enemy already on the out-wall, or assailing it, when they returned and that would be two nights ago, if they used fresh horses from the posts, as is their wont. They could not reach the City and turned back.”

There was an unspoken relief between them that it wasn't Boromir who had fallen, but they still felt that this was probably done to prevent Minas Tirith from knowing that they had answered the call for help and were on their way. 

“Alas!” muttered Théoden, “Then Faramir has heard no news of our riding and while Boromir hopefully arrived back to his city before the armies of Mordor, he can not bring those news with him either!”

“Need brooks no delay, yet late is better than never,” said Éomer, “And mayhap in this time shall the old saw be proved truer than ever before since men spoke with mouth.”

Upon hearing the agreement that they would soon be ready for battle, Oberyn turned to Nymeria who was standing next to him. 

“Tell our men to assemble the carriages with the rotatable scorpions that we took apart in pieces to easier keep up with the riders. The Ringwraiths may not ride on dragons, but those anti-dragon weapons crafted by the Rhoynar should still work on their fey beasts as well those Oliphaunts that are said to be similar to elephants in Essos. If they are used just as elephants in war, then those scorpion bolts can be a way of killing them.” 

“Right away, padre!”

~X~X~X~X~X~X   

It was night. On either side of the road the host of Rohan was moving silently. Now the road passing about the skirts of Mindolluin turned southward. Far away and almost straight ahead there was a red glow under the black sky and the sides of the great mountain loomed dark against it. They were drawing near the Rammas of the Pelennor; but the day was not yet come.

Théoden rode in the midst of the leading company, his household-men about him. Elfhelm's eored came next; and now Merry noticed that Dernhelm had left his place and in the darkness was moving steadily forward, until at last he was riding just in rear of the king's guard. There came a check. Merry heard voices in front speaking softly. Out-riders had come back who had ventured forward almost to the wall. They came to Théoden.

“There are great fires, lord,” said one,” The City is all set about with flame, and the field is full of foes. But all seem drawn off to the assault. As well as we could guess, there are few left upon the out-wall, and they are heedless, busy in destruction.”

“Do you remember the Wild Man's words, lord?” asked another, “I live upon the open Wold in days of peace; Widfara is my name, and to me also the air brings messages. Already the wind is turning. There comes a breath out of the South; there is a sea-tang in it, faint though it be. The morning will bring new things. Above the reek it will be dawn when you pass the wall.”

“If you speak truly, Widfara, then may you live beyond this day in years of blessedness!” said Théoden. He turned to the men of his household who were near, and he spoke now in a clear voice so that many also of the riders of the first eored heard him:

“Now is the hour come, Riders of the Mark, sons of Eorl the Young! Foes and fire are before you, and your homes far behind. Yet, though you fight upon an alien field, the glory that you reap there shall be your own forever. Oaths ye have taken: now fulfill them all, to lord and land and league of friendship!”

Men clashed spear upon shield.

“Éomer, my sister-son! You lead the first eored,” said Théoden, 'and it shall go behind the king's banner in the centre. Elfhelm, lead your company to the right when we pass the wall. And Grimbold shall lead his towards the left. Let the other companies behind follow these three that lead, as they have chance. Strike wherever the enemy gathers. Other plans we cannot make, for we know not yet how things stand upon the field. Forth now, and fear no darkness!”

The leading company rode off as swiftly as they could, for it was still deep dark, whatever change Widfara might forebode. Merry was riding behind Dernhelm, clutching with the left hand while with the other he tried to loosen his sword in its sheath. He felt now bitterly the truth of the old king's words: 

“In such a battle what would you do Meriadoc? Just this,” he thought; “ encumber a rider, and hope at best to stay in my seat and not be pounded to death by galloping hoofs! ”

It was no more than a league to where the out-walls had stood. They soon reached them; too soon for Merry. Wild cries broke out, and there was some clash of arms, but it was brief. The orcs busy about the walls were few and amazed, and they were quickly slain or driven off. Before the ruin of the north-gate in the Rammas Théoden halted again. The first eored drew up behind him and about him on either side. Dernhelm kept close to Théoden, though Elfhelm's company was away on the right. Grimbold's men turned aside and passed round to a great gap in the wall further eastward.

Merry peered from behind Dernhelm's back. Far away, maybe ten miles or more, there was a great burning, but between it and the Riders lines of fire blazed in a vast crescent, at the nearest point less than a league distant. He could make out little more on the dark plain, and as yet he neither saw any hope of morning, nor felt any wind, changed or unchanged.

Now silently the host of Rohan moved forward into the field of Gondor, pouring in slowly but steadily, like the rising tide through breaches in a dike that men have thought secure. But the mind and will of the Black Captain were bent wholly on the falling city, and as yet no tidings came to him warning that his designs held any flaw.

After a while Théoden led his men away somewhat eastward, to come between the fires of the siege and the outer fields. Still they were unchallenged, and still Théoden gave no signal. At last he halted once again. The City was now nearer. A smell of burning was in the air and a very shadow of death. The horses were uneasy. But the king sat upon Snowmane, motionless, gazing upon the agony of Minas Tirith, as if stricken suddenly by anguish, or by dread. He seemed to shrink down, cowed by age. Merry himself felt as if a great weight of horror and doubt had settled on him. His heart beat slowly. Time seemed poised in uncertainty. They were too late! Too late was worse than never! Perhaps Théoden would quail, bow his old head, turn, slink away to hide in the hills.

Then suddenly Merry felt it at last, beyond doubt: a change. Wind was in his face! Light was glimmering. Far, far away, in the South the clouds could be dimly seen as remote grey shapes, rolling up, drifting: morning lay beyond them.

But at that same moment there was a flash, as if lightning had sprung from the earth beneath the City. For a searing second it stood dazzling far off in black and white, its topmost tower like a glittering needle: and then as the darkness closed again there came rolling over the fields a great boom.

At that sound the bent shape of Théoden sprang suddenly erect. Tall and proud he seemed again like in his youth; and rising in his stirrups he cried in a loud voice, more clear than any there had ever heard a mortal man achieve before:

Arise, arise, Riders of Théoden!

Fell deeds awake: fire and slaughter!

spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered,

a sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises!

Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!

With that he seized a great horn from Guthlaf his banner-bearer, and he blew such a blast upon it that it burst asunder. And straightway all the horns in the host were lifted up in music, and the blowing of the horns of Rohan in that hour was like a storm upon the plain and a thunder in the mountains.

Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!

Suddenly Théoden cried to Snowmane and the horse sprang away. Behind him his banner blew in the wind, white horse upon a field of green, but he outpaced it. After him thundered the knights of his house, but he was ever before them. Éomer rode there, the white horsetail on his helm floating in his speed, and the front of the first eored roared like a breaker foaming to the shore, but Théoden could not be overtaken. Fey he seemed, or the battle-fury of his fathers ran like new tire in his veins, and he was borne up on Snowmane like a god of old, even as Oromë the Great in the battle of the Valar when the world was young. His golden shield was uncovered, and lo! it shone like an image of the Sun, and the grass flamed into green about the white feet of his steed. 

“For the sun princess! FOR QUEEN ELIA OF ROHAN!!” Oberyn called with the responding battle cry carrying the name of his sister behind him, and the Dornish riders and carriage-drivers split up in two parts, the riders following the Rohirrim, while the carriages with more achers in the back blocked a escape path for any enemies.

For morning came, morning and a wind from the sea; and the darkness was removed, and the hosts of Mordor wailed, and terror took them, and they fled, and died, and the hoofs of wrath rode over them. And then all the host of Rohan burst into song, and they sang as they slew, for the joy of battle was on them, and the sound of their singing that was fair and terrible came even to the City.

Chapter Text

Thanks to the massive hedge that Arash had built, the intended attack on Minas Tirith by the armies of Mordor had lost valuable time by first failing to overcome said hedge, and then having to try to squeeze their siege towers and their own catapults through the very narrow opening. Not even the strength of the trolls had been much helpful there, at first. 

“Get ready with the catapults once again!” 

Of course, the defenders of the White City knew that it was too early to celebrate a possible victory, and again tried to stop the enemy coming anywhere closer to the City Wall. In fact, Faramir and his achers aimed for the trolls that pushed the siege towers closer, realizing that if those were lost, the orcs would not have the same physical strength for this task. 

“Kill the trolls! KILL THE TROLLS!! ” 

Over the battles that went far into the night, Boromir could feel that his wounds from Amon Ereb were about to reopen from all his movements. 

“Boromir!” Pippin called in alarm at seeing him needing to pull back while the men kept fighting. 

“Damn those Uruk-hai of Saruman…”Boromir muttered, realizing that he needed to be more careful unless the wounds really would reopen in a less than ideal moment during a close-up battle against the orcs, “Pippin, you have a new task to do! Get to the Eastern storehouse and bring us as many fireworks as you can find! We need to set the  siege machines on fire to keep the orcs from trying to come over the wall and normal arrows dipped in oil before being set on fire will take too long time!”

At hearing what Boromir said, and the slightly confused face of Pippin, Gandalf hurried to add: 

“Trade with Erebor for publice festivals. You thought that my fireworks on the shared 111th birthday for Bilbo and 33th birthday for Frodo seventeen years ago was a special order for them only? Now hurry and do as the Steward is commanding you as a soldier of Gondor!” 

Getting into action, Pippin hurried off while Boromir used the time to give new orders.  

“The Nine! The Nine is coming!” 

The characteristic screams of the Nazgûl were heard as their fell beasts swooped down from above the city, grabbing men in their claws from the walls and then sending those to death from above. 

“Faramir!!” 

Seeing Pippin arrive with his arms filled with fireworks right as one of the fell beasts was coming towards him, Faramir acted quickly, grabbing one firework and throwing it into a fire caused by a successful shot on Minas Tirith by the enemy catapults. 

“Run! Run, run, run!” 

BOOOM!! ” 

The resulting explosion made the fell beast fly away in pain from how close it had been to the original fire, struggling to fly well with burns on the leathery wings, and its rider got his black cloak set on fire as well. 

“In battles like this, thinking out of the normal way and unusual plans a little more is a way to victory!” Faramir explained as he and Pippin arrived back at the City Wall to use the remaining fireworks on the siege towers. 

The defenders soon felt the effects of fighting for so many and long hours, including those who sadly fell in battle against the enemy. But there was a sound of a war horn echoing from a distance, followed by a chance in the wind. 

“The Rohirrim…” 

“The Riders of Rohan!” 

Whispers of hope began to be heard among the soldiers, and Boromir smiled in triumph at the horn being blown again. 

“I told you all that they would come as soon as possible. Now, let us greet our allies…by helping them get a victory against Mordor here outside our city!! FOR GONDOR!! ” 

As if the war horns were giving them all new strength, the soldiers joined up behind the Steward and his brother as they led the new attack together to defend the Gate, side by side. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X    

Down along the Anduin: 

The united fleets from Rhûn and Dorne were coming closer and closer to Gondor, so now all the soldiers had gotten orders to get ready for battle. Well, those who were alive, that was. 

