Scattered Leaves (PG-13) 
Written by Eldalie21 April 2010 | 41380 words
Title: Scattered Leaves
Author: Eldalie
Rating: PG-13
Pairing(s): Faramir
Disclaimer: Middle Earth and all that is in it belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien. And I don't think anybody wants to argue about that.<br>,<a href="http://mefawards.net"><img src="http://www.faramirfiction.com/images/158.jpg" width="290" height="150" /></a>
NOMINATED FOR MEFA AWARDS 2010 Six years before the War of the Ring, Faramir patrols Ithilien, and there meets Miriel, one of the Elves that used to live there before Sauron tainted the woods with his presence again. Miriel is back out of nostalgia for her birthplace, but has left her heart North in Mirkwood, with Legolas… or will the mortal Captain of Gondor, this Child of Men, make her forget everything that is past?
Chapter 1
Mirkwood
One last pull of the reins, and we were there. The mass of trees loomed above and around us, but we were not scared. When they are in woods, Elves never are. The long journey from Ithilien had taken us months – months, as we travelled through Middle Earth, our lives packed in small neat bundles. Ready for a new life. Leaving behind us not much more than ruins.
After the fallen Maia Sauron had left what had once been Greenwood the Great his shadow had partially lifted; lifted only to be cast on other corners of the Earth. What crevice the Enemy haunted with his presence no one knew; but the dead land of Mordor had stirred, the wind bringing past its harsh mountains thin ashes, a smell of doom. The water, in the clear streams of Ithilien when I had been born, had started tasting fouler. The world was changing again; and it was not a change for the better.
Of us Elves of the Ithilien forests, many had lived long enough to know the terror of Sauron’s ancient power; some had fought in the last battle that had brought him down. A few had seen the Man King Isildur take the One Ring, and be corrupted. They smelled the air, tasted the water, and as they flicked the ash off their pale skin, they said: we must go. We are Elves; we know when our time is over. And so we bade farewell to our secret houses among the trees and left Ithilien, for forever, we thought.
Myself, I was young. Barely five hundred years, the life everlasting of the Eldar strong in my veins, a keen thirst for the world in my mouth. My heart was breaking when I set eyes for the last time on the vales, the clearings that had always been my home; then I saw the spoiled shape of the tainted tower of Minas Ithil and my mouth set in a hard line. No more a place for us. Only the Rangers of Gondor that we had always avoided would have remained to patrol the empy woods. But they were Men: gifted with a talent for deceiving themselves. To Elvish eyes, the corruption of Ithilien was irreversible.
So we set our course North, towards Mirkwood and our kindred. The evil of the Necromancer had forced them to hide behind their mountains, but now they were slowly regaining ground, setting out to cleanse their home of the fell beasts that had crept within its bounds. We were ready to help them.
We had sent scouts ahead to warn king Thranduil of our arrival, and he had answered by sending a party to meet us. As our column advanced slowly, picking our way carefully on the rock-strewn edges of the Forest River, they emerged silently from the long shadows of the wood. It was then that for the first time I saw Legolas Greenleaf.
He was the son of the King, but this I did not know. And even if I had, it would not have mattered. Even if he had been the last of the Elves on Middle Earth, I would have seen him. Even if he had never looked upon me, talked to me, I would have loved him.
It sounds strange, saying it now, now that so many things have changed; but when I close my eyes I am there again, again in my ears rings the dark music of the water running, again my nostrils fill with the wild smell of decaying moss. And again I remember the pale countenance of the Prince of Mirkwood when I set eyes upon him for the first time.
He greeted us with gentle words, the cadence of his voice purer than that of most of Silvan Elves. His father was one of the Sindar; his mother a Wood Elf. From Thranduil he had inherited the eery, silverish shade of his golden hair; from the queen whose name nobody ever pronounced, murdered by Orcs before her son could remember her, the delicate beauty of his traits, the smooth quality of his movements. And the blue fire of his eyes.
I could never remember what he said to my people worn by a long journey; his words echoed in my mind like forgotten songs, the print of something lost and now, eventually, found. He could not see me, placed as I was with the other archers in the rearguard; but my eyes never left him as he showed us the way to his father’s palace beneath the earth. Like some of the great Elvish lords in ages past, Thranduil liked to dwell in caves.
Our guide took leave from us after leading us to the wing of the palace reserved to us; and I was not asked to accompany our lord Gelmir when he went to thank the king for offering us a new home. When I lay down to rest that evening, it was as if a new life flowed through me. I was full of the remembrance of the beauty I had gazed upon for too short a time. Nothing I desired as much as the possibility of doing so again.
So simple sometimes our desires appear to be; and truly the deadliest of passions like to cloak themselves this way, and thus become our undoing. But I did not know it then; all I knew was of a quiet longing being born in the recesses of my heart till then uninhabited by any that did not belong to my family. If this were love, then it was a poison sweet to take.
For long days I had no chance of seeing Legolas again, learning from a casual conversation that he had led a party of hunters to chase a breed of monstrous spiders, descendants of Shelob the Black Scourge, away from their lairs South of the mountains. I waited for his return, my spirit brimming with the white fire of my newly born affection. I did not hope for his love; only for the opportunity of seeing him again.
As one of our archers, I was charged with escorting parties of our people as they set out to explore our new dwelling. Mirkwood was treacherous still, King Thranduil had warned us; until we had found our way on its shady paths, better to use caution. On one such expedition I set out, ten days after our arrival; and when I had safely brought my charges back to the palace, as the Sun climbed to her peak at ease, I slung my bow upon my shoulder and made my way deep among the trees.
Thick was the foliage on their branches; a place made to hide and protect an Elvish realm. Closing my eyes, I listened to the voices of the trees, distinguishing anger and pain, but also a desire for new times. Yes, perhaps it had been better to seek for a new world, abandoning the old, loved one blemished and scarred by shadow and malice.
It was, I remember, a clear winter day; the air poked with cold fingers at my skin through the cloth of my tunic, and beneath my feet the ground was soft with dead leaves. I delighted in the richness of the air, in the pale light that filtering through the leaves tinged with green. My mind was empty, open to the soft talk of the world around me; empty until the wood became different, its silence sharpened, and I perceived that I was not alone anymore.
Silently, smoothly, I readied my arch; too carefully hidden was the presence to belong to monsters or blundering Orcs. Another Elf, perhaps? But the Enemy could take many forms and avail himself of different seductions.
I was in a clearing; as I moved towards the trees, towards my unseen companion, I perceived him to move, shift further from me. I followed; and again the elusive presence retreated deep in the leaves. Teasing me, it led me around in circles, out in wild paths through the wood. Always one step ahead of me, a much better hunter and tracker, clearly, but not caring much for hiding his trail. He wanted me to follow.
Half-worried, half-amused I delved into parts of Mirkwood till then unknown, I listened to the happy trill of freshly discovered brooks, inhaled the scent of different plants. If this was the Enemy, his devices and tastes were startingly similar to those of Silvan Elves.
For the better part of that day I allowed myself to go astray, always on the lookout for that imperceptible trace. Until the sky grew red, and the shadows of Mirkwood deepened. When the green light turned to an early darkness I looked around, and the trail had disappeared. I was far from home, and as a gentle wind rustled through the leaves and Mirkwood chanted with it, the slightest hint of fear crept upon me. Had I so easily been deceived, one of a long line of Elves to perish this way?
My heart trembled, and I urged it not to betray me, to sustain me in my search for way back. And just then, as the last remnants of light left the glade, a voice I already knew resonated behind me.
“You are a good tracker, maiden of Ithilien.”
I blessed the darkness that hid the joy in my eyes; my voice was steady when I turned and replied: “Your trail was far too easy to pick, prince of Mirkwood. If I did not know better, I should think you wanted me to follow.”
Even in the darkness, I could tell he was smiling.
“I played with you, my lady, and I ask your forgiveness for this. But I hope you enjoyed the beauty of Mirkwood, as I have shown it to you.”
I smiled myself.
“Deep are the shadows and hidden the paths in this realm, Legolas, son of Thranduil, but I do not fear them. In time, I may come to love them and accept them as my true home.”
There was silence for a moment before he replied: “And yet you regret Ithilien and its lost beauty.”
My answer was woven with sadness. “We always regret exile, however sweet it may appear.”
“You are wise, maiden of Ithilien.”
He drew nearer, stopping in front of me. His nex words were barely more than whispers. “And yet I hope you will lay down your sorrows one day, and know again joy.”
He did not wait for me to reply. He turned and led the way, and I followed again, this time without deceit in his wake.
We had almost come to the palace when he asked, his voice coming suddenly out of the darkness: “What is your name, my lady?”
“Míriel.”
Chapter 2
Archers
When he appeared on the threshold I felt my heart dilate. A strange calmness filled me, such as never before I had experienced. He was there. I lay down the linen I was helping fold, and bowed my head.
“My lord Legolas.”
“My lady Mìriel.”
He advanced into the room, the others present falling silent. When he stopped in front of me, I found that I could not look at him. My eyes remained fixed on my fingers, resting lightly on the folded creases of the cloth.
“Would you be willing, my lady, to abandon these peaceful occupations for a more warlike quest?”
“That, my lord, depends on the quest you’ll require of me.”
He smiled. I raised my eyes to met his, but carefully, as carefully as when you dare challenge the skies, and look at the Sun.
“Many creatures used to dwell in the shadow of Dol Guldur, and not all of them have left with their master. I’m leaving again to go hunting them, and people of Ithilien shall be welcome to our party. Will you come, my lady?”
The wood, its green light. The same in which I had seen him for the first time. Running beside him, listening to the music of the bowstrings as they were released. I bowed my head.
“With joy, my lord.”
“We leave at dawn.” He paused, as if about to depart, but when the silence lengthened I looked up at him again.
“I am glad you are coming, my lady.”
He did not wait for my reply, and in truth he seldom did. He walked away.
The hunting party assembled in front of the closed doors of the palace, speaking in low voices in the uncertain light that precedes sunrise. Mirkwood was always darker than the sky above its cloak of leaves, and the first gray hints of the day filtered with difficulty, blending shapes and features in one display of shadows. But when the prince emerged at last, my eyes found immediately the grace with which he moved, and before the others I understood that we were about to start on the chase.
Not many words were uttered that day. We travelled South, through paths invisible but for the experience of Silvan Elves, listening. The wood changed. On the invisble line before the foot of the mountains the trees shivered, the song of the birds left place for a moment to a pitched silence. The shadows deepened and lengthened, as we entered the part of the Woodland Realm that had suffered the most of the Dark Lord’s malice.
Miles and miles stretched before us, plants uncounted before the forsaken path of the Dwarvish road and, past it, the empty terror and silent threat of the Lonely Mountain. But here the wood prepared itself, the earth waked, the trees gathered their strength before the weakness of a corrupted place.
In the watchful silence of Mirkwood we made our way, splitting after dark in three different directions.
“Come with us, my lady Mìriel.”
Walking in the darkness unrelieved by lights where the hunters of Thranduil alone could find a way we never stopped, letting our minds wander, dreaming behind open eyes in the substitute for sleep that the Children of Men so often have envied us. Another dawn came, but no bird awoke to greet it.
The chase had begun.
I was raised to be a hunter and a tracker, not unlike each of the Elves that dwell in woods. Ithilien had been my territory, its every path one of my veins, its every vale a crease of my skin. Now I learnt another wood, I let it penetrate into my conscience, I let it be become part of me. Following the archers of Mirkwood I took down wild boar and stray wolf, creatures grown ferocious beyond their nature under the evil influence of the Necromancer.
We wept and sang a lament for them when we burnt their carcasses. Men and Noldor will deny it, but Teleri know it. Every animal hunted and killed lingers in the wood, becomes part of its music, its spirit inhabiting the wind till it finds a new life. We wished for them that day for it to be mild.
The sunset was red over the highest trees, and we fell silent, sitting on the ground around the pyre that burnt our quarry, purifying the earth. Some still chanted under their breath, their songs nothing more than the rustling of the leaves.
I tightened the string on my bow, let my fingers play with it as if with an harp. Almost inaudible was its melody, but its vibrations reverbarated in the subtle note of the wind. I raised my eyes. Legolas, seated across the fire from me, his bow resting idly on his lap, was watching me.
I did not smile. It had been a day of blood and slaughter. In that early evening fading quickly into night every beauty was tainted.
The smoke filled the air, blighting it. The prince rose and moved through the bluish curls of vapour, approaching me.
“Let us walk, my lady. It was our duty to do this, but I do not like to watch its results unfold.”
I bowed my head in assent and followed him. Our companions did not wonder at our departure, their eyes deep in contemplation of the flames.
Legolas chose our path throught the trees without hesitation, going farther and farther from the clearing where we had lit the fire, until the smell of charred flesh was nothing but an unpleasant remembrance, lost in the fresh scent of leaves and bark. In the thick of the trees, around us the sounds of the forest as the daily animals went to sleep and the creatures of the night crept out, we stopped.
“One day,” I said, almost a promise in the belief I felt in my words, “One day the shadows of Mirkwood shall be empty of menace, and the light will be only a stain of radiance, not a knife in the eternal darkness Sauron the Fallen has left behind.”
“May the spirits of the wood listen to you, maiden of Ithilien.”
Silently, now we sat on a fallen trunk, its bark softened by moss.
“Talk to me about your land, my lady.”
The sweet slopes, bright woods of my country were too far from this place, its subdued light, its hidden threat. My lost land. But as I closed my eyes I smelled again the thousand flowers that filled the clearings as Spring advanced, I saw again the golden and ruby beauty of Autumns that graced even the ruins of the ancient kings. Before I could remember the poisoned vapours that sometimes the wind brought us from the narrow gorge of Minas Morgul, or the shadowy threat lingering at the end of the perilous stairs bringing into Mordor and his abandoned plains, I started speaking.
“Ithilien, my lord, is a land of sweet beauty. Leaves fall from the trees as winter draws nearer, we do not know the eternal green of your realm. But bright is the Sun in dappled paths on the new grass, and sadly beautiful the songs we used to sing among the branches of the trees. Sometimes we would visit the ruined halls of the kings of Men, and the oldest among us would remember their brilliant, fragile glory. The summers are long, and it seldom rains, although drawing nearer to the Great River the trees grow rarer, and heather stains brightly violet the banks above the city of Osgiliath, often covered in mist. But there we do not go. We remain close to our streams, their water tasting like dogrose on the tongue…” My voice trailed away. “But that was long ago. When we left the trees would hesitate in blossoming new leaves, and the water had lost its taste.”
“Forgive me if I made you sad, my lady. It is possible that one day Mordor loses its corrupting power, and the beauty of Ithilien be restored.”
“I wish I could believe you, prince of Mirkwood.”
He made no reply, only gazing at me. At last he talked, his voice low but firm: “Two thousand years I have walked this Earth, my lady Mìriel, and never have I wished for anything more than the wilderness of Greenwood the Great. But now I feel as if I could leave this woods for the South and its gilded vales, and fight the shadow to reconquer its ancient beauty.”
Like rippling water his words resonated in me, and I answered: “And I would return, if I were not alone in that fight.”
In the falling darkness I could barely distinguish his features, but I felt his eyes, fixed on me. Slowly, he took my hand and brought it to his lips.
“You would not be.”
Chapter 3
Seasons
If you ask poets they’ll tell you that love is a flame. That it strikes you hard and changes you forever, that it will carve itself into your every feature. Of course, sometimes, poets lie.
I have known such a love – I bleed for it still. I have recognized how ecstasy and pain can mingle and destroy all that you previously knew. But there are many kinds of love, and not all of them hurt so much.
The love I knew with Legolas grew slow and great and fair, as a tree may grow in Elvish woods untouched by axe and fire. It ripened over a long time, as the seasons passed changing nothing of Mirkwood’s deathless green. Only its shadows grew lighter, and in the renewed brightness the Elves of Thranduil, me among them, played and sung in the clearings under undimmed stars.
Like a flower slowly unfurling its petals after a violent rain our love became strong, and in it was woven the joy of the years as the Shadow of Dol Guldur and the mourning of the Battle of Five Armies were left behind. Elvish sorrow can be bottomless, but when we can, we like to heal. Bright voiced echoes once again South of the mountains.
Although many, after the first twenty years or so, expected it to happen at any moment, Legolas and I did not marry. We felt no need, not yet, not while the world seemed to fill with light once again and so beautiful it was to tread and find countless paths that previous years had marred and ruined. We rediscovered the beauty of the earth, and felt like we were the first to run with weightless feet on new, soft grass.
One does not linger too long on the years of happiness past. One has never much to say. What good would it be, now, to recall in clear detail every song composed beneath the Spring leaves, or describe the beautiful works that adorned Thranduil’s halls when his Elves forgot sorrow, and set their hands to making once again? There would be nothing but a distant, aching grief in recalling the countless nights spent sleeping in the woods, now almost free from menace and threat. All those years, a very long time for Man or Dwarf or Orc, are but a small part of my life, that still is not long according to Elvish counts.
It has been the brightest part of it, this is true. A cloudless morning before a long darkness. Night fell when we least expected it, and in its falling all stars ceased to shine. No hope was left, no light. Later, there was nothing but a blind, endless fight, bows raised in the mortal hunt of war. I learnt how deadly the Elvish skill of tracking and hunting can be. But all this happened only after forty years spent in joy in the green light, pale shadow of Mirkwood the Great.
Looking back now all that remains of that season is the opal clearness of a happy haze. The days fell into each other, and I cared not to count them. In the confused joy, now marred with sorrow, that comes to my mind when I indulge in the remembrance of those days, sometimes a memory comes back sharper of the others, double-edged and painful. My heart throbs.
Legolas’ shining eyes, his soft voice. The taste of his lips on mine.
The ruin began, this I remember clearly, the day of the Dùnadan.
“Your run is over!”
“Don’t speak before the time!”
Headlong I dived into the pool, the freshness of the water seeping through my clothes. Startled, fish swam away from me with reproachful strokes, and I went deeper under the surface, making my way among the long stems of the water-lilies, idly moving with the current.
When I emerged on the other side of the small lake of Legolas there was no trace.
“Come out, my lord,” I called him, “I won, but it does not become you to remain sulking among the trees, like a scorned deer. Come out!”
There was no answer but the talk of the trees, endless in the forest. The air was crisp, the Autumn near. I took advantage of every last occasion to play in the water before the winter frost. The clarity of these pools made me forget the bright streams of Ithilien, whose remembrance sometimes came back to sting.
“My lord?” I asked once again, less playfulness in my voice, of the woods so quiet in the morning. “Legolas!”
Before I had time to look around for more, I felt something grasping my ankle, and I was dragged under once more. Down and down I was brought till opening my eyes the sun was but a stain on the surface, far above me. A shadow filled my eyes, strong arms encircled my waist, and Legolas swam me up again. Lightly, before our head broke the water, his mouth sought mine.
“That was cheating, prince,” I scolded him, hiding a smile behind my hand.
“Not nearly as much as forcing me to take a plunge in this biting cold, my lady. I daresay we’ll never regain the shore of this ocean you have brought us in.”
“Let us stay here, then. Perhaps all fishes were once imprudent Elves.”
“I can think of worse fates.”
He smiled. His long hair hung in wet curtains around his neck, and his pale skin glistened. I looked elsewhere. After forty years, sometimes it still hurt to look at him. Gently, his fingers sought my chin, making me raise my face to his. He bent over me, and his nose gently stroked mine.
One thing had not changed, no matter how many seasons had passed. When I was with Legolas, there could be no pain. Only this boundless peace.
“My lord, forgive us.”
We detached. A party of archers stood on the edge of the pool, their captain looking discreetly elsewhere.
“Speak.”
“Your father calls for your presence at the palace. The Dùnadan has come with many news, and not all of them are glad.”
“Short are the years since the last bringer of bad tidings left these woods. Much too short. We will come at once.”
A moment more, and the archers were but glimpses of cloth among the trees. Soon, they vanished.
Men think Elves can see the future. In truth, few among us are gifted or cursed with authentic foresight, but most of us can feel the change of the tide. The Sun kept shining, but suddenly the water of the pool did not glitter.
“Come, my lady.”
Legolas climbed back on the bank, stretching a hand to help me. The cool air caressed briskly my wet skin, but caring not for it we walked back, through the trees to the entrance of Thranduil’s palace of many caves. For the first time, as I crossed their threshold and sought their corridors hung with bright lamps, I shivered.
The Dùnadan, his face, once beautiful, now carved with the weight of years notwithstanding the long life of his kin, stood in front of the King, his dark clothes stained and marked as by a long journey.
We bowed our head in greeting. In the past long years sometimes he would come, crossing the Wild, following tracks with Elvish skill. He had been raised in the wisdom of Imladris, and in his youth he had looked as fair as the Noldor lords of old. But as years passed ad we remained unchanged, only gaining in wisdom as a new depth to our keen eyes, the Dùnadan grew and ripened; and he paid for his maturity with changed features, marked countenance. His story was written on his skin.
“The tide I bring is not fair, and my heart grieves. The storm draws nearer, my Lord Thranduil.”
“Long has been our guard on the borders of our wood, looking for the Shadow, knowing it would come back. Joyful are the years we count from the battle of Dol Guldur, but indeed new tidings have come.”
“The malice of the Dark Lord ever grows. One errand, seemingly small, has guided my steps so North, and yet it has to be fulfilled.”
“If you may speak of it, and we be able to offer assistance, do not hesitate in asking.”
“I am waiting here for Mithrandir to join me in the hunt of a small, pitiful creature, a living thing ruined by the mischief of the Enemy. A crawling, debased animal it would look to you, and yet deadly can be his skills, grown murderous under the Shadow.”
“Here such a creature does not dwell. Long we have searched and hunted, and our work is not yet over; but of the many evils that Sauron caused, this is unknown to us.”
“We suspected as much. Still, when the hunt begins the creature could seek escape this way from our chase. If it does, pray try to retain him, and harm it not.”
“We will not, as far as we can. And now, if, Dùnadan, the wizard bade you wait, you may do so here, and be an honoured guest.”
The Man bowed his head.
The court broke, the king withdrew, and Legolas and I, till then standing respectfully aside, went to speak to the Dùnadan.
For some years we had not seen him, and we asked news of many things. What we learnt was such to chill hearts less sensitive than Elvish ones, and after words had been exchanged and the moment to lead him away to his quarters approached, I resolved to question him as to a matter I had previously proposed to banish forever from my thoughts.
