Cadenza by Rose Sared

Set in the same universe as ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Road trip to Aglarond and eventually Rivendell from Minas Tirith. A missing Queen, bandits, and mayhem.

Beta by the wonderful Theresa Green, do read her stories if you can manage slash. They are very good and very funny.

Her ‘Owners Guide’ series is a masterpiece that has spawned its own fan fiction. Go enjoy.

Chapter One

In the royal apartments of the Citadel in Minas Tirith wind rattled the open window shutters and Aragorn jerked awake, feeling the same blunt kick of anxiety that had kept him sitting in his chair waiting instead of lying down on his bed, alone.

Despite the inky darkness outside the window the breeze blowing through the open window smelled of morning. The fire in his room had died down to sombre embers and Arwen had not returned

The King of Gondor and Arnor rubbed his hands over his face and head, wincing at the scratch of old stubble and the new pain of his stiff neck. He shook his head. He was certainly doing no good here, despite taking the well-meant advice of his steward Cirion and Guard Captain Throndar that he should retire to rest and resume searching at first light.

He added hours in his head and came to a total of - too many. No one had seen the Queen since yesterday afternoon, which was so wrong it was almost impossible. With her constant retinue of handmaids and ladies in waiting the Queen was never alone. Aragorn had sometimes wondered if it bothered her, but on earnest enquiry she had only laughed lightly at him, and evaded the question.

Aragorn paced to the window, the slight milky stain in the eastern sky convinced him he had been exiled from the search long enough. He grabbed his sword belt and strapped it on, immediately feeling dressed and more in control.

His leather coat was over the end of the bed where he had tossed it in frustration last night. Snagging it, he made for the door.

He met Eldarion in the main corridor leading to the citadel entrance.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Aragon asked his son.

Eldarion jerked his head in negation and fell in step with his father as they made their way down the internal tunnel that led to the stables.

“There were no more reports last night?” Aragorn knew Eldarion was in better touch with the various civil authorities than he was, he was more familiar with the military ones.

Eldarion tilted his beautiful elven face towards his father, he could not look haggard if he tried, but Aragorn could not recall a time he had looked grimmer.

“She may have never re-entered the city after we all farewelled Tolman, yesterday.” Nodding at the door guards the two men began heading for the horse-scented yard in front of the stables. Both paused, glad to be under the rapidly paling sky at last.

“After tracking down all of the people that thought she was with someone else, Cirion really believes that no-one saw her come in again.”

Eldarion looked up as heavy, hurrying, footsteps could be heard coming towards them from a side alley. Gimli came into view, burdened with a pile of gear that looked as if it belonged to both him and the Elf. He stopped and looked at the two men on the bottom step, then sketched as much of a bow as he could manage given his encumbrances.

“ Aragorn? Eldarion?” The dwarf glared up at them from under bristling brows. “Thought you were sleeping?”

“And you?” Aragorn eyed the fierce little figure. “And my Lord Legolas?”

Gimli made a snorting noise and started back on his journey to the stables. “Dwarves and Elves need little sleep, unlike you humans,” he slanted a quick glance up at the two men who were pacing him. “Legolas has gone to the outer wall to spy what he can in the first light. Flighty Elf leaves me to do all the work as usual.”

The grumbling Dwarf shouldered the stable door open and then hurried off to the loose box at the end where Legolas’ mare, Ascallon had her dappled nose over the stall door.

Aragorn was amused to see the competent and obviously practised way the horse and the dwarf organised themselves. Before more than a few moments had passed, Gimli had the load distributed in saddlebags, secured them on the horse’s back, and then had mounted with the assistance of the side wall of the loose box, and Ascallon herself, who moved and stood in ways that helped rather than hindered the dwarf in his efforts. Aragorn spared a fleeting thought wishing he could breed such qualities into most horses.

“She will allow you?” Eldarion was obviously as surprised as his father. The mare usually let no hand but Legolas’ touch her, as a few silly stable boys had discovered to their rue.

The Dwarf looked a little discomforted as he realised that he had just lost any credibility when he complained of horses. He shifted slightly on Ascallon’s back. “She knows I am taking her to her master.” He leaned forward and stroked her silky neck, “She tolerates me.” He glared back at his bemused audience, “and she is better behaved than her owner. Now get on yourselves, we’ll meet you at the gates.” The horse snorted, and started forward out of the stable block. The King held the door for her. “Tell Legolas, we will meet outside the city walls to the south, Gimli.”

Father and son exchanged a look, and then went to their own animals which were held for them by grooms, who had started tacking them up as soon as the royal pair entered the stable.

Eldarion met his father’s eye over the back of his own horse and remarked, “they are an odd couple, those two. Its not just me, is it?”

“The oddest, son. But the most true.”

Eldarion nodded, and followed as his father rode out of the stable.

**

Arwen woke to the bitter wind, looked around fearfully and found herself by the snowline of Mount Mindolluin. She was frightened, because this was neither the first nor the fifth time she had found herself waking in some isolated place with no memory of how she came to be there.

Just yesterday, Tolman Gardener, Samwise’s thirteenth child and a scholar of renown, had left Minas Tirith after guesting with the royal family for more than a year. Presently he was returning to her old home in Rivendell to continue the great plant catalogue he was assembling with the aid of her grandfather, Celeborn, and her brothers Elladan and Elrohir. He had finally completed the research he had desired in the city’s great library. The thought of not enjoying his cheerful hobbit company had brought down a muffling depression she had no defence against. Her ‘grey beast’ she had come to call it, privately. It had first insinuated its bitter claws when her youngest daughter, Seregon, had finally left home to live with her husband at Pellargir. Its miserable tendrils now seemed poised to entwine her any time she had to say farewell to a friend who would be missed. These blank spells were mercifully something new, afflicting her for less than two months. But now it was early morning and here she was alone, as the Queen was never alone, in this high place of the King, gazing at the silver sliver of sea on the horizon, as if it held any hope or help for her.

She dropped her head miserably. Was it so hard to accept her fate that her very brain was rebelling against her? She sighed, at least her elven constitution maintained its indifference to the elements; if she had been born mortal she would be dead.

The sun that lit the distant water pulled her eye back along the shining snake of the river and finally glinted off some movement further down the mountain. She turned her far-seeing eyes to it and spied her husband, using his old ranger skills to track her up the ancient path. She looked further and made out the squad of guards he had left at the base of the mountain. She guessed Aragorn had forbidden them to follow him up the sacred way. It would still be some time before he would be able to see her, so she clambered off the weathered rock she was sitting on and started down to meet him, braced for both his worry and his anger, and quite unable to come up with any rational explanation for the affliction that was cursing her.

Three weeks later

Tolman Gardener was singing, loudly and tunelessly as Bess plodded along the great West Road, the saw-topped mountains of Ered Nimrais snug on his left shoulder and, in the distance, the first white teeth of the Misty Mountains climbing over the horizon. The Fords of Isen were still a couple of days away at Bess’ sedate pace. The donkey had one grey, flea-bitten, ear trained on her master and the other pointing the way. The early afternoon sun was warm and the grasslands of the Westfold billowed away into the hazy distance. Delicate bells strung from the wagon top jingled merrily as the wheel jolted over a stone, and Tolman was reminded of the trees of Ithilien where he had guested for a season with Legolas. The branches decorated with melodious wind chimes had delighted him and Legolas had gifted him several strings to relieve the loneliness of the road.