“WAKE UP, ALL OFF YOU!! ” 

The very loud voice of Argella did indeed wake up those who had still been asleep for some reason.

“Well equipped with proper lungs and voice, that lass. If she was a royal Princess among the Dwarves, no one would dare to disobey that command,” Gimli said to Legolas where they watched the mortals getting a very loud awakening. It had been quite a surprise to find that the southern fleet was not from the Corsairs of Umbar, but rather both the homeland of Elia Martell and an unexpected ally for the Free Peoples of Middle-earth.  

“It is quite worrying that they have brought such young children along, though…war is not something for them to witness,” Legolas admitted, pointing at where Rhea and Aemon were standing together with their fathers, Shireen and Elinor not too far away. 

“If those fathers are familiar with war by being seasoned warriors as they say, they will have ensured protection for the wee ones.” 

In fact, this was exactly what Stannis was telling Holly and her siblings: 

“Make sure that our children are safe during this battle, or you will regret it.” 

“Welcome to how we felt when cousin Elia and her children were hostages to Aerys during that damn sacking ordered by Tywin Lannister,” Lemore responded in a manner that made the ghostly form of Lewyn behind her smile in pride. Stannis gritted his teeth, both he and Robert getting the unspoken hint that if it had not been for her second and current husband arriving in time to save the small family, the fate of the Martell princess would have been death. 

“How much longer?” Suleiman asked, appearing in full armor, somehow not too bothered by all the dead souls around. 

“Not far now,” Aragorn confirmed as he saw old landmarks from his younger years as Argella once again used her fans to guide the ships with a faster wind. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X    

But it was no orc-chieftain or brigand that led the assault upon Gondor. The darkness was breaking too soon, before the date that his Master had set for it: fortune had betrayed him for the moment, and the world had turned against him; victory was slipping from his grasp even as he stretched out his hand to seize it. But his arm was long. He was still in command, wielding great powers. King, Ringwraith, Lord of the Nazgûl, he had many weapons. He left the Gate and vanished.

Théoden had reached the road from the Gate to the River, and he turned towards the City that was now less than a mile distant. He slackened his speed a little, seeking new foes, and his knights came about him, and Dernhelm was with them. Ahead nearer the walls Elfhelm's men were among the siege-engines, hewing, slaying, driving their foes into the fire-pits. Well nigh all the northern half of the Pelennor was overrun, and there camps were blazing, orcs were flying towards the River like herds before the hunters; and the Rohirrim went hither and thither at their will. But they had not yet overthrown the siege, nor won the Gate. Many foes stood before it, and on the further half of the plain were other hosts still unfought yet now challenged by the Dornishmen. Southward beyond the road lay the main force of the Haradrim, and there their horsemen were gathered about the standard of their chieftain. And he looked out, and in the growing light he saw the banner of the king, and that it was far ahead of the battle with few men about it. Then he was filled with a red wrath and shouted aloud, and displaying his standard, black serpent upon scarlet, he came against the white horse and the green with great press of men; and the drawing of the scimitars of the Southrons was like a glitter of stars.

Then Théoden was aware of him, and would not wait for his onset, but crying to Snowmane he charged headlong to greet him. Great was the clash of their meeting. But the white fury of the Northmen burned the hotter, and more skilled was their knighthood with long spears and bitter. Fewer were they but they clove through the Southrons like a fire-bolt in a forest. Right through the press drove Théoden Thengel's son, and his spear was shivered as he threw down their chieftain. Out swept his sword, and he spurred to the standard, hewed staff and bearer; and the black serpent foundered. Then all that was left unslain of their cavalry turned and fled far away.

But lo! suddenly in the midst of the glory of the old king his golden shield was dimmed. The new morning was blotted from the sky. Dark fell about him. Horses reared and screamed. Men cast from the saddle lay grovelling on the ground.

“To me! To me! ” cried Théoden loudly in an attempt to encourage those near, “Up Eorlingas! Fear no darkness! ” 

But Snowmane wild with terror stood up on high, a sudden movement which caused Théoden to feel the now far too familiar pain from the arthritis in his left knee acting up as Snowmane was fighting with the air and then himself trying to not fall out of the saddle, and then with a great scream Snowmane crashed upon his side: a black dart had pierced him. Théoden fell beneath his faithful steed.

“Fedra! ” 

The great shadow descended like a falling cloud. And behold! it was a winged creature: if bird, then greater than all other birds, and it was naked, and neither quill nor feather did it bear, and its vast pinions were as webs of hide between horned fingers; and it stank. A creature of an older world maybe it was, whose kind, fingering in forgotten mountains cold beneath the Moon, outstayed their day, and in hideous eyrie bred this last untimely brood, apt to evil. And the Dark Lord took it, and nursed it with fell meats, until it grew beyond the measure of all other things that fly; and he gave it to his servant to be his steed. Down, down it came, and then, folding its fingered webs, it gave a croaking cry, and settled upon the body of Snowmane, digging in its claws, stooping its long naked neck.

Upon it sat a shape, black-mantled, huge and threatening. A crown of steel he bore, but between rim and robe naught was there to see, save only a deadly gleam of eyes: the Lord of the Nazgûl. To the air he had returned, summoning his steed ere the darkness failed, and now he was come again, bringing ruin, turning hope to despair, and victory to death. A great black mace he wielded.

But Théoden was not utterly forsaken. The knights of his house lay slain about him, or else mastered by the madness of their steeds were borne far away. Yet one stood there still: Dernhelm the young, faithful beyond fear; and he wept, for he had loved his lord as a father. Right through the charge Merry had been borne unharmed behind him, until the Shadow came; and then Windfola had thrown them in his terror, and now ran wild upon the plain. Merry crawled on all fours like a dazed beast, and such a horror was on him that he was blind and sick.

“King's man! King's man! ” his heart cried within him, “You must stay by him. As a father you shall be to me, you said. ”

But his will made no answer, and his body shook. He dared not open his eyes or look up. Then out of the blackness in his mind he thought that he heard Dernhelm speaking; yet now the voice seemed strange, recalling some other voice that he had known.

“Begone, foul dwimmerlaik, lord of carrion! Leave the dead in peace!”

A cold voice answered: 

“Come not between the Nazgûl 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 thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye.”

A sword rang as it was drawn. 

“Do what you will; but I will hinder it, if I may.”

“Hinder me? Thou fool. No living man may hinder me!”

Then Merry heard of all sounds in that hour the strangest. It seemed that Dernhelm laughed, and the clear voice was like the ring of steel. 

“But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund's daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him. ”

The winged creature screamed at her, but the Ringwraith made no answer, and was silent, as if in sudden doubt. Very amazement for a moment conquered Merry's fear. He opened his eyes and the blackness was lifted from them. There some paces from him sat the great beast, and all seemed dark about it, and above it loomed the Nazgûl Lord like a shadow of despair. A little to the left facing them stood she whom he had called Dernhelm. But the helm of her secrecy, had fallen from her, and her bright hair, released from its bonds, gleamed with pale gold upon her shoulders. Her eyes grey as the sea were hard and fell, and yet tears were on her cheek. A sword was in her hand, and she raised her shield against the horror of her enemy's eyes.

Éowyn it was, and Dernhelm also. For into Merry's mind flashed the memory of the face that he saw at the riding from Dunharrow: the face of one that aims for defending kin, even when facing death. Pity filled his heart and great wonder, and suddenly the slow-kindled courage of his race awoke. He clenched his hand. She should not die, so fair, so desperate. At least she should not die alone, unaided.

The face of their enemy was not turned towards him, but still he hardly dared to move, dreading lest the deadly eyes should fall on him. Slowly, slowly he began to crawl aside; but the Black Captain, in doubt and malice intent upon the woman before him, heeded him no more than a worm in the mud.

Suddenly the great beast beat its hideous wings, and the wind of them was foul. Again it leaped into the air, and then swiftly fell down upon Éowyn, shrieking, striking with beak and claw.

Still she did not blench: maiden of the Rohirrim, child of kings, slender but as a steel-blade, fair but terrible. A swift stroke she dealt, skilled and deadly. The outstretched neck she clove asunder, and the hewn head fell like a stone. Backward she sprang as the huge shape crashed to ruin, vast wings outspread, crumpled on the earth; and with its fall the shadow passed away. A light fell about her, and her hair shone in the sunrise.

Out of the wreck rose the Black Rider, tall and threatening, towering above her. With a cry of hatred that stung the very ears like venom he let fall his mace. Her shield was shivered in many pieces, and her arm was broken; she stumbled to her knees. He bent over her like a cloud, and his eyes glittered; he raised his mace to kill.

But suddenly he too stumbled forward with a cry of bitter pain, and his stroke went wide, driving into the ground. Merry's sword had stabbed him from behind, shearing through the black mantle, and passing up beneath the hauberk had pierced the sinew behind his mighty knee.

“Éowyn! Éowyn!” cried Merry. Then tottering, struggling up, with her last strength she drove her sword between crown and mantle, as the great shoulders bowed before her. The sword broke sparkling into many shards. The crown rolled away with a clang. eowyn fell forward upon her fallen foe. But lo! the mantle and hauberk were empty. Shapeless they lay now on the ground, torn and tumbled; and a cry went up into the shuddering air, and faded to a shrill wailing, passing with the wind, a voice bodiless and thin that died, and was swallowed up, and was never heard again in that age of this world.

And there stood Meriadoc the hobbit in the midst of the slain, blinking like an owl in the daylight, for tears blinded him; and through a mist he looked on Éowyn's fair head, as she lay and did not move; and he looked on the face of the Théoden, fallen in the midst of his glory, for Snowmane in his agony had rolled away from him again; yet he was the bane of his master.

Then Merry stooped and lifted his hand to kiss it, and lo! Théoden opened his eyes, and they were clear, and he spoke in a quiet voice though laboured.

“Farewell, Master Holbytla!” he said, “My body is broken. I go to my fathers. And even in their mighty company I shall not now be ashamed. I felled the black serpent. A grim morn, and a glad day, and a golden sunset!”

Merry could not speak, but wept anew.   

“Forgive me, lord,” he said at last, “if I broke your command, and yet have done no more in your service than to weep at our parting.”

The old king smiled. 

“Grieve not! It is forgiven. Great heart will not be denied. Live now in blessedness; and when you sit in peace with your pipe, think of me! For never now shall I sit with you in Meduseld, as I promised, or listen to your herb-lore.” 

He closed his eyes, and Merry bowed beside him. Presently he spoke again. 

'Where is Éomer? For my eyes darken, and I would see him ere I go. He must return home, safe and sound, to his dear Lothirel and little Elfhilda. And I would send word to Éowyn. She, my mother and sister…they would not have me leave her, losing another father, and now I shall not see her again, dearer than daughter. My son…Elia, the children, my mother and sister…they must know that I am regretting leaving them all behind like this, for I wanted to see their faces once again.” 