“What tides of Ithilien, my lord?”
His face was sad.
“Long has been since last I visited the Realm of the South, my lady, and surely Mithrandir will tell you more. But long are the Shadows cast on the Tower of Guard, and all of its territories are now besieged.”
I closed my eyes. Valley and shade and leaf. Running stream. Dappled light of fairer Suns. The truth that this endless peace had hidden from me now hurt anew. The land of my fathers was calling me back.
I opened my eyes. The Man looked at me gravely, but all light had gone from Legolas’ glance. He knew.
Chapter 4
Leaving
My reflection in the water was nothing but a blur. The creatures of the pool felt the Shadow as keenly as any of us; they moved in tight circles of fear, breaking the surface with ripples like scars. An unquiet wind shook the leaves, their furious rustling an answer to all its fears. The smell of the air had changed. The words of the wizard had broken the peace, told me all I needed to know.
I had not been alone in listening to him, my limbs quivering as his voice described the grass of our land downtrodden and ruined, the hills blackened and marked by Orcish fires. Orc-work had passed through our woods like a fell wind, trees had been uprooted and left to die. The Men of Gondor were fighting back: the blood they spilt, the blood they lost themselves mingled and further tainted the earth. Our abandoned dwelling were host to whispers of better times long past.
Elves know when their time is over. Nonetheless, sometimes they choose to ignore it. I had not taken part in the council that had followed Mithrandir’s departure. My people had gathered and talked long, raised their voices in disagreement as for countless time had not happened. I was not there. My mind was made up; I had nothing to say. Ithilien demanded we came back.
I had left the palace unheeded, the Elves of Mirkwood had ears for our council alone. For forty years we had been as one, but now our roads parted again, at least for a time. They were Wood Elves themselves; they understood that our allegiance lay with the trees that had seen us been born. But I could not be serene, and desired to see none; Legolas least of all.
He had kept me whole, his love had made me forget. Because he was there the voice of the longing for my land had grown to a subdued whisper into my heart, like the faded print of a sorrow long past. We had left Ithilien because we knew it was lost to us, no longer a haven, no longer a safe place. And yet its earth was our flesh, its streams our blood, its trees our bones. Tainted or pure, it was our home, our mother. Tearing away our need for it had been tearing away a piece of our soul. You can learn new woods, you can love new paths, grow accustomed to different skies; but you belong to the ones that your eyes first saw as they opened. The Blessed Realm of Valinor itself had not been enough for the Elves grown in the darkness of Arda lit by stars alone, before Sun or Moon were ever wrought.
I raised my head. All around me the wood murmured with a disturbed voice, the whistling of the wind through leaf and rock a vain protest. No wind could now chase away the clouds. Whatever creature the wizard and the Dùnadan were casing through the wilderness, its footsteps had been harbingers of doom.
No sound announced him, but the prince needed not to touch me for me to feel his tension, a bowstring drawn to its limit. I did not turn to look at him. I feared to know what was inscribed in his beloved face.
“I am going back.” In my voice was a sadness that was but the outline of my resolve. There was steel in my decision, as much as it tore me apart.
“I know it,” he replied, “But I cannot come.”
Now I looked at him, his brow creased, his grave features a mirror of my own. His hands were clenched into fists.
“I would never ask you to.”
“And yet I want to. My father forbids it.”
“The king is right. Your duty lies here.”
“But my spirit shall leave with you.”
He sat down on the grass beside me. The blades were shining, pearls of humidity like raindrops on their pointed ends. His presence made the wind gentler, but my pain keener. This long happiness had split me in two; my allegiance was divided. Not until the Shadow had passed could I be whole again. Choices will have to be made, when Evil walks the Earth; but their necessity only makes them harder.
“A part of me will linger here.”
“A part. Not all of you, my lady.”
“I cannot – “
“Your love goes to your land. I wish I could have made this your home.”
“Legolas…”
There was despair in his strength as he took me into his arms, bitterness in his mouth as his lips crushed mine. To those born to believe eternity is their heirloom, having no time is difficult to understand. But when they do, urgency streaks their every act, and living becomes painful.
“Too long we have waited, thinking all the ages of the world lay before us, and countless seasons could pass in play before our choice. Marry me before you leave, Mìriel.”
“There is no need. I will come back.”
“The war is upon us, and none that live to see such times know whether they shall live to see their end. I shall not be parted from you, not if our spirits are made into one.”
“And I shall not mar our goodbye with an act of despair.” I took his hand, whose lines I knew so well. The texture of his skin was to me more familiar than my own. “Always has the shadow passed. There is still hope.”
The melancholy in his eyes was a blade cutting through me. “I wish I could believe you, my lady.”
“Then do.” I did not dare caress his face, the contours that would be emblazoned in my memory for ageless years. “Our spirits shall not be parted. The memory of our seasons together shall not fade. Wars shall be fought and won. And when Ithilien be renewed and the Shadow only a remembrance stained with sorrow now healed, then I will come back, and marry you in the green light of Mirkwood before the leaves fall.”
“When the war breaks, come back then. Together we shall weather this storm.”
“This I can promise. The dawn of the new sun will find us together.”
There were tears in his eyes now, tears on his lips. Like tears tasted my mouth when he kissed me. The wind was subdued. This chain it could not break.
A month it took to put together the long ranks of the Elves of Ithilien, a month to gather food and weapons for our long journey back. The last evening before our departure a banquet was held, and many songs sung, many cups raised for the friends who were going away. Thranduil king spoke, and he said: “For long years we have hunted and sung, drunk and lived together. This will be your home till the breaking of the world. When the times grow perilous and the storm draws nearer, then we will call you, and hold together against the tempest.” Gelmir our lord raised his cup, and promised. Together we would fight and die, if dying needed be. We would seek the halls of Mandos together.
I have no memory of it. That last night I spent walking the woods with Legolas, son of the king, my promise to him a pledge, my tears a seal. Stars polished by sadness shone above our heads, and keener the smell of musk than ever before. When the sun rose, we watched it together as it unfolded in the sky light veils, his head cradled in my lap, his hand in mine.
Many words were spoken that night, many things done; but of this I shall leave no account here. Mingled joy and sorrow of ages past they appear to me now, and in the deepest fibres of my being they are woven.
The morning that saw our departure grew sullen as we left, blighted with low clouds, black shapes heavy with rain. A sharp wind seized our hair, made it whips against our skin. Our cloaks were useless, they cracked in the wind like sails.
Only once did I turn back. I guessed, more than seeing it, his shape among the leaves.
Chapter 5
Ithilien
Going home resembles never having left. Countless miles you tread, under the hoofs of the horse hard land stained with grass and rock you do not know, then one day the animal raises his ears and neighs. You do not heed him, because you know it already, where you are: shapes and smells, sounds you recognize as your very own. For one moment your heart lifts, and you believe that you have done that impossible deed, turning back time.
But its tides never turn. The future of the Eldar has no boundaries, the bottom of their past is deep; yet with all their power, they cannot break the limits of Eä. When we reached our abodes, the forsaken place where centuries had been light on our hearts, we found to greet us a sadness that we had no words to speak. The Orcs had not ruined our dwellings, their fear stronger than their hatred, but earth and wood and sky had reclaimed what was theirs, had broken the steps, invaded the thresholds. Leaves of many years were a carpet of disdainful sadness under our feet as we trod the paths once more.
For many days we spoke in whispers, our spirits heavy. We set about repairing, rebuilding, archers watching silently the invisible borders of our land. And yet, even this melancholy was more bearable than the thought of being so far. We did not regret Mirkwood, however safe we had been there. Always in my mind Legolas was with me, the remembrance of a past sun, a jewel hidden in the folds of my memory when I closed my eyes to sleep. In my dreams he spoke in words subdued, and when I woke up I embraced nothing but the shadow of my desire. When I rose from my bedding and walked once more among the trees, greeting them, calling them by their true names – their memory was long, their voices spoke of sorrow, but our absence they forgave – I knew I could not have stayed. Split, forever split in two until the shadow had passed.
We found in the woods traces of Orcs, but also traces of Men. The rangers of Gondor had passed from our territory, their Nùmenorean blood called by the remains of our presence. Time and time again they had dwelt in our abandoned places, leaving behind the blackened rocks of small bonfires, the flattened grass where they had more often camped. Dark stains on the stone spoke to us of long past deaths. We mourned for the spirits that had left Arda, exhaling their last breath here. Their shadows joined our sorrow, and together we walked.
And yet we could find joy, however small, in the labour of our work, joy in seeing the herbs revive under our skilled hands, the earth heal as we weeded out the tainted life brought by Mordor and its winds. We tasted the water, smelled the air, and knew that our time was counted and scarce, scarce even by human accounts and their short memory. Every futile victory was a losing game, a doomed challenge to the power of a storm we could not withstand. We stole moments at the price of years of pain. But such is the perseverance of the Eldar and our faith, the same that brought us to die for four hundred years under the red shadow of Thangorodrim: a belief in the power of a great deed, even knowing that it will bear no fruit. When all hope will fade, Elves shall perish of iron and fire, under stars unchanged.
The life I had left behind was the unseen colour that shaded my days. Every joy was bitter with memories of that other place, the place that held a part of me: had I left all of myself in Mirkwood, it would have hurt less. Somewhere, somehow, I would have been whole. But even as the music of the streams reminded me of his singing voice my heart rejoiced when my eyes opened every morning on the lazy slopes, gentle smells of Ithilien, and every tree reconquered, every pool sweetened by our presence was new life in my veins. My home, my only place. Stronger than happiness, stronger than love was the conscience of being where I should be. Against that grim resolve forty years of light could do nothing but wither and fall.
It was then that I became a warrior. My hunting craft honed by the silent warfare against the evils that had haunted the woods, I raised my bow to kill. I schooled myself in feeling nothing as the Orcs fell. Their terrible face was the mask of the beauty they once possessed, their shrieks as they lay dying the echo of the voices with which they had begged for mercy in vain. Once Elves, corrupted by the Black One that could not make, only ruin. The sages whispered our time on Middle Earth was passing, that we would remain but as memories of things past. In the blind, yellow eyes of dead Orcs I saw the mirror of what we could become. In the decaying ruins of realms long gone, the print of what we would be.
Love was under my eyelids, elation in my heart as I ran through the bushes, the track of the Orcs still fresh in the air. My nostrils dilated, I followed my companion as he chose the path through the undergrowth, till we reached the trees. There he stopped abruptly, examining the ground.
“Men have passed here, not long ago.”
“Enemies?”
“No. Their boots were soft, their steps silent. Rangers.”
“They are on our same chase.”
“If they can defeat them, we withdraw.”
I nodded. We passed into the wood, now more carefully, our ears strained. The life of the forest was watchful as we moved, the animals silenced in fear. Knife and arrow and blood; the infamous war of the wood, of hiding and surprising. In the darkness when Vanyar and Noldor had left for the West, Telerin learnt the cold art of surviving thus. Times where different then. There was no sun, no moon. Only stars to light our paths, but they shone brightly. The first Orcs resembled us more closely. The tales of those who were alive to see it are shrouded in a mist that smells of fear.
The hand of Acharn on my arm, and I stopped. He looked aside, nodding imperceptibly. Noiselessly, we took to the trees. Not long time passed before the Men broke into the clearing. Four of them, their daggers unsheated, and stained with blood. They talked in low voices, and with urgency.
“What are they saying?”
I spoke no language but my own; Acharn had learnt Westron from the Men of Esgaroth, and listened.
“The Orcs are behind them, but their companions should have stopped them. They are splitting to cover the strays.”
“We should do the same.”
He nodded. “Watch the clearing. Wait until the moon raises. Then withdraw.”
I bowed my head in assent, and he was gone. The sky was dark, the stars undimmed; Tilion was still far. The clearing was now empty, but for one Man, who had stayed behind. He sat on a rock near the edge of the bushes, watching the wood where his companions had disappeared. He lay down his dagger, and raised his sleeve over his elbow, taking off his thick brown gloves. He was wounded, although not deeply.
Curiously I watched him. I had seen from afar the Men of the Lake City on the edge of Mirkwood, but had had no desire to speak with them. The Dùnadan I had spoken with, marveling as I saw the time pass leaving marks upon his brow; and yet his manner of speech, his very attitude was that of a high Elven lord. The Men of Gondor we shared our land with were always a glimpse in my eyes, something to avoid. To them, we had been always un unseen presence, a taste in water and wood.
The Man took a sip from his flask, his slumped shoulders telling me of tiredness, He poured some water on his wound, and as he tended it I saw the Orc. The Men could not have expected somebody to escape so far, not if they had left only one behind. And yet this Orc had made it, not a fighter but a tracker, small and stealthy in the bushes, his large nose strained. More difficult to see, more difficult to kill, and yet surely now the Man would turn and pin it to the ground…closer and closer drew the Orc, a knife now in his hand.
The arrow left my bow, the action a reflection of my thought, and the Man stood up at its hissing through the air, at the yelp with which the Orc died. Now he took his dagger, and called.
“Mablung? Damrod?”
Names perhaps, I wondered. I remained silent, my muscles tense. Receiving no answer the man took his bow, a grimace of pain on what of his face I could see that was not hidden by a hood. I could not understand what he said now, but he was aware of my presence, his senses sharpened in the imminence of danger. I could have retreated unseen, left him there, with his bow and his fear, alone in the woods until his companions came back; but the thought of the Orc kept me. Silently I slung my bow on my shoulder, and descended from the tree.
As I advanced out of the shadow of the wood in the starlight like a pale veil I held my hands high, to show the Man I meant him no harm. At first keeping me under the aim of his bow, when I was closer he lowered it. His lips uttered a single word, a breath of surprise, and reverence.
“Nimîr.”
Chapter 6
Man and Elf
“Nimîr.”
I ceased walking at a short distance from him, listening to that one, whispered word. Nimîr. A greeting, perhaps. Or, in his language unknown to me, a word for what I was.
“I do not speak the tongue of Men.”
My voice was low, a murmur in the wind. I regretted not being able to explain, to tell him that now he was safe. That I could cure his wound more easily than the healers of his people could.
He bowed his head. I did not expect it when he spoke, because it was my language that came from his mouth.
“Greetings, my lady. Forgive my ignorance. I know but little.”
His voice was different from that of an Elf, less harsh than the Dùnadan’s. It was deep, and had a quality of smoothness to it. His accent was strange, very unlike the chanting of my Silvan people, or the rounded speech of the Noldor. I bowed my head in return.
“Forgive the brisk manner of my arrival. The Orc drew closer.”
“I owe you my life.”
“It is nothing to save in a war. Every life is in peril.”
“I hope one day to repay this gift.”
The ghost of a possibility hung on the air. I could have repeated that it was nothing, I could have been courteous, and gone away. Disappeared, nothing but a memory to speak of as the brief days of his life drew ever on. But I was curious. It’s the small desires that lose us, I’ve said that before. But I did not know it then. I had not learnt. And when I did, it was too late.
“Tell me your name.”
Surprise, again. But now smiling lightly he let his hood fall, and his words were falling water when he said: “Forgive my rudeness. I am Faramir, son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor. I am the captain of the rangers of Ithilien.”
“I am Mìriel, of the Elves of this land.”
I looked at him, and he was different from everything I had ever seen. Beauty in a bodily shape means nothing to Elves, for all of us are fair; and love strikes us in looking upon something that to us is strange and charming, fitting answer in some fashion to a question we have always asked. Elven beauty does not decline, but it grows deep and pensive in the long years of our life, it acquires shades, as the sea changes colour as the sun treads his path.
How could an Elf find a human fair? There have been Men, especially in the Old Days, who were beautiful to look upon, and stories are made of them; Adanedhel was called Tùrin son of Hùrin, the Elf-Man, and Beren his kinsman won Luthien whose beauty exceeded the boundaries of Middle Earth. But even in them we saw fairness as a transient quality, a shining ray before the long twilight of their old age. The beauty of Men is sad to gaze at, for it is frail, and soon lost. Unlike the trees, they have but one spring, and it passes too soon.
And yet when for the first time I looked at Faramir, son of Denethor, I understood what an Elf could see in a mortal face, what sadness and wisdom, what terrible strength: the strength of a kind forever renewed, passing from generation to generation, like leaves on a tree; and there was no meanness on his face, just a melancholy infinitely different from the sadness of Elves, for he had but a short life to rejoice, and the cloud of a past grief shaded him. And there was kindness in his eyes, grace in his voice; how could Men grow evil, that had these eyes?
I looked away. Handsome he was, too, fair-haired and fair-skinned, and with blue-green eyes; but that was but an afterthought in my mind. I saw his arm, still uncovered, and the jagged line of a cut upon it.
“Let me tend your wound.”
He said nothing, but offered his arm, and with the balm I brought with me, the medicine every hunter of the woods knows how to brew and preserve, I cleaned it.
“It will not fester,” I said, “You shall heal quickly.”
There was a sound in the trees, betraying someone trying to be stealthy, and failing; I counted the steps, and there were three walking in the shadow beneath the leaves. The companions of the Man were coming back. Behind his shoulder, the moon was rising, pale face of drowned warrior as the stars grew dim.
“Your rangers approach. I take my leave, Faramir son of Denethor.”
The line of the trees was close, closer than I remembered as I reached him in long steps. Away; and what would he become but a remembrance in a long life, the shadow of a story to recount in yet far times, when of this Man would remain nothing but ash and rock.
“Shall I ever see you again, Mìriel of the Elves?”
He had talked in whispers, perhaps asking the night, perhaps himself; but my ears heard him, and my body turned, my voice answering before I could think.
“Long are the valleys of Ithilien, Child of Men, and countless the paths. Yet for long years I have trodden them, and if here you walk, I will see you again before the Sun of your life has set.”
The Men were nearer, the black of the sky now a faded ink. Before he could reply, I disappeared.
Thus I met Faramir, Captain of Ithilien, and for long days and months afterwards I thought again about that night rarely, and in wonder. Unreal it was to me, its lines the uncertain contours of a dream. By day I walked, I laboured, I fought to preserve the land that was to me mother and father before the time grew late; by night I dreamt of a life past, and I awoke with my heart torn.
It was chance that brought again the Man on my path, a chance that to this day refuses to be called unlucky or blessed; the chance of a night when the shadow of Mordor was deep and heavy upon the land, and the sky low, a burden and not an infinite plain.
In shadow I found him, and since then in shadow, although I did not understand it, I have walked.
Sweet was the voice of the stream when I bent over its waters to drink. The leaves where falling, an autumn drew nearer that had in his hand the whips of a winter made of ice. The sages of my family shook their heads, said that soon, soon would the messengers of Thranduil king come to call us back. Two years we had been there; and to an Elf another two would be a short time.
Every morning felt like the last as our despair grew, running over earth, hiding in the leaves, bringing death to the Orcs. That night had fallen far too soon, the sun had gone down without waiting. He had left me stranded over the hills, and quick were my steps as I hurried home.
I thought of evenings as dark as this, before I found the light of the peace Legolas had brought me. Raising my voice in defiance of the clouds pregnant with malice I sang a song, a song of green light and clean water and running feet, a song of deep halls carved into the earth, and clear love under the dome of unblighted skies. Singing I walked, and as I went my heart swelled with power, and I thought my song could reach over land and river and tree, to touch the spirit of the far prince who held half of me. Long are the songs of the Elves of the wood, and yet even they have an end; and when mine came I was under a crest of deep rock, and raising my eyes I saw a figure cut neatly against the firmament.
He was gazing at me intently; now he turned and called with a sound that imitated the chirping of a day bird. Another call similar to his answered. In the time required for him to do this, I could have gone; but I did not, held in my place by the same intuition, the same unthinking response that in the first night we had met had brought that answer to my lips.
I stayed, as he carefully chose his path down among the rocks on the flank of the hill. Lingering until he came close to me, the faded light casting deep shadows beneath his eyebrows. His eyes were invisible.
“Your words did not lie, my lady. Again I meet you.”
“Well found, son of Denethor.”
Silence fell, a silence as thick as the cloud of a first evil, long ago in forgotten tales. I shivered.
“It is not well to linger in the open. Come with me, Mìriel of the Elves.”
We sat in the cover of a rock deeply cut in the hill, and there stayed, as the shadow gathered and the night lengthened. We sat apart, and in the darkness that grew I could not see him, only listen to his voice. We spoke of many things as the stars circled unseen above the clouds, and another world that knew not of sullying kept following its eternal path.
The hours were light, and when darkness was relieved by a shy day, only then did I rise.
“The sun will soon shine upon these roads, Faramir, Captain of Ithilien. I have to go back.”
“The same can be said for me, my lady.”
Now, in the light that strengthened with every new moment, I looked at him again. Keen Eldarin eyes can see the changes a few months bring to a mortal face, and yet with that time his young features had grown, more defined now in wisdom and strength. And there still sat that eternal sadness no words seemed to change.
“Shall I ever see you again, Mìriel of the Elves?”
I smiled. “Once already you asked this of me, Faramir, son of Denethor. Chance brought us together again, and yet I expect its ways are too lengthy for the short time of Men.”
The conscience of his mortality was clear in his eyes, but still he struggled and smiled back. “I have not all eternity at my disposal. And yet for what of this time is given us, I wish we could meet and speak together again.”
It’s the simple desires that destroy us, showing themselves as paths pleasant to follow; a desire for a kin mind in an hour of shadow, a solace to the heart when absence is too keen. Men pass, Elves remain. Of their time imperfect and doomed sometimes we have thought we could dispose at will. Every time we have been proved wrong; and yet we have never learnt.
“Your wish is mine, son of Denethor.”
Chapter 7
Call
We do not remember the years of happiness; but we can easily recollect the moments of content. As strange and misshapen as that content may come, living in the dark, tearing light away in morsels from the looming night. The double life I had led for two years became threefold; sometimes at night, rarely at first, more often as the time went by, I would meet the son of the Steward in the woods. He stole hours of his sleep, waking in the starlit black, exchanging words and tales; many a time he fell asleep as the dawn drew near, and I watched him dream, his features softening, his sadness like a cloak draped around his abandoned frame.
My people knew of our friendship soon; nor did I care to hide it. They said nothing of it, only recalling in absent voices ages vanished and gone and bonds of Elves and Men that had been matter of song before the blighting of the World. They saw me leave our dwellings late, and come back in the morning. Countless days I walked sleeping, after the fashion of my kind.