Tolman expected to be joined in Aglarond by the Lord of Ithilien. Gimli had told Tolman that Legolas would be joining him for a visit, as soon as the Elf had made sure he could be of no further assistance to Aragorn or Arwen.

Gimli’s sad news of Arwen’s sudden illness had disturbed Tolman greatly, following so hard on the heels of his departure from Minas Tirith. Gimli had overtaken him between Firien Wood and Edoras, after Tolman had spent a couple of days with his Woses friends in their new village in Firien forest, but Gimli’s own feet and Dwarven endurance would have caught him anyway before he got to Edoras. Gimli had been called back to Aglarond on some urgent matter concerning marauding bandits. He had kept Tolman company until their paths diverged at Edoras, filling his ears with his plans for improving the basic structures that made up the botanical gardens that Legolas and Arwen were planning for the extensive grounds to the south of the Citadel. He waxed lyrical about water gardens, terraces and the placement and paving of paths, and Tolman got his own back by detailing a number of the plants and specialised garden habitats that the two elves and the hobbit had planned to install and mature over the next several years.

Tolman was looking forward to visiting the Glittering Caves; even Legolas had spoken in awed tones of their beauty, and Gimli repeated his invitation more than once as the dwarf and the hobbit parted for a while at the turn to Edoras.

“Remember me to Gleowyn, Tolman. Tell her I am expecting her to send for that cradle I promised them. That should make her blush.” Gimli chuckled with some relish; not much put Gleowyn out of countenance.

“I will do no such thing, Lord Gimli. My Pa would come back from Valinor just to box my ears, if I was so rude to a Lady.”

 Nonetheless he grinned at the Dwarf.  “Anyway, for all we know, she may have sent for it already. It is over a year since she wed Telfaren.”

“And three months since I left Aglarond in Gliver’s care. Time and more that I went home then, master Hobbit. Farewell.” He waved and strode off, and Tolman clucked at Bess and headed for the gilded city.

Now a couple of weeks later Tolman was heading for Aglarond to take Gimli up on his offer of hospitality. And deliver an order for a cradle.

Gliver, heir of Aglarond, stomped around the campsite, rousing the other bundled dwarfs, one of the few compensations for taking last watch was the joy of ending other’s well-earned rest.

Gliver inserted the toe of his boot under his final victim, who had been sawing wood enough to fell a forest through the small hours of the night, and rolled him out of his warm cocoon of blanket and cloak.

“Up, Frerin. Breakfast is cooking and we make Edoras today.”

Frerin opened his eyes with an affronted snort and a glare for his tormentor. Gliver, satisfied, moved back to the merrily crackling fire that Nain was cooking breakfast over, casting a final eye over the two tarpaulin covered wagons and the roused dwarfs. The sooner he got this load delivered the happier he would be. He felt that the mithril and gold plate were shouting their presence to the world despite the two cart’s mundane appearance. Travelling with such a valuable cargo made him nervous.

Gliver accepted the tin cup full of hot tea from Nain and walked round the campsite with it, nodding to the three sentries. Then he left the copse of trees that hid the site from the casual eye and walked the hundred yards or so to the Great West Road.

Gliver squinted into the dawn to try to scry the weather, not expecting traffic at this hour but as he looked into the waxing light he could make out the wavering shape of a horseman coming towards him at a ground-eating canter.

Gliver was about to start back to the campsite with the idea of not drawing any attention to himself or his party, when the east wind brought the sound of merry bells, tinkling on the animal’s neck strap amid the beat of its hooves. Gliver smiled to himself, this was not unexpected, Gimli had been back in Aglarond for nearly three weeks, and the other half was bound to arrive soon. Since his return Gimli had been tied up in negotiations with King Elfwine’s representatives, haggling genteelly over the price to be paid for this shipment, and trying to formulate a plan for dealing with the band of human bandits that were preying on small merchant caravans carrying goods between the kingdoms. Just last week a party of dwarves had successfully defended themselves from an attack not far from Aglarond’s borders, they had sung of their victory in the halls that night, but Gimli had sent sixteen warriors to guard this caravan. Enough to discourage any but the most organised of bandit bands.

The rider was nearly upon Gliver now, and the dwarf raised a hand in recognition and greeting. The Lord of Ithilien, Legolas Greenleaf, reined in beside the dwarf on his tall horse, Ascallon.

“Hail, Gliver, and well met.” Legolas bowed slightly to the dwarf. Ascallon snuffed at him, recognising his scent from when she had carried him last year.

“Well met, Lord Legolas. Do you ride to Aglarond?”

Legolas smiled at the dwarf. “Where else, Gliver? My good friend Gimli needs some assistance with some bandits, I believe.” The Elf’s expression had nothing gentle in it. “He would not deny me the chance of a battle. Life has become soft recently.”

Gliver looked up at the beautiful, alien creature and was very glad that the Elf was no enemy. He looked as dangerous as one of the great mountain cats.

“Would you break your fast with us, my Lord?” Gliver waved his mug at the well-concealed campsite in the trees. “We will be away shortly.”

Legolas looked over Gliver’s head towards the sounds of the camp being picked up. The smell of breakfast cooking wafted in savoury temptation towards them.

Suddenly the Elf’s head jerked to the side, listening. Then he dismounted, and strung his bow, all in what looked to Gliver’s eye, one flowing movement.

“The camp is attacked,” snapped Legolas to Gliver, and then he sprinted in the direction of the trees. Gliver could hear challenges and dwarven yells coming from the direction of the wagons. Dropping his cup he unsheathed his sword and grasped his belt axe before charging after the rapidly moving Elf.

The battle unfolded, like all battles, in a series of jerky incidents with no form or reason. Tall figures were swarming over the campsite, dwarves were standing back to back, and Nain appeared to be defending himself with a frying pan and a burning brand against a man armed with an axe.  Arrows appeared in two men’s backs as Gliver reached with his sword to hamstring and then run one ruffian through. Yells to his left swerved Gliver off to engage two men who were struggling with the shafts of a wagon. He was aware that the Elf was beside him and drawing his wicked white-shafted knives. Then Legolas stopped and looked back at the middle of the camp, Gliver heard a strange thud on the ground behind him and then Elf grabbed him and hurled him to the front, leaping forward himself.

“Orthanc fire! Ware!” The Elf yelled.

Then the world exploded into pain and sound and light. Before it went entirely.

**

Pain came back first. Then hearing returned and with it Gliver’s other senses. The smell of burning meat was overpowering, but instinct kept the dwarf still. He could hear voices, and they were not dwarven.

“Kill any that survived.” The man’s voice was chilling in it coldness. Footsteps approached Gliver’s position and the dwarf steeled himself for his end, he could not get his eyes to open. Gliver became aware of the weight lying on top of him only when a boot obviously kicked it.