“Lord, lord,” began Merry brokenly, “she, Éowyn is-” 

But at that moment there was a great clamour, and all about them horns and trumpets were blowing. Merry looked round: he had forgotten the war, and all the world beside, and many hours it seemed since the king rode to his fall, though in truth it was only a little while. But now he saw that they were in danger of being caught in the very midst of the great battle that would soon be joined.

~X~X~X~X~X~X  

New forces of the enemy were hastening up the road from the River; and from under the walls came the legions of Morgul; and from the southward fields came footmen of Harad with horsemen before them, and behind them rose the huge backs of the mumakil with war-towers upon them as the Dornish soldiers fought under Oberyn and his daughters, the war chariots aiming for the mumakil with the same huge crossbows that Rhoynar once had used to defend themselves against the dragons of Old Valyria. But northward the white crest of eomer led the great front of the Rohirrim which he had again gathered and marshalled; and out of the City came all the strength of men that was in it, and the silver swan of Dol Amroth was borne in the van, driving the enemy from the Gate.

For a moment the thought flitted through Merry's mind: 

“Where is Gandalf? Is he not here? Could he not have saved Théoden and Éowyn?”

But thereupon Éomer rode up in haste, and with him came the knights of the household that still lived and had now mastered their horses. They looked in wonder at the carcase of the fell beast that lay there: and their steeds would not go near. But Éomer leaped from the saddle, and grief and dismay fell upon him as he came to his uncle's side and stood there in silence.

Then one of the knights took the former king's banner from the hand of Guthlaf the banner-bearer who lay dead, and he lifted it up. Slowly Théoden opened his eyes. Seeing the banner he made a sign that it should be given to Éomer.

“Hail, sister-son, Third Marshal of the Riddermark!” he said weakly, “Ride now to victory for my son! Bid Éowyn my farewell and my regrets to my mother, for her losing another child and my sister, her remaining sibling!' 

And so he died, and knew not that Éowyn lay near him. And those who stood by wept, crying: 

“Théoden King! Théoden King!”

~X~X~X~X~X~X   

And in that very moment, the Golden Hall:

Morwen knew at once the meaning when an old wall hanging of herself, the late Thengel and their five children suddenly fell off from where it had hung. What it meant by only the faces of herself and Lawyn, her firstborn was still visible where the wall hanging had fallen in a pile.  

“No….Théoden…”

A howl of raw grief was heard as she collapsed in tears, crying over that once again, she had lost a close, younger family member when her old age should have made her the next one to go to the afterlife. 

“Théoden! Théoden, my son! My sweet little boy! Théoden! ” 

“Modur!” 

Even as she came rushing alongside a few maids to ensure that her mother was unharmed, Laywyn was openly crying, having heard the cries of her mother. And similar wails in sorrow were heard across the Golden Hall as the younger generation also realized what had happened. 

“Feder…feder!” Théodred whispered as he hugged Elia, herself also crying over losing her father-in-law. Despite that they had not been able to stop the death of Théoden, they knew that he had ridden out in battle to protect them and that he had joined his forefathers in a way that truly proved him as a worthy King of Rohan. 

Chapter Text

The passing of his uncle was painful, and Éomer wanted to grieve, but the fighting was still ongoing. So with a strained voice, Éomer said to them:

Mourn not overmuch! Mighty was the fallen,

meet was his ending. When his mound is raised,    

women then shall weep. War now calls us!

Yet he himself wept bitterly as he spoke.  

“Let his knights remain here,” he said, “and bear his body in honour from the field, lest the battle ride over it! Yea, and all these other of the king's men that lie here.” 

And he looked at the slain, recalling their names. Then suddenly he beheld his sister Éowyn as she lay, and he knew her. He stood a moment as a man who is pierced in the midst of a cry by an arrow through the heart; and then his face went deathly white; and a cold fury rose in him, so that all speech failed him for a while. A fey mood took him.

“Éowyn, Éowyn!” he cried at last, “ Éowyn, how come you here? What madness or devilry is this? Death, death, death! Death take us all!”

Then without taking counsel or waiting for the approach of the men of the City, he spurred headlong back to the front of the great host, and blew a horn, and cried aloud for the onset. Over the field rang his clear voice calling: 

“Death! Ride, ride to ruin and the world's ending!”

And with that the host began to move. But the Rohirrim sang no more. Death they cried with one voice loud and terrible, and gathering speed like a great tide their battle swept about their fallen king and passed, roaring away southwards.

And still Meriadoc the hobbit stood there blinking through his tears and no one spoke to him, indeed none seemed to heed him. He brushed away the tears, and stooped to pick up the green shield that Éowyn had given him; and he slung it at his back. Then he looked for his sword that he had let fall; for even as he struck his blow his arm was numbed, and now he could only use his left hand. And behold! there lay his weapon, but the blade was smoking like a dry branch that has been thrust in a fire; and as he watched it, it writhed and withered and was consumed.

So passed the sword of the Barrow-downs, work of Westernesse. But glad would he have been to know its fate who wrought it slowly long ago in the North-kingdom when the Dunedain were young, and chief among their foes was the dread realm of Angmar and its sorcerer king. No other blade, not though mightier hands had wielded it, would have dealt that foe a wound so bitter, cleaving the undead flesh, breaking the spell that knit his unseen sinews to his will.

Men now raised the former King of Rohan, and laying cloaks upon spear-truncheons they made shift to bear him away towards the City; and others lifted Éowyn gently up and bore her after him. But the men of king Théodred's household, those who had protected his father, they could not yet bring from the field; for seven of the king's knights had fallen there, and Deorwine their chief was among them. So they laid them apart from their foes and the fell beast and set spears about them. And afterwards when all was over men returned and made a fire there and burned the carcase of the beast; but for Snowmane they dug a grave and set up a stone upon which was carved in the tongues of Gondor and the Mark:

Faithful servant yet master's bane

Lightfoot's foal, swift Snowmane.

Green and long grew the grass on Snowmane's Howe, but ever black and bare was the ground where the beast was burned.

Now slowly and sadly Merry walked beside the bearers, and he gave no more heed to the battle. He was weary and full of pain, and his limbs trembled as with a chill. A great rain came out of the Sea, and it seemed that all things wept for Théoden and Éowyn, quenching the fires in the City with grey tears. It was through a mist that presently he saw the van of the men of Gondor approaching. Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, rode up and drew rein before them.

“What burden do you bear, Men of Rohan?” he cried.

“Théoden King,” they answered, “He is dead. But Marshal Éomer now rides in the battle: he with the white crest in the wind.”

Then the prince went from his horse, and knelt by the bier in honour of the old king and his great onset; and he wept. And rising he looked then on Éowyn and was amazed. 

“Surely, here is a woman?” he asked in alarm, “Have even the women of the Rohirrim come to war in our need despite Queen Elia trying to protect the female half of her people?”

“Nay! One only,” they answered, “The Lady Éowyn is she, sister of Éomer; and we knew naught of her riding until this hour, and greatly we rue it.”

“Faramir's lady of the heart, and the sister-in-law of his own daughter!“ Imrahil realized painfully, fearing how his younger sister-son would react at learning that Éowyn had been lost in battle. Then the prince seeing her beauty, though her face was pale and cold, touched her hand as he bent to look more closely on her. 

“Men of Rohan!” he cried, “Are there no leeches among you? She is hurt to the death maybe, but I deem that she yet lives.” 

And he held the bright-burnished vambrace that was upon his arm before her cold tips, and behold! a little mist was laid on it, hardly to be seen.

“Haste now is needed,” he said, and he sent one soldier riding back swiftly to the City to bring aid. But he, bowing low to the fallen, bade them farewell, and mounting rode away into battle.

~X~X~X~X~X~X   

And now the fighting waxed furious on the fields of the Pelennor; and the din of arms rose upon high, with the crying of men and the neighing of horses. Horns were blown and trumpets were braying, and the mûmakil were bellowing as they were goaded to war. Under the south walls of the City the footmen of Gondor now drove against the legions of Morgul that were still gathered there in strength. But the horsemen rode eastward to the succour of Éomer: Hurin the Tall Warden of the Keys, and the Lord of Lossarnach, and Hirluin of the Green Hills, and Prince Imrahil the fair with his knights all about him.

Not too soon came their aid to the Rohirrim; for fortune had turned against Éomer, and his fury had betrayed him. The great wrath of his onset had utterly overthrown the front of his enemies, and great wedges of his Riders had passed clear through the ranks of the Southrons, discomfiting their horsemen and riding their footmen to ruin. But wherever the mûmakil came there the horses would not go, but blenched and swerved away; and the great monsters were unfought, and stood like towers of defence, and the Haradrim rallied about them. And if the Rohirrim at their onset were thrice outnumbered by the Haradrim alone, soon their case became worse; for new strength came now streaming to the field out of Osgiliath. There they had been mustered for the sack of the City and the rape of Gondor, waiting on the call of their Captain. He now was destroyed; but Gothmog the lieutenant of Morgul had flung them into the fray; Easterlings with axes, and Variags of Khand. Southrons in scarlet, and out of Far Harad black men like half-trolls with white eyes and red tongues. Some now hastened up behind the Rohirrim, others held westward to hold off the forces of Gondor and prevent their joining with Rohan.

“Curse all the hells of both worlds! Did the South bring so many men that Suleiman was left with only the undesirable ones left?!” Oberyn muttered, driving his own war chariot around, mindful of the great speed and sharp turns that could pose a danger to the drivers as well. 

“Padre! Padre!” Tyene called from somewhere in the chaos, “Look towards the river!” 

“I can not take away my focus right now, sweet belladonna!” 

It was even as the day thus began to turn against Gondor and their hope wavered that a new cry went up in the City, it being then midmorning, and a great wind blowing, and the rain flying north, and the sun shining. In that clear air watchmen on the walls saw afar a new sight of fear, and their last hope left them.

“The Corsairs of Umbar!” men shouted, “The Corsairs of Umbar! Look! The Corsairs of Umbar are coming! So Belfalas is taken, and the Ethir, and Lebennin is gone. The Corsairs are upon us! It is the last stroke of doom!”

For Anduin, from the bend at the Harlond, so flowed that from the City men could look down it lengthwise for some leagues, and the far-sighted could see any ships that approached. And looking thither they cried in dismay; for black against the glittering stream they beheld a fleet borne up on the wind: dromunds, and ships of great draught with many oars, but instead of black sails which the Corsairs would use and which the people of Gondor had learned to fear, there was orange and white sails bellying in the breeze.

“BY THE VALAR, HAVE YOU LOST YOUR EYE-SIGHT ALONG WITH COURAGE?! TAKE A PROPER LOOK AT THE COLORS OF THE SAILS!! ” Boromir yelled among all the chaos to make the men stop and actually look again, as Arash simply jumped off the wall and used an earth tunnel to travel below all the fighting men, horses and orcs.  