Sometimes Faramir would leave for days and weeks, returning to the city of stone of his fathers to receive orders, and make reports. Of his family he talked strangely: often of his brother, a great captain of Men, whom he loved dearly; seldom of his mother, dead too soon and too far from the Sea to which she had belonged. Then his sadness lit with the remembrance of the days before she left, and I recognized in the fading light of his words the root of the sadness that had made him noble. Of his father he never spoke; and if he received summons from him, he would simply say that Minas Tirith had called.
Our talks were the antidote to the poison of my days, as the sand on which our lives were built slid and the time I had thought infinite flew, the stars chasing each other in circles ever tighter. Curiosity had brought us together at first, a fascination for creatures unknown but for whispers and tales, and much of our early talking concerned chiefly our peoples, and the strange ways through which we had crossed the ages of Arda to this day. Slowly, as the sea shall wash a rock clear of sand, beneath the thirst of knowledge something else emerged, a likeness of spirit unexpected and unsought for, perhaps only guessed in silence during our first encounter, long before. Man, Elf; from the river of our kinds, two drops fallen on the same ground.
Time passed, and insensibly I learnt to live the life of Men, valuing each day, knowing the days I still had to spend here and thus were counted. Faramir and Ithilien, my friend and my land melted into one, green cloak, green earth, blue of eye and sky. The two years of our friendship were slow and fast, hours spent in song and word, and sometimes a silence that tasted kind on the tongue, clear water from springs untainted after so many foul sips.
To my far love, to Legolas the prince of a realm of golden and green, I returned in thought as to the memory of brightness, and peace. In the fear and turmoil the surrounded me in Ithilien Faramir was a rock to sustain me, but Legolas remained in my mind, like the shores behind the shipwrecked, where he longs to return. And yet I forgot the future, I never reflected upon it. Again, my spirit was split; and the part that resided in Mirkwood never changed, never faltered. But the part that was in my land, with my friend, grieved and fought and found content, and in between these two I cared not what was becoming of me.
Often I have asked myself how time, more or less of it, could have changed my tale. To this day I have no answer. Exile had brought me longing, but also love; and coming home a different grief, and a different joy. Our stories are woven into tapestry in the Halls of Nàmo, the Doomsman, and none that have seen them have come back to recount what there is told. In the tapestry I am but a thread; but in that moment upon me a darkness fell that was deeper and different from the simple absence of light. For in my darkness I would know happiness, however desperate, however fleeting; and I would learn how in times past the Eldar could burn. Since that night under the hill I had hung on a thread, unaware; now the conscience would come to me, and the thread would break.
I came home soon that night. The fires were warm, their flames high. I sat in silence, accepting the bowl of food that was offered me. Acharn came to sit beside me, and his face was that of one who brings ill news.
“A messenger of Thranduil has been here.”
I had waited for this moment, I had known it would come. Now I heard the words, and felt nothing. My heart was missing, and my blood did not move.
“When?”
“He left an hour before you came back. The king had bidden him to return immediately with the answer.”
“What did the Lord Gelmir say?”
“That we would leave before a week had passed.”
A lake of darkness was is in me, its waters quiet. I knew not what lay at the bottom. I rose, the blank eyes of Acharn on me as I went in search of our lord. The night had a different colour.
“My lord Gelmir.”
“Mìriel. I have been waiting for you. Sit with me.”
“I was told of the messenger.”
A shadow fell on his face.
“The time has come,”
The silence grew deep before I spoke again.
“I do not wish to leave.”
For a long time it seemed he would never answer, but eventually his words came, and they were laden with a black mood.
“This is my land. Here I have dwelt for endless time among my people, countless springs I have witnessed the leaves renewed. You are young still, Mìriel, and asking you to understand is hard. Yet I wish you could listen, and see. The time we have had here was not ours to take; we shall pay for it with much pain. Still we could not stay away, not unless we denied our nature, and tore our spirit apart. But now even grievous choices are beyond us. We cannot weather this storm.”
“We could fight.”
“No. We are too few. What this beloved earth will come to see is far more than mere bands of Orcs. Smell the air, Mìriel; it tastes of fear. Soon the Riders shall leave Morgul Vale, and a War will begin such as was not seen for many a year. We will stand in the North, where we are strong and many; as we promised Lord Thranduil, with our kinsmen we shall fight and perish.”
“We are not alone in Ithilien, my lord. The Men of Gondor – “
His eyes commanded my silence, and cold was their glance. They bared my spirit, crushing it in power.
“Your affection for the Captain of the Rangers has made you blind. The time of our alliance with Men is past, their strength is fading. No power is left in them, and their cities are dying.”
“And yet they shall linger, while we fly! Out of love for this country – “
“Out of which love would you remain, Mìriel?”
Words are blades. We may lie to ourselves, we may believe our own deceit; yet one day words will come to bite, and sting. The blood of our wounds shall then be a cold thing, and a cruel one; as truth forever shall be. I bowed my head. Gently, Lord Gelmir spoke again.
“It is ill-advised for the Firstborn to bind their hearts in love, whatever its form, to those who are fated to die. A cruel parting would always be the end, and we cannot follow them, not until the breaking of the world, and after.”
He took my hand, closing it around a cool, delicate shape.
“Legolas, son of the king, sends you this.”
On my palm silver and emerald gleamed. A small, a perfect green leaf.
“You had found happiness in the green shade of Mirkwood the Great; and your happiness has not gone. The prince calls you back, and your duty lies with your people. Say farewell, if so you wish, but do not look back. He is lost to you, as he was since the day he was born to sustain mortal doom.”
The jewel clasped in my hand, my eyes downcast, I left our abodes walking as if in a dream. Only when I was far did I start running.
Ithilien under my feet was but the shadow of a prophecy unfulfilled. Earth and sky and star, and leaf and stream and rock; farewell, a thousand times farewell, my land, my flesh, my mother. Finding it again to lose it anew, mending my spirit to break it again. My feet ran, my hurried steps sought the right way; and yet of the final farewell I could not think. Wind and flower and tree; and friend, and love unnamed, unknown. The peak of Henneth Annûn black in the night was upon me when I finally slowed down. My hand cupped to my mouth, I called in the secret call of the Rangers so many times I had heard. The shadows of the guards emerged from the bushes.
“This way you cannot come, my lady, and you know it well.”
“Long before Man was born and City was built my people inhabited this region, soldier, and you are but a passing cloud upon her face. Bring me to your captain.”
They stood doubtful and silent for a moment, uncertain; and yet they knew of my friendship for their captain, whom they loved, and I felt in my voice, upon my face the power of the Eldar. A power Men unused to it would always fear.
“Come.”
Up they led me till the chamber that looks upon the West, the chamber that Elven hands dug before, in days long past, they gave it to the king to guard his realm. Faramir was called, and upon seeing me he frowned. Never had I come looking for him, and he understood that sad were the tidings I brought. He dismissed his men, and walked with me in silence down the stairs hewn into the rock, to the glittering mere beneath their chamber.
“Dark is even the light of the stars in your eyes tonight, my lady, and I wish I could share your burden, to make it lesser on your shoulders.”
“There is nothing you can do, and nothing can I. The war draws nearer, the times grow perilous. The king of the Wood calls my people North, to stand and fall together before the end.”
Elves do not lie. In my eyes was written the truth of my words, the grief the evenness of my voice strained to conceal. I kept them on the water that shone motionless at our feet, the reflection of the stars upon it like the scar of a brilliant wound.
Silence was his answer, silence thick and light, a seal upon my lips. There were many words one could have uttered, words gracious and meaningless of long affection given and returned, words to make haste, leave behind the fleeting beauty of the spirit I had come to know. Many words were to be found; I spoke none. Without raising my eyes I walked away, my feet seeking a path, my heart light because empty. In the folds of my tunic the jewel was heavy.
“Mìriel.”
Many times he had called my name, in greeting and parting, in sorrow and in his rare jest. Yet now he pronounced it, and it was a call I could not disobey. I stopped.
“Look at me.”
Then I should have gone, running light without looking back, then I should have run and perhaps one day the pain of that moment would fade, and be forgotten. But I did not go, as I had not gone in that day, two years before, in a night too dark to belong to this Earth. I lingered, and he came close to me. My eyes upon his face, the face whose changes I had observed day after day; the face now dear to me, dearer than I had ever guessed or wanted in the long months spent in erasing the future, deceiving myself.
“Stay.”
No more. Many words were to be found; but he uttered none. He looked at me, every colour drained from his skin, from his eyes by the dull light of the moon, his shape drawn in shadow in the night.A Stay. Ithilien all around us stood still. Farewell, no more.
Chapter 8
Finduilas
When the decision is taken the weight melts. The air is lighter, the night clearer. The jewel still weighs in the folds of your tunic, but you do not care. You have severed your spirit, and at least for a moment, you do not feel the fracture. The truth is, you are not whole: you are maimed. But wholeness was lost long before this moment, and even this pain tastes like relief.
Faramir’s eyes rested on mine, and at their bottom he saw my answer, without need for words. Carefully he came even closer, as you would do with an animal you do not wish to scare away. Without taking his glance away he took my hand, and I felt the roughness of his glove, the strength of the fingers beneath. The world was sharper that night, a clarity on the edge of grief.
Slowly he kissed my fingers, and I closed my eyes. That same gesture, an age before. Another wood. Different stars. But the cut was done. I could not look back. My body felt heavy. Poets do not lie when they say the simple thought of leaving, sometimes, is enough to close your throat like a fist.
“In my dreams I would see this moment. But never had I believed it.”
I raised my eyes again on the mortal shape that had taken all that remained of me. No, I could not imagine going away, I could not conceive being far. Not now. He was fragile and strong, transient as tree and rock and Elf are not. He lived in the moment before Time closed his hand to crush him, and leaving him for a moment would have meant losing him forever.
Lost to you from the day he was born to sustain mortal doom…
The words were true, their wisdom should have led me. Many tales are told of the love of the Quendi and the Atani, and none of them are free of pain. But as the Captain embraced me all that remained of this knowledge disappeared, and what I had been before was lost to harden into a new resolve. This path I had chosen, this path I would follow. To its bitter end. Bitter it would be, I knew it then, his arms around me, his heart beating under my ear. Never had I felt the future more clearly. And yet I stayed. The Eldar have no freedom to choose their destiny, that is a gift the One gave to Men alone. But even not choosing, accepting the road that opens before us makes us free.
When we detached my eyes sparkled with fever. The joy I read on his face soothed my foreboding, the trace of his warmth on my skin erased my doubt. When I spoke, my voice was clear, and strong.
“I will tell my people. Then I will come back.”
“Do not be late.”
My assent was a gesture before I turned to go. Yet again he kept me. Our first kiss was light on the lips, its taste was sweet. A summer fruit was this love, to ripen and die in too short a time; what came before the end was ours. The life of the Edain, their haste, their despair, I had learnt to recognize; in that kiss, I took them as mine.
At the top of the stairs I turned once, looking back. Faramir stood on the edge of the pool, the sadness that encircled him for once dispelled. Men can deceive themselves, Men can believe in happiness. But that is the one art that after a life ages long Elves cannot learn.
My talk with Lord Gelmir was not long. He did not try to persuade me, he did not speak of Legolas, not again. I was afraid of what he could have seen in my eyes if he had, the contradiction showing in them, my maimed spirit naked. Perhaps he guessed. He only talked of Finduilas.
Her tale is a sad one to tell, the tale of her life in times long past. She loved an Elf of her city, secret Nargothrond over the river, but he was taken from the Enemy and enslaved. He was freed by Tùrin, one of the great Men of old, and when they went together only Finduilas in her love recognized the returning Gwindor. But the Man lingered with them, and however unwilling Finduilas gave her heart to him. Tùrin did not see it, Tùrin could not save her when Orcs conquered Nargothrond and captured its folk. She died in pain, whispering his name.
Finduilas was noble; her fate was loving without being loved, a lot that is often drawn in Arda marred. But if Elves can feel such pang on their own, if Celegorm the Fair desired Lùthien to his madness, Finduilas suffered a penalty far greater: that of wishing for a law inlaid in stone to change, and for a mortal to be wed to her when her wisdom told her this could not be, and far greater purposes would be served by others in pursue of such love.
I knew the story, and what my lord was telling me. Long I was silent after he had ceased talking, and at length I said: “The future speaks in my thoughts, and I know well what I am walking to. And yet I cannot walk in any other direction, nor heal in me the wound that has been opened, even if that were my only desire. And it is not, for for many seasons now I have been desiring things different and strange.”
His eyes were fixed on me for a long moment. At last, he spoke: “Elves of our kind were gifted with simple desires; and yet such passions can be deadly. I wish for you that you may find strength to follow the path you chose, if indeed it was laid for you in song before the making of the World. And yet I grieve, for I wish I could bring you back, and among my people see you smile again. There is no more counsel that I can give you, but only my blessing and my wish that we can meet again before the end.”
I made no answer to this, and took his hand one last time in pledge of fealty to his lordship, even if I would not follow him now. My parting from the others was silent and swift, glances exchanged, not many words to be uttered. All my possessions fit into a sack, and when I reached the limit of our territory I did not look back. The shadow took form when Acharn stepped forth, his face sad.
“I am remaining here, my friend.”
“I feared as much.”
He was taller than me, and he bent to kiss my forehead.
“May the forest protect you. A war lies ahead of you, but a war ahead of us as well. Take this, and may its blade never grow blunt.”
He put in my hand his hunting knife, whose thin point had slain many a Orc. Leaf was its name, for it was beautiful to look at, and inlaid with branches of a green tree. To remember me I gave him a belt that he had long admired, made in the resemblance of braided grass. And when the moment of parting came, I took from my tunic and put in his hand the jewel Legolas had sent me.
“To no other would I entrust this, companion of many hunts. Will you give it to the Prince, when you see him?”
For a moment he hesitated, but eventually he shook his head.
“Many things can be refused and given back; but some only by those who receive them. It is not on me to tell the prince this. When you will see him, you will do it.”
“Your words are right. And yet – “
“When he will not see you with us, he shall know. And now take your leave, Mìriel, my sister and friend, before a good farewell turns to the bitterness of longing and pain.”
I took my leave. I felt his eyes on me as I went, but when I turned to the line of the trees I saw nothing but shadows under the pale moon.
Thus began my life with the Rangers, and I did not come back to watch my people leave, nor to visit the houses again forsaken. And yet I felt it when they went, for Ithilien grew sad at their departure, and the sky cried for it with tears thick and cutting. Then the severance was complete, and my land remained all that I possessed, and my love a reason to fight for. Pain fortified me, and I embraced my path completely.
I was given a place among the Men of Gondor in the secret chamber under the peak, bedding made for me in a secluded corner. They were surprised to see me come, and soon guessed the reason for it; for even if Faramir never showed his love with acts in their presence, yes it was clear in his eyes when he looked at me, and in his light step when, as we had always done, we went together for a walk forsaking sleep under the stars. But because they loved their captain and knew his sadness, they were glad to see him smile, and of the skills and knowledge of the Elves of the Wood they could make good use.
Scarcely a month had passed, and one night, holding me gently, Faramir whispered to my ear: “My lady, Minas Tirith has called.”
I closed my eyes. I had feared this moment, the moment when questions would be asked, and I would have to answer them in the presence of the Steward. Much I had guessed in the silence where Faramir grew dark, of this Man whose name was always uttered with reverence and a hint of fear by the Rangers. Now the time had come to face him, and make myself accepted in the ranks of his soldiers. But perhaps what I feared even more was watching into the time and place that had born the sadness that ever haunted Faramir’s eyes.
I took his hand into mine, and kissed it.
“And we shall answer.”
Chapter 9
Stone-city
When they smelled the stone the horses stopped. Countless riders had done what we did now, the rhythm of hoofs on road stopping for the shortest moment. Bittersweet nostalgia on the tongue, for those who were now coming home. In front of us it rose towards the sky, seven crowns cut into the rock, Minas Tirith the Fair, tower of guard without gardens or birds.
The Eldar don’t build cities after the fashion of Men; no longer. All of our cities were exhausted long time ago in Tirion the Beautiful on the hill of Tùna on the other side of the seas, Tirion like pearls and crystal cupped into a green hand. But that was the city of the Noldor, and of this the Wood Elves of my kind have no memory. When the Valar called, we stayed behind.
We soon left behind the last traces of the forest, and uneasy was my mind as I gazed at the slender shape of the tower, a spear thrust against the skies. My spirit lingered with tree and leaf, for I had no love for such greatness. Beautiful some might have deemed the city, and beautiful perhaps it was, in the motionless grace of hewn stone; but the only beauty I knew and desired was that of living wood, changing tree and life that runs like blood in the veins of the world. Cities of stone are dead.
The guard at the gate saluted Faramir, son of the Steward, and the captain answered bowing his head. As the shadow of the lintel fell on his face he darkened, and he urged his horse forward, his mouth setting in a hard line. As I followed him I felt for a moment the eyes of the guard watching me in wonder, before remembering his duty and looking away.
Six circle we were to tread before reaching the citadel, and before each gate the same wonder filled the eyes of those who saw me. I had learnt Westron in talking with Faramir, and many time I heard repeated the words designating the Elves. Whispers followed me, of awe and amazement and fear, and I understood that for a long time none of my kind had been seen, and as I rode among the Rangers the curiosity of the people was aroused.
But even as they looked at me, I looked at them, and marveled. The sole Men I had known were fighters, and their fear and their despair stood balanced on the point of a sword. Because they warred, because taking life was their trade, the illusion lingered upon them that they still had a say on how long the frail thread of their life would be spun ere it were cut. But those I saw in the white streets of the White Tower were no fighters, but women and children and old men, and youths made sour by their disgrace. Armed guards moved among them with careful steps, on them the shadow of a near fate. In the city Death was closer.
A gloom hung on Minas Tirith, and it cloaked its inhabitants in resigned hopelessness smelling of doom. Too long had they watched the shadow, charting its growth, striving in vain to hem its black tide; and with the conscience of their long struggle was joined a pride whose roots were deep and strong, that held their head upright, but made them blind. They believed themselves to be the last shield of the Free People, and that the weight of the World lay on their shoulders alone. Their faces were pale, their countenance marked, for they knew their strength was fading, and that the moment of their final stand grew near. Their life was choked in this fear they deemed a certainty, and the walls of their tower became an invisible jail.
All this and more would I come to understand during this day and others, as I talked and watched with the keen skill of the archer who follows her quarry, studying it. For now my fate hung with theirs, and much I wished to know those with whom one day I could come to perish. That first morning beneath a clear sky like a dome above our head I saw the fairness and nobility of our kind dimmed and wasted, and I grieved for them.
We reached the barracks on the sixth level, close to the last gate. Our party, five all told, were greeted by the man in charge. Our horses were taken away, and the soldier asked eagerly for news of the march whence we came. Faramir answered briefly but kindly, then he said: “I shall ascend to the citadel immediately. Take good care of men and animals alike; for the summons were urgent, and we rode in haste.”
Only then did the man look at we others, standing respectfully apart.
“Captain – “
“You shall prepare for the lady a chamber of her own, however small. She will come with me now.”
“Of course, my lord.”
One last glance at me, but he did as he was told. Soldiers of Men, obeying orders, asking not what they wish to know.
“Come, my lady.”
I followed Faramir as he led me out of the courtyard and up to a gate guarded by Men dressed in silver and black. Many of the tales of Ithilien in ages past concerned the Kings of Men, and they told of the White Tree they had brought with them from their isle beyond the sea. But now the Tree was dead. Its sadness lay in its faded beauty, as it bent over a deep basin of clear water branches like begging hands. Its tormented trunk spoke of a tiredness long drawn in agony before the end. Faramir looked at it, in his eyes a melancholy tinged with regret, as if he wished he could have seen it in flower in the days of its glory of old. Times of hope now lost and gone.
Great double doors stood before us at the end of a short flight of stairs, and a Man came out to greet us.
Men would have said Faramir looked much alike his brother Boromir, eldest of the Steward and heir; Elves would have said there could scarcely be more difference between two of the same blood. Where Faramir was quiet, often silent, thoughtful with cares far beyond his years to carry, there Boromir appeared assured and restless. Looking at him it was easy to see why Men would follow him, trusting their lives to his command; looking at his hands one could imagine them moving in combat, brandishing swords such as my kin had never used.
And yet, as marked as the differences were, it bound them a deep love, similar to a light that lit the green irises of Boromir with joy in his strong face, such love as to shake away for a brief moment his eternal gloom from Faramir’s brow. Their embrace was a tight and a long one, for for many months they had not seen each other, and I cast my eyes elsewhere. In that brief space, they were alone.
When they detached Faramir sought me with his eyes, and bringing me closer he said: “Behold, brother, the Elven maiden that fight for our land beside us.”
Now the green eyes were perplexed, and I understood that for the first time he saw one of the Firstborn. Uncertainly he looked over my frame, slight as that of many of the Silvan Elves; and he looked at my small hands and wrists, apparently so frail in comparison with his own great limbs. But he had grown being told tales of Elvish wars against enemies far mightier than the ones he now faced, and doubt and respect flickered together across his face. But when he spoke, he only said: “Come. The Steward awaits.”
When the doors closed behind us all I could see was white and black. Stone, stone alone for the Hall of Kings where no king had sat for a thousand years, and my heart ached for the passing of the White Tree, living thing which had succumbed to the despairing immobility of rock. Two rows of statues flanked the hall, stern faces carved into masks unchanging to hide natures long burnt. At the very end of the hall, past the white emptiness of the floor stood a throne, and on its lowest step, as a dog may sit at the chair of his master, the Steward sat on a seat of stone.
The Steward they called him, and yet he resembled closely the statues of the long lost kings, with a noble countenance and a fair face in his old age, even as sternness covered him like a shield. His eyes scanned me, and they were at the same moment absent and keen, fixed on me as if to discover anything I might wish to conceal. Yes, he was a Man worth fearing, formidable among others of his kind; and yet I reminded myself of his short years, of his near doom. I did not lower my gaze.
“So this, Faramir, Captain of Ithilien, is the Elvish warrior that has enriched our ranks.”
“My lord – “
“Be silent. Let the maiden speak.”