“The Elf’s had it.”

“Good, that will hurt the Runt.”

The footsteps moved away and a persistent groaning that had been going on was cut off with a wet gurgle, then silence.

“Leave them for the crows. This haul will arm us for years. The Runt won’t know what has hit him.”

Laughing the voice moved away. Soon the sound of men unloading the wagons and placing the heavy contents into some other wheeled vehicle finished and then the sound of creaking wheels and the occasional curse from the driver faded into the distance and silence.

A caw from above announced the arrival of the carrion birds.

And Gliver struggled and struggled until he was finally able to open his eyes.

He found himself looking through cloth of grey weave into a scene that would haunt his nightmares for years. Nineteen dwarves lay dead in various abandoned poses across the old campsite. The wagons were scorched and smouldering from the blast, and on the fire there lay a severed arm, twisting in the heat.

Gliver feeling the need to vomit managed to suppress it.

He turned his own body and gasped. His leg. The pain that had been lying in wait for his attention grabbed all of it then.

Gliver struggled with himself and managed to detach himself a little from it. With a cautious hand he pushed the fabric of Legolas’ elven cloak off his face and body, then he looked at his saviour. Legolas was face down on top of him, his head turned away. Everywhere Gliver looked he could see blood, the Elf’s back looked flayed and a jagged piece of metal was wedged in the back of one thigh. The arm that was not under him had grown a sickening looking extra elbow.

Gliver managed to sit himself up on his own elbows and look at the leg that was paining him so greatly. A nearly matching piece of shrapnel was stuck in the front of his own thigh. Without giving himself time to think he reached down and yanked the twisted metal out.

That hurt. The world went away for a little bit longer.

**

The raucous caw of a crow woke him again. The bird hopped back when its dinner waved a furious arm at it.

Gliver sat himself up again, and pulled his good leg out from under the warm bulk of the Elf’s torso. Then he thought. Warm bulk?

Gliver rested a hand on the Elf’s side. Trying to avoid the lacerated skin of his back. The rib cage was moving, just slightly.

Gliver had to lie back down then. The two of them alive, that would please Gimli, he thought somewhat light-headedly.

Then he heard a wagon approaching on the road and picked up the twisted bit of shrapnel he had pulled out of his leg. Anything to defend them, Gimli would not be pleased if they died now.

TBC

Rose Sared

All reviews welcomed, treasured and replied to.

Cadenza

Chapter Two

Set in the same universe as ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Beta by the wonderful Theresa Green. Many thanks.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Tolman Gardener’s merry song faltered and died as Bess pulled the cart around a long bend in the road, bringing into view a still distant arm of the forest that stretched down from the hills to touch the road like a finger. A plume of black smoke rose from the middle of the trees, bending to the west as it cleared the wood.

“That’s a large fire for a campsite, Bess, this early in the afternoon. I think we might stop for a moment.”

 He pulled Bess to a halt, and reached under his seat for his metal-shod staff. His groping fingers found its comforting weight and pulled it into the light. The afternoon sun struck highlights off the elven decorations etched into the silver metal of the ends and gave depth to the surface carving twining up the ebony shaft. His most treasured possession and the most deadly in his trained hands. Tom twisted round and reached into the back of the wagon. He pulled out his leather belt with its serviceable long knife, and strapped that over his tunic as well. He thought, as he pulled his warm cloak out of the back of his belt, that it was better to be safe than sorry. He hadn’t forgotten the tales of bandits that had been flying in Edoras.

He stood on the wagon seat and peered into the distance. He could see no movement on the road, or under the trees.

“Well faint heart never won dinner,” he remarked to Bess bracingly. Bess flicked an ear at him. Tom released the brake lever and clucked the donkey into motion again.

As he neared the trees it was apparent that his misgivings had been well founded. Carrion birds could be seen circling and calling above and around the plume of smoke.

“This looks a bad business, Bess.”

Tom clambered out of the wagon and lead Bess a few paces off the road. He fished in the back of the wagon and came up with Bess’ nosebag, and settled her from wandering. Cautiously he started towards the trees.

A thundering of hooves coming from behind made him automatically assume a defensive crouch, but when he turned it was to see Legolas’ horse, Ascallon, charging up to him, rider-less. She was terrifying enough to the hobbit, and he stood very still as the great animal circled him, then stopped, her eyes wild and rolling, her sides streaked with sweat.

“Ho, ho there Missy, what ails thee?” Tom leaned himself on his staff and spoke in as calm a voice as he could manage.

The mare pawed the ground and snorted at him. Then shook herself all over from her nose to her quarters, like a dog, setting all the bells on her neck strap clashing disharmoniously and finally dislodging the balanced saddlebags she was carrying. They fell to the ground with a double thud and she shied away, and then trotted towards the trees, her head turned back to look at the hobbit.

“Can’t be much clearer than that, Girly.” Tolman followed as he was bid.

As he approached the trees Tolman was worried by the continued absence of any hail or challenge. He did not need Ascallon to tell him something was very wrong. Holding his staff in two hands he entered the ring of trees.

If he lived to be as old as Bilbo Baggins he would never forget the sight and the sickening smell of charred flesh that greeted him in the clearing. It was as if a giant hand had swept all before it, throwing bodies and equipment away from a central point near the tipped-over wagons. Bodies of dwarves and men lay like so many puppets with cut strings, in obscene abandonment around the greasy smoke rising from the remains of the fire. Great black crows flew up, cawing in outrage, as the white horse picked her way over obstacles, making her way to the far side of the devastated campsite.

Ascallon whinnied pitifully and lowered her nose to the ground; Tolman saw a slight movement beside her.

Swallowing his horror, he hurried to where the horse now stood.

**

Gliver thought his last moment had come as the soup plate sized feet of the horse moved up beside him. He had always thought horses were tall, and had felt like he was flying when he had travelled on Ascallon’s back with Legolas last year. But that impression was nothing to the one he got when he found himself at ground level looking up at the animal.

“You daft beast, don’t stand on me. How will that help your master?” He growled.

Ascallon’s velvet soft nose approached and snuffed at first his middle and then her master’s unmoving form. She bumped the elf with her muzzle, but Legolas responded no more for her than he had for Gliver, or the vicious bandits that had caused all this.

“Ascallon, you must move, my dear. I need to get to them.”

Gliver looked at the hobbit with some respect as the horse picked her way backwards without treading on anyone.

“Gliver, Heir of Aglarond. At some disadvantage, as you can see, master Hobbit.”

Tolman gazed at the bloodstained and dishevelled dwarf, then knelt down beside him and held out his broad hand. “Tolman Gardner. How can I help you, Gliver? Can you sit up?”

Gliver grabbed the hand and suited action to suggestion, and then swayed alarmingly. Tom’s strong hands steadied him and the world stopped spinning after a space. Gliver could see the hobbit scanning the scene anxiously looking for other survivors.

“All the rest are dead, Master Hobbit. The bandits finished them off so none could tell tales.” Gliver spoke gruffly, tears threatened; now help was at hand, as they had not earlier. “Somehow they overlooked me. Perhaps the Elf’s cloak has some special power to turn the eye.”