Wanting to join the battle as soon as possible, the men aboard the ships used larger-than-usual gang-planks to connect the ships, and to swiftly get on shore in huge numbers. 

“To the spears of Dorne!” 

“Give them a taste of the fear and death they have brought to others!” Suleiman called to his own men, getting ready to mount a war horse. As the first men went towards the nearest enemies, Arash popped his upper body out of a hole, to give quit information about how things was: 

“You arrived just in time, the Rohirrim and our riders could use some help even with the soldiers of Gondor trying to get out of the city. The Witch-King is slain, but there are other dangers remaining…hey, watch where you are going, Robert Baratheon!” 

Still, it was nice to see the Westerosi King take action so quickly, riding on a borrowed war horse and swinging his massive war hammer around himself, sending the orcs fleeing in fear for this new foe. He was a born warrior, and there would not be long before he reminded everyone of why he had the Demon of the Trident as a nickname. 

“Robert!” 

Sending a last glare to Shireen and Rhea as a warning to not leave the ship where Brienne was standing with them and Eric, Stannis led a second troop of soldiers with Davos beside him. 

“Oi, children! Do any of you have wind power? Those flying lizards are being troublesome, and there are fires in the first level of this city that need to be put out with water,” Arash asked, just as one of the still “alive” Nazgûl swooped down in the distance. No one was surprised as Argella summoned up a new strength in the winds before aiming those at the Ringwraiths and their fell beasts, and Lyonel grabbed Aemon to put out the fires in Minas Tirith together with their water and ice powers, Lemore joining them just to ensure that the two princes were not hurt. 

“Time to show that we ladies can fight too!” Elinor commented in a way that was all Robert when spotting the mûmakil and how the Dornish and Rohirrim faced trouble against the large animals, long vines beginning to form a ball of plants around her. 

“ELINOR, NO!! ” 

Too late, she had already rolled off the gang-plank in her improvised plant protection. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X     

Éomer had also spotted the sails that were not in the use of the Corsairs of Umbar, and wonder took him, and a great joy; and he cast his sword up in the sunlight and sang as he caught it. And all eyes followed his gaze, and behold! upon the second foremost ship a great standard broke, and the wind displayed it as she turned towards the Harlond. There flowered a White Tree, and that was for Gondor; but Seven Stars were about it, and a high crown above it, the signs of Elendil that no lord had borne for years beyond count. And the stars flamed in the sunlight, for they were wrought of gems by Arwen daughter of Elrond; and the crown was bright in the morning, for it was wrought of mithril and gold.

Thus came Aragorn son of Arathorn, Elessar, Isildur's heir, out of the Paths of the Dead, borne upon a wind from the Sea to the kingdom of Gondor; and the mirth of the Rohirrim was a torrent of laughter and a flashing of swords, and the joy and wonder of the City was a music of trumpets and a ringing of bells. But the hosts of Mordor were seized with bewilderment, and a great wizardry it seemed to them that their own ships should be filled with their foes; and a black dread fell on them, knowing that the tides of fate had turned against them and their doom was at hand.

East rode the knights of Dol Amroth driving the enemy before them: troll-men and Variags and orcs that hated the sunlight. South strode eomer and men fled before his face, and they were caught between the hammer and the anvil. For now men leaped from the ships to the quays of the Harlond and swept north like a storm. There came Legolas, and Gimli wielding his axe, and Halbarad with the standard, and Elladan and Elrohir with stars on their brow, and the dour-handed Dunedain, Rangers of the North, leading a great valour of the folk of Lebennin and Lamedon and the fiefs of the South. But before all went Aragorn with the Flame of the West, Anduril like a new fire kindled, Narsil re-forged as deadly as of old: and upon his brow was the Star of Elendil.

And so at length Éomer and Aragorn met in the midst of the battle, and they leaned on their swords and looked on one another and were glad.

“Thus we meet again, though all the hosts of Mordor lay between us,” said Aragorn, “Did I not say so at the Hornburg?”

“So you spoke,” answered Éomer, “but hope oft deceives, and I knew not then that you were a man foresighted. Yet twice blessed is help unlooked for, and never was a meeting of friends more joyful.” 

And they clasped hand in hand. 

“Nor indeed more timely,” said Éomer,'You come none too soon, my friend. Much loss and sorrow has befallen us.”

“Then let us avenge it, ere we speak of it!” said Aragorn, and they rode back to battle together.

Hard fighting and long labour they had still; for the Southrons were bold men and grim, and fierce in despair; and the Easterlings were strong and war-hardened and asked for no quarter. And so in this place and that, by burned homestead or barn, upon hillock or mound, under wall or on field, still they gathered and rallied and fought until the day wore away.

Showing creative use of her plant ball as it rolled forwards, Elinor knocked over quite a few enemies in her path, as well sending off long vines to protect the warriors around her. Yet as she stopped, one mûmakil was coming right towards her. 

“Planning to flatten me below those big feets, huh? Think again!”

Showing off her love for dancing by taking a few steps, Elinor summoned some really long vines almost the same thickness as a ancient tree truck up into the air around her, before grabbing hold of at least three mûmakil nearby around their legs and bodies and trying to keep them unmoving by using the vines like puppet strings from the ground. 

“What sort of woman-hating dunderheads to men in the distant past came up with the NONSENSE that traditional femininity means being passive and helpless?! Or that we women are not helpful at all in battle?! ”

As a way to show off how she proved herself to be a true-born daughter of Robert Baratheon, a stray vine caught a troll and with a rather forceful jerk of her own body slightly backwards, sent it flying into one mûmakil, the force making the animal fall over and causing quite a few archers to fall out of the tower onto its back in the same movement. 

“The Tyrells are NOT getting their hands on this princess in a marriage, for sure, she will only be used to increase harvests in the Reach and worthless stuff like growing exotic flowers in the gardens of Highgarden, all to show off Margaery Tyrell as the new Crown Princess and future Queen to Crown prince Lyonel Baratheon. If Quentyn feels that she is better suited for either Trysane or Mahaad, I will ensure that she will find a purpose in Dorne,” Oberyn told himself in awe over what Elinor just had done. If Doran had seen this, he would agree with what the princess could do. 

“Why is a CHILD here in the middle of battle?!” 

More than one of the Rohirrim and Dornish soldiers, understandably, got alarmed at spotting Elinor standing there, without any sort of protection against weapons if an enemy would come close. Tirward was one of the men to quickly make a ring around the princess, covering her but not blocking her from using her control over plants if needed.  

“Obara! Aim for the next mûmakil there!”

Apparently, the arrival of Elinor had alarmed the handlers of the mûmakil, as she trapped more and more of them with her vines, chaining both legs and heads with the massive tusks, preventing them from moving. Her powers were not something they had expected, or even imagined as a threat. 

“Aim for their heads!”

That was a logical command, since everyone knew that a hit to the head could mean death in many ways. An arrow through the eye, a strike which went into the brain. 

“You come here, young miss!” Tirwald said, dragging Elinor up in front of him so she would be away from danger. 

“Lord Éomer!”

Leading the attacks, Éomer tossed a spear towards one mûmakil, but he did show some creativity by specifically targeting the Haradrim who was driving the mûmakil; not only would this confuse the creature, but it would deprive the others of a commander. Indeed, his spear got the intended target, and as the driver was falling down, his body got caught in the ear of the mûmakil. With the dead man's weight and harness pulling on the mûmakil's ear like that, this led to painfully forcing it to the side and crashing into another, bringing them both down. 

“Watch out!” 

With all the mûmakil held in place by Elinor though the long vines, it was little trouble for the Dornish soldiers to use scorpion bolts to bring down the giant animals and attack the archers who now had lost their main way of defence. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X   

In fact, seeing the banner with the white crescent moon, the symbol for the Imperial family of Rhûn, seemed to confuse quite a lot of the foot soldiers among the Southrons, not to mention, alarming the commanders who had been far away from Rhûn when House Martell helped Suleiman to make the coup that had installed him as the new Sulan without having to kill his father and half-brothers. The vast distance of travel had not allowed them to learn that there was now a new sultan, one which they did not know and who they had not sworn their loyalty to. 

“The sultan…?” 

“No way! The imperial family has not been in charge of their own armies since the Shadow of the East returned…!?”

But they had no time to talk. For now Suleiman showed that thanks to being raised outside the golden cage that was the imperial palace, he had all the weapon training as a warrior which his father and half-brothers had been denied as prisoners of Khamûl. 

“I want the commanders caught alive, if possible! Try to have the common soldiers yield and surrender!” 

With the Sultan of Rhûn leading those troops against those who had followed Sauron, it was almost a literal symbol of how Suleiman aimed to bring a new era for his homeland, one in which they would not follow the Dark Lord anymore. 

Then the Sun went at last behind Mindolluin and filled all the sky with a great burning, so that the hills and the mountains were dyed as with blood; fire glowed in the River, and the grass of the Pelennor lay red in the nightfall. And in that hour the great Battle of the field of Gondor was over; and not one living foe was left within the circuit of the Rammas. All were slain save those who fled to die, or to drown in the red foam of the River. Few ever came eastward to Morgul or Mordor; and to the land of the Haradrim came only a tale from far off: a rumour of the wrath and terror of Gondor.

“Victory! Victory for Gondor! Victory for Rohan! Victory for Dorne!” 

Aragorn and Éomer and Imrahil rode back towards the Gate of the City, and they were now weary beyond joy or sorrow. These three were unscathed, for such was their fortune and the skill and might of their arms, and few indeed had dared to abide them or look on their faces in the hour of their wrath. But many others were hurt or maimed or dead upon the field. The axes hewed Forlong as he fought alone and unhorsed; and both Duilin of Morthond and his brother were trampled to death when they assailed the mumakil, leading their bowmen close to shoot at the eyes of the monsters. Neither Hirluin the fair would return to Pinnath Gelin, nor Grimbold to Grimslade, nor Halbarad to the Northlands, dour-handed Ranger. No few had fallen in all the armies, renowned or nameless, captain or soldier; for it was a great battle and the full count of it no tale has told. So long afterward a maker in Rohan said in his song of the Mounds of Mundburg:

We heard of the horns in the hills ringing,

the swords shining in the South-kingdom.

Steeds went striding to the Stoningland

as wind in the morning. War was kindled.

There Théoden fell, Thengling mighty,

to his golden halls and green pastures

in the Northern fields never returning,

high lord of the host. Harding and Guthlaf

Dunhere and Deorwine, doughty Grimbold,

Herefara and Herubrand, Horn and Fastred,

fought and fell there in a far country:

in the Mounds of Mundburg under mould they lie

with their league-fellows, lords of Gondor.

Neither Hirluin the Fair to the hills by the sea,

nor Forlong the old to the flowering vales

ever, to Arnach, to his own country

returned in triumph; nor the tall bowmen,

Derufin and Duilin, to their dark waters,

meres of Morthond under mountain-shadows.