He shifted his weight, looking at me even more attentively. But nothing betrayed my face, it felt like an abandoned dwelling, my eyes windows made blind. I looked an empty thing. And indeed, smothered by stone, watched by the motionless eyes of the dead, I felt nothing. Stone myself in the city that had never been alive.
“Why did you remain?”
“To defend my land.”
Boromir by my side stirred. This he could understand. This he could recognize, and trust.
“It is not yours along. It belongs to the realm of Gondor.”
“My people dwelt in the wood when no city had yet been carved into the rock. Yours is the realm, ours the land.”
“And yet they have all fled.”
“They have joined ranks with our kin in the North. When the time came, I found I could not go.”
“Admirable would be your courage and heart, Elven maiden, were it true that love of your wood alone has kept you here.”
To this I gave no reply. Deeper and deeper his eyes bore into mine, but they could find no answer in them. Whether he guessed I could not say; and if he did, indeed the blood of the Nùmenoreans blessed with foreboding and insight spoke strong in his veins.
“Will you swear allegiance to me?”
“My fealty belongs to Ithilien, and I have sealed it choosing to stay. I shall fight with the Men of Gondor, and obey their captain; to them, brothers in arms, will go my loyalty in battlefield and ambush. But already I have a lord, and my allegiance in peace goes to no other.”
“Clever and gracious words you utter, and yet ‘no’ is your answer. Should I trust such an elusive tongue?”
“Long I have fought the shadow, and for a longer time my ancestors died of Orcish blade then the memory of your people lasts; and if the Steward of the city forbids me to fight under the White Tree and in aid of his soldiers, then I shall fight alone and under no banner in the woods that ever were my home.”
Long he considered and me and my words, long he thought; but then the fire of inquisitiveness that had lit his eyes burnt low, and he came to a decision.
“If any aid you can give, Elf-maiden, by scouting or spying or fighting or enchanting, however your people resisted before they fled in fear, such aid you may give. And if in doing so you should lay down your life, it would be a good death.”
He said no more, but clear was his thought unspoken in words: a good death he wished for himself, and he doubted these times could bring him a different and kinder fate.
I bowed lightly, acknowledging his words, and he commanded: “Leave now, lady of bow and knife; words are to be exchanged here that do not concern you.”
So he released me, and without a word I turned and left, free to abandon the breathing death of the hall. The Men I left behind did not turn to look at me, but I felt Faramir’s spirit reaching out to mine, torn between worry and relief. The tension in Boromir was augmented, together a challenge and a call at arms. Denethor, lord of Gondor, sat silent on his chair, his head bent, the fire in his eyes ever lower, but not yet quenched.
I left behind the gloom, and was out again. After the cold of empty thrones and watchful statues the caress of the sun on my skin was kind. Walking lightly I reached the White Tree, and hoping for Time and Death to be merciful I touched it, feeling for a spark of life forgotten in its tired heart, one last flame to be rekindled.
But the bark was smooth and cool beneath my palm, like bone; and no life, no hope was left for this offspring of drowned land and lost blessing. I sat down by it, and for its wasted existence I wept.
The guards all around did not stir.
Chapter 10
Brother
My chamber overlooked the city. Glancing out of the window I could see Minas Tirith falling gently towards the plain, the failing light painting the white stone a faded violet. Torches flickered at the gates and windows, a challenge to the darkness slowly rising.
The supper in the mess had not been cheerful. The food was simple, almost poor, and the Men spoke in guarded tones. The captain had not yet returned from speaking with his father, and in the air hung a sense of anguish, a strained waiting for something terrible to come to pass. The words exchanged were few, and uttered in a leaden voice. We had risen and gone to bed without wishing each other goodnight.
The hours slipped by insensibly, the night advanced without clamour. Carefully I opened my door, and in the silence of the evening I crossed the courtyard. I had overheard the soldier in charge of the barracks telling one of his aids where the room for the captain had been prepared, and now noiselessly, my shape a dark thing in the dark evening without stars, I waited for him to come back.
The shadow grew deeper, the flames of the torches brighter, ruby and blood in the black. When he arrived I did not speak, but I went by his side, letting my fingers intertwine with his gloved hand. He clasped them, but did not look at me, opening the door. Only when it closed behind us he turned, his eyes wide in the dark, his breath uneven. We sat on the edge of the bed, and for a long time he did not speak. Without asking I lingered by his side, caressing his face with light fingers, a long time spent in the dark, counted by the subdued rhythm of his heart. When they eventually came, his words were sudden, almost harsh.
“Elrond of Rivendell sent messages. A great danger looms ahead, a Council has been called in his hidden valley.”
Never had Faramir been one for shirking danger. I had come to know him closely, I had seen in him a desire for his valour to be acknowledged. He would have offered himself willingly for such a quest.
“The Steward did not desire you to go.”
He rose. The restlessness in his movements was my answer.
“Few uses have I ever had in his eyes, and yet in this moment, when the White Tower needs her strongest captain most, he sends my brother rather than me. He whose loss this city could never bear…”
I rose myself and went to him, taking his face in my hands.
“Every life lost is unbearable to some, few are to many. And yet the Rangers would cry were you lost on the perilous road to the Imladris.” I caressed him lightly now, trying to find words for what could not be said. “I would cry.”
He kissed me, gentle and desperate at the same time, his hands trailing across my back, wildfire through the cloth of my tunic. Elves feel desire, and in us it is more durable than in Men, and slower to fade. Strong are the bonds of our spirit over our flesh, and we can control it well; but the urgency that streaked his human need for me was like a fever, an infection through my veins I found it hard to resist. Struggling to regain control I detached my mouth from his, our breathing matched in its faltering music.
“Forgive me,” he whispered, “I should have been more careful.”
“Do not trouble yourself. Not now. It takes two wills, two equal passions to take such a road. I am not blameless.”
Taking his hand I led him back to the bed, and there we sat. He let his head rest against my shoulder.
“Sometimes I ask myself whether this be a dream. When I first saw you I thought I had stumbled into legend by mistake. And yet you are real, and you chose to stay. When rage assails me for such matters as that of honour bestowed or not I feel unworthy of such a gift.”
Guilt stung my heart, and my voice was thick as I uttered my answer.
“Do not speak so. I am no one of importance, an archer and a maiden in the ranks of my people, that is the most numerous and the most obscure among the Eldar. Scarce has been our renown in legends, and in truth we never cared for it. Our fight has been perpetual, but devoid of glory, fought in stealth and secrecy without the thrill of the battlefield and the charge that inspire poets. And I have broken faith and word; my heart is not without stain.” I took his face in my hands once again, stroking his nose with mine. “Desire of renown, and to see pride in the eyes of a lord, especially when that lord is also a father, is no such thing as to prove a man unworthy. Your brother is a great captain of Men, and yet his talent lies not in such errands. I daresay he wished to refuse your father, and send you in his stead.”
Faramir straightened, his words almost a sigh.
“You speak the truth. Boromir’s only desire is to ever remain to fight for the Tower of Guard. He always cared nothing for councils and words, and perhaps he was right. Long we discussed the matter, but our father would not yield. He shall leave tomorrow, as we make our way back.”
Leaving the dead life of stone so soon was a prize unsought for. I concealed my joy, and sought once again to soothe Faramir’s grief.
“I have seen your father, and he is a great lord of Men. Kingly is his bearing and his speech, and yet I can see that as all of this city he is himself consumed in his strife against the Shadow. Ill-judgment may come even upon the wisest in times of great evil, and great tiredness, and great haste.”
But Faramir shook his head, and his voice was full of sadness when he answered: “The lord my father does not change through the years, but remains ever faithful to his judgment and resolve of the past. His opinion of me was fixed long ago.”
Resignation filled his words, as if he were speaking of a fact long-acknowledged, against which all strife was futile, a whim of the moment more than a reasonable thing. Against such sorrow as came from his past I was powerless. We lay down in each other’s arms, and he caressed my hair; I did not leave but when his heart had slowed down in the numbing mists of sleep, and all tension had left his tired muscles. And yet I perceived that there was unhappiness even in his dreams, and that the cloak of his melancholy lay ever thicker on him.
I rose noiselessly, and slipped away.
The courtyard was still, the lightest breeze alone moved the fiery plume of the torches in a slow dance. I glanced overhead, but the stars remained hidden behind a black mantle of clouds. As I reached my door my sharpened senses perceived an alien presence, and opening it carefully I asked of the darkness inside who was there.
“Fear not, Elvish maiden. It is only me.”
“Well found, Boromir, son of Denethor. Late is the hour when you come seeking me.”
“It was not so late when I arrived, but you were not here. Are you coming back from Faramir’s?” Before I could answer, or decline to do so, he laughed. “No, that is indeed not my right to ask. And even if it were, I would not. Too long has my brother been alone, while loneliness does not become him.”
He rose.
“I have taken the only seat, I am afraid. Here, sit, for I wish to speak with you of many things. I am not a man who seeks counsel often, but tonight I am doing it.”
“When two are speaking it is befitting that two should also sit. I shall take the bed. Now tell me, captain of Gondor, is it about your quest that you come to me?”
There was a brief silence. When he resumed talking, his words were brisk.
“I see you already know. I guess then my brother also told you that this was an errand that should have fallen upon him.”
“He did. But for you he had no reproach.”
“No. There was never strife between us, and I have always done what I could to make him safe.”
“I believe it.”
He knew mine were not vain words, and he paused a moment, as if considering them.
“Somehow, you speak the truth. And in the end the tales often say that the Elves are gifted with fine insight.”
“But not foreboding; not all of us, at least. If you came to seek my advice because you thought I could see into the future, than you came in vain. A great Shadow comes, and a war is near, but this your heart knows as well as mine.”
He rose and paced back and forth, nervously.
“That was my secret hope, I will not deny it. And yet something else I also wanted to ask of you: the road to Imladris.”
Although in the dark, I shook my head. It grieved me not to be able to bring him help, but I could not do otherwise.
“The only thing I can tell you is that you will find it West of the Misty Mountains, close to the river Bruinen. More I do not know. It is the High Elves that built it, and their magic that guards it. I could find it if I went looking for it, for to our kin it is a haven always open; but directions I cannot give you. There are stories I’ve heard, here and in the North, but nothing more than this.”
“Then such is my destiny! To go chasing a shadow, answering to summons whose authority I cannot accept, without even knowing where to direct my steps! And all this why my city hangs on the deadliest of peril! All of this for the sake – “
Here he brusquely stopped speaking, as if he had said too much. I guessed that he was hiding something from me, and that that something lay heavy on his conscience, and preyed on his mind. But asking would have been vain. His silence had a quality of stubbornness I had often recognized in myself.
“Fear not, captain. Because Lord Elrond calls you, you shall find what you look for. And your city shall not remain unguarded.”
“I know. And yet I fear that my father may not recognize where safety and salvation lie.”
The silence that followed his words was deep, but full of an ancient sorrow. When I broke it I trod lightly, knowing I was looking into a painful place.
“And yet the Steward loves his sons, both of them. That he cannot show it is as much a sign of the corruption of these times as of the flaws of his spirit.”
“You speak well, Elvish maiden. And yet you know not of what you speak. Before today I had never seen one of your kind, and now wonder fills me, but also mistrust. You look too deep into things that do not concern you.”
I did not heed his words, but rather the feeling behind them, the unspoken question that he now asked.
“These things have concerned me from the moment I have chosen to remain. The future is dark, and frail, as if carved into sand, and I have learnt that no promises can be built on it; but I promise to you now that for what it is in my power to do I shall watch over your brother. I will not leave his side.”
A silence, and then a murmur. “It comforts me beyond words. I love my city and I love my father, but more than both I love my brother. Now I leave, and a darkness is in my mind, and I know not whether I shall return. But I accept your word, Elvish maiden, although I may not understand you fully.”
“Fear not,” I repeated, “For I can see you have strength in you, a strength different from that of army and sword. I wish you may see it before the end.”
I went close to him, and touched lightly his shoulder. Now he rose, and without adding a word, he left. I remained alone in the empty room, the darkness around me a silky drape.
The next morning at dawn Faramir led us out of the city. Outside the gate he took his leave of Boromir. They did not embrace again, but exchanged a few words while we others stood aside. Then our captain joined us, and without looking back he urged his horse South. As the Rangers started on a gallop I turned, and saw the eldest son of Denethor motionless on the road leading West, his green eyes fixed on me, in them a mute demand. I nodded, on my face a decision I hoped he would see. Then I spurred my horse forward, and Boromir began his long journey.
Denethor had not come out of his citadel to watch us leave.
Chapter 11
Winter and Spring
The winter that followed was tender and harsh, like frost on rosebuds in a precocious spring, at dawn. Tender, for the hours I spent with Faramir yielded a delight as yet unknown to me; all the more precious knowing they were counted. Harsh, for it was a winter of bitter and long fighting.
There is no glory in the war of the wood, the war such as Elves like me, Men like the Rangers are masters in fighting. There is no glory in ambush and track, no glory in hunting down the enemy, reading his traces as you would with an animal’s. No horns were blown, no challenges shouted. No sun on shining armour, for we wore none.
And yet it was a war strangely fitting for the time we lived in, a war for a moment where glory was ended. There are stories of ancient kingdoms hidden among water and rock, kingdoms of Elves far different from me; but always they gambled their future and lost it on the battlefield, always glory came to them in the end. They were forever remembered in song; but no ballad would be sung about the war of bow and knife that was our daily fight.
I taught the Rangers; they taught me. Mutual respect grew as I showed them the paths, the glades, the streams and rocks and caves in long years they had never found, and I had grown to know and love like a part of me. In the evenings I would listen to them, stories and songs and poems, a world strange and brave, new to me, that lived in their husky voices. They had sons and wives and fathers, homes left behind them, and they missed it all.
I listened. I learnt. I understood.
The memory of an Elf can be palace or wood; but always it is unbroken, reaching back to the Stars before Sun and Moon, looking forward to Eternity before the breaking of the World. What our ancestors lived lives in us anew. Human memory is different. A chain it is, Mankind, made of links so small, so thin; and yet because so small so tight. Resistant, resilient. What one Man did not do, another shall accomplish; and if he fails, new generations will succeed. Such is not the law with Eldar; each of us unique, each of us impossible to repeat. Never again shall be born the like of Fëanor, mighty among the Elves; never again a face as fair as Lúthien’s shall be lifted to the Sun.
For the first time, in the evenings spent beside the fire, my hands made warm by the bowl of our simple supper, I looked into the faces old and worn, and saw endurance. Men would not fade away. They could not. For the first time I doubted the truth of what my people had been saying; for the first time I thought that they were those fated to inherit this Earth. No longer Elf singing in the wood; but Man felling the tree down, building new cities of clay and stone.
Alien they were to me, and I to them; but we came to friendship deep and pure. I remember their names now, and I count them among the precious things I have known. My brothers in arms, between us a bond of blood spilt, blood lost. Sometimes I watched them in secret, as they laughed and joked among themselves, and I envied them. I had thought the ages of Time belonged to the Elves; in truth, they belonged to them. My time would wither; theirs would flourish, or burn out. No slow death for the kind of the Atani blessed with freedom from the circles of Eä.
When night came, and no duty called, I was with Faramir. Our moonlit walks were a haven of safety, a short oblivion between fight and fight; and as we went the Rangers watched in silence, a smile on their lips, a strange light on their warrior faces. Sometimes I lingered with the son of Denethor by the pool, or under the trees; then he slept in my arms, and as I watched him dream now I caressed his face, learnt its lines for the endless years that would be after he died.
The thought of the end that could lurk so close came to haunt me when it was late, when the world was still, the sky too dark to watch. It crept upon me like poisonous weed, it whispered to my ear with the voice of a snake. Watch him, Elven maiden. Look how breakable, how frail. Look how doomed. You shan’t be allowed to die, your love is not that of Lùthien who went to the afterlife and back. You shan’t be allowed to become mortal, yours is not such a choice. You have not in your heart the despair to slay yourself as Maedhros the Tall did, sole among the Elves. Yours is no love to go down in legend, Mìriel of the Wood; you know this.
I know it well. And yet it will hurt.
All I prayed for was to die in battle by his side, ere the last leaves fell.
Sometimes as I searched my sack for a thing I needed my fingers would touch the cool, curved shape of my silver leaf. I never looked at it; I could not bear it. When the thought of Legolas came back to me, then the splinter in my spirit ached; then I wished I could be two. For too long I had led a double life; now, after the cut, my heart was crippled. It could never be healed.
So many have not known love among the Eldar. So many have chosen to remain unwed. To me had gone this strange fate: to know how much a fea can hold of a thing of which songs echo. There was nothing to learn, nothing to understand; much to accept. Exquisite was the agony that followed the joy, and in such a broken light I lived and fought to see the Winter become warmer and near the Spring, the days grow longer beneath unquiet moons.
It was one day, as we searched the wood for a party of Orcs. They had come from Morgul Vale, cutting their way through the undergrowth. Scouts, most likely, sent out to explore a way for the fell allies of the Enemy to follow. Haradrim had come, Southrons tried to cross our lands. We waited for them.
That day we had had no luck. The Orcs moved carefully, they opened and marked the path, then disappeared. We would catch them; we always did. The day would end in black blood. But the desire to slaughter was subdued in us, a duty, not a call. Not an urge. There is no glory in war of stealth, no lust in spilling blood in silence.
A thin mist hung over the trees nearer to the river, the sky would darken sometimes with hideous shapes. Nazgûl the Men would whisper, of all the magics of Sauron the blackest. Black riders on black mounts, clouds of fear slicing the light open. The back of a sunlit day is a night unspeakable; and such night they brought with their coming.
We hunters had split, I led a small party reading the tracks, Faramir by my side. The days spent itself away behind the clouds, its milky light grew weaker. Silently I picked the scent, beckoned the Men forward. Now, nearer, after the next trees; bow drawn, arrow shot. Knife lowered and plunged into corrupted flesh. The mist thickened; the silence lay heavy. The Rangers gathered the corpses to give them to the fire. I went to the river to cleanse myself.
Anduin the Great ran slow that day, its waters like congealed blood. Rivers know nothing of fear and war, rivers care not for the blood that in them is spilt. Red in water becomes lighter, then fades. The river kisses the sea, it drowns its torments there. The Children of Ilùvatar know no such grace.
Gloomy were my thoughts, and when Faramir came to me from behind, treading light on the mud and sand, in myself I could find no smile. But when I turned he was not looking at me. Past my body bent over the water, he looked at the broken thing the river had washed ashore.
Walking slowly, carefully he reached it, and raised it from the ground with delicate hands. He looked at it long and hard, his eyes fixed on its lines, as if asking a question of them. I watched, and recognized the cloven horn. The very same that hung at Boromir’s belt the day he had left.
It was not foreboding that fell cold on my heart, but certainty set in stone. The same must seize Faramir then, for he did not look back, but forward, to the river, and there were no tears in his eyes, and it was more painful to behold than if he had broken down in sorrow.
He looked to the river, and the mist over the water seemed to take shape: slim boat with tall prow, cutting the water heavily, and yet with grace. The sun was not there, in such a mist visions could take form and truth; but Faramir had no fear, and waded into the water, towards the unknown craft. It passed within his reach, but he dared not lay hand upon it. His eyes looked into it, and what he saw, I could not distinguish from the shore. Away it slipped then, born on the current with steady pace. Noiselessly it disappeared, and I mistrusted my own eyes for having seen it.
When the captain came ashore, a piece of the horn in each hand, he spoke no words. Without looking aside he walked back into the wood, he called his man with one gesture. Silently we filed back, following his lead to the chamber in Henneth Annûn. There he called the courier, a Man known for his speed; and to him he entrusted the horn.
“Ride to Gondor, and do not wait. Announce to Denethor lord that the river brings ill news, and that all hope is dead. Boromir the Valiant, his son and heir, is no more.”
Amazement filled the Men at these words, but it did not last long; for those were black times, and all were ready to believe that such a thing could happen. They withdrew into corners, and muttered darkly. Their grief was a tearless thing, a painful grimace on their faces. Faramir walked away, seeking the peace of a tongue of rock thrust upon the waterfall of the peak. I followed him.
“Faramir.”
Slowly he turned to face me, and in his eyes there were too many tears to be shed. His soul was broken that day, a great part of his heart shattered.
“Men should not live to see such days.”
He clasped me to his breast with a violence that spoke of maddening pain, of rage and grief and lost love mingling together into one fury. With the same violence of his embrace he pushed me away.
“Go,” he said, his voice a grating thing, “Go. I can’t – I cannot.”
I understood. Without speaking anymore I left him, I found with careful steps my way among grieving Men to the stairs cut into the rock, and descending them I alighted to the bottom of the small bowl of earth where the pool came to lap the shore. There I sat among the bushes, and listened to the water, looking into my mind for songs. In music and lament shall Elves grieve, and in such beauty try to ease their pain.
I recalled from my memory Boromir as I had known him, such a short, such a far space; I thought of his strength and his pride, and of his fear when he had come asking for a help I could not give. Man and warrior, and captain of armies; beloved son, beloved brother. Many things could have been said, many things turned to song. But when I opened my mouth to sing I thought of his green eyes, and of his powerful hands that would be now forever still, and of his voice in the dark, speaking of a spirit that was flawed, but great.
And my voice came out a useless thing, a tormented sound that could be shaped and bridled into no song. A raw grief then came into my veins, a grief for things lost and wasted, and for the destiny of Middle Earth without light or joy. I fell upon the ground on the fresh grass, and I wept long, without grace.
The songless, wordless mourning of Men had caught me.
Chapter 12
Edge
The days that followed were covered in a mist. The edges of things were blunter, the talk subdued. The Rangers laughed no more, nor talked about their homes. Their hearts were locked into stone, their faces set with grim resolve. Slaughter was their outlet, and hunting Orcs became their only pleasure. The mourning of a warrior for his captain is a bloody thing to watch.
Faramir wandered far from me, in regions I could not access. I had no siblings; I knew nothing of such a love, and such a loss. Sometimes he would come to me, late at night, and lie in my arms unsleeping till the dawn. No words would be spoken, and he would rise with dry eyes. His eternal sadness thickened into a hard pain, and I feared for him.
I feared, for I could see that all hope was extinguished in his eyes, and that he considered himself alone, alone without relief. With all the warmth that remained in me I tried to reach him, and make him feel the love that had kept me back. But the spirits of Men are chained to their flesh, and when they grieve the chains become stronger. No thought, no words could pierce the armour his grief had woven around him, and touching him I felt I was touching stone.