Tolman picked up a corner of the Elf’s cloak and looked at its owner sadly. Gliver realised he had made the same mistake the bandits had.

“Look to Legolas, I will do well enough.”

“He lives?” Tolman’s voice was incredulous. Gliver looked over at the Elf from this slightly higher viewpoint and shared the Hobbit’s disbelief. Legolas was just all over blood, from his hair to his legs.

“Elves must be tougher than they look.” Gliver shook his head. “ He breathes still, although he has not regained consciousness these several hours.”

Tolman moved so he was on the other side of the Elf, since Gliver seemed steady enough now.

He looked across the Elf’s body to the dwarf. “This needs to come out.” He shaped his hand over the shard of metal still embedded in the back of Legolas’ thigh, “and I will set this while he still sleeps, I think.” He gently touched the arm that was so wrongly bent.

He made eye contact with the Dwarf again. “Come, I will help you out to my wagon, then come back with some supplies for him.”

Gliver shook his head. “Nay, get your supplies, and then come back. I will not leave him. He saved my life, and in my Lord Gimli’s name, for the love he bears him, I will not leave him even for a moment. I will not be the one to tell Gimli that his friend slipped alone from this wicked world.”

Tolman eyed him for a moment, as if to test his resolve, and then he was away, running.

**

In the short space of time Tom was away Gliver shifted painfully sideways so that he could lean over the Elf and take a decent look at him.

Legolas’ back was a mass of lacerations and blood, everywhere except where the ruin of his quiver had spared the skin and clothing underneath. The blast damage extended up his neck and face and into his hair. The intense heat had singed the skin on the side of his face and turned his ear a raw looking red, and his usually flowing locks were now matted into shrivelled, charred clumps.

He certainly did not look alive.

Gliver placed his had again on the side of the Elf’s rib cage under the remains of his quiver, and felt the regular reassuring movement. He took what comfort he could from it.

Tom came back with a bulky canvas roll under one arm and a double handful of stoppered jars. He quickly undid the ties of the roll and opened it to reveal an impressive healer’s kit, complete with bandages, and an array of small metal instruments Gliver did not care to inspect too closely.

“Has he stirred?” The dwarf shook his head glumly, but Tolman was intent now. “Then I will remove this first.” He indicated the metal shard, and wasting no more time, cut through the leather of Legolas’ breeches to clear the wound. Tom leaned down to look closely at the embedded metal.

“I hope it has not cut some great vessel, but we cannot leave it so.” He cast a considering look at the Dwarf. Gliver squared his shoulders and tried to look as if the whole idea was not nauseating him.

“When I remove the metal, would you hold this pad firmly on the wound until I can secure the bandage?”

Gliver nodded and scooted down the Elf’s body a little, so he could reach.

Tolman pulled, Gliver held, and then the bandage went on so smoothly that it seemed no time before the operation was over and Legolas’ leg was firmly wrapped.

Gliver sat swaying slightly, the effort of controlling his own pain suddenly becoming rather more difficult.

“Now it is your turn, Gliver.” Tolman’s voice seemed to be coming from a great distance.

Gliver gathered himself and tried to scowl at the hobbit. “It’s but a scratch, Master Hobbit. Do what you need to for him.”

Tom watched as the Dwarf wavered in front of him, an interesting shade of pale for such a well-coloured race.

“A scratch that robs you of your strength, Gliver. If enough blood leaves your body you will faint, and be no use to yourself, or Legolas. Come, let me bind it.”

Gliver looked at his oozing leg, then at the determined hobbit and decided he did not have the energy to pursue the argument.

“Don’t tell Gimli you saw to me first, Tolman.” He grumbled for the form of it.

The hobbit sighed, but bent to cutting away Gliver’s trouser leg to expose the wound.

“I doubt that he wants to lose either of you, Gliver.”

He found himself talking to the waiting crows. As soon as he relieved the swollen leg from confinement, the pain hit the dwarf anew, and Gliver fell back in the faint just as Tolman had predicted.

The hobbit, being of a practical nature, took the opportunity to stitch together the edges of the long slash with the boiled silk he carried in his kit for the purpose. He poured some alcohol over the wound to ward off contagion, and then quickly wrapped Gliver’s thigh in the last of his prepared bandages. The Elf and the Dwarf had both been most fortunate that the flying metal had not damaged any of the great vessels that ran down the leg. Even the mightiest warrior could fall from a slight nick to one of those rivers.

Gliver came round again as Tom was tying off the last bandage.

The hobbit and the dwarf made eye contact for a moment, in which thanks and apologies were given and discounted, then Tom held up a stoppered blue vial.

“Here, take a mouthful Gliver, it will help the pain and I need your strength for when I set the Elf’s arm.”

Gliver suffered the bitter draught and then also accepted Tom’s helping hand to pull him back into sitting. Tolman left the Dwarf to recover as he examined Legolas’ back.

Gliver watched as Tolman sliced carefully up the remains of Legolas tunic to inspect the red mess. “I will have to leave most of this until later, the bleeding is not serious.” It looked serious enough to the dwarf and he looked at the hobbit in surprise. Tolman anointed a couple of the longer cuts with a salve from one of his jars, then shook his head and folded the edges of the Elf’s tunic back over the cuts. “Elves heal quickly Gliver, ‘tis best to leave alone if we cannot mend.”

Tolman smoothed more salve onto the raw skin on Legolas’ delicate ears and face. The unmistakeable smell of athelas filled Gliver’s lungs; in combination with the painkiller it allowed him to feel rather more himself. The Hobbit turned finally to Legolas’ arm. Tolman pulled four stout lathes from his canvas kit and then started to undo the slender leather straps that held Legolas’ quiver to his back. Gliver helped by easing the straps out from under the Elf’s body.

Following the Hobbit’s directions he scooted round the far side of the Elf, trailing his stiff leg behind him. Then used the great strength in his hands to hold the archer’s arm bones in alignment as Tolman splinted the break by strapping the limb tightly with the straps from the quiver and the lathes from his pack.

Finally, the agony of the manoeuvre must have reached the Elf, because he convulsed under the Dwarf’s hands and groaned pitifully.

The Hobbit and the Dwarf looked at the Elf’s face anxiously, and found one pained eye looking blearily back. The other was swollen shut from the damage the side of his face had sustained in the blast.

“What?” The Elf tried to move, rolling almost onto his back. He cried out in involuntary pain, and quickly shifted his weight onto his less damaged shoulder.

“Hold, Legolas. Stay if you can.” Tolman went to Legolas’ head. He lifted the Elf’s head onto his lap.

 “Here, see if you can drink this?” He offered the same blue vial he had offered Gliver. The liquid ran mostly out of the Elf’s mouth, but Gliver was pleased to see Legolas swallow.

The Elf’s eye drifted shut again.

Tolman looked across the prostrate form at Gliver. “We must get him to my wagon, and to some help.”

“Aye and that is going to be interesting.” Gliver reached for Tolman’s staff and used it, and his good leg, to struggle up into standing.

“How will we move him?”