Death in the morning and at day's ending

lords took and lowly. Long now they sleep

under grass in Gondor by the Great River.

Grey now as tears, gleaming silver,

red then it rolled, roaring water:

foam dyed with blood flamed at sunset;

as beacons mountains burned at evening;

red fell the dew in Rammas Echor.

Chapter Text

All of the now eight remaining Nazgûl could feel when the Witch-King of Angmar, their leader, was slain. It should be impossible for a mortal to slay one of their numbers, but somehow it had happened. 

“Watch out right behind you, Faramir!”  

Seeing the incoming danger right behind himself, Faramir had enough space to try and twist himself away from Khamûl as the fell beast came so close, but the creature still slammed into him. The closeness to a Ringwraith like this was dangerous, and when turning his head to look over his shoulder, a horrified Boromir saw what danger his little brother was in.  

“Get away from MY LITTLE BROTHER!! ” 

Sacrificing his last arrow, Faramir managed to shoot it into the face of the fell-beast, before it could grab and crush him between its jaws.  

“Faramir!” 

The beast and its rider was flying away, but as the Steward of Gondor ran over to his brother where he laid on the street stones, he realized in horror that Faramir had been struck by the feared Black Breath, a produced aura from the Nazgûl, meant to incapacitate foes.  

“No…no…please…I can not lose you too, little brother! Not after that none of us got to say our farewells to father!” 

Lifting up the unconscious Faramir in his arms to carry his brother towards the Houses of Healing, Boromir screamed at the men around to let him pass.    

~X~X~X~X~X~X   

With not so many men defending the fleet, something had happened on the flag ship of Robert Baratheon: 

“This way, my lord!” 

In fact, there were two groups of loyal servants and lesser nobles who had aimed to free Tywin Lannister from his captivity. For them, the King treating his own father-in-law like this, was simply a sign of Robert going mad. After all, his paternal grandmother had been a Targaryen and if it was Mad Aerys getting a last laugh from the grave by making Robert acting unreasonable ever since the drowning of Cersei and the kidnapping of most of the royal children, why else would he be acting like this towards the man who had ensured that Robert could be the King? 

“Here, some stray horses to escape with! We should be able to escape long before Robert notices that you are gone!”

But the horses of Rohan, who had lost their original riders in the battle so far, were not so comfortable around those strange men and gave the small group a temporary challenge in getting them to stand still long enough to be mounted. 

“Come on, we need to hurry!” 

And then the same strange, frightening cries as from the kidnapping of Tywin's grandchildren, was being heard above their heads. 

“Oh, no…” 

It was no one else than Khamûl, who blocked their path to freedom with his fell-beast landing on the ground. 

“And where do you think that you are going, Lion Lord? ” 

Despite trying to not show himself as being afraid in front of those men who had freed him from the chains, something in the usual intimidating gaze which Tywin was infamous for, seemed to not really work as normal. Perhaps it was because he remembered Khamûl beating him back black and blue across all his body in King's Landing, like he was a commoner being punished for some crime. Or simply more likely that Khamûl was a wraith, and therefore had no reason to fear whatever threats that Tywin normally would use on the fellow mortal enemies of House Lannister. 

“Move out of my way.” 

But Khamûl only laughed in mockery at how Tywin failed to make the command sound threatening, the cold voice that normally would make people in Westeros fearful. 

“Think that you can command me, one of the Ringwraiths serving the Dark Lord Sauron? Me, who once was a King over my own realm? Perhaps you need another beating to break your pride, Lion Lord! ” 

The deadly flail of steel and iron was raised in his hand, and the Rohirric horses did the sensitive thing as prey animals: rearing so the unfamiliar riders fell out of the saddles, and then galloped away from the danger.   

“Not to ruin your fun, Master, but this Lion Lord really deserves to be beaten for more than just trying to murder the reborn Princess Mara and her family.”

It was Visenya who showed up in a minor portal, using a black-haired wig to hide her actual hair that would reveal her as a Targaryen blood relative, the wig also masking her eyes somewhat.   

“What? ” Khamûl wondered in a low, dangerous voice, his eyes focusing on his currently youngest, mortal Consort. Visenya did not respond, but instead made a hand wave towards Tywin and her magic struck him. 

“You little…?!” 

But it was not the Lord of Casterly Rock standing right there as Visenya forced his soul to reveal itself bare, but a completely different person who had been so contrasting in character from Tywin that no one had imagined a possible connection between them. 

“Good job in hiding your original self though a circle of endless death and rebirth over time, traitor and destroyer of Kemet,” Visenya smirked, seeing how Khamûl was overtaken by the memories so long ago when seeing who Tywin had been in a past life, and his anger literally exploring at this reveal that she just had used her ability to see the past, in order to show it to her Master. 

“TAR-MINYATUR!! ”

The men threw themselves in front of Tywin in order to protect him from the furious attacker as Khamûl used his magic to transform sand into a deadly mace, only to be caught between the jaws of the fell-beast or struck by the Black Breath from Khamûl. 

“Lord Tywin, run! Run, run!” 

“Run for your life!” 

And with all his courage and normal self control gone, this was exactly what Tywin did. Perhaps something finally clicked in his mind that this was an enemy he could not defeat by any threats or actions as the Lord of Casterly Rock, and that he was in true danger of death. 

“Do not kill him yet, Master. Mara's current mother deserves to get some revenge on him too for trying to have her and her children murdered on his orders. But I think you can tenderize him up nicely for Queen Elia Martell of Rohan before it will be her turn to take revenge.” 

With Visenya creating a minor barrier around the portal, there was no one left to protect Tywin from the wrath of the Ringwrath who had been his father in his first life. 

Unfortunately Tywin did not get far, before he felt a hand dressed in a gauntlet on the back of his shaved head and Khamûl slammed the mortal face first into the hard ground. 

“Agh! ” 

But the Nazgûl had only started in torturing the man who had aimed to kill Mara in her current life back when she was a very young child. Raising the mace over his head, Khamûl growled like a wild animal: 

“I will make you wish for death, Lion Lord, and deny you it! ” 

Tywin screamed in pain as Khamûl crossed his hands with the mace, and then the same to his feet so he would not be able to run or even walk properly. 

“That tongue who ordered her murder…you will have no futher need of it! ”

Punching Tywin in the mouth several times, it was both blood and teeth that came out after each hit. Then, taking out a steel dagger from his belt, Khamûl proved his threat real by forcing Tywin's jaw open and then cutting off his tongue in one single move. 

“Oh dear, can not have him bleed to death yet. Let me heal that, Master.” 

Having grown up around Khamûl since being more or less a newborn baby, Visenya showed no major shock at seeing how brutal her Master could be when beating someone up. After all, she had found out that Tywin was the current reincarnation of someone who had ruined his life so long ago in the Second Age.    

“I think I know the perfect way of breaking your self-image in this life, Tar-Minyatur. ” 

Khamûl used his mace to more or less literally crush Tywin's groin area, nearly causing the former Lord Lannister to faint from the massive pain, and then the dagger to castrate him, removing both balls and cock from Tywin, who could only show his pain by the horrified look on his face. Given how much pride Tywin took in being an able bodied man of Westeros, becoming a eunuch like this would indeed crush his self-image. 

“You are really giving me a lot of healing to do on someone you want to remain alive for as long as possible, Master,” Visenya commented in a bored voice as she once again had to prevent Tywin from dying from massive blood loss or internal damages, the closest thing to a complaint that she ever did in his presence. Healing magic was not her strongest ability, and it was not helped by Khamûl being a servant of darkness. Not that her Master would care for such details right now in his fury, as long as Tywin remained alive on his order. 

“Mara and her current family shall have to wait with the gift of punishment that they will give him with time. I have no intention to let this Lion Lord die yet, either now or later from the injuries that I have just given him…especially given who he once was in the past. ”

Glaring at Tywin where he now had fallen unconscious from the pain, Visenya promised herself to enjoy how he, the mighty Lord Lannister, had fallen so low. Yes, Elia Martell would not learn about this yet, but she sure was going to feel some pleasure at how Khamûl would break Tywin until he was a shadow of his former self. 

“Have a nice taste of your own medicine by how your lack of forethought and callousness feels like, Tywin Lannister.” 

With her ability to see the past, Visenya knew how much of a control freak Tywin Lannister was. If he had believed it bad to be a prisoner of Robert Baratheon, and stripped of everything that House Lannister had symbolized for so long, well, he was going to find it far more of a living nightmare under the “care” of Khamûl and any orcs ordered to handle him in Minas Morgul. 

“Get back to the Temple, girl. ”

Bowing her head at the command, Visenya obeyed and closed the portal. But despite how the Battle of the Pelennor Fields ended in a crushing defeat for the armies of Mordor and their allies, the capture of Tywin Lannister was a personal victory for Khamûl. 

“Ha, ha….finally, finally I have found your current self! You are going to taste my full wrath over your murder of my wives and other children, Tar-Minyatur! You are going to truly regret causing the fall of Kemet, all because you wanted to avenge the sea-woman who birthed you and refused to admit that you were my most unlikely choice as successor on the throne! And since you tried to have Mara murdered in her new life…you are going to regret that as well. ”

Trapping Tywin inside a sand coffin sans for the face, Khamûl made his fell-beast carrying the prisoner inside its claws as the ringwraith left the battlefield at noticing how the armies from Mordor were losing. 

Chapter Text

With the battles outside Minas Tirith finally ending, a new task was now taking place for the survivors: 

Giving first-aid to the wounded that could be moved to the Houses of Healing inside Minas Tirith, or raised tents with the same purpose. Those who were too greatly injured and on the limit of death, ending their suffering with the gift of mercy, which was found in both Arda and Westeros. And removing the dead for burial. 

“Suleiman, what is happening here?” Oberyn asked when noticing something he had not expected to see; the men sworn to the Sultan being busy with beheading the commanders of the other forces from Rûm.

“Cleaning out “weeds” that have sworn service to Sauron and whose past deeds in the court of my father by what my own spies have found out, makes them too untrustworthy to be left alive. Warmongers and others who are undesirable in a peaceful era, because they think of peace as a weakness when there is “glory in battle” to be found. Better to end their lives here and now, instead of taking risks by bringing them back home for a trial. Besides, if I leave them alive, their own followers and families may try some plotting against me.” 

That sounded exactly like something both Doran and Ihsan would say, Oberyn realized, and he did agree that with Suleiman as the new Sultan, he needed to keep his own reign secured, and yes, some people was at the risk to become problems in the future if not dealt with early on, especially if their views on things contrasted too much with the ruler. 

“Good reasoning. And it will show the served ties between Rûm and Mordor with you as the new ruler. There will be no spies watching your movements and telling Sauron.” 