It was with this uncertainty hanging heavy upon me that I received his request to lead a party of Men in the Southernmost part of Ithilien, waiting for the convoy of Haradrim that scouts had reported to be fast approaching.
“Try at your best to hinder their progress, but do not show yourself. They will have scouts or Mordor guides, and if you can, take them down. Keep them from the main road, herd them into the wood. When they have taken the path we desire, lead the Men back.”
I nodded my agreement, and he turned as if to leave.
“Faramir,” I called in a whisper. He paused, but did not turn. I hardened my voice, pretended my next words were not a plea. “Do not forsake prudence.”
“War is never a prudent thing, my lady.”
He left. As the Men of my party prepared themselves I sought out Mablung, one of the most experienced among the Rangers. Of him I requested in a stern tone that he watch over his Captain, my expressionless countenance a frail mask for my unspoken fear. He looked at me long, before answering: “You are of a strange people, Mìriel of the Elves. But you seem to understand. None of us shall leave our captain unprotected, even from himself. Good hunting in the South.”
You are of a strange people, Mìriel of the Elves. Perhaps he was right. But indeed, I was beginning to understand. Life as lived by Men is a raw and a vivid thing, such as Elves may have only known thousands of years ago, in forgotten ages before wisdom became too much and we began to fade.
The Mûmakil marched past us, filing into the glade with a crashing sound. The ground shook, echoing of their mighty steps. When the last one had passed, I nodded to my second in command that we could leave. Silently we disappeared among the trees, leaving behind us the knifed carcass of the Southrons’ last Orcish guide.
We had approached their convoy during the night, driven them away from the road with arrows. They had not been able to find us, we had taken down their tracking Orcs first. Trusting in the sheer strength of their war mounts they had taken to the wood, smashing their way open. In the confusion of their retreat seizing what remained of their Mordor scouts had been easy. The duty we had set out to accomplish was done.
We started on our way back by other ways, and only when the evening came I gave order to make camp. As the Men let down their tension for a moment I could not sit, but climbed a tree, disappearing from their sight. They thought I was scouting, and heeded me not.
In truth, I sought the peace of the trees, the soothing charm of their still, ancient life. I sought the openness of the sky and the brilliance of undying stars, diamonds set above all darkness. I sat on a high branch contemplating their beauty, and sang under my breath, however painfully. Stilted had been my voice since Boromir’s death, a dark presentiment choked it in my throat. I struggled to find again the consolation and power of the notes, but rarely could my will attain them.
Too soon my song died. The stars were dimmed. During the day a conscience of evil unknown had been growing in my mind, and I had shut it away, an ignored threat during the simple dangers of war and ambush. But now that my limbs were set at rest, now that my mind reached out to the beauty untouchable of the World, now I perceived it more clearly. A new menace had reached us, and it was shapeless and black.
Not many of the Eldar can see the future; but all of us can feel the change. Something loomed ahead I had no power to stop or steer, and all of our fates hung on the balance. The edge of doom was now sharp. That night I did not sleep, I did not leave the treetops. The leaves whispered to me of the same evil that made the air tremble, but they could not tell me what it was. Unknown to us, nameless, unknown. The ground remembers, the rocks feel fear.
I watched the clouds gather, and the stars twinkled one last time in farewell before being cloaked. A dull dawn climbed over the edge of the world with tired hands, and the birds were silent. The trees had spoken, the danger was near. A tension unnamed thickened the pale light, and I descended from the tree to find a messenger from Faramir, tired after a long run.
“The Captain calls you. Osgiliath is under siege.”
He had not finished speaking that the Men were standing, their weapons at hand.
“We march.”
I went before them, my feet quick over the earth, my mind pondering, unquiet. When I looked behind at the file of Rangers following me I saw on their faces a warlike spirit awoken. Osgiliath was their last defence; beyond the river, only a plain. And then, the Tower of Guard.
As we crossed Ithilien the pain of leaving it rose inside me, it clutched at my heart with long claws. It beat, it hurt. Doubt tried to shake me, bearing with it a fear that I had not felt before. What if you fell far from your wood, Mìriel. What if your last blood was spilt over a sterile ground that remembers you not. Elf of the forest, would you die defending the ruins of a city of stone?
There was that evil in the air, and it tempted to rash decisions, despairing counsels. I resisted. If my doom awaits, I shall meet it. If this be my destiny, I shall embrace it. My choice is made, my lot cast. I won’t abandon the Men of Gondor. I glanced around, tearing my spirit once more as I looked at tree, stream, glade. I kept marching. What if this were the last time, Mìriel. What if the darkness spoke of your death.
I did not listen. I quickened my pace, led the Men forward. Mordor was strong that day, its hosts had moved. The air was tainted, treason closer than ever before. In such hours shall hearts be tested, their true fiber uncovered. Faramir, I thought. Could you stay behind, could you let him fight alone? Green eyes, and a promise. But my path had been clear long before I gave my pledge.
One last step, and I had reached the edge of the wood. I led the Men out, marching into the naked plain.
Faramir was waiting for us on the outskirts of the destroyed city. As I came face to face with him I saw that something had changed, that his eyes sparkled with a feverish light. And yet it was not joy that lit his features, but a grim decision, and a brooding triumph that held no beauty. He directed the Rangers to their companions, and taking my hand led me to a house most of whose walls were still standing.
Inside, the strangest sight awaited me. Guarded by two Rangers there stood three small creatures. Two of them were dressed with cloaks of Elvish fashion; one was well fed, with a plump face that seemed made for merrier times than this. The other was pale, and he looked ill. He slumped against his companion, his eyes half-closed.
“Halflings,” I murmured, and Faramir beside me nodded.
“From a place called Shire, far in the West. You knew of them?”
“Not of the Shire. Some of their kind lived North, along the river…some of my people have met them. And yet I thought they were all gone, when I was still young.” I looked at him: “Why do you guard them? They are harmless creatures.”
“Not all of them.”
He beckoned and I looked, more closely now, at the third one. His height was similar to that of the Halflings, and perhaps he had been one, once; but something terrible had happened to him since, mutilating him, consuming him, corrupting his shape into something fearful. A bottomless misery and an equal malice fought on the features of the third prisoner, and his wide eyes were filled with a despair such as I had never guessed could exist. A despair devoid of dignity, the very end of all that is good and luminous in a living creature in Arda, however marred.
A small, pitiful creature, a living thing ruined by the mischief of the Enemy… A crawling, debased animal it would look to you, and yet deadly can be his skills, grown murderous under the Shadow…
The words of the Dunadàn, so many springs before.
“Faramir – “
“Follow me.”
He went out again, and I followed, however reluctantly. The third prisoner had cowed away from me, spitting and cursing at the sight of an Elf; and the pale Halfling seemed too far from this world to stir. But his companion had sought my eyes with his, and as Faramir disappeared beyond the door he called: “Lady…”
One of the guards bid him to keep silent. I went out quickly. Faramir’s face was still under the ill light of his excitement, his voice was full of it.
“We found them yesterday, after we dealt with the Southrons. Travellers in these ill-times…only the two Halflings, though, at first. We took them prisoners. When questioned they answered they had been till not long ago with a company of other seven. One of them was Boromir.”
His face clouded at the name, the grief came back in his eyes. But he shook it away.
“They had parted before he died, they knew not how he had met his end. They would not reveal why they travelled this way. We kept them in the Secret Chamber. At night their companion, that strange creature, was caught in the Forbidden Pool. And from him I learnt what these Halflings carry.”
No he came closer to me, his voice barely above a whisper: “Legends talked of it, but they also said it had been lost. The One Ring of Sauron.”
Wonder filled me, but also a fear that was cold and harsh. In the bleak light over the ruined city the evil unnamed that had poisoned the forest was now revealed. As I looked into Faramir’s eyes I saw madness. Many Rings were made, Elven Rings to protect, Dwarvish Rings to hoard; but the One Ring had as only purpose power. Power; the thing Men shall crave to their undoing. The Man King Isildur had fallen because of that Ring, and now in the eyes of my love the same curse was repeated. I shook my head violently: “Faramir! Where did they carry it?”
He shrugged. “They said it had to be destroyed…but no. This is a gift. A mighty gift for Minas Tirith, and an unexpected aid for its Steward.”
Then his eyes sparkled, and love and compassion tore at me as I understood. Never would Faramir seize the Ring for himself; but for his father this would ransom and repay all his years of unworthiness in his eyes. I looked at him, my mortal, my frail love, and I wished I could give my eternity, my skill, all that I was to lift this endless pain from his shoulders. But such wishes are made not to be granted. The edge of doom was sharper than even my fear had guessed.
“Faramir – “
Words of wisdom and counsel were ready upon my tongue, in my heart the resolve to stand before this folly ere it were too late. But before I could utter a word a small voice, pitched to a height of anger and indignation, interrupted me: “You can’t take the Ring! It will ruin you and twist you, as it did with your brother!”
We turned. On the threshold of the house, a guard that tried to restrain him, stood the plump Halfling, his cheeks flaming. Faramir’s eyes were crossed by uncertainty and grief, and emboldened by his silence the small, valiant creature went on: “He tried to take the Ring! He swore he would protect my master, but he –”
The Halfling, whose words gave me hope for Faramir as they added to my mourning for his brother, could never finish. For in that moment a fell screech filled the empty sky, and a shadow fell like a blanket over our hearts, while one cry echoed through the defenders of Osgiliath:
“Nazgûl!”
Chapter 13
Choice
The winged monster filled the sky. Shape of darkness, creature of evil unveiled. It bore down on the destroyed remains of Osgiliath on the echo of its own, unearthly call, a shriek that contained all the pain of a form corrupted to the means of the Shadow. Long claws that bruised the stone as it passed close to the ruined walls.
The Rangers took cover, Faramir pushed the Halflings back into the relative safety of the house. So small, perhaps the Nazgûl wouldn’t see them. But for us it was time to fight. The Black Rider and his mount grazed the buildings near the river, where the soldiers of Minas Tirith were holding their own against the Orcs on the other shore. Victory before this had seemed impossible; now defeat came closer upon us.
I readied my bow, waiting for a clear shot. I would be granted no other opportunities; if I made a mistake, the creature would be upon me. And then, something strange and unforeseeable happened: a little stain on the edge of my vision, the pale Halfling began to ascend the stairs to the battlements. Beside me, Faramir saw it too. Before we could do cry, or run, the Halfling was in full view of the sky. Apparently unscared, he stood there, his hands fidgeting something that he carried around his neck.
It was then that for the first and the last time I saw the One Ring.
Wars have been fought for reasons so petty no tear, no blood should ever be shed for them; wars have been fought for no reason at all. Elves know appearances can be deceitful; and yet, that so great a blackness as that of Sauron the Treacherous could be locked in such a simple thing, it was hard to believe. That the fate of Middle Earth should hang on the smooth, glinting circle of gold the Halfling held, was a nightmare beyond all imagination.
But so it was. Shapeless evil made ring, a call and a repulsive threat. It sang a song of boundless power; doom and hope were woven together in its fell voice. A vision unfolded in my mind, hidden desires coming to light: the green vales of Ithilien cleansed anew, Faramir to share my eternity with me…and the voice, now alluring, now soft. A voice that knew me more deeply than I had ever known myself.
It could be true…if only you took me, if only you used me, Elvish maiden…
The darkness in my spirit rose and stirred, my heart struggled to remind me of what was right, that all the visions the Ring could grant me would turn to bitter ash and dust on my tongue. That these promises where the same that had led Kings to their death without glory in the mud, and had brought madness to the eyes of my mortal love.
But the power of the Ring was great. Even as it wooed me, even as it called me, it called to itself the Nazgûl too. Similar to a black wave rising the Ringwraith revealed the true meaning of his name, answering the call of the One, rushing where he sensed its power. And suddenly all visions and hopes and fears were swept away, and all that was left was that bleak light, and that Halfling too small, too frail before the living darkness of the clawed beast.
My hunter’s senses were awoken, the thrill of the fight erased all other thought. My hands tightened around my bow, drawing its string as my eyes sought its target. An archer is one with the arrow he shoots, nothing else exists as it leaves his hand. With it it strikes. As if in a dimmed remembrance, the shadow of a dream I saw the companion of the Halfling throwing him to the ground, shielding him; my fingers let go of the fletching.
My arrow coursed across the sky, hissing through the air, running close to Faramir’s own dart, that I had not seen him shoot. Green and brown arrows, messengers of wrath and pain. They hit the mount of the Wraith as it shrank away from the now hidden Ring, and its cry tore apart the clouds. Crippled and wounded the animal retreated, it flew a stilted, heavy flight towards the safety of the other shore. The cold fear the Nazgûl brought in their wake withdrew with it, and as the clamming hopelessness left my heart I turned to Faramir. There was no smile to grace his features, no joy in his eyes for the small victory we had achieved; I found there a worry that creased his brow, twisting his mouth in a grimace of uncertainty and disgust.
“The Ulaìri were once Men. Our legends speak of them.”
I made no reply, watching him, seeing now a sharp, saddened sanity unfold where shortly before madness had reigned. The feverish light in his eyes was quenched.
“Men enslaved and consumed by the One Ring.”
He looked to the Halfling crouching on the ground, he looked to the efforts of his companion that tried in vain to make him rise.
“Enslaved and consumed even as that little creature is. And yet he would have the courage to carry this weight to its destruction, or his.”
His mouth set in a hard line, and in the hidden depths of his mind a verdict was reached. With long steps Faramir walked to the Halflings, and I followed him, my throat choked with a relief I dared not to show. I knew his heart, and I saw that it had changed. With gentle hand, he raised the fallen Halfling and put him back on his feet.
“Rise, Frodo Baggins,” said the Man, his voice again subdued, echoing with compassion and a desire to help, “The peril is now gone.”
“Captain – “ began the other one, his round face lit by the same fire that had flamed there earlier; but his voice was tempered by a wordless appeal.
“Worry not, Master Gamgee,” interrupted him Faramir, the shadow of a smile on his lips, “The lesson is well learnt.”
The Rangers had gathered around us, on their faces the trace of the ordeal we had passed, and the lightless expectation of worse trials to come. Mablung spoke on their behalf: “Captain, the Orcs have suspended the attack, but there is no space for hope; we suspect they are only waiting for fresh troops. It is uncertain for how long now we shall be able to resist. If we are to bring the Halflings to the Steward, we should send them now, without delay.”
“They shall not go to Minas Tirith. I will release them.”
“Captain – “
“My decision is taken.”
The Men bowed their heads in assent, however doubtful; and the Halflings raised their eyes to his face uncertainly, as if they could not believe what he had said. But Faramir bid the Rangers bring him the third prisoner, and undo his bonds; then he dismissed them. His hand found my wrist, keeping me from joining the others.
“If I am a good judge of your voice as you were to speak before, to such a path you would have led me, Mìriel.”
“You know me well. And yet I doubted not in you there was the wisdom to recognize the rightful choice yourself.”
He smiled.
“Your trust in me is great. I hope never to disappoint it.”
Caring not that others were there, he leant and kissed my hair; and the knots of grieving and fearing were undone, as my heart grew warm to the fire that shook itself from the ashes of mourning. Then Faramir turned to the Halflings, and lightly, as one from whose heart a weight is lifted, he said: “Follow me, Hobbits. I will show you the way out of the city.”
He led the way through the ruins, past the Men that prepared themselves for the bitter fight to come, past the wounded and the scared, far from the turmoil of the last defense. Until behind a fallen wall the great mouth of a tunnel gaped at us; and there we stopped.
“This is the old sewer. It will lead you beneath the river and past it, to the woods.” His voice was serene; and his duty fulfilled.
“Captain Faramir – “ began the Halfling called Baggins, but his voice faltered and died. Mutual comprehension hung between them, a silent request of pardon, and a silent thanks. Hope was reborn where all hope had died; and no words needed be spoken of it.
“Go, Frodo, with the good will of all Men.”
“And the blessing of all Elves.” I looked at the creatures so frail under the shadow of their great errand, and wished I had the power to make my words a shield. Lacking it, they were but desires cast against a fell wind.
But the Halfling bowed, and his reply was courteous: “To meet one of the Fair Folk so far from all that we treasure and call good is a blessing in itself, my lady.”
I smiled, and Faramir sought and clasped my hand for the briefest moment, before asking of them: “Which road will you take once you are in the woods?”
The Halflings did not answer immediately, but looked to their guide, who cowered forgotten against the rock.
“Gollum says there is a secret way into Mordor, above Morgul Vale.”
Their voices were light, but they bore unconsciously a cold dread. My smile froze, tainted with the memory of whispered evil, and I sought Faramir’s eyes. He, too, had understood. He, too, feared.
“Not the Stairs of Cirith Ungol – “
With a gesture that was as brutal and terse as the cold rage that turned his eyes to blue steel the captain grasped the creature Gollum by his throat, demanding if that was the name of the way he meant.
“Orcs don’t use it – Orcs don’t know it…”
The spluttered words were uttered but with difficulty with his strangled breath, and when Faramir let go of him he fell to the ground with a pitiful thud. I glanced at Gollum, and only then I saw fully the depth of the corruption that had ruined him.
“Orcs don’t use it,” I said, my voice sounding empty and sharp to my own ears, “Because no Orc, Elf or Man has passed Cirith Ungol for long years. An evil unknown and undefeated inhabits the pass, answering to no master but itself. You cannot go that way.”
“But there is no other way!” The screech of Gollum was hurtful to the ears, a plead to the Hobbits. “Master says we must go into Mordor, so we must – we must try!”
“Frodo, don’t. Not even the Elves have discovered what haunts the long darkness of the gallery into the mountain; and Halflings should do well not to try.”
Faramir’s voice was thick with his concern, but Baggins shook his head, a resigned despair engraved in his traits. “Our quest was desperate from the beginning. The Black Gate is shut. If no other way exists, this is a chance we must take.”
“Are there no words I can speak to change your mind?”
“I fear not, captain, although my heart thanks you for trying.”
“Then go. It is ill to travel in these regions at night.”
With one last nod of goodbye the Halflings turned and left, their guide crawling after them, casting wary looks behind. But before he was gone Faramir grasped him again, and the words he hissed in his face had a cutting edge: “Lead them well, Gollum. Or my curse shall be upon you, and you shall die a dreadful death.”
My hand on his arm, I restrained Faramir, and he let the creature fall. It shot one last glance at us before crawling away like an insect, and his eyes brimmed with an hatred that told of unspeakable pain. Soon he was gone, and the empty tunnel echoed of our words.
“That maimed being was hurt in many ways before this day, and his malice is not his own fault. You should not have tortured him further.”
“Your heart is great, your understanding deep, Mìriel. But these are times of haste, and swift judgments must be passed. Gollum’s misery was perhaps not his own fault; but the evil he has done out of it is.”
Faramir sighed, a weak echo under the curved ceiling of the sewer.
“But it is too late now, and the Halflings have decided to follow his advice. May their steps thread light. And now, another war awaits us; one that I fear could never bring us victory.”
“I shall be by your side, in victory or defeat, Faramir.”
“And I by yours.”
The light of that moment was extinguished, and the shadows closed about us once more. Our words were but a grim consolation. My knife hung heavy by my belt, my bow weighed down my shoulders. The grief of the days that had preceded this would be left behind; and new mourning would mar our spirits.
Yet such is the fate of a warrior in dark times, and lamenting it would be vain. Only the dead have seen the end of the war; the living survive but to fight another day. Faramir and I knew it well. Under the white sunlight we walked away, towards those with which we would challenge Death once more.
Chapter 14
Defeat
They came at night. Like mist uncurling on the surface of the water they slipped over the river, and the stars hid their faces, refusing to watch. Guarding the shore was vain; for the darkness was a living and a blinding thing, keeping our eyes shut. We waited, breathing in the night, the fear a cloud of uncertainty around our hearts. The first arrow was a wound that tore apart the tense muscles of our will, and with the cry of the first sentinel slain the fear congealed into the hard foundation of our courage. Swords were unsheated as the archers took cover, and the first wave of Orcs was pushed back on their barges. In the dark all blood is black.
The shouts of the captains were woven into the cloth of the hours as the darkness wore on; years of secret war had ripened into this one battle among ruined houses. The arrows I shot were my heartbeats, the flank of the archers beside me the borders of my world. Wall by wall we fought, and our valour seemed for a moment never to yield. But the Orcs were a tide no dam could hold back, their numbers too many, their dead a pile under our feet their living kept even.
The night grew pale as our arrows ended; I was shooting the black shafts of the enemy when Faramir’s voice sounded to my ear: “We retreat.” I turned to him, meeting his eyes made opaque by the haze of too many hours without sleep. At the back of my mind an image had lingered for that long night, a vision of his body felled like a tree by wounds uncounted; and now that he stood before me unscathed relief was a wave I could not afford to enjoy. I touched the shoulder of the archer beside me, the only survivor of six that we had been, holding our position from the roof of a fallen temple; he slung his bow over his shoulder, and followed us.
Counting the dead would have been useless in the colourless light of an hour that called itself dawn. We hewed our way out of the battle, the price of our lives measured by the blood with which knife and sword were stained, by the cracks in armour and helm. Stepping lightly over upturned stones I left behind Osgiliath the Fallen, my shape a shadow among Rangers and soldiers on the run. The horses had been kept near the river, defenders appointed to keeping the last way out clear. With dilated nostrils they waited for us, their hoofs beating the rhythm of the lost battle on the broken flags of an ancient road.
Faramir gave me the reins of a white horse without looking at me, his gloved fingers holding my hand for the briefest of moments over them. My fear had been his; finding me alive was a prize he had dared not hope of such a night. The decision to retreat had lain with him alone, captain and son of the Steward, and the defeat would hang over his head in the eyes of Denethor. As the remnants of the force that had held the city mounted their horses I looked for words to speak that would not be vain; but a screech filled the sky, blotting out what weak rays the morning Sun had shed. The Nazgûl had come back.
Fear is an animal that preys on Eldar and Men alike, and the terror that shrieking instilled was a cold touch over our spirits. As we urged the horses to speed our minds were blank; the blood of the steed I rode pulsed with mine. I kept close to Faramir’s own horse as we ran under the cover of the outskirts of the city; the flying monsters circled above our heads in frustration, but did not plunge. Ahead of us loomed the plain, a vast stretch without defense for Man and horse.