The two short folk considered themselves and the considerable length of the Elf.

Tolman looked around the battlefield. “I may be able to make a travois out of a couple of axes and a cloak.” He gently laid Legolas’ head back on the ground and rose to his own feet. He started over to a discarded axe, but before he found another Ascallon took the matter out of his hands.

Moving carefully she walked back to her master’s side then folded herself down onto the ground beside him, the invitation plain.

She whickered softly when Legolas made no move towards her. But she stayed on her side as the other two manoeuvred the Elf face down onto her back. Gliver slid Legolas’ good hand under her neck strap then he stood back. Ascallon stood with the utmost care and paced smoothly out of the charnel ring and towards the wagon that was still parked in the blessed sanity of the green meadow bordering the road. Bess greeted her with her raucous bray.

Tolman wrapped Gliver’s arm around his own shoulders and assisted him likewise away from the site of the massacre.

**

King Elfwine was not a happy man. Nineteen dwarves killed and the Lord of Ithilien hanging between life and death in the care of his great friend, Gimli, and all on Edoras’ doorstep, so to speak.

The Dunlendings had gone too far this time with their campaign of terror. Not only had his kingdom lost the shipment of arms and gold and mithril, but also the bandits had thumbed their noses at the rule of law so rigorously enforced, up to now, by his Eoreds, supported by his people.

He rolled up the scroll from Gimli and tossed it back on the table.

He agreed fully with the Lord of Aglarond. It was time to ask Gondor for some help to wipe out this Dunlending threat for good.

And it would give Aragorn an excuse to visit with his friends in Aglarond; Helm’s Deep would be the perfect base of operations.

Elfwine felt an excitement that had been missing for a little while in his life.

The drums of war beat again.

TBC

Rose Sared.

Reviews requested, treasured, hoarded and replied to.

Cadenza

Set in the same universe as ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Beta by Theresa Green – Read all her stuff it is great, and there is a sample in the middle of this chapter!

Chapter Three

The two healers, Frior, the dwarf bonesetter, and Tolman, the hobbit, were patient. They listened as Gimli explained, at least three times a day, how this outermost chamber was the only one Legolas could be happy in. They looked at the large windows and agreed, and discounted the inconvenience of the long trek to the infirmary. They tolerated Gimli’s continued presence, his questioning of every procedure, his alternating hope and despair at every minute amount of progress, or regression made by Legolas over the first few days. Now they wanted to tweeze the last embedded fragments of metal from the elf’s back, and they agreed, as did Legolas, that Gimli’s hovering, threatening, presence was not conducive to a calm mind and a steady hand.

They banished him to visit Gliver.

Gliver was limping around the paved yard outside the main hall, organising the wagons he was taking to collect their dead. Gimli wished he had a task; even one so gruesome would be welcome.

He walked up beside Gliver and waited as he finished folding a tarpaulin.

Gliver looked up, “My Lord?”

“Can I help? I am forbidden Legolas’ chamber, until called for.” Gimli jerked his head at the windows that caught the orange afternoon light.

“We are done, Gimli,” Gliver swept an arm around the courtyard. “Elfwine’s troop arrive in the morning, and then we will leave.”

Gliver glanced at Gimli, aware that these military precautions were too late. His Lord’s brow creased into a more formidable scowl as he considered the protection hindsight told him he should have accepted earlier.

Gliver cast around in his mind for a task his friend and Lord would accept.

“Why not visit Ascallon? She is still pining for her master in the stables.”

“I am not a child, Gliver. I do not need to be humoured into patting the nice horse to make everything better.”

Gimli turned on his heel angrily, and came face to face with the carts, lined up ready to depart in the morning. He stopped, as if hit by a club. Heard his petulant words re-tell themselves in his mind, pinched the bridge of his nose and examined the toes of his boots for a beat.

“Gliver, forgive me.”

Gliver had already moved up behind him, and now placed a hand on his shoulder.

“My Lord, these are difficult times for us all. There is nothing to forgive. We need to draw up the inventory of the stolen goods for King Elfwine; do you remember he asked in that last despatch? If we work on it together, a tedious task would be halved.”

Gimli looked at the other dwarf with gratitude.

“Aye, that would suit, I think.” He grasped Gliver’s upper arm, then looked up at the afternoon sun, “ I will meet you in the hall, shortly.”

He released the other dwarf, then started off in the opposite direction to the hall.

“My Lord?” said Gliver, bewildered.

“Have to see a horse about an elf,” Gimli replied over his shoulder, before vanishing into the stables.

Gliver shook his head smiling at the older dwarf, then limped back inside Aglarond.

It was well into the night watch before Gimli was able to get back to Legolas’ side. Once his people had seen him sitting in his customary seat by the arched windows in the hall, working, all manner of minor issues found their way to him. A sense of relief seemed to run through the colony, and Gimli felt humbled again by his people’s level of trust in both his, and Gliver’s, ability to sort out even this disaster. Everyone had lost kin in the raid; nineteen people out of two hundred and fifty left a hole that would not be filled any time soon. An air of shocked grief had hung over the halls for days, but at the evening meal a sense of purpose seemed to return to the colony, that eased Gimli’s sore heart.

He pushed open Legolas’ door with his hip. The tray he was carrying held a plate of sliced apples and three different cheeses on a wooden board and a condensation-beaded pitcher of cold water. Even the cooks, it seemed, would like the elf to recover.

Ris had thrust the offering at him as he left the hall, her eyes red from weeping but still attending to her duties, feeding the colony.

“He is too thin by half, that friend of yours. Try to tempt him with this, my Lord.”

Gimli simply nodded and obeyed; he would not risk the wrath of a cook with tales of just how little food an elf could subsist on.

Legolas was sitting up in bed, his torso swathed in snowy bandages, his face turned to the stars outside the windows.

“Do you want them opened?” Gimli asked, as he deposited the tray on the table beside the bed.

“It will chill you,” said the elf.

Gimli simply went over and pushed the windows open.

A smile curved the good side of Legolas’ face as he turned his face to the breeze and looked directly at the stars.

Gimli went back to the bed and sat himself on the side away from the window.

“I wish you could hear them, Gimli,” Legolas said in a dreamy voice. Gimli looked appraisingly at the array of jars beside the bed. The painkiller in the green bottle was one to keep in mind.

“How fares your back?”

“It will mend.”

Gimli examined his friend, while he was still looking away.

“I’m a sight, aye, my friend?” Legolas turned and met the concerned brown eyes, watching him. “These will fade, and quickly,” he waved vaguely at his face and neck on his left side where the skin was red and puffy, but notably less so than the day before. “My hair though, Gimli. What a mess.”

Gimli looked at the fine un-burnt hair on Legolas’ right side, and then took a really good look at the singed area on the left.

“Vain. That’s your trouble, Elf. It will grow back.”

 “And while I am waiting? With one good hand I cannot even braid it, and it keeps getting stuck in the salves they put on my back.” Legolas jerked his head forward so that a hank of hair fell down in front of his face. He blinked at the dwarf through it.