Then Oberyn went off to help bring wounded to either the Houses of Healing or the tents used by the army healers from Rûm. A nasty cut in his arm from a battle against a massive orc had already been bandaged, and he wanted to do something useful, as well counting in any important Dornish men who had fallen in battle today, having already found Anders Yronwood among the fallen earlier. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X     

A mist was in Merry's eyes of tears and weariness when they drew near the ruined Gate of Minas Tirith. He gave little heed to the wreck and slaughter that lay about all. Fire and smoke and stench was in the air; for many engines had been burned or cast into the fire-pits, and many of the slain also, while here and there lay many carcases of the great Southron monsters, half-burned, or broken by stone-cast, or shot through the eyes by the valiant archers of Morthond. The flying rain had ceased for a time, and the sun gleamed up above; but all the lower city was still wrapped in a smouldering reek.

Already men were labouring to clear a way through the jetsam of battle; and now out from the Gate came some bearing litters. Gently they laid Éowyn upon soft pillows; but Théoden's body they covered with a great cloth of gold, and they bore torches about him, and their flames, pale in the sunlight, were fluttered by the wind.

So Théoden and Éowyn came to the City of Gondor, and all who saw them bared their heads and bowed; and they passed through the ash and fume of the burned circle, and went on and up along the streets of stone. To Merry the ascent seemed agelong, a meaningless journey in a hateful dream, going on and on to some dim ending that memory cannot seize.

Slowly the lights of the torches in front of him flickered and went out, and he was walking in a darkness; and he thought:

“This is a tunnel leading to a tomb; there we shall stay forever.” 

But suddenly into his dream there fell a living voice.

“Well, Merry! Thank goodness I have found you!”

He looked up and the mist before his eyes cleared a little. There was Pippin! They were face to face in a narrow lane, and but for themselves it was empty. He rubbed his eyes.

“Where is the king?” he said, “And Éowyn?”

Then he stumbled and sat down on a doorstep and began to weep again.

“They have gone up into the Citadel,” Pippin explained, “I think you must have fallen asleep on your feet and taken the wrong turning. When we found that you were not with them, Gandalf sent me to look for you. Poor old Merry! How glad I am to see you again! But you are worn out, and I won't bother you with any talk. But tell me, are you hurt, or wounded?”

“No,” whispered Merry weakly, “Well, no, I don't think so. But I can't use my right arm, Pippin, not since I stabbed him. And my sword burned all away like a piece of wood.”

Pippin's face was anxious. 

“Well, you had better come with me as quick as you can,” he said, “I wish I could carry you. You aren't fit to walk any further. They shouldn't have let you walk at all; but you must forgive them. So many dreadful things have happened in the City, Merry, that one poor hobbit coming in from the battle is easily overlooked.”

“It's not always a misfortune being overlooked,” whispered Merry in the same faint voice, “I was overlooked just now by...no, no, I can't speak of it. Help me, Pippin! It's all going dark again, and my arm is so cold.”

“Lean on me, Merry lad!” suggested Pippin gently, “Come now! Foot by foot. It's not far.”

“Are you going to bury me?” Merry wondered in the same emotionless voice.

“No, indeed!” protested Pippin, trying to sound cheerful, though his heart was wrung with fear and pity, “No, we are going to the Houses of Healing.”

They turned out of the lane that ran between tall houses and the outer wall of the fourth circle, and they regained the main street climbing up to the Citadel. Step by step they went, while Merry swayed and murmured as one in sleep.

“I'll never get him there,” thought Pippin, “Is there no one to help me? I can't leave him here.” 

Just then to his surprise a boy came running up behind, and as he passed he recognized Bergil Beregond's son.

“Hullo, Bergil!” he called to get attention, “Where are you going? Glad to see you again, and still alive!”

“I am running errands for the Healers,” said Bergil, using the moment to catch a deep breath, “I cannot stay.”

“Don't!” said Pippin, “But tell them up there that I have a sick hobbit, a perian mind you, come from the battle-field. I don't think he can walk so far. If Mithrandir is there, he will be glad of the message.” 

Bergil ran on.

“I'd better wait here,” thought Pippin. So he let Merry sink gently down onto the pavement in a patch of sunlight, and then he sat down beside him, laying Merry's head in his lap. He felt his body and limbs gently, and took his cousin's hands in his own. The right hand felt icy to the touch. 

It was not long before Gandalf himself came in search of them. He stooped over Merry and caressed his brow; then he lifted him carefully. 

“He should have been borne in honour into this city,” he said, “He has well repaid my trust; for if Elrond had not yielded to me, neither of you would have set out; and then far more grievous would the evils of this day have been.”

He sighed. 

“And yet here is another charge on my hands, while all the time the battle hangs in the balance.”

~X~X~X~X~X~X    

So at last Faramir and Éowyn and Meriadoc were laid in beds in the Houses of Healing; and there they were tended well. 

“Lay my brother and his betrothed next to each other, their hands touching may help them in some way…” Boromir pleaded with honest regret what happened to the brother, holding the other hand of Faramir between his own, praying to the Valar that he would not lose his only sibling: 

“ Merciful Estë, please let them live… ” 

For though all lore was in these latter days fallen from its fullness of old, the leechcraft of Gondor was still wise, and skilled in the healing of wound and hurt, and all such sickness as east of the Sea mortal men were subject to. Save old age only. For that they had found no cure; and indeed the span of their lives had now waned to little more than that of other men, and those among them who passed the tale of five score years with vigour were grown few, save in some houses of purer blood. But now their art and knowledge were baffled; for there were many sick of a malady that would not be healed; and they called it the Black Shadow, for it came from the Nazgûl. And those who were stricken with it fell slowly into an ever deeper dream, and then passed to silence and a deadly cold, and so died. And it seemed to the tenders of the sick that on the Halfling and on the Lady of Rohan this malady lay heavily. 

Still at whiles as the morning wore away they would speak, murmuring in their dreams; and the watchers listened to all that they said, hoping perhaps to learn something that would help them to understand their hurts. But soon they began to fall down into the darkness, and as the sun turned west a grey shadow crept over their faces. But Faramir burned with a fever that would not abate, which did not help Boromir stop fearing for his brother.

Gandalf went from one to the other full of care, and he was told all that the watchers could hear. And so the day passed, while the great battle outside went on with shifting hopes and strange tidings; and still Gandalf waited and watched and did not go forth; till at last the red sunset filled all the sky, and the light through the windows fell on the grey faces of the sick. Then it seemed to those who stood by that in the glow the faces flushed softly as with health returning, but it was only a mockery of hope.

Then an old wife, Ioreth, the eldest of the women who served in that house, looking on the fair face of Faramir, wept, for all the people loved him. And she said: 

“Alas! If he should die. Would that there were kings in Gondor, as there were once upon a time, they say! For it is said in old lore: The hands of the king are the hands of a healer. And so the rightful king could ever be known.”

And Gandalf, who stood by, said: 

“Men may long remember your words, Ioreth! For there is hope in them. Maybe a king has indeed returned to Gondor; or have you not heard the strange tidings that have come to the City?”

“I have been too busy with this and that to heed all the crying and shouting,” she answered, “All I hope is that those murdering devils do not come to this House and trouble the sick.”

Then Gandalf went out in haste, and already the fire in the sky was burning out, and the smouldering hills were fading, while ash-grey evening crept over the fields.

~X~X~X~X~X~X    

Unsurprisingly, the Baratheon heirs had found themselves tasked with helping out in the Houses of Healing in whatever manner that they could do. Mya and Eric was dashing back and forth between people where a extra pair of hands was needed, Shireen and Rhea carrying a huge basket with bloodied blankets and bandages from operations to remove arrowheads and similar weapons from bodies towards a somewhat free space where Argella and Lyonel had teamed up to quickly wash bloodied bandages, rags and other items of cloth used to clean up wounds and other injuries on the men, then using Argella's wind magic to dry those quicker. 

“Elinor is really busy with growing herbs for medicine, even with the addition of Ser Arash helping her.”

Even Aemon could help somewhat with his ice magic, to treat burns or just handing out small ice crystals that could be melted to water for drinking.

“Where is Gendry?”

A shout of pain from somewhere, as Gendry had just used his own physical strength to help get a dislocated shoulder back in place. 

“Sorry, sorry!”   

Stannis had mostly gotten small injuries that could be tended by his own squire Devan Seaworth, and Robert had been lucky as well to not get any massive injuries that would be a risk for his life. But the sight of their children working like this, while they did nothing…

It was a strange feeling, for the two Baratheon brothers who were used to being the active ones. To somehow not be useful, in a situation where lives could be saved or lost. A place where their battle skills were not worth anything. 

Chapter Text

Despite her growing fatigue from all the work that was needed in the Houses of Healing, Brienne knew that she could not leave the royal children alone. She was the sworn sword of Princess Argella, and was used to protecting the daughters of Lord Stannis back when training to be a knight at Storm's End. 

“Ah…Shireen is singing again…”  

The older daughter of Stannis had been heartbroken at seeing all the injured and dying soldiers out on the battlefield. In her sorrowful crying, she had began to sing a song in the same language which she had done when lady Selyse had struggled in childbirth with Rhea, and while the words was unknown, there was some form of familiarity to them, like she struggled to remember them in a mist of time where they could only be heard faintly. 

“Yes…a prayer song…to guide lost souls back to their bodies if they are between life and death…” 

Her hands moving by their own as her soul a for moment slipped back into her past life identity of Meryatum, the son of Khamûl who had been intended for a life as a priest, Brienne formed a protection sign against evil in the hope that it may help those in need of it. 

“Prince Oberyn Martell?! What in the seven hells are you doing here!” 

Robert had raised his voice when noticing the Martell prince talking with Holly among everyone else, groaned in tired annoyance at realizing that he now was stuck with having to explain quite a huge amount of things to the Baratheon King who had made them all a big favor by making Elia a widow so many years ago. 

“I will only tell, if you swear a holy oath on all that is sacred to both the Faith of the Seven and the Old Gods of the North to never bring any harm, by deeds or words, to my sister and her two oldest children for their history to the previous royal dynasty if they ever cross the Red Mountains. I do not care what Rhaegar told the wolf-girl who was supposed to marry you, Robert Baratheon, to make her run away with him and light the sparks of the Rebellion that threw the Targaryens out from Westeros almost fourteen years ago, but Elia would never have accepted a illegitimate child of Rhaegar that could become a new Daemon Blackfyre to her own half-Dornish son Aegon, and especially not one born from a mother whose own family holds power by being the Warden of the North.”  

The seriousness in his ice-cold voice, and his eyes being like a true viper about to bite a victim as to bring a slow and painful death by poison, told Robert that the Martell prince was not joking. 

“It always comes back to Harrenhal and Lyanna being crowned as the Queen of Love and Beauty that bastard, does it?” Robert muttered, having a rather strong feeling that he would not like this at all. 

“In a sense, yes.” 