Faramir screamed, a war cry his men took up with harsh throats, their life never so vivid in their veins as now, as with a last sprint they left the shade of Osgiliath for the empty peril of the field. Screaming they galloped ahead, their voices a challenge to the cold call of the Black Riders. In silence I rode among them, in my mind the long years I had spent on this Earth beneath skies uncorrupted; my eyes were fixed ahead, and to my ears, made deaf by the beating of my own heart, every other sound was but a distant threat. Nothing existed but this moment, its rush, its terror, ahead the White Tower growing greater as I left behind the river, the wood, everything I had known and called home.
There is no thought of dying in one who flees; there is no thought but the haven that is his only goal. Again and again the Nazgûl came down, their claws closing upon horses and Men. Again and again, one with my mount, I avoided them. The moments lengthened into ages unknown as I realized that earth was still under the hoofs, that I was still running. I sought Faramir with my eyes, and he rode as I did, our group scattering wide, a wing of flying riders the beasts pursued one by one. Minas Tirith was near, but how many of us could have reached its gates I do not know; and my life, endless by the accounts of Men, so short for one of my people, could have ended in that plain, my body a broken thing on the burnt grass.
But the darkness was shredded by a light stronger and purer than the Sun herself could be, a light against which the power of Mordor was null. The radiance of the Blessed Realm was in it, and the call of the monsters was tinged with panic as they fled before it. For a moment our eyes were blinded, and even my Elven sight could not at first suffer such brilliance, and distinguish to whom or to what our deliverance was due. We kept riding, hastening for the city gates now open before us, promising safety. Only when we had almost reached them, and the light was among and around us, did we see who bore it: a white rider upon a white horse, holding aloft a white staff.
The shadow of the Tower was then upon us, and finally the hoofs resounded on the stones of its threshold, and the heavy gates were shut behind us. The far cry of the Nazgûl was now an empty menace, and as our hearts slowed down and the impossible truth of our survival touched us, I turned to thank with what words I could find the rider. Upon me he fixed eyes at first benignant, then wide in surprise; eyes that were mirrors of my own, as I recognized Mithrandir.
The Gray, he had once been called; but now his raiment was snow-white, and the light that was upon his face was but a shadow of the power that we had seen displayed. The Wanderer of many countries and many ages that I had last seen six years before in Mirkwood, on his errand that had brought me news such to change and reshape the whole course of my days, was now revealed in the splendor of a lord even among those of his kind. I bowed my head in reverence; and yet I could not believe what I saw.
“By what name should I call you, Mithrandir?”
“By the name you always used, Mìriel of Ithilien and Mirkwood. Rumours that your people had returned to their land had reached me, and yet I was led to believe you had all come back.”
“So many have done, or should I say all. I remained.”
“The love you bore to the woods of your birth was then great indeed, lady.”
Dismounting from his horse, Faramir came near to us, and his smile shone as he took my hand.
“You are indeed known in many countries, Gandalf, and there shall not be words enough in the tongues of Men or Elves to thank you. Always strange and unforeseeable were your comings and goings, but now to your timeliness we owe our own life.”
The wizard looked from me to him, to the hand the Man held with a familiarity none could mistake; and even as he answered his words with a smile his eyes questioned me. He had known of my bond with Legolas, a bond by all acknowledged, and that we had never tried to conceal. A question was in his eyes, and to that question I answered with an imperceptible nod of my head. War and grief such as had dominated the last days had made the pain of my choice farther from my mind that it had ever been; but now it was brought back in full. And as the memory of what had been stung me, marring the simple joy of being still in this world, still under the uncertain light of that day, Faramir let go of my hand and moved a step towards a small creature that had just appeared.
“A Halfling…”
“Not the first you see, I should say, Faramir.”
I dismounted, and looked to the short figure that had just joined us. Small as a child of Men; but whose features and traits betrayed an older age. Clad in the same Elven cloak of the two we had seen and left the day before.
“No, indeed. Just yesterday – “
The tale came out in its simplicity, Faramir’s words hiding none of his doubts, none of his uncertainty. Worry and then relief came on the face of our listeners, but with the name of Cirith Ungol Mithrandir’s face clouded.
“Frodo did not lie: the quest was desperate. Nine were the companions that set out from Rivendell, and there came a time when I was myself lost. I was saved beyond all hope, and I wish there had come safety for your brother too. But the Ring is strong.”
“I have felt its power fully, and there is no telling of what the Dark Tower shall be should it come back to its master. The Halfling has gone with our blessings and what aid we could give – but the road ahead of him is the most perilous he has encountered yet.”
Faramir shook his head, and now his smile had disappeared without leaving trace.
“You need not my words to tell you what times are these that we face, Mithrandir. I wish I could have done more. But my duty kept me to Osgiliath, even if a day alone has been enough to show that it was a doomed allegiance. Doubtlessly the Steward awaits me, and I have to answer of my choice and alike of my defeat.”
He took again his horse, and urged him on the road to the citadel, without looking back at us. Anxiously the Halfling – Pippin was his name – began asking of the Ringbearer, but Mithrandir silenced his words, and raising him he put him on his horse.
“Quiet, now, Peregrin Took. It will be better to see what Denethor shall have to say. Mìriel, you have fought valiantly; perhaps you should rest.”
“Mithrandir – “
I paused. The question had been on my mind since the day before, the memory of the words of the Dùnadan haunting me.
“The creature Gollum – “
“Yes, lady. It was the same I hunted with Aragorn son of Arathorn through the wilderness. Our chase had success, but too late. When we brought him to Mirkwood you had already departed, but it was not long before his cunning found for him a way to escape.”
He mounted behind the Hobbit, and his last words I could have guessed. Heavy was my heart, but as guess became certainty it sank as lead.
“The messenger that brought the news to the Council travelled with us as a companion. Legolas Greenleaf left his realm before your people came back, Mìriel. He was with Aragorn in the kingdom of Rohan, two days ago.”
He did not wait for my reply, and he left, his horse devouring the white road of the first level. The Rangers called to me, knowing not what had come to pass. Their voices spoke of barracks where to eat, and drink, and lay down to rest. Barracks where to wait for Faramir to come back, and ease the grief his father would have brought to him anew. But to the voices I gave no answer.
For now my spirit felt trapped in the circle of the stone walls, and a new anguish was upon it; knowing now how fate can be a strange thing, and a mocking one. Of the promise I had broken, of the choice I had made, Legolas knew nothing.
Chapter 15
Allegiance
It was with mindless steps and absent spirit that I followed the Rangers to the barracks, where I was given the same room as the past winter. I had thought of lying down, forgetting the city that surrounded me, reaching out to my woods; but I could not. The stone whispered, its voice a lament of fear; and when I refused to listen it spoke even louder.
We remember the time before the Men, the time before the Elves, maiden; we remember…but this ruin we cannot take, this ruin we cannot prevent, and as high as they built us as low shall we fall when they are gone…we shall die, maiden, listen to our stories, for they are long; they can’t be lost now…not in the Shadow where pale stones cannot glimmer…
I let my sack, my bow fall to the ground, and pushed my spirit farther from there, towards the river, towards the wood. But only darkness lingered there; and the voice of the stone grew stronger.
We remember the dead…many you didn’t know, but some you heard breathing…some you listened to…here, here, don’t you remember his green eyes, Elvish maiden?
The remembrance of Boromir filled my eyes, a new grief that reawakened the old, the taste of defeat a bitter tide of promise unfulfilled, valour wasted before it could be crowned with reward.
You dream of the wood; but what does the wood hold for you? Forbidden joy and broken pledge…here lies your doom, to us you are tied; fight for us or with us fall, maiden…you that can listen as Men cannot do…
I abandoned the room, like a frightened wind I was out of the door. In the courtyard the Rangers rested in the pale Sun, their eyes half closed, vessels of drink in their hands. At my approach they looked sideways, faintly surprised of such haste; content as they were at the new hour they had snatched from their obscure Death. And my words, when I spoke them, caught them by surprise.
“Are there no trees in this city? Are there no gardens at all?”
“Lady, why don’t you rest? The peril has passed. You fought well.”
“I cannot rest; not here. You know of no green place encircled by the Tower’s walls?”
“The Houses of Healing have a garden, however small. Shall I accompany you there? You look very pale.”
“Thank you, but no. I shall find them alone.”
I abandoned the courtyard, closing out the rock; seeking with my mind the keen voices of growing things. The stones screamed, pain and anguish and fear; for their spirit was attuned to those of the Men that had hewn them, and they shared the same heart. Faint was the echo of the trees; but I found it, and followed it like the promise of rest unsought for. The same glances of my first visit to the city were turned my way; but fewer were the people in the Tower that had shut itself behind barred doors, and I heeded them not. I reached a stone gateway, and past it I smelled the sweet smell of the green blood of the plants. I walked past the threshold as if in a dream.
“Forgive me, lady?”
An old woman had come from another doorway, carrying folded linen on her arms. On the lines deeply engraved on her face there lingered a wisdom tempered by compassion, and a knowledge of sorrow accumulated in many years of healing. I bowed my head, recognizing in her a great heart.
“I came seeking the gardens. Will it trouble you if I walk there a while?”
She shook her head, and smiled. A curiosity was kindled in her eyes as she took in my features and raiment, but in her it was kind, almost a caress in the face of something she had not known before.
“So the rumours were true: that one of the Fair Folk was fighting with the Rangers in the woods. They had told me you had come here, but it seemed ill to come out to pry. Walk as you will. If you had asked the Chief Healer he would have answered with many more words, but they would have been quite useless, and the core of his reply the same. These Houses are open to all who seek repose.”
“I thank you, Healer; you know not the greatness of the gift you give.”
She remained silent a moment, and then said: “The stories I was told long ago spoke of those who inhabit the forest, and of their love for tree and dappled light. It seems strange to meet one of you at last, but among carved stones and beneath the dark wing of this ill hour.”
She bowed and went her way, after beckoning to which direction I should take. Leaving behind another hall I eventually saw again the light of the open sky, and listened with joy to the song of the wind among leaves and blades of grass. But the notes were subdued; and when I came upon the threshold I saw that the gardens of Men were a thing strange to me, and the voice of the plants that here grew was alien to my mind.
Trees grew among ordered lawns, and in beds of earth rich and tended grew many herbs of healing and power. Some of them I had not seen before; but their scent was sweet. And yet their voice was low and remote, for even the trees had forgotten the woods that had seen them grow from saplings and sprouts. All they knew now was the sky above this high place, and they conversed with the stone as with a close friend. They did not share its fear; and yet this was not out of the savage bravery of the wood, or the wild resentment of the thicket, but out of a peace nurtured in indifference for all that was out of this garden’s walls.
Forget, maiden; forget. Lie down on the grass, seek not the voice of the great forest. What is that you fear? Lay down the burden as you let your body rest. Heal; for this is our power, and this is our gift.
They spoke in words no tree I had known would utter; they spoke as if they did not belong to the Earth anymore. But such is the enchantment of stone and labour; such is the root of the mistrust Elves of my kin long nourished towards the Exiles that built cities of rock and forged swords. I came from those of the Firstborn that have never abandoned Middle Earth, and our roots sink deep into all that is close to the simple truth of growth and death beneath a clear sky. The paled life of these plants that had been tamed, these trees that had forgotten the wild life of the wood was a new and subtler shadow on my mind.
But my exhausted spirit called for rest, and if unnatural was the call of the garden, still it was a soothing and a benevolent one; and I heeded the voices, and lay down on the grass. From the folds of my tunic I drew out the leaf-shaped jewel I had never left behind; and as the white light played on its silver and its emerald I remembered different times, different voices. In all the dangers I had faced I had tried to forget what pain my choice would have caused to one that had given me such peace, but it had consoled me to think that still my ancient love lingered in the woods of his childhood and youth, that from them he would draw relief to grief and disappointment, and strength to face the evils to come.
But as a leaf in the wind Legolas had been thrown in this war even as I had; and he was close and still cradled in the thought that I had been faithful and steadfast. My treason haunted me and bit me, and my heart rebelled; and the fracture in my spirit throbbed. Hearts that do not change are bound to suffer thus, and I wished my choice had erased from my memory the happiness past. But what was decided could not be undone; nor did I wish for it to be so. How could I, when now the thread of my life was so tightly spun with Faramir’s? How could I, now that the raw life of Men had seeped beneath my skin, now that too often Time followed in my steps with his hasty call, as if I too had been born to suffer mortal doom?
To such worry the garden gave no heed. Above my head its leaves chanted, and they murmured softly of sleep without dream. The jewel clenched in my fist, past and future knives whose joint tips cut me, I curled and closed my eyes, as one who wishes to forget all that is around her. Ithilien and Mirkwood mingled their voices in my head, their life untamed the only song I wished to listen to. I fell asleep, and my abandoned body was but a speck in the despairing whiteness of the City of Kings.
It was his fingers that brought me back from my sleep, their caress lingering on the nape of my neck. I opened my eyes and saw him, his profile almost invisible against the darkness of a night without a star. A redness in the East tainted the black; and its silence was a fear that spoke loudly of our end. Seated on the grass beside me Faramir looked to it, his mouth set in a hard line; but in his eyes a sadness deeper than my words could say.
“The Steward commands that what my hands did my hands undo. In the morning I shall sally forth to retake Osgiliath.”
Clear was his voice, and his words fell heavy and yet expected, a verdict pronounced. They echoed in my heart as in an empty chamber, and I knew this was the sign my unquiet mind had been looking for. My death revealed itself before my eyes, and I feared it not.
“Together we shall ride; together reap an impossible victory, or face what defeat may present to us.”
“No. I shall go. You will remain here, to serve with the archers in the defense of the city.”
“Faramir – “
“Long ago I asked you to remain by my side. Now I beg that you leave it.”
A doom that was colder than death fell upon my spirit, and now I was shaken as if by terror as I clasped his hands between mine.
“Why? There can be no safety, no life where you are not. Faramir! I stayed out of love of my land, and I have abandoned it; and out of love for you, that last stand between me and the darkness in which these days plunge.”
He took me in his arms, and held me. An ill wind blew as an accursed breath; yet its fingers could not break his embrace.
“Of such a gift not a thousand years could repay you. But as it is love for Ithilien, love for me that keep you alive, so you and my city are all that is left to me. I cannot see the future, Mìriel, but it takes no seer to guess what such a command can bring to me. And were I to fall tomorrow, I would fall thinking that you both stand; thinking that not by my hands and because of my deeds shall your blood be spilt.”
I remained silent, and felt my will crumbling; for now in Faramir’s words a warlike spirit was aroused, and a determination such as his brother may have shown in other times. He saw what was to be done, because the folly of an old Man whose beloved son had died, and who blinded with madness sent his other to his death. And yet he embraced such a bitter fate, riding to meet it as heroes of sorrowful tales and ancient accounts might have done. Such was the glory of the field my forefathers had always shunned; and I wished I could understand a deed in which I saw only bitter waste.
But even as I considered Faramir did not hesitate, and raising my chin so that our eyes would meet he asked: “Will you promise to remain here, Mìriel? Will you promise to stand with the archers on the wall, and defend my city even if I should not return?”
Promises broken, promises kept. To Boromir I had promised I would protect his brother, that I would not forsake him; but even as I held to my words as to the last standard of my sanity his voice echoed in my mind. Against this doom I could do nothing. The fate of a war, and of those who fight it, shall hang forever on the tip of a bloodied sword.
“Mìriel?”
Destiny was black in that starless night, heavy as iron upon my shoulders. No easy death for the Elven maiden that had chosen to stand with Men; no glory to it. The day would dawn on a morning that would bring the love whose allegiance I had followed even to this sterile rock in the reach of a Darkness I could not fathom, at the borders of a land where I could not follow.
Destiny was black; and no was not the answer it would take. My voice was a breath of wind as I sealed my doom: “I promise.”
No more words were spoken. There was that night, wavering on the edge of an abyss we did not know; and our sternness could not cloak our despair. He sought my lips as if it were for the last time, and I felt an empty and a cold thing, forsaken by furious tides on shores uninhabited by Man or beast. His fire filled me, and I resisted not: for the customs of my kind were forgotten, and my life had shrunken to those hours before the Sun rose. A blind passion and a burning pain brought us together, and the desire of Men that thinks not of what is to come seized me.
In that darkness we were together; and the dread of the future was forgotten as pleasure and pain mingled, and the Earth swallowed the sky as my spirit lost itself in his arms.
Chapter 16
Promise
The day that followed came as a blighted light, marred sunrays dripping from the branches of the trees. Even in their secluded life they could not ignore the threat that hung on the pale air.
Closer and closer they march. The rock is afraid. The war is near. Rest, sleep. It will not come, we will not care. It will not come.
I ignored the voice, I ignored the soothing that tried to push me back into my dreams. I drew myself up, sitting on the grass. It was early in the morning, the dew of the night still humid on the grass; but the city had stirred, a ripple of excitement through the stones. They were preparing themselves, they were arming.
They’ll ride to the city. They’ll sally forth. They’ll fail. They’ll die.
When I lowered my eyes on Faramir, he was already awoken. His blue eyes were hard and empty, chambers shut against a fell wind. He lifted a hand to caress my cheek, and its touch was cold. I took it in mine, and kissed the palm.
“Is it time already?”
“It is.”
If birds dwelt in this garden sown into stone, they hid themselves. There was no sound but a soft rustling in the grass as he rose, and I followed him.
“If you do not wish to come, there will be no need.”
“I will come with you, as far as I can go.”
One look, and he took my hand. He held it as we crossed the deserted halls, where behind locked doors the healers arranged the tools of their craft. The walls murmured tales of things that had been, of things they remembered.
Blood, blood again; blood on the cloth, life running on the stones; vain strife for Men too weak…they’ll fall even as we do.
I heeded them not. Out of the portal the white streets were bathed in the same diseased light, a pale sheet dropped over Men and houses alike. The sounds were muffled. The armour of the guards shone dull.
Chainmail and breastplate, vambrace and helm; Elves of the wood never wrought them, Elves of the wood never wore them. Our people died on the fields of battles long past and swore never ago to ride out to meet peril. But this was the war Men had learnt from the High Elves, and to such a battle Faramir went. Expert fingers knotted the laces, and the Captain was coated in iron, the White Tree carved upon his breast.
They brought his horse, and as he waited he looked at me, and I knew not what was in my eyes. When he had mounted I gave him the helm, and doom fell upon his face with its shadow.
I took my own horse, and remained by Faramir’s side as the riders assembled. The animals neighed softly, the silence in the air too heavy to be broken by any other sound. When to the last one they were there, Faramir spoke, and his voice echoed with the weight of centuries in the day when the city was closest to fall.
“Men of Gondor! Oaths you have sworn, and promises you have made; but what does it count, if you defend them not? What does it count, if your heart be weak?”
A shiver ran through the ranks, his words a challenge.
“They have sung of victories, and never of defeats; but what does glory matter in a day like this? What does glory matter to one whose house, whose land, whose very own blood and flesh are in peril?”
The horses perceived the tension of their riders, and beat the flagstones with their hoofs. The neighing became louder.
“I do not say to you that we will ride to victory; I do say to you that we will ride to conquest. I say to you, ride with me! Ride, to the darkness and the end; ride, and if lightless Death be waiting for us, so be it! But in one last charge now we go, for all that we call beloved beneath this pale Sun, on this forsaken Earth!”
“Faramir!”
It was as if one throat had answered his call, and dark rang the voice of the Men. Down through six levels we came to the great gates, a slow pace of solemn march; the people of Minas Tirith came out of their houses then, a mournful wing of black and violet for mourning by the side of the road. Carven in the stone of their city they were, a fixed omen waiting to be confirmed, or against hope proven wrong. We stopped as the gates were opened, and then Mithrandir approached Faramir, as if to speak; but no words could leave his lips, not before this.
I understood then, for the briefest of moments, the terrible beauty of the strife of iron and steel, the majesty of Death in such a morning, and the blinding splendor of such a deed. I understood why Men wished to remember in song and writing this valour, even if useless; and as I understood the city came alive, and I listened and saw with the ears and eyes of its stone.
But it was a moment; for the gates were opened, wings of steel revealing the empty plain that yesterday alone had brought us to safety beyond hope; and the dark shape of Osgiliath waited on the river, a monster crouching. Its fallen beauty was now forever lost. Faramir looked to me, and his glance went past that day, as if he could already see past the edge of this life. Cold filled me; and the city was dead. My short understanding was crushed, and my heart rent in pieces as I watched the riders leave.
One by one the gate swallowed them, and motionless I stood there, until the doors were closed, and their doom sealed. Mithrandir approached me then; but I shook my head. My voice lay useless at the bottom of my throat. I left my horse, I remember not where, or to whom; and as one who dreams I trod back to the Houses of Healing. The streets were empty now; and the stones full of whispers.
I met no one as I crossed the halls, and when I sat again beneath the trees, their whispers surrounded me like a veil. With my fingertips I touched the flattened grass, and an echo of the night there passed came back, a wave of heat and life before this white death.
Won’t you sleep? Won’t you take rest, Elvish maiden?
The trees, their tired enchantment. I heeded them not. I waited, my eyes fixed on the emptiness past the high wall.
When they brought him back I was waiting for them on the portal. I drew aside as the stretcher-bearers walked past the threshold, I laid eyes that felt blind on the face of Faramir diffused with pallor. How many were the arrows that the metal plates hadn’t held out? I did not count them.
My feet moved without thinking, in my ears the empty echo of the voice of the stone.
Fallen is the Captain, fallen! Ruin and fire, enemies on the march…
The whispers pursued me as I followed the healers, till the room where they lay him down to rest. The wizard checked his wounds, muttering words under his breath. When he saw me, his eyes glittered with something I could not name.
“There is no time,” he said, “Denethor has lost his mind, and the host of Sauron is fast approaching. Will you fight?”
The only thing I wished for was to kneel beside his bed, lay my head on his abandoned hand. Relinquish the life of the Eldar as Elves will do when the pain is too strong. But there was one promise I would not break. And if it brought Death in its wake, it would be welcome.
“I promised him I would.”
Mithrandir nodded, then straightened up. A tiredness and a strength beyond mortal power veiled him together.
“I will give you command of the archers on the wall. I will be with the catapults. I do not now for how long we may hold them from storming the battlements, but the gate is strong.”
I nodded, as if it mattered still.
“Come with me, Mìriel.”