“Fool,” Gimli said fondly. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“Would you cut it, so it is the same length all over? It will keep it out of my wounds and be easier to manage while this heals.” He patted the splinted arm, then tucked his hair back behind his right ear again.

Gimli felt a temptation to reach for some of the long strands to stroke them smooth.

“I could braid your hair for you, if you want to keep it.”

Legolas frowned, thinking.

“Nay cut it. If we save what you shear, I can use it to spin bowstring. It will at least occupy my hands until I am hale again.”

“And how is your leg?” Gimli enquired, mostly to give him some time to think about cutting Legolas’ hair. He could not imagine Legolas without his blond mane. He knew the elves did not invest hair with the weight of tradition that dwarves afforded their hair and beards, but it was taking him a minute to get his mind round the notion of being the agent of its destruction.

Legolas pushed the bed cover off his leg, and peered at the bandage on his thigh.

“It has been itching today. Frior threatened to splint this arm as well if I touched it.” Legolas flipped the cover back over the offending limb and looked put out.

“I am not a good patient. I nearly hit him.”

Gimli looked at him severely. “You must listen to him, Legolas. He is our best bonesetter; he knows broken limbs, and lacerations. They are dwarf’s most common injuries.”

“I am an Elf.”

Gimli refrained from replying, with an effort.

“I shall go and get some scissors.”

“And a mirror.”

“As I said. Vain.” Gimli left the room.

**

(This little insert from the wonderful pen of Theresa Green.)

There was no sound in the room save the soft bite of scissors on fine hair. Legolas has expected Gimli to cut his hair swiftly and with little fuss, but the Dwarf seemed to be taking his time over every snip. Legolas sat motionless, staring down at the quilt on his bed. Gimli had not needed to tell him to sit still – in all truth, every movement was painful and the Elf was thankful to be able to rest without moving a muscle. The painkilling draught that Tolman had given him was strong, but the ache in his arm was never-ending and his back still burned cruelly.

Gimli sat on the bed beside him, looking studiously at the progress he was making. He had begun by tiding up the mess on the injured side of Legolas’ head, cropping the hair short with cautious little snips. After the first few cuts Gimli decided to get a sheet to put around the Elf’s shoulders to catch the clippings. Legolas didn’t want hair in his bed after all. So that is how the Elf sat – utterly still and draped round with white cloth. And Gimli worked slowly and with great care, the tip of his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth. Every so often Legolas looked up and caught him gazing not at the hair he was cutting, but at the burns and cuts on the Elf’s face, neck and ear.

Having made the injured side of Legolas’ head neat and tidy, Gimli turned his attention to the long, undamaged hair on the other side. The Dwarf paused for a long time before making his first cut. A hank of hair as long as the Elf’s forearm fell to the cloth; pale gold on white. Gimli stared down at it for a long moment and then up into Legolas’ face. The Elf offered him a small, lopsided smile. Gimli sighed and positioned the scissors for another cut.

After what seemed an eternity to Legolas, Gimli announced he had finished. The Dwarf gathered the sheet from around the Elf’s shoulders, careful not to spill the long strands of hair onto the bed and even more careful not to move the sheet too roughly against the Elf’s injured back and neck. He handed the mirror to Legolas and bent to pick out the longest pieces of hair the Elf intended to use to make bowstring.

Legolas looked curiously at himself in the glass. Gimli, ever the craftsman, had trimmed the blond locks so that both sides were perfectly even. He moved his head from side to side. It felt very strange not to have hair brushing his shoulders and neck. His head felt curiously light and cold.

“Vain, vain, vain,” said Gimli softly.

“Not at all. I was just admiring your handiwork.”

“What do you think?”

Legolas glanced up at the Dwarf and then back at his image in the mirror. “I think it rather suits me.”

Gimli chuckled and shook his head.

Legolas reached out with his good arm and  squeezed the dwarf’s arm.

“Thank you, I am very grateful.”

“My pleasure,” Gimli said, gruffly. “Now it is time for you to get some more sleep.”

To Gimli’s surprise, Legolas did not argue, but allowed the Dwarf to help him wriggle down under the quilt. He still moved awkwardly, struggling to find a comfortable position.

“I’ll leave the hair for the bowstrings just here on the table. Alright?”

Legolas glanced up at the little pile of gold. “Is that all there is?”

“Yes. That’s all. Now, settle down and get some sleep.” Gimli walked to the door. He looked back before he left the room, noting with approval that the Elf’s eyes were already half closed.

Gimli walked thoughtfully back to his own room. Once there he reached into his pocket and pulled out several long strands of pale gold hair and laid them reverently in the drawer in his desk. He would find a more suitable housing for them later, just as he had done with the three hairs from the Lady of the Wood. Gimli smiled to himself. Bowstrings? No, such treasure was far too precious for that.

( End insert. Isn’t she good. R.)

*~*~*~*~*

Gimli worked deep in the forges of Aglarond, toiling over the edge of a battle-axe; the stream of sparks flying from the honed edge of the blade and the red flames of the forge fire the only illumination he wanted. The blackness suited his mood.

Legolas- Legolas! -kept preaching the futility of vengeance to him.

He was hardly appeased. Gliver still walked with a limp, his best friend in the entire world was alive only courtesy of the healing skills of a stray hobbit, and worst by far, nineteen dwarves who had followed him, Gimli, to a supposedly better life in the south, were dead. The ceremonies attendant on the laying in stone had only been completed that morning. He could not bring himself to look their kin in the eye any more, so shamed was he by his failure.

The firelight ran like liquid down the razor sharp blade. He scowled at its perfection. He could not mend bodies so easily, nor minds. Nain’s bride Ris was distraught, as well she may be, not enough dwarf children were born anyway, and now she would have none either.

Fili, his own cousin, dead before his hundreth year, a stripling by his people’s standards and the best jeweller of his generation. Lost.

All because he refused Elfwine’s offer of escort, out of pride. Pride in his people’s success, pride in their ability to defend themselves, and misplaced complacency over the peaceful state of Middle-earth.

Gimli wondered if senility was setting in. He, of all people, should have known better.

He put the axe down carefully and picked up another. His felt ill with the need to wreak violence. Aragorn had better get here soon, otherwise vengeance was going to be meted out personally by him, on the Dunlending villages around the Westfold. He was quite sick of being reasonable.

“Hiding my friend?” Nothing marred the gentle cadence of his friend’s voice. Gimli petulantly kept his back turned to the elf.

“Unsuccessfully,” he snapped back.

Gimli waited, and sure enough the elf moved closer to the fire and what light it gave. He could not imagine what had drawn him so deep into the mines; Legolas hated the underground.

Gimli caught sight of the ungainly cast on the Legolas’ left arm, and winced. It reproached him every time he noticed it under the sling the elf wore to support it. At least Legolas had regained his grace of movement, and he was healing the cuts and burns with a speed that was quite remarkable. Hair and bones took longer to grow back. Gimli was still not used to seeing the vulnerable curves of Legolas’ head and neck, even though it had been at his friend’s request that he had taken scissors and barbered the burnt blond mess into a uniform crop. Despite the dark, his mind’s eye could see all the scars that marred his beautiful friend’s face and body. Legolas was flippant about them; he insisted to Gimli that they would fade to nothing, but Gimli remained furious that Legolas had suffered so. He was not made for suffering.