Oberyn smiled a almost feral smile over the blessing that finally, the image of Lyanna Stark as a innocent victim, the lie that Eddard Stark always insisted to tell anyone who asked about the events at the Tower of Joy, would be ruined by the reveal that her true manner of death was from a dangerous childbirth, and that Rhaegar was the one who had sired her stillborn bastard daughter.

~X~X~X~X~X~X    

Now as the sun went down Aragorn and Éomer and Imrahil drew near the City with their captains and knights; and when they came before the Gate Aragorn said:

“Behold the Sun setting in a great fire! It is a sign of the end and fall of many things, and a change in the tides of the world. But this City and realm has rested in the charge of the Stewards for many long years, and I fear that if I enter it unbidden, then doubt and debate may arise, which should not be while this war is fought. I will not enter in, nor make any claim, until it be seen whether we or Mordor shall prevail. Men shall pitch my tents upon the field, and here I will await the welcome of the Lord of the City.”

But Éomer wondered: 

“Already you have raised the banner of the Kings and displayed the tokens of Elendil's House. Will you suffer these to be challenged?”

“No,” answered Aragorn, “But I deem the time unripe; and I have no mind for strife except with our Enemy and his servants.”

And the Prince Imrahil said: 

“Your words, lord, are wise, if one who is a kinsman of the current Lord Boromir may counsel you in this matter. He is strong-willed and proud, but coming to his own seat in a difficult time, and his mood has been filled with fear since his brother was stricken down with the Black Breath. Yet I would not have you remain like a beggar at the door.”

“Not a beggar,” said Aragorn, recalling Boromir mentioning his brother with fondness during the earlier parts of the Fellowship's journey, “Say a captain of the Rangers, who are unused to cities and houses of stone.” 

And he commanded that his banner should be furled; and he did off the Star of the North Kingdom and gave it to the keeping of the sons of Elrond.

Then the Prince Imrahil and Éomer of Rohan left him and passed through the City and the tumult of the people, and mounted to the Citadel; and they came to the Hall of the Tower, seeking the Steward. But they found his chair empty, and before the dais lay Théoden King of the Mark upon a bed of state; and twelve torches stood about it, and twelve guards, knights both of Rohan and Gondor as well soldiers from Dorne who had been sent when Oberyn had heard about that the father-in-law of his beloved sister had fallen in battle. And the hangings of the bed were of green and white, but upon the old king was laid the great cloth of gold up to his breast, and upon that his unsheathed sword, and at his feet his shield, The light of the torches shimmered in his white hair like sun in the spray of a fountain, but his face was fair and young, save that a peace lay on it beyond the reach of youth; and it seemed that he slept. When they had stood silent for a time beside the king, Imrahil asked: 

“Where is the Steward? And where also is Mithrandir?”

And one of the guards answered: 

“The Steward of Gondor is in the Houses of Healing.”

They understood that Boromir could not have left the side of his brother, out of fear to not be there during the last moments of life if Faramir would soon join their late father Denethor. 

But Éomer looked around in alarm when noticing that something was amiss, and wondered: 

“Where is the Lady Éowyn, my sister; for surely she should be lying beside the former king, our late uncle, and in no less honour? Where have they bestowed her?”

And Imrahil responded: 

“But the Lady Éowyn was yet living when they bore her hither. Did you not know?”

Then hope unlooked-for came so suddenly to Éomer's heart, and with it the bite of care and fear renewed, that he said no more, but turned and went swiftly from the hall; and the Prince followed him. 

“Of all times when Aegon's gift of healing is needed the most, he naturally is far away back home in Rohan and even with using the portals for a quicker travel, he would be overwhelmed with the patients needing his help…” Éomer muttered, but he could not blame his cousin for wanting the older son of Elia to remain home at Edoras. Besides, Aegon was mere days away from his 15th birthday, still three years too young to do military service according to the customs of Rohan. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X     

And when they came forth evening had fallen and many stars were in the sky. And there came Gandalf on foot and with him one cloaked in grey; and they met before the doors of the Houses of Healing. And they greeted Gandalf and said: 

“We seek the Steward, and men say that he is in this House. Has any hurt befallen him? And the Lady Éowyn, where is she?”

And Gandalf answered: 

“She lies within and is not dead, but is near death. But the Lord Faramir was wounded by the Shadow of the East, as you have heard, and Boromir is at his side.” 

And they were filled with grief and wonder at the tale that he told, about how Faramir had been in close contact with the Shadow of the East yet refusing to let his falling courage allow him to be an easy target. But Imrahil sighed with worry over the situation: 

“So victory is shorn of gladness, and it is bitter bought, if both Gondor and Rohan are in one day bereft of their lords. Théodred King already rules the Rohirrim since a few years back, but will greatly mourn his father's passing when he receives the message. Who shall rule the City meanwhile, for Boromir will not stop fearing for his brother? Shall we not send now for the Lord Aragorn?”

And the cloaked man spoke and said: 

“He is come.”

 And they saw as he stepped into the light of the lantern by the door that it was Aragorn, wrapped in the grey cloak of Lorien above his mail, and bearing no other token than the green stone of Galadriel. 

“I have come because Gandalf begs me to do so,” he explained, “But for the present I am but the Captain of the Dunedain of Arnor; and the Lord of Dol Amroth shall rule the City until Faramir awakes. But it is my counsel that Gandalf should rule us all in the days that follow and in our dealings with the Enemy.' And they agreed upon that.

Then Gandalf said: 

“Let us not stay at the door, for the time is urgent. Let us enter! For it is only in the coming of Aragorn that any hope remains for the sick that lie in the House. Thus spake Ioreth, wise-woman of Gondor: The hands of the king are the hands of a healer, and so shall the rightful king be known. ”

Then Aragorn entered first and the others followed. And there at the door were two guards in the livery of the Citadel: one tall, but the other scarce the height of a boy; and when he saw them he cried aloud in surprise and joy.

“Strider! How splendid! Do you know, I guessed it was you in the black ships. But they were all shouting corsairs and wouldn't listen to me. How did you do it?”

Aragorn laughed, and took the hobbit by the hand. 

“Well met indeed!” he said, ”But there is not time yet for travellers' tales.”

This was not the time to tell of how Suleiman and his massive fleet had actually surprised the Grey Company. But Imrahil whispered to Éomer: 

“Is it thus that we speak to our kings? Yet maybe he will wear his crown in some other name!”

And Aragorn hearing him, turned and said: 

“Verily, for in the high tongue of old I am Elessar, the Elfstone, and Envinyatar, the Renewer," and he lifted from his breast the green stone that lay there, "But Strider shall be the name of my house, if that be ever established. In the high tongue it will not sound so ill, and Telcontar I will be and all the heirs of my body.”

And with that they passed into the House; and as they went towards the rooms where the sick were tended Gandalf told of the deeds of Éowyn and Meriadoc. 

“For,” he said, “long have I stood by them and at first they spoke much in their dreaming, before they sank into the deadly darkness. Also it is given to me to see many things far off.”

~X~X~X~X~X~X   

As expected, Boromir was found sitting next to the bed with his unconscious brother, holding his betrothed's hand in his, Éowyn herself also not awake. Hearing the footsteps coming closer and looking up with a face that revealed that he had not slept much in several days, he seemed to be more relieved than shocked to see Aragorn. 

“They reacted slightly when we made them hold hands like this, as if somehow sensing who the other hand belonged to, but did not stir or wake up.” 

Aragorn went first to Faramir, and then to the Lady Éowyn, and last to Merry. When he had looked on the faces of the sick and seen their hurts he sighed. 

“Here I must put forth all such power and skill as is given to me,” he admitted, “Would that Elrond were here, for he is the eldest of all our race, and has the greater power.”

And Éomer, seeing that he was sorrowful and weary, suggested: 

“First you must rest, surely, and at the least eat a little?”

But Aragorn answered: 

“Nay, for these three, and most soon for Faramir, time is running out. All speed is needed.”

Neither Boromir or Éomer doubted why. With how close Faramir had been face to face with Khamûl, being exposed to the Black Breath could have killed him if he had remained that close for longer.

Then Aragorn called to Ioreth and he asked: 

“You have store in this House of the herbs of healing?”

“Yes, lord,” she answered, “but not enough, I reckon, for all that will need them. But I am sure I do not know where we shall find more; for all things are amiss in these dreadful days, what with fires and burnings, and the lads that run errands so few, and all the roads blocked. Why, it is days out of count since ever a carrier came in from Lossarnach to the market! But we do our best in this House with what we have, as I am sure your lordship will know.”

“I will judge that when I see,” said Aragorn, “One thing also is short time for speech. Have you athelas?”

“I do not know, I am sure, lord,” she answered, “at least not by that name. I will go and ask of the herb-master; he knows all the old names.”

“It is also called kingsfoil,” Aragorn explained, “and maybe you know it by that name, for so the country-folk call it in these latter days.”

“Oh that! ” said Ioreth when she realized what herb he meant, “Well, if your lordship had named it at first I could have told you. No, we have none of it, I am sure. Why, I have never heard that it had any great virtue; and indeed I have often said to my sisters when we came upon it growing in the woods: "kingsfoil" I said, " 'tis a strange name, and I wonder why 'tis called so; for if I were a king, I would have plants more bright in my garden". Still it smells sweet when bruised, does it not? If sweet is the right word: wholesome, maybe, is nearer.”

“Wholesome verily,” said Aragorn, “And now, dame, if you love the Lord Faramir, run as quick as your tongue and get me kingsfoil, if there is a leaf in the City.”

“And if not,” said Gandalf, “I will ride to Lossarnach with Ioreth behind me, and she shall take me to the woods, but not to her sisters. And Shadowfax shall show her the meaning of haste.”

When Ioreth was gone, Aragorn bade the other women to make water hot. Then he took Faramir's hand in his, and laid the other hand upon the sick man's brow. It was drenched with sweat; but Faramir did not move or make any sign, and seemed hardly to breathe.

“He is nearly spent,” said Aragorn turning to Boromir, “Please, explain as best as you remember of his fight against the Shadow of the East? Was there any weapon that your brother was struck by?”

Boromir did so, and Aragorn could get a cleaner image of what had happened.

“Weariness, grief for his father's passing, the fear that you had suffered an ill fate somewhere between Gondor and Imladris, and over all the Black Breath,” said Aragorn, “He is a man of staunch will, and would have been a target by the enemy to demorale the soldiers. Slowly the dark must have crept on him, even as he fought and strove to help you defend the White City. Would that I could have been here sooner!”

Thereupon the herb-master entered. 

“Your lordship asked for kingsfoil, as the rustics name it, he said; or athelas in the noble tongue, or to those who know somewhat of the Valinorean…”

“I do so,” said Aragorn, “and I care not whether you say now asea aranion or kingsfoil, so long as you have some.”