His staff held high, he left the room. He would fight for this city stone by stone, wanderer turned into leader. Holding out for I knew not what. But this had lost importance, like everything else. My life was tied to a straw lost in a tempest; and my body was heavy.
Before following him I took a small flask from the leather pouch hanging from my belt, and gave it to the healer that had started undoing tending the wounds. I met her eyes, and she was the same, old woman of the day before. It was as if ages had filled the chasm between that moment and this, and in the worry in her eyes I saw reflected the change on my own face. But I cared not for whatever comfort she may offer me.
“The balm will help.”
Without waiting for her answer I bent over Faramir, wishing I could reach him in the dark place where the fever had brought him. All I could do was kissing his lips, one last time.
“Wait for me by the Western sea,” I whispered; the same words Lùthien had said to Beren when the world was young, and hope still green. The laws of Ea had bent for her.
Not for you. Carried by the stone, still the voice of the trees reached me. This was a story even they remembered.
“I know it well.”
If the healer wondered to whom I was speaking, she hid it well. Without looking back I tore myself from his side, and walked away.
I took command of the Men, listened to Mithrandir instructing them to follow my lead. A few of the Rangers were there, their leather armour exchanged for an iron one. We shared brief looks that talked of years spent dodging the end between tree and bush, and a nodding said all needed be said, all that words could no longer convey.
Good hunting, whatever its end.
The sun had disappeared, a white light dulled the world into a uniform gray. The faces of the soldiers by my side where blenched bone under the weak protection of the noseguards of their helms. Their hands under the gauntlets shook imperceptibly on the dark wood of their bows.
Fear was a smell in the air, a hand grasping their hair. A call to go back, flee from this white hour, this blackened death.
Like a tide the first wave of Orcs drew nearer, my eyes now distinguishing their maimed features, their skin burnt and marred. Once, Elves not unlike me. The thrill of hatred had disappeared; I looked at them as through thick glass. Pity and hatred alike were now beyond my reach.
“Bows in position.”
The archers obeyed. There is no shame in fear, no shame in hearing the appeal of a body which refuses to die; and bravery lies solely in not heeding the call. But on that day my body was an empty vessel, and my spirit a tired bird born by tainted winds.
“Take aim.”
Soon, now, the closely packed ranks would be in range. I looked up. The light was but a pale shadow above the thick clouds. No Sun to put fear in Orcish hearts, no Sun to shine on polished sword, glittering one last challenge in the face of death. The sky that day was an upturned shield over the Earth.
Ruin and fire and fall…
I did not listen. In the dark back of time, I was alone.
“Shoot.”
Chapter 17
Fire
When the second gate was shut behind our backs all that remained of my archers fell on their knees on the ground. Their breath short, their body exhausted, they accepted a sip of water as a renewed hope. Since the morning they had not taken drink, or food. When one of them silently offered his flask to me, my body acknowledged the thirst in my throat with numbed surprise. I drank and gave back the flask, a nod all I could give as thanks. No sound had escaped my lips but the sparse orders that could be heard in the raucous din, the battle all around a ravaged eye of confused doom.
Some say that a battle is but a dance with death. If they be right, I cannot say; for in my eyes the chaos had been but a blood-stained dream. The clash of iron and steel had rung in my ears a music too deadly and too distant to dance to it, and my fight had been but a reflection of long training, an absence of thought. In the blankness of my mind when only clear-cut orders would take shape, my body had carried itself alive out of the day, into this night shaded with deepest red.
The memory of the hours passed unraveled before my eyes, a long tale of arrow and knife. Other shall tell of the fight on the battlements of Minas Tirith battered into ruin by the catapults, of the terror cloaked with courage that held them against the siege towers; others shall say of the flaming wolfhead of Grond, the ram that broke the doors of the city, and let creatures of nightmare stain with their blood the white stones of the streets.
Others shall say of our retreat.
Some have called a battle but a dance with death; but its hidden music had lain too deeply woven into the encounter of iron and flesh for me to hear it. The day had been one long-drawn breath, a plunge into an underground world that did not belong to time. Those who had survived to see this defeat now looked around with the dimmed eyes of those who have forgotten whether they be alive or dead.
I leant against the wall, tiredness a tide climbing up my body. A weariness that had nothing to do with fatigue clouded my eyes, clasped my throat, and my exhausted spirit refused to wake. The night was spent in a mist where thoughts had a dulled edge.
Mithrandir came to me as pale fingers of dawn tore apart the black, to be melted and chased away by new clouds. As the soldiers barricaded the gate against a new attack the wizard sat by me. Apart from us, the Halfling sat in silence, his small form clad in the severe silver and black of the Guard. He was shaken by equal waves of bravery and despair.
“He fears death.”
“Not all have certainty of what awaits them beyond this life.”
“And yet it is a destiny that I would gladly take upon myself.”
“What do you fear, Mìriel?”
“I fear nothing more, for all that I dreaded has come to pass. What remains is an empty shell, and a duty to fulfil.”
“Faramir may yet live.”
“Don’t cheat my pain with faked hope, wizard. On me your tricks are wasted.”
“If my deeds or my words have earned your harshness, I will ask you to forgive me.”
“It is I that I should seek your pardon, but today my words are useless, and all I do or say appears vain to me.”
I rose and took my bow, ready to rejoin the archers. Until our arrows lasted, until our blades were sharp, we would stand. Brothers in arms. Good Men to die with. Mithrandir’s voice reached me, a cold touch, but also a fullness of pity and compassion that still could not move me.
“The deepest of this darkness still lies ahead of you, Mìriel. I wish you may see that past it there is a light that can still be rekindled.”
Many words or none were the reply to such a phrase; and I did not turn, nor stay my pace. The curved wood under my fingers was the last fragment of this world I existed for. Everything else was death undeserved and pointless strife.
One day poets shall sing of the war, and they shall say that with the Horselords of the Plains hope was reborn, and that in the hearts of the defenders a new light shone. The truth is that few had ease to look out from the battlements, few could suspend the battle long enough to know that help had come at last. To those who fought for the city stone by stone, the arrival of the Rohirrim was but a new clamour in a day full of them.
It was a different whisper and a different news that would come to shake me, tearing apart the numbness that had become my armour, my last defense against that bloodied day.
I had not listened to the stone since the battle had started, I had cut out its panicked shriek with those things I had no power to alter. But now, as I fought the great Orcs, my shoulders against the pillars of the third gate, a cry that was as clear and as hard as crystal or rock reached me, piercing my mind with fingers of fire.
Elvish maiden, if you won’t run, he shall burn.
As my knife found the flesh of the Orcish warrior my heart throbbed, my mind sharpened into one question. The answer came fast, the urgency a darker streak in the voice of the stone.
The Lord’s mind is consumed, he invokes death before the fall. He shall burn upon the pyre, his fire an unholy roar amid the silence of the Halls of the Dead, and his son shall go living with him into the smoke. Run, Elvish maiden, or aid shall come too late.
My calm unhinged, my armour shattered I ducked and jumped past the warrior that had come to avenge his mate, my blade a thin cut across his throat. As if a hood had fallen from my eyes and ears I perceived the battle for the first time, I saw the fallen, I heard the screams. Ash and blood and fear, the smell of a city in ruin filled my nostrils as I ran.
It was stone under my hurrying feet, but as I ran I was again the Elf I had been, and the rock was no longer thralldom, but ally unlooked and unhoped for in this hour of darkness. He lived still. And my life would never again be as frail, as strong in my veins as then, as I raced through the streets, the whisper of the city guidance to my running steps. Till the shadow undisturbed and the secret sleep of the houses of the dead.
The wings of the door lay opened wide, and from the mouth of the corridor voices rang in power and wrath. My blood coiled into lead as I dreaded what I would see, as the smoke I smelled took the fragrance of his skin. Wavering on the edge of pain unthinkable, without slowing down I crossed the threshold, and ran towards the blazing light at the end of the passage.
And the light came towards me, a screeching sound that filled the vaults, an echo of grief and maddening rage, and for the briefest of moments among the flames that engulfed him I saw Denethor, his majesty turned to folly, his eyes full of a swhirling darkness whose equal I would not know. But it was a moment, and I could not say whether in his pain and in his madness he recognized me, for his race brought him past me and into the pale light of yet another morning of war, to find his death wherever his harsh fate would lead him now. A painful compassion spread into my heart, but I paused not to heed it; and now my steps brought me into the great chamber where a thousand years of Stewards slept upon bed of stone.
A lit pyre roared with tall flames beneath a dome in the midst of the place, and soldiers and attendants strove with the fire, containing his rage. But I had no eyes for them, only for the prone figure that the Halfling held in his arms, and the wizard bent over.
“Faramir…”
My voice had no power against the sound of the fire, but my feet carried me for this last space, so brief and yet so wide. Mithrandir straightened and looked at me, the gravity in his eyes a boulder upon my spirit.
“Say not that he is dead.”
“To you I entrust the Steward, for now this is what he is. The battle awaits me.”
Without another word he left, but of no other word I had need. The Halfling surrendered the burden to my arms, on his face the shadow of an uncertain smile.
“Mìriel…”
A weakness beyond words filled his voice, but his eyes were open. He was drenched in the oil that had fed the fire, and of a different fire he burnt: the fever raged through his body, and grief for the flaming death of his father dulled his eyes. But the heart that so many times I had listened to in his sleep still beat.
“It is all gone, all past. Rest now. Rest.”
Sleep, my love. Sleep. Into my words was the power of the Elves, and after brief strife he yielded to it. The Men had succeeded in taming the fire, and it was to them now that I spoke.
“Arrange a stretcher. The Steward needs to be carried to the Houses of Healing.”
Would they have broken through already, would they have reached the stone door? It did not matter. I would defend the entrance, stand with what breath was left me before they touched him again. But as we exited the tomb, as the fell cry of the Nazgûl came once more to taint our ears, only then we saw: that Mordor’s was not the only army upon the plain, and that still we could hope.
We tarried not; and the guards returned to the fight, as I found again the healer, and together we strove to bring Faramir back upon the path of life. My promise had been fulfilled; for the city I had fought. Now with what skill my people possessed and I had been taught I would fight for him in the uncertain dominion of hurt and wound.
Slowly, the clamour that came from the windows and the gardens subsided, and a silence that was as pitched as the screams of the war was diffused upon the plain; but I did not care. I did not see the greatest and most terrible of the Nazgûl slain, I did not see his companions flee in fear, their power broken. I did not see Aragorn son of Arathorn, the King Returning, come upon the ships he had stolen from the Corsairs bringing victory upon his sword. I did not see the Armies of the Dead spread in the city, a cleansing glimmer of emerald light.
No, I saw none of this, and to me victory was but hasty news brought by the healers, and weak cheers on the lips of the wounded that flooded the Houses. I did not leave Faramir; I listened to his heart as it grew steadier, watched the tide of the fever recede. He did not wake again; but now his sleep was no raving darkness of illness, but the gentle wave that brings comfort and health.
Night fell, a blue cloak of velvet and silk upon Minas Tirith the Unconquered, and stars undimmed flickered emblazoned in the dark beyond the narrow window. I watched Faramir sleep, and my heart was at rest, tiredness and numbness equally forgotten. All that I had feared had come to pass; and in the mercy of the One had been undone.
It was then, as I caressed his sleeping face, that a gentle touch upon my shoulder called me. I turned to see the old woman standing over me, a tired smile on her lips.
“You may leave him now for a moment, lady,” she said, “For his life is secure. And there is one here who comes asking for you, one of your own people, I should say.”
I turned, and I asked myself whether Acharn had come back, denying the flight and leading a company of archers to this battle, this day where all had been lost and regained in the space of brief hours. But when I saw who waited on the door my heart was crushed even as it leapt, and my joy turned to dust as a savage need and a wordless pain shredded me.
For on the threshold, framed by the uncertain light of the torches, stood Legolas.
Chapter 18
Aegnor
I left him two days ago, in Rohan…
Mithrandir’s words echoed inside my mind as if in an empty cave, and all thoughts were erased, my spirit blank and forlorn. I advanced towards him, my hesitant steps matching his own, staggering more than walking, one uncertain foot before the other. The shadows of the room had swallowed the light. When he was before me my tongue rested forgotten in my mouth, all my words forever left behind. For a moment it seemed he was about to speak; then he shook his head like a skittish horse, and turning he walked away, his pace measured now, towards the garden. I followed.
The voice of the trees had not changed, a divine indifference to all that was not enclosed within the garden’s walls, a satisfied humming beneath the brilliant sky.
We were right we did not care it did not come…
The stone whispered of deliverance unexpected, unsought for. But as we came they fell silent, for they could guess our thoughts, and the pain suspended on our words unsaid was like a moving darkness, and it throbbed.
“Why didn’t you come back?”
He spoke before he turned, and when he faced me, waiting for his answer, his eyes blazed. Legolas! Alive and safe, and there, in the middle of that war a knife of agony and relief sunk into my throat. My answer hung between us as my eyes searched his face, reading on it the weariness of a long path, but a spirit untamed. As I looked at him he did the same, he learnt me again after this long absence; and learning he sought for the difference that divided us now, for a change that would tell him what had come to pass, in what fire I had been tempered into something new.
I could not lie. I would not. Mine was this burden to carry, mine the fault and the stain. I looked into his eyes, and told the truth.
“I could not leave Ithilien.”
“And the Man…the Captain?”
Hesitation. Words that fall, drops of water on the rock. Answers to give. Sun that scorches, Sun that burns.
“You have seen your answer in that room.”
His cry I did not expect, it cut through me like a white-hot iron. Legolas screamed, rage and frustration and despair in a call which had no words, only pain. His hands clenched into fists, his face a mask of grief deeply engraved. It hurt me even as it hurt him, and my heart beat a mournful drum, my fingers burnt; yearning to touch him, to soothe him, to say that it was but a dreadful dream. But I remained still, my choice, my guilt a leaden cape chaining me to the Earth.
The cry died, the words that followed it sinking deeper than it had.
“Were those years so easily forgot?”
In the encircling darkness of that hour, times of brightness and peace, and joy undimmed shone in my memory, jewels in the sand of years past. I tried to answer, I tried to explain, I tried to say how it had been living divided in two until the choice had come. But my voice was no longer there, my words died on my lips even as they reached them. I looked at him, to his face shaded in the light of the stars, and I knew not what filled my eyes.
He looked at me, and he must see the truth, the impossible fracture, the clean break that had cloven my heart. He shook his head, again and again as if he could not, he would not believe. In the closed darkness of my pouch my fingertips found the jewel leaf, and I offered it to him. It shone softly upon my palm, beauty cold and untouched. He did not take it.
“Of what I gave you this is but the least part; and I can take back none of it. Nor would I.”
There was a brilliance of tears in his eyes, like stars polished by a sudden rain; his voice was firm when he said: “I wish you happiness, Mìriel.”
He had seldom waited for me to answer, even in the days of our happiness before the war. Now, without looking back, he left me. I stood motionless watching him go, his slender figure small against the stone portal. I remained behind, and when he had gone for a long moment all was silence, the night of the victory a soundless thing beneath a sky twinkling with silver and black.
Inside me, a dragon devouring my heart bite by bite.
I fell sitting on the ground, my grief a physical pain, a spear thrust into my chest. Like a burning wind it swept the plains of my mind, different and unlike the fear and despair that had seized me because of Faramir, for Legolas I knew as deeply as myself, and for long years our spirits had sung together, their chords attuned. Imagining his sorrow at my betrayal had been a wound that had long pained me before feigning to heal; but witnessing it was a destruction I had not foreseen.
For months and years I had believed I had lived two lives, I had believed that I had severed my spirit, split myself into desires so far and different that one should perish for the other to live. But to hope that such a fracture may heal is vain. Finding Legolas here, finding him at the end and the beginning of all that was, reminded me of a brightness too strong for my maimed spirit to suffer. I did not regret a step of the road I had taken. And yet it hurt.
Sitting on the grass, motionless and still. Watching me they might have believed I was made of stone. My body immobile, my mind strained, I strived to scatter this cloud, pushing the edge of this darkness away, looking for a light to shine even now. The battle won. Faramir saved…
But what should have been my safety revealed itself to be my doom. For as I remembered his cool forehead when the fever had given up its fight, as I remembered the triumph of his heart as it slowed down, so I remembered the frailty of his body in my arms beneath the dome of the Halls of the Dead, and I knew that this victory was vain. The hunter of his death, the end of mortal days, would not lose his traces. If I had lain down this poisoned veil, if I had locked my pain for Legolas in the most secret chambers of my heart, still this shadow would come back; and I should live to see Faramir die beside me day by day, to see the flame of his strength consumed, until no spell nor skill, nor plead of rock and maiden could save him from the paths that Mankind shall take alone, to places where the Eldar cannot follow.
In that day he would abandon his life; and I would remain behind, and all my promises become unfulfilled. In the winter of his days I would remain by his side; until bitterness would unman him, and love turn to pity and despair. For not mine was the choice to relinquish immortal life, and whatever happiness Time would concede me now, it would devour; if happiness I could hope for when the burden of my betrayal, of my unforgotten love weighed upon my heart. The fear that long had tormented my mind came closer, and its cold breath was upon my neck, for now I knew, and my eyes had seen the weakness and the strength of Men. In this hour laid bare by grief from such certainty I could no longer hide.
Elvish maiden…
The voice of the trees, a call I would not answer again. But in their whisper came the memory of a wisdom that High Elves had possessed, and in the mists of my mind the remembrance of a song long since heard stirred.
Words and music came back to me, and the sound unfolded with ancient wisdom. And through the music he spoke to me, Aegnor prince of the Noldor that had been born before the Sun was made, Aegnor who found love in the shape of a mortal maiden. Aegnor whom not unlike me had not the choice to forge his fate. Aegnor who had known that for the immortal grief of the Eldar to watch the waning of those they love is sorrow that cannot be healed. Aegnor who denied himself happiness, however brief, who scorned the mindless abandon of the Children of Men. Aegnor, who had lived too briefly to keep himself from loving, and yet too long not to see what of his love should come.
Aegnor who would have merited the light I deserved not.
The night was long, the voice of the trees a song that could not lull me to sleep. I watched the sun rise into bloodied morning, the white stone turning to scarlet spark. Then the music of the trees died down, and the maiden that had sat alone against the darkness acknowledged her defeat.
Then I rose, and my decision was taken.
A smile that was the pale promise of laughter spread on his lips as I entered the room, and when I sat by him his hand, still weak, tentatively sought mine. I took it, caressing its creases, feeling the shade of his strength that would one day return. Learning it, remembering it, for the eternity that would come after this moment when he would no longer be.
“You were not here…”
“I had to leave. As I will have to do now.”
“What requires your presence? I wish I were stronger. Certainly the city – “
“The city needs her Steward, even if they say that a King has ridden to the gates. But of this I no longer concern myself.”
Doubt flickered in his eyes, the frail grip of his hand on mine tightened.
“I do not understand your words, Mìriel.”
“Yet you do, and all too well. I am returning to the woods, Faramir.”
“You lie.”
Meaningless words, words without weight. A denial as his eyes demanded to know the truth. The truth that so dearly is paid for.
“I will bear your memory with me through the ages of Arda until this world withers. But this life with you I cannot share.”
“Surely you speak in haste. You will take time to think of this, Mìriel? Surely you were glad…”
Looking at me, waiting for my response. Too much gladness, too much light. All has a price. Pain had given me the courage to do this, to cut the last tie. I should have done it before; and of this bitter end my lord Gelmir had spoken. But it did not matter now. It was too late. My voice itself had become stone.
“My days shall not wane as yours do, my life shall not end with yours. Of these hopes we cherish now there would remain then but ashes and faded regrets.”
“If it is old age that frightens you, maiden, know that short are the days of the youth of Men, but not blind their eyes. I would not keep you.”
“I would not leave. I would accompany you even to the threshold of death, and beating on its gates demand to be admitted. But it would be in vain. Remember me now, and then forget. Find a mortal love that you shall not be parted from.”
“There is no mortal love I desire. Nor I will.”
“Men shall say that the One was unkind to them, that their Gifts are harsh, and hard to accept. And yet so soon they forget. So soon they heal.”
“Mìriel…”
“Faramir.”
If he had spoken, if he had pleaded, perhaps my strength would have abandoned me, and the ice of my words would have melted in bitter tears. Then I would have tried to cheat fate, and procrastinating the payment of my debt to later days tried to reconcile myself to the city of stone that was in his blood, to the loyalty of iron that lay in his bones, until I should lose myself, and become like the trees in the garden, tamed and changed by the Tower of Guard. All, all, if his words had released me from what I knew needed be done, but whose weight crushed me.
But Faramir did not plead, Faramir did not speak. For Mithrandir had educated him in the lore of the Eldar, and he believed that honour lies in carrying out what for us has been lain in song. He looked at me, and I wished he could see the turmoil behind the blind mirror that my eyes were; I wished he could understand, and forgive. But I said nothing. He nodded once, slowly, and closed his eyes.
In songs and stories, farewells are long, and beautiful words are uttered, words to console, words to diminish the pain. But we were no minstrels, we were no poets. Too much had Faramir lost already to marvel at this. He brought my hand to his lips, and against its skin he whispered: “The joys of my life have been brief, and swiftly consumed, as lightning that makes day of the night, but too soon is gone. And yet the taste I will keep of this shall be sweet.” Relinquishing my hand, he looked at me, and in the blue of his eyes sadness had fallen again. “That we should come so far, to part so lightly, Mìriel.”
“Perhaps the sages of my people were right. Perhaps no gift is more precious than a sweet goodbye.”
I looked at him, his soft mouth, the line of his cheeks, his hair falling upon the pillow in disorderly waves. I looked at him, and knew that the retribution would be fair. No balm for the wounds I had inflicted, and whose burn I should feel in myself. Atonement would be long, and even the green of my land would not soothe it and make it kind.
One last time I bent over him, one last time I let my lips touch his. A remembrance to last until the the bottomless count of eternity should end.
And then I straightened and walked away without looking back, closing the door behind me, feeling only now what it truly is for a heart to break. My spirit crumbled, my strength failed, and without tears I cried, until I knew no longer which pain I was mourning, or why.
The streets of the city were crowded, the people of Gondor had abandoned this nest, they basked in unexpected Sun. This morning of relief was precious to them, the life in their hearts sang loud. Bow and sack over my shoulder, I made my way among them without haste, level by level until I came to the last. Here soldiers were assembled, counting weapons, shoeing horses. Warriors survive but to fight another day.