“Still dining on your dish of ashes, Gimli?”

Legolas moved to pick up a notched sword, sighting along the fire-rippled blade. Gimli could see the elf’s own glow outlining the wire wrapped hilt.

“I would fight, Elf. And you, and my esteemed advisors, tell me nay, and wait. Work eases my chest.”

Gimli put down the now sharpened axe and held out his hand for the sword. Legolas swung it up and then reversed it so the hilt landed in Gimli’s calloused palm. The silver glow of the elf’s flesh illuminated Gimli’s hand.

They held each other’s gaze for a breath, then Legolas stepped away and Gimli bent to his sharpening wheel. Legolas watched the fountain of sparks arc into the mountain’s eternal night.

He raised his voice. “If you attack human settlements, no matter your justification, resentment will follow, Gimli. Many humans are jealous, or scared of your people already. Those are flames that need no fanning.” The mob that had besieged the houses of healing in Edoras only a year ago seemed to take shape in the dark to taunt the friends.

“So, shall we be as lambs led to the slaughter, and meekly allow any outrage against us? I think not, Legolas.”

“Aragorn will come Gimli, and Elfwine. They must lead this campaign. You know this.”

“I fear for my folk, Legolas.” The dwarf paused in his sharpening and bowed his head. “ The humans increase, and the more they fill the land the less they have room in their hearts for old alliances, other ways of being. Their lives are so short. They have no memory for the good done in the past, but infinite patience for wrongs done, by hearsay, to a distant cousin on their mother’s side.”

He looked into the elf’s glowing countenance again, and held his eye. “I fear our time in Middle-earth becomes limited.”

Legolas looked away into the fire. This was not an argument they would finish or he could win.

“Long enough,” the elf said eventually.  “Long enough to sort out this piece of infamy. For the dwarves may be few, but they have powerful friends.” He dropped his voice to a confiding whisper. “I know some of them.”

Gimli smiled in spite of himself. “Mad Elf. You would make a joke of doomsday.” He put the sword down and crossed his arms. “Now get thee out of here before you sicken from the dark. I’ll not have your healers berating me for setting your recovery back.”

The elf did move towards the doorway. “I will visit with your mountain’s trees, and sing to them of brave deeds, Gimli. That will restore any stain on my spirit from your darksome halls. Join me at dinner?”

“Aye.” Gimli waved a dismissing hand and turned back to his lathe, his heart lighter for his friend’s support, and still an armoury of frustration to relieve before evening.

**

Aragorn marked his place in the lengthy document and barked a testy, “Enter.”

“The Queen, Sire.” Cirion’s face followed his knock, then he bowed himself away and Arwen entered.

Aragorn rose reflexively to greet her.

“May I have a moment?” Arwen met his eyes then dropped her gaze to his cluttered desktop.

“Of course,” Aragorn moved around the desk so he was standing beside her. “Here?”

Arwen glanced around the office and found a long seat under the window.

“Here will do,” she turned to her lady in waiting. “Wait with Cirion, Morwen.” Her lady curtseyed and withdrew with her usual discretion.

Aragorn took his Queen’s arm and led her to the chaise.

“How went your visit to the houses of healing?”

Arwen looked up out of the window, to gather her thoughts, then met her husband’s eye.

“They are kind, Aragorn, but they have no more idea than we do of what is wrong with me. Although we have ruled out the sea-longing, which is a blessing.”

She leaned forward and took Aragorn’s hand in her own. “They suggest I consult with Celeborn, as he knew Elros, and he may have some advice for me about the mortal weaknesses of elves.”

Aragorn felt his heart constrict painfully, and struggled to keep a calm face.

Arwen’s expression softened. “My love, I still regret not my choice; even now I would do all the same.” She reached for his other hand and drew them both into her lap.

“Shall I ask Cirion to arrange an escort for me, to Rivendell?”

Aragorn attempted to speak, cleared his throat and tried again.

“I will accompany you myself.”

Arwen leaned forward and made him make eye contact with her.

“You have to go to Aglarond.”

Aragorn closed his eyes, duty warring with his heart, again. He should be used to it.

“Then I will accompany you as far as Aglarond, and then I will suppress this banditry with uncommon despatch, and then I will catch up with you and accompany you to Rivendell.”

Arwen let a smile curve her lips, although the humour was bittersweet.

“As you say, my love.”

TBC

Rose Sared

Reviews are gratefully welcomed, treasured and replied to

Cadenza

Set in the same universe as ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Beta by the wonderful Theresa Green – Read all her stuff it is great.

Chapter Four

In Osbaston stone keep, high on the western foothills of Thrihyrne Mountain, beside the source of the river Adorn, the Dunlending hill people of the Withergield clan gathered in the great hall for celebration and feasting. The boar’s head banners strung along the smoke-darkened rafters stirred in the firelight, and the serving women moved quickly beneath them, bearing food, and brimming horns of ale.

Frecern finished laughing at some joke told by his men, and then strode up the hall towards Wulfgarn, chief of his clan.

Frecern held a mithril decorated gold goblet aloft, slopping the brimming contents. The company cheered him as he passed, banging knife and stein on the dark boards of the great table.

“I bring you riches, Uncle.” Frecern took a drink from the goblet, toasting Wulfgarn. “Arms, gold, mithril.” He turned back to his men, Eohric, Aegel and Cedman, seated near the head of the table in places of honour. “Power.” He drank again to them, and then banged the goblet down in front of the Chief. “Now we will be given back the respect our grandsires gave away. Now we can rise up.”

Wulfgarn inherited his rule when still young, and he was young no longer, so he hid his grave misgivings. He squinted down the table at the enthusiastic warriors; saw the smiles on the faces of his dour folk. People who had lost hope and honour after the debacle with Saruman and had nursed their grievances for four generations, and longer; some still counting the fall of Freca at the hands of Helm Hammerhand a wrong unforgiven.

The repercussions of the raid, carried out with such flair by his nephew, had yet to reach his people. He did not share Frecern’s disdain of the influence wielded by the cursed dwarves. The dwarves had won sovereignty over the hill-folk’s sacred mountain Thrihyrne, and mined the wealth that was rightfully the birthright of the Withergield clan. Wulfgarn could bring himself to see Frecern’s raid as liberation, but he doubted if the King of the Gilded Hall would be likewise inclined.

Wulfgarn had the uncomfortable feeling that the depth of the Adorn valley had suddenly become shallower, and the distance to the Fords of Isen, less.

Wulfgarn lifted his own larger, two-handled, goblet in acknowledgement of the acclaim. He drank and closed his mind to his doubts. Done was done; the treaty forced on his people in respect of Rohan’s sovereignty had never brought his people any good comparable to the wealth that would be brought in when the booty from this raid was traded through the free port of Lond Daer.

Gold winked up at him from the platters lining the table, mithril decorated the cup in front of him and many swords and axes swelled his armoury. The wealth would ensure his clan’s ascendancy for the rest of his time as chief.

Let tomorrow deal with tomorrow; today they were strong, thanks to the special knowledge of how to make the secret blasting powder Frecern had picked up while completing his smithing apprenticeship in the enemy city of Edoras.

For a glorious evening Wulfgarn allowed the dream of reclaiming the lands of his long fathers rule his head and his heart.

**

Hard on the ford of Isen, Aragorn stopped for the night, to camp and reorder his forces. Fifty of his most experienced men he divided off and charged with the task of guarding their Queen on her trip to Rivendell. Throndar might have felt his skills were being under utilised by leading this detail. If so he was quickly apprised of the seriousness of his duty by the extensive and detailed briefing he received from his King.

“Sire,” he managed to interject, finally, as Aragorn looked to be starting all over again. “I promise you. My life, my men’s lives, before harm could come to our Queen.”

Aragorn met his eye.

“Just so, Throndar.”

The Captain saluted, hand to heart. Then stood to attention and waited for Aragorn’s dismissal. The King let his eyes wander along the triple line of his troops drawn up behind the Captain. They were his best- seasoned, battle-scarred, and loyal. They would have to do.

“Do not leave Rivendell until you hear from me, Throndar. I hope to join you, soon. Dismissed.”

The troop turned and marched off with commendable discipline, and Aragorn turned back to his pavilion.

Inside, Arwen looked up from a scroll she had received that morning.

“Celeborn is looking forward to seeing us.”

Aragorn came and sat down beside her. “Your escort will be ready this afternoon.”

Arwen reached and smoothed the lines from his forehead. “I will be safer than I am in our own city, beloved. Why do you worry so?”

“It is my duty. Kings are supposed to worry.”

“Well then, you do it admirably. As you do all things admirably, and I will be safe, and cured, and ready to remind you of Rivendell’s pleasures when you come to collect me.” Arwen leaned forward and kissed him softly on his lips. “Have you heard from Gimli?”

“From Legolas, who is much recovered, and bored with his broken arm. He says he is learning axe craft in return for teaching cross-bow skills to a squad of Gimli’s warriors.” Aragorn fished the scroll from a pile on the elegant camp desk that took up a large part of the tent. He unrolled it to the relevant part, “He says the bowmen can now hit a large target with devastating force, and he can split a hair with his axe at twenty paces. He is not sure which is the more useful skill.”

Arwen laughed merrily. “He has never quite grown up, that Elf. I would be worried if he was sitting, moping.”

Aragorn frowned, as if trying to imagine his mercurial friend, still, for more than a moment, and then smiled himself. “Nay, he sounds as if he will be hale by the time I get there. Or so near hale he will discount any debility.”

“And then you all can deal with these traitorous bandits.”

“Aye.”

“And then you can all come to Rivendell and visit me.”

“Aye.”

“May the luck of the Valar go with you, my love.”

“And the love of your King go with you, Arwen. I will count every day out of your company against those villains we chase.”

*****

A skylark reached for the sky, pouring out its liquid song above Legolas’ head. The tiny bird lifted his stone-weary spirit, so the elf halted his horse, on the last ridge-backed rise before Helm’s Deep, and sought out the ascending dot against the burning blue of the heavens. On the ramparts ahead, banners snapped and strained in the breeze, the White Tree and the Running Horse bright against the grey stone, the glint of sun on armour betraying the positions of the wall and gate guards.

The bulk of the combined forces of Gondor and Rohan were camped, under canvas, in rows, on the grass of the coomb between the curtain wall and Helm’s Dike. The whole area had turned into a small city as the work of maintaining the army and the garrison continued in well-worn campaign mode.

Traffic on the wagon road to Edoras left a pall of white dust that coated the trees lining the river and drew a veil over the details of camp life.

Legolas used the halt to strap the lighter splint that he had convinced Frior would be adequate, back onto his left forearm. His arm bone had knit in under a month, which astonished the dwarven bonesetter, but it had not been fast enough for the restless elf. The arm ached fiercely now, since Legolas had spent the bulk of the day working on novice exercises he normally prescribed to archers in training, trying to work the wasted muscles back into shape for handling his bow. He missed his weapon; the weight of Gimli’s lovingly crafted axe, slung on his back, simply felt wrong.

Ascallon reminded him that she was waiting for instructions by dropping her head to the yellowed grass to graze.

Legolas looked again at the mountains, the buildings of stone and the crowd of humans, and decided to extend his absence a little longer; the afternoon was yet young. He dismounted, and then watched the skylark drop silently into the grass as a hawk ghosted up the hill on an updraft, its head turning on the stable platform of its gliding body to scan the grass for prey, its yellow eye cold and intent.

Legolas reached over his shoulder and unsheathed the axe. Gimli had decorated the double curved blade with an etching of a hawk, wings outspread, and inlaid the hardwood handle with a twining vine of gold. It was both deadly and a work of art, perfectly balanced for his height and strength. The elf hefted it, then threw it spinning up high, catching it out of the air as it descended with his unimpaired elven co-ordination. He smiled to himself as he remembered Gimli’s outrage at the trick.

“Frior can set your bones, foolish Elf, he cannot reattach your limbs.”

Legolas sighted along the edges of the blades. They were keen, but were not his bow.

He flexed his left arm and tested the ache in it. Now it was better supported, it was bearable. He remounted and set off to rejoin the war council, he had heard a rumour, when he had stopped at the village of Ardscull for a draught of well-water this noon, which may yet lead the army to the bandits.

*-*-*-*

Denulf the Carter sniffed the savoury air appreciatively, and then sat himself comfortably at the family dinner table and lifted the brimming tankard of ale his wife had just filled for him. Ealhhild was still working at preparing the evening meal and Denulf felt as smug as any smallholder in Ardscull. He drank deeply and looked around the room, suddenly aware of the absence of his younger two children. Usually Earnulf would at table before him -fourteen-year-old boys took a lot of filling - and Earnulf ever rushed through his chores in terror of missing even part of a meal. Aethel was also not adding her sixteen-year-old sour-faced hindrance to her mother’s cooking efforts. She had not taken kindly to learning the women’s arts after her older sister’s marriage last spring. Ealhhild assured him she would get over it, but it was a distinct, if guilty, relief not to have her sharp tongue and touchy temper in the room for a change. This night he and Ealhhild occupied the living area in adult isolation.

Ealhhild carried the bread over to the table – usually Aethel’s grudged job.

“Where are the girl, and the boy?”

Ealhhild glanced at him as she hurried back to their supper.

“I think, probably, that meeting the Elf has disturbed them,” she remarked with assumed casualness.

Denulf spluttered into his ale. “What?”

“An Elf Lord met us when we were fetching the water from the well. He asked Aethel for a drink, like any other traveller. Earnulf and Aethel have been acting silly ever since.” She bent over to check the progress of the cooking meat, hiding her expression from her husband.

Denulf wondered if he had heard correctly. “An Elf Lord, in Ardscull, in broad daylight?”

“It was noon, dear.” Ealhhild slid the meat onto a large platter, and carried it over to the table. “ He asked for a drink of water, as politely as any other Lord would, politer than