“Your pardon lord!” said the man, “I see you are a lore-master, not merely a captain of war. But alas! sir, we do not keep this thing in the Houses of Healing, where only the gravely hurt or sick are tended. For it has no virtue that we know of, save perhaps to sweeten a fouled air, or to drive away some passing heaviness. Unless, of course, you give heed to rhymes of old days which women such as our good Ioreth still repeat without understanding.

When the black breath blows

and death's shadow grows

and all lights pass,

come athelas! come athelas!

Life to the dying

In the king's hand lying!

It is but a doggrel, I fear, garbled in the memory of old wives. Its meaning I leave to your judgement, if indeed it has any. But old folk still use an infusion of the herb for headaches.”

“Then in the name of the king, go and find some old man of less lore and more wisdom who keeps some in his house!” cried Gandalf.

Now Aragorn knelt beside Faramir, and held a hand upon his brow. And those that watched felt that some great struggle was going on. For Aragorn's face grew grey with weariness; and ever and anon he called the name of Faramir, but each time more faintly to their hearing, as if Aragorn himself was removed from them, and walked afar in some dark vale, calling for one that was lost.

~X~X~X~X~X~X    

And at last Bergil came running in, and he bore six leaves in a cloth. 

“It is kingsfoil, Sir,” he said, “but not fresh, I fear. It must have been culled two weeks ago at the least. I hope it will serve, Sir?” 

Then, looking at Faramir he burst into tears.

But Aragorn smiled. 

“It will serve,” he said, “The worst is now over. Stay and be comforted!” 

Then taking two leaves, he laid them on his hands and breathed on them, and then he crushed them, and straightway a living freshness filled the room, as if the air itself awoke and tingled, sparkling with joy. And then he cast the leaves into the bowls of steaming water that were brought to him, and at once all hearts were lightened. For the fragrance that came to each was like a memory of dewy mornings of unshadowed sun in some land of which the fair world in Spring is itself but a fleeting memory. But Aragorn stood up as one refreshed, and his eyes smiled as he held a bowl before Faramir's dreaming face.

“Well now! Who would have believed it?” said Ioreth to a woman that stood beside her, “The weed is better than I thought. It reminds me of the roses of Imloth Melui when I was a lass, and no king could ask for better.”

Suddenly Faramir stirred, and he opened his eyes, and he looked on Aragorn who bent over him; and a light of knowledge and love was kindled in his eyes when he also spotted his brother who cried in honest joy at seeing Faramir awaking, and he spoke softly:

“My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?”

“Walk no more in the shadows, but awake!” said Aragorn, “You are weary. Rest a while, and take food, and be ready when I return.”

“I will, lord,” whispered Faramir, “For who would lie idle when the king has returned?”

And then he paled at seeing whose hand he was holding.

“Éowyn?! What…how…why is she here?! ”

“We are all wondering that, since she is supposed to be at Dunharrow with 

Lothíriel and Elfhilda, and only joined us to Edoras for a quick errand since the army served well as protection and she was meant to ride back as soon as she could with a escort chosen from the remaining men of the royal guards. By now, her absence must have been noticed,” Éomer answered, his face showing his worry for his sister yet also a faint anger born of the same worry was hinted in his voice. 

But Aragorn looked over Éowyn and he said: 

“Here there is a grievous hurt and a heavy blow. The arm that was broken has been tended with due skill, and it will mend in time, if she has the strength to live. It is the shield-arm that is maimed; but the chief evil comes through the sword-arm. In that there now seems no life, although it is unbroken. Alas! For she was pitted against a foe beyond the strength of her mind or body. And those who will take a weapon to such an enemy must be sterner than steel, if the very shock shall not destroy them. It was an evil doom that set her in his path. For she is a fair maiden, fairest lady of a house of queens. And yet I know not how I should speak of her…” 

In his own anxiety over the situation, Éomer began to mutter in his own language under his breath, trying to find a suggestion himself, and then he recalled something which his wife had given him as an amulet for luck in battle.

“Perhaps this might work!” 

Pulling out a small pouch from a long leather string around his neck, Éomer revealed it to be a simple little flat disk of dried clay, with a newborn's small palm and foot pressed in to make an image. 

“My sister was really looking forward to becoming a fathu, despite the war and everything else, so maybe this imprint from Elfhilda…” 

Laying this in her right hand, so the two tiny imprints was on her palm, Aragorn bent and kissed her on the brow, and called her softly, saying:

“Éowyn Éomund's daughter, awake! For your enemy has passed away!”

She did not stir, but now she began again to breathe deeply as her brother gently pressed the clay disk into her hand, so that her breast rose and fell beneath the white linen of the sheet. Once more Aragorn bruised two leaves of athelas and cast them into steaming water; and he laved her brow with it, and her right arm lying cold and nerveless on the coverlet.

“.....Elf….hilda….won't let…you…lose..your father…I swear…”

Then, whether Aragorn had indeed some forgotten power of Westernesse, or whether it was but his words of the Lady Éowyn that wrought on them, as the sweet influence of the herb stole about the chamber it seemed to those who stood by that a keen wind blew through the window, and it bore no scent, but was an air wholly fresh and clean and young, as if it had not before been breathed by any living thing and came new-made from snowy mountains high beneath a dome of stars, or from shores of silver far away washed by seas of foam.

“Awake, Éowyn, Lady of Rohan!” said Aragorn again, and he took her right hand in his and felt it warm with life returning, “Awake! The shadow is gone and all darkness is washed clean!” 

Then he laid her hand in Éomer's and stepped away. 

“Call her!' he said, and he passed silently from the chamber to treat Merry next, Imrahil following after him with Beregond and his son, both unable to contain their joy. As he followed them out of the chamber and shut the door Pippin heard Ioreth exclaim:

“King! Did you hear that? What did I say? The hands of a healer, I said.” 

And soon the word had gone out from the House that the king was indeed come among them, and after war he brought healing; and the news ran through the City.

But for now, three of the four people inside the chamber was focused on something else.

'Éowyn, Éowyn!” cried Éomer amid his tears. She slowly opened her eyes and said with some confusion: 

“Éomer! What joy is this? For they said that you were slain. Nay, but that was only the dark voices in my dream. How long have I been dreaming?”

“Not long, my sister,” said Éomer, giving in to not scolding her about scaring them all like this for now, “But think no more on it!”

“I am strangely weary,” she said, “I must rest a little. But tell me, what of our fedra Théoden? Alas! Do not tell me that that was a dream for I know that it was not. He is dead as he foresaw.”

“He has joined our late aunts and his dearest Elfhild in the afterlife, yes,” Éomer confirmed with sadness, “but he bade me say farewell to Éowyn dearer than daughter. He lies now in great honour in the Citadel of Gondor.”

Éowyn took a deep, shaky breath, but at the same time, she knew that her beloved uncle would not have lived forever. He had gone out in war to defend his family, people and homeland, dying the death of a true King of Rohan. 

“That is grievous,” she finally said. 'And yet it is good beyond all that I dared hope in the dark days, when it seemed that the House of Eorl was sunk in honour less than any shepherd's cot. And what of the king's esquire, the Halfling? Éomer, you and our royal cousin shall make him a knight of the Riddermark, for he is valiant!”

“He lies nearby in this House, and I will go to him,” said Gandalf, now also leaving, “Éomer shall stay here for a while. But do not speak yet of war or woe, until you are made whole again. Great gladness it is to see you wake again to health and hope, so valiant a lady!”

And he left them alone. 

“We heard you whisper something about little Elfhilda, dearest.”

She turned her head at hearing the voice of Faramir, and knew that she would have to explain her reason beyond dressing herself up as a male soldier of Rohan in secret by using a mixture of old, long-outgrown clothes of her brother and cousin which was stored in chests back home in Edoras, and joining the army. 

“I did not want Elfhilda to lose her father in the war and grow up without ever knowing him." 

Judging from their reactions, all three of the men realized what she referred to. For Éomund had fallen in battle against orcs when both his children were still young, and Denethor had died not even a month ago. 

~X~X~X~X~X~X      

Gandalf and Pippin came to Merry's room, and there they found Aragorn standing by the bed. 

“Poor old Merry!” cried Pippin, and he ran to the bedside, for it seemed to him that his cousin and best friend looked worse, and a greyness was in his face, as if a weight of years of sorrow lay on him; and suddenly a fear seized Pippin that Merry would die.

“Do not be afraid,” said Aragorn, “I came in time, and I have called him back. He is weary now, and grieved, and he has taken a hurt like the Lady Éowyn, daring to smite that deadly thing. But these evils can be amended, so strong and gay a spirit is in him. His grief he will not forget; but it will not darken his heart, it will teach him wisdom.”

Then Aragorn laid his hand on Merry's head, and passing his hand gently through the brown curls, he touched the eyelids, and called him by name. And when the fragrance of athelas stole through the room, like the scent of orchards, and of heather in the sunshine full of bees, suddenly Merry awoke, and he said:

“I am hungry. What is the time?”

“Past supper-time now,” answered Pippin, “though I daresay I could bring you something, if they will let me.”

“They will indeed,” said Gandalf, “And anything else that this Rider of Rohan may desire, if it can be found in Minas Tirith, where his name is in honour.”

“Good!” said Merry with a faint joy on his face, “Then I would like supper first, and after that a pipe.” 

At that his face clouded. 

“No, not a pipe. I don't think I'll smoke again.”

“Why not?” asked Pippin.

“Well,” answered Merry slowly. “Lord Théoden is dead. It has brought it all back to me. He said he was sorry he had never had a chance of talking herb-lore with me. Almost the last thing he ever said. I shan't ever be able to smoke again without thinking of him, and that day, Pippin, when he rode up to Isengard and was so polite.”

'Smoke then, and think of Théoden!' said Aragorn, “For he was a gentle heart and a great king and kept his oaths; and he rose out of the shadows to a last fair morning. Though your service to him was brief, it should be a memory glad and honourable to the end of your days.”

Merry smiled faintly. 

“Well then,” he said, “if Strider will provide what is needed, I will smoke and think. I had some of Saruman's best in my pack, but what became of it in the battle, I am sure I don't know.”

“Master Meriadoc,” said Aragorn, “if you think that I have passed through the mountains and the realm of Gondor with fire and sword to bring herbs to a careless soldier who throws away his gear, you are mistaken. If your pack has not been found, then you must send for the herb-master of this House. And he will tell you that he did not know that the herb you desire had any virtues, but that it is called westmansweed by the vulgar, and galenas by the noble, and other names in other tongues more learned, and after adding a few half-forgotten rhymes that he does not understand, he will regretfully inform you that there is none in the House, and he will leave you to reflect on the history of tongues. And so now must I. For I have not slept in such a bed as this, since I rode from Dunharrow, nor eaten since the dark before dawn.”

Merry seized his hand and kissed it. 

“I am frightfully sorry,” he said, “Go at once! Ever since that night at Bree we have been a nuisance to you. But it is the way of my people to use light words at such times and say less than they mean. We fear to say too much. It robs us of the right words when a jest is out of place.”