The gate was open. I had almost reached it, its shadow upon me, before me the empty plain, when a voice called me back.
“Lady!”
I turned. His face different and bright without the helm, the scratches of the battle bandaged and ready to become scars of honour, one of my archers beckoned to me, the merriness of his gestures betraying his youth, his joy. Too broad was his smile to be disappointed, and I went to him.
“Will you need new arrows for the battle, lady? You have but to ask.”
“I have fought my battle, soldier. I shan’t fight another.”
“Will you remain behind to defend the city, then?”
“Why? Will the army leave?”
“You did not hear then?”
“No.”
Eyes wide with surprise, enthusiasm at being the one to tell.
“Aragorn son of Arathorn has mustered most of the able Men. We ride to the Black Gate. Will you come, lady?”
I considered his face, and for his innocence, for his light too soon to be quenched I grieved. Riding to Mordor was riding to death, and what purpose such a waste would serve in the Dùnadan’s mind, I could not guess. But even as I opened my mouth to speak the immensity of the days that stretched before me had I left the city came to me, its dreariness, its shallowness, immensity of pain unendurable until all should become but long-drawn burden where even Eldarin memories would fade.
And with it came the remembrance of the end of the song, a tale too sad to be often sung; and the destiny of the prince of the High Elves and mine embraced, a new design and a new atonement showed themselves.
His choice had been wise, but Aegnor grieved. The flame of his sorrow a cutting edge to his sword, he rode to battle. Nor did he come back.
Chapter 19
Black
The riders of Rohan had camped outside the walls, their tents a green sheet over the blackened battlefield. Parties of soldiers were gathering the dead, burying the fallen beneath great mounds. Orcs and servants of Sauron burnt on pyres untended by mourner or tear, and the air was thick with the smell of charred flesh. No carrion bird would come to feed on this tainted banquet. A strange silence hung in the air; the Rohirrim looked to their horses, gathered their weapons. Yesterday’s victory was forgotten, tomorrow’s battle promised a worse fate.
The guards let me pass, marvel in their eyes, uneasy glances as I stepped over a fallen spear and made my way through the tents. The King was still in the citadel, I was told, he was holding council with Aragorn. My wait was spent in the white light of a Sun that played with shreds of clouds, that made the armours of the dead shine sickly, a wall of steel as their companions carried them away to be buried.
I held my pain back behind the mask of a blank face, looking for numbness, hoping in vain. Raising my eyes to the darkness that loomed East. A lucidity hounded me in this morning that no detachment would come to soften. The red light of Sauron had not been quenched, the dense clouds veiling it a were a cloak gathered around a wounded animal. An Enemy undefeated bid his time to spring again.
No victory in waiting, no victory in marching. Aegnor’s choice had not been different. In this doom my grief became null, it disappeared among the ruin of our times. In the host of those that marched away, one sorrow would be drowned among a thousand. So small we are, so meaningless; and yet we believe that our pain and our joys are the edges of the world.
There were no trumpets to announce the king, he came surrounded by his marshals, on his grim face engraved the challenge that lay ahead. He had taken his crown on the battlefield where his kin had died, and on him like a shadow was the mute question that no man dared to utter, that the thirst for bloodshed could not erase.
The Man before me knew that his reign could prove to be but the dominion of one day.
“I greet you, King of the Mark,” I said, and his eyes found me with a brief spark of surprise. “Short is the time before you march to war again, short and painful as you bury the friends that yesterday died, as you ask yourself whether in the Houses of your fathers you shall soon meet. I will steal no long time from you, Lord of Horses, but an answer to my question.”
“Your countenance is grave, lady, and it is with wonder that I recognize in you one of the Firstborn. Valiantly has your kin fought with mine, and to the request of one of the Elves I owe a reply even in this hour of haste.”
Valiantly has your kin fought with mine…Words have edges that those who speak them know not. Perhaps my pain showed itself, a dark flicker upon my face; the walls of my mind crumbling after too much strain. But I mastered it, a beast that should wait to feast on my bones.
“I thank you, lord; and what I ask is a simple thing to grant or refuse. Tomorrow you shall ride to war, and I ask of you permission to come with your host.”
I waited, and what passed in his dark eyes, on his features I could not tell; a pain whose source was unknown to me. He looked at me, and I knew he did not see an archer or an Elf, but a maiden too small in comparison to the weight of this hour without light.
“Would you go to war, then, maiden of the Eldar? Would you gamble your life with ours? Is it thirst of glory that bids you abandon the walls of the city, illusory safety perhaps, but safety still? Your life was made to be endless, and it seems hasty to me to throw it away so.”
“King of the Mark, I do not know what thoughts cross your mind, what grief awakens in your heart. No thirst for glory compels me, no oaths sworn nor promises made. My life was long ere you were born; and you have seen that the shape of the Elves betrays nothing of the time they have spent on this Earth, nor of their strength in strife. For I was raised in a land that was always in peril, and in war secret and void of glory I have spent my days, when alliance of Elves and Men was but a legend and a dream. I have fought for the city in the hour of its darkness, and now this war I would follow to its last stand.”
“Short are the days of Men, and I see now that your memory goes back to times that no Man alive has known. I have seen the worth of the Eldar in war, and that they may endure and fight beyond the resistance of mortal warrior, however mighty. But I did not think that they would train their maidens to wield sword.”
A smile that spoke of sadness flowered on my lips as images of my far childhood came to my mind, a gentler pain, a regret of times when Orcs were rare nightmares in forest unspoiled, and the skill of the hunter untouched by war.
“No sword I wield, but bow and knife. None of my kin there are that know not how to live in the wood, for among the trees we wander together, and a maiden shall know how to shield herself and others from peril. Do not wonder, Lord of Horses; I shall be of no burden to your march, and what aid I can give, you shall receive.”
He shook his head.
“I see that no words that I can say shall shake you, and indeed you were a fighter long before I was taught to brandish spear and sword. But if I cannot dissuade you, let me at least ask why you shall not ride with Aragorn the Elf-friend, and Legolas his companion.”
The beast in my heart roared, a call I could not hide. Harsh was my voice when I answered, and thick with all I would not say. Another day, I silently begged of my grief, another day. Then forever you will hold me in your thrall, or I shall be beyond your reach.
“Ask not the reason why I choose to ride with you, king, for it is not my wish to tell. If you shall allow me to ride with the Rohirrim, I will be but one of them, and my different kin will be meaningless in common fight. Or if you shan’t, say but a word, and I will depart.”
He bowed his head, and his words were rough, but kind. For the shadow of pain was upon him even as upon me, and he understood.
“Forgive me, lady; these are days of mourning and uncertainty, and I wish I could shield all that remains of fair and beautiful on this Earth from the taint and the threat of war. But if your wish be to ride and defy death with us, so be it; and when the moment comes together we shall unsheathe our blades.”
My triumph was a quiet thing as he went away, my victory a knot in the thread of a destiny too often strained. My steps were stitches holding together the cloth of Time, making it slower as I crossed the scarred plains, past the great carcasses of the Mumakil, past the abandoned banners and broken spoils.
Till the river. Till water that cleanses, and makes sacred.
Osgiliath downstream was a black shape, sadness in its abandoned form coiled across the Anduin. Fair I was, and mighty they made me; now I am in ruin. Before the Kings were gone I was lost. Shall they fail?
I shook my head. Faded was the voice of the stone, tired. It died away as I took off my clothes, the call of rock and ruined building losing itself in the gentle murmur of the river, Anduin the Great unbroken since the Sea was fixed. The first touch of the water was cold on my toes as my foot trod in the mud, and noiselessly I cut the surface, slipping under. Letting the dust and the remembrance of blood and war melt, and my pain fall asleep in the deep song of the river. Between my fingers the water was like curtains of silk.
When I broke the surface again the river was a mirror to mountain and sky; clouds swam beside me, white sweetness I could not reach.
It all passes, from spring to Sea. All is washed away.
Even this pain.
The voice of the king, the voice of the wizard. Before the Black Gates of Mordor their light was frail, the fell voice of the messenger a hiss that spoke of death. But I had no ears for it. In the moment before the battle I lay cradled in the Anduin.
The memory of the river, a brightness in the journey through darkness till the darkened memory of this scarred earth. The last warmth as we left Ithilien behind, the leaves unmoving on branches still in the motionless wait. The edges of all things cutting blades where all that remained of our dreams died.
In my eyes the journey had been but a shadowed land. None had hindered the march of those that went to their fate, banners flying in useless pride. The last gleam of the Sun on silver and black.
When the head of the messenger fell in the dust the water disappeared, the gray wasteland embraced me. Nothing existed but this marred dream, this ruined land that was prophecy of what would be if we failed. Death smiled from the crags of the ashen mountain as the Gate vomited its black armies to a sound of doom.
We had left the horses behind, and the soil beneath my feet felt dead. No life to accompany me to this last stand, no voices in the stone but a low rumbling, a threatening growl. I closed my eyes, and an echo of the wood reached me, one last rustling of leaves here, at the end of all things; and perhaps it was nothing but the whisper of my spirit as it bid farewell.
I did not listen to the speech of the King, my body felt it as my spirit looked out of my eyes on a world that was dull and silent. It sought the peace of the river even as the blood in my veins boiled, even as my fingers flexed, and my bow became one with my hand. And when I charged my soul was left behind, it remained standing alone on that plain, watching the body that had hosted it as a scream tore its throat, as mindless rage erased pain and love and fear, and it plunged into the fight.
Orcish blood on stained blade, pounding heart into the ears. Where is the land, where is the sky, where is the truce in this battle that has no end?
Black, all shades of black as I shoot the last arrow, endless black as the trolls come charging through rows of Men that fall like broken leaves. This is death, and yet it does not come; it holds me on its fingers, and with me it plays.
Another monster, marred life that dies, slaying that becomes breathing as the minutes lengthen, as time distills itself until it becomes meaningless. A tainted haven rises on this black day.
Is it Legolas that comes towards me cutting his way through the fray, can it be his the voice that calls? What does it say? It does not matter, for this is the end. There is nothing left but to lower this blade, in the red tide of time, smiling, to stop. Don’t run, my love. It’s far too late.
I do not feel the spear that pierces my skin. I do not feel the earth as it grows closer. The clouds have covered the Sun on the Anduin, and my last memory is a cry that tears apart the silence in my head.
“Mìriel!”
Everything else is nothing but unbroken black.
Chapter 20
Scattered Leaves
The Sun is a forgotten path over the water, I blink again and again. What is this brightness? I cannot breath. I struggle, I cannot rise: the water drags me down, it speaks soothingly of rest. Like hands upon my shoulders, and my skin hurts. What of the battle? What of the black? I fight again, a shout that cannot open its way to my mouth; it doesn’t matter now, it has no importance.
There was somebody who screamed: what did he say? It was Legolas, I know this. I left him there, I left him in the fight. Where is my knife? They can have me, not him, no, not him. They cannot touch him. I will not let them. I had finished my arrows; perhaps if I found new ones…I will make them. I have time, don’t I? All the time in the world. Don’t run here, my love. It is too late.
Don’t call. They will see you, they will kill you; it shall all have been in vain.
“Legolas?”
Wood that scratches against stone, a roughness I do not recognize. It is my voice, out of a throat too sore not to be alive. I open my eyes.
Well awoken, Elvish maiden.
The whisper of these trees, a call too deeply engraved in me now to forget it. Their leaves rustle, greeting me. There is a light of gold and green upon me, a veil on my tired features. A blanket covers me lightly, my limbs ache and together rejoice in this unhoped-for rest. The wizard sitting beside me smiles.
“Mithrandir.” My voice is still too far, my words uncertain. “What of the battle?”
“Lost.” The smile does not match his answer, there is a new light upon his face. The serenity of someone whose duty is fulfilled. “Until the Eagles came. Frodo Baggins has accomplished his quest, and the Ring is no more.”
Perhaps the world sings today, and this evil has been lifted from a lighter Earth. But my heart is a cave echoing with sad remembrances, and I shake my head.
“Forgive me, but such joy was not won for me.” Carefully, I try to sit. A tightness and a pain in my shoulder tell me that my memory was not vain, and my flesh knew the tip of a spear. Mithrandir helps me gently until I rest against the bark of the tree; the mattress beneath me lies on the grass.
“Your wound is healing well, Mìriel. We did not come a moment too soon. Legolas found you, and brought you out of the fight.”
“Legolas…”
His face, his voice. The pain is the same, my heart does not hurt the less.
“Indeed, Legolas. You were lucky.”
“Lucky…like Aegnor.”
If he understands what I mean, he does not say. He keeps smiling. And then I realize where I am, I know what this place is, and the voice of the trees acquires a name. Fear stirs in my heart, and I grasp Mithrandir’s hand.
“Faramir…does he know I have been brought back?”
He shakes his head.
“However painful, your choice was wise. He recognizes it. He did not see you, nor did he ask. He does not walk in this part of the garden, as if a sorrowful memory kept him.”
A past fire, a passion that tasted bitter and gentle on the mouth. Not so long ago, but now far too late. Mithrandir looks at me, in his eyes his new power joined with the ancient keenness of his mind, the Gray Pilgrim that all knew, all enquired. But he does not ask; kindly, he lays my hand to rest on the blanket.
“Fear not; he thinks you have gone back to the woods.”
“And so it shall soon be.”
Tentatively I try to rise, and his hand finds me again, together a support and a bond.
“No need to hurry; not now. The King was with you these past few days, and asked me to tell you that you remain at least until your strength is fully regained. You shall be an honourable guest at his coronation.”
“The King…the Dùnadan held more secrets than even his countenance spoke of, when a ranger and a wanderer he was upon this earth, suspected and shunned. I wish him good. But you know that I shall not remain.”
The sadness that now tinges his smile is but a shade of his wisdom, the majesty of his spirit unveiled in his eyes.
“It was easy to guess. But still I hoped.”
I do not reply, but stand up carefully, his hand and the trunk a support to my faltering step. The strength of the Eldar does not betray me, and soon I am firm on my feet.
“How long did I sleep?”
“Three days. Mortals would have perished of such a wound.”
“Mortals may perish of many things. In the end, they perish of themselves.”
“I wish you could remember love without bitterness, Mìriel.”
“It is not bitterness that speaks. I am weak, Mithrandir, I crave my land. There I may find repose. One day I will learn to keep this grief at bay. Come and find me then, and we may converse together in lighter voices.”
He shakes his head, while offering me my sack. Inside, my clothes darned and clean. My bow and my quiver rest on the ground.
“My time on Middle Earth is over. I was never more than a visiting spirit, a messenger and a vessel of a purpose far greater than me. I see that some good as come of it, and this shall be befitting prize.”
I hesitate. Another loss. But this is no song for a happy conclusion, for a rising note on a tender scale. There is sorrow in this victory; many things that were fair and great are lost with these days.
“Much good came of it, and my heart regrets your departure. May your passing into the West be swift, and fair winds bring you home. I will never see you again.”
That smile; the playfulness and levity that belonged to the Pilgrim. In this blinding radiance their glittering light is not lost.
“As for that, Mìriel, ‘never’ is indeed quite a very long time.”
He leaves before I can say another word, his step light, his cloak a white stain soon lost on the lawn, disappearing swiftly into the Houses. I envy his light, the trust that comes to him from his far land, Aman the Blessed my kind only knew in songs. When the time came, we chose to remain faithful to Arda Marred. Our grief is heirloom of that choice, that still we never regret.
My land. In its leaves, in its shadows, my only hope. A balm for this flame that soon shall regain strength, even as I do. As my long sleep still lies heavy on my spirit, my pain is numbed. The dragon sinks his claws into my heart, but he, too, rests. In this short truce, however sad, I take my leave.
Well met, Elven maiden, well found. Will you be back?
The voice of the trees, their solemn wish. Their thoughts are made of rock, the white flesh of this Tower of Kings. The White Tree shall be renewed. Stone-city shall be alive again, and their words not vain anymore.
I rest my palm against the bark, I whisper farewell. A part of their memory, of their faded story, the Elvish maiden that felt like the forest, that spoke of far winds. A thread in the tale they spin, a voice in a chorus that speaks of healing. Their only gift.
I see them as I walk to the archway, green and white upon the battlements, a vision Mithrandir had not foreseen. Faramir stands now, his steps not yet strong, but better. He smiles, almost, his sadness tempered as he looks upon the slender figure of the maiden by his side. He doesn’t know yet. He shall soon. His mortal love has come, and the One is kind.
Perhaps he turns, perhaps he glimpses me for a moment, this green-clad remembrance of other forests, other trees. But Elves disappear too soon, and in the mind of Men we remain but as a paled print, a memory of things long past. On my way out of the Houses the hall is empty, the old healer comes out of a door, folded linen on her arms. The same sight, a life so different. Her eyes widen in surprise, and she opens her mouth, as to speak; my finger to my lips asks her silence.
No words to say, not now.
I leave the stone portal behind without looking back.
Six levels of a city in triumph where none looks twice at the Elf who walks slowly, picks her way carefully among the crowd. Invisible, as I should have stayed that day in the forest, so long ago. The time for atonement is coming. For one last moment, closing my eyes, I enjoy the Sun.
The guard at the shattered gate is familiar to my eyes, on his lips a grin that a fresh wound cannot maim. He salutes me as he would do for a commander victorious, this soldier escaped to the strife to live on. This warrior who has survived to find peace. My last smile is a gift to him.
The shadow of the threshold is upon me, Minas Tirith behind already a memory; the world of Men a bruise and a scar upon my soul, wisdom acquired for too high a price. Love in my spirit is an animal whose agony shall be too long. The first step among the dried grass chooses an invisible road, and home lies ahead, past shadow and light.
“Such haste on such a joyful day, maiden of Ithilien.”
Even in the black, I had not forgot. Here, in this clear Sun, the sound is crystal to my ears. Bells tingling, and music gentle to listen to, even if later this shall be another memory of lost happiness, another shard into my wound. It does not matter. Slowly, I turn.
The Sun caresses his beauty as he leans against the pillar of the gate, his arms crossed. He shines faintly, a green remembrance of his home, of our Silvan blood. His hair is gold over his shoulders, wheat not yet reaped where the blue haven of his eyes sparkles.
“My land has waited too long, prince of Mirkwood. It’s time I went.”
“Long ago you said the same. I told you you would not have to set out alone.”
I shake my head.
“Do not remind me of times I have marred and twisted, lord. I would take the evil I have done to you upon me alone; and if I cannot, then my grief shall have to be retribution to last for a long time.”
I do not dare look to him, not know; and yet I cannot leave. For he has left the pillar, and walks until he is before me. His voice wonders, almost harsh.
“Could you ever believe I wanted your grief?”
I wish I could escape, I wish he would let me go. My shame burns on my face, but he remains silent, waiting for my answer. I could never deny him the truth.
“No. You always were better than me, my lord.”
Pain crosses his face, and a shadow of rage. He shakes his head, and his words come as if hissed through his teeth: “No. Do not make me other than I am, Mìriel. For I was selfish and wished you would stay with me, and begrudged you every day you stayed away on fulfillment of your duty to you land, a duty far nobler and deeper than that to your lover. And I scouted the Earth and travelled and fought, thinking that you would be waiting home, my well deserved prize.”
“No! Don’t speak like this, you that were faithful, you that I betrayed. Blame not yourself. My heart was weak, my spirit tainted. Who among the Elves has done what I did?”
“Who among the Elves has not harboured darkness in their thoughts?” He looks away, and his words are sad. “I wished you happiness, but I desired for it to be marred. I wanted you to feel my pain, I wanted your heart to be shattered even as mine was. My hatred and my love mingled, and my spirit was heavy when I rode to war. I wished for death on the battlefield, cowardly I wanted my grief to end with my life.”
Spirits that sing together, chords that are attuned…
“Then I saw you, even as darkness closed upon me, I saw you, and you were lost. And I knew that I should live if only to see you safe in his arms, and that if you had fallen there my spirit would not find peace, not until the world was broken and remade. I thought your betrayal had wounded me; but no pain have I known in spirit or body as the grief I felt as I watched your sleeping form, as your life hung on a frail thread. Pride is no coin of value for a spirit that is broken.”
“Legolas…”
My hand seeking his face, but he shirks away. He shall tell his tale to its end.
“Mithrandir told me of your choice, of the farewell you have said to the Man. And then I hoped…I hoped, against all that is called reasonable upon this Earth, that you would remain, and look with me for happiness again. But you are going; and in me there is no strength nor will left to beg.”
A fist closes my throat, and my words are choked. He looks at me now, and my eyes speak to him, my heart beating too loud a music to be endured. My cloven spirit is set aflame. When the voice comes, it is but a broken whisper.
“I do not know whether I shall be whole again. I do not know what is left in me to give…I am but a wretch and a shadow of who I was.”
He shakes his head, a fire kindled in his eyes such as I have not seen before.
“A wretch and a shadow I would be, if you took that road alone.”
Sorrow breaks its dam, a savage hope sweeps the empty plains of my spirit. My vision clouds, as I utter the words that keep my doom in their hands: “Would you wait for me to heal?”
He laughs then, and that laughter unbinds my tears, and his beauty is such to unhinge the doors of my conscience. His smile is another Sun, and its light promises peace.
“Time, my lady Mìriel, was the gift the One gave us. Of it we shall make good use.”
He offers his hand now, and I look at it, its clear palm as pale as the stone of the Tower I leave behind.
His touch won’t make me whole again, I know it now. The light of Ithilien shan’t be enough. And yet, if not healed, I shall live to see other times. If not again the same I once was, I will grow to something different. Through war and grief and fire, made anew.
Soldiers of Men smile notwithstanding their scars. If one art we can learn from Mankind, it will be that.
I accept the hand Legolas offers, and our feet are light over the plain, Minas Tirith behind us a pale dream. The road to Ithilien lies before us, and a gentle wind rises from the city, it brings to our nostrils one last scent of its gardens. Caught in our hair, the rustling music of scattered leaves.
finis
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Ooh, you’ve got me intrigued now. I’m a little nervous to how Legolas might break her heart, but that’s just because he’s so cute. Faramir is my favorite though, and I cannot wait to see how he charms her.
— Anna Thursday 25 February 2010, 19:02 #Really good beginning, can’t wait for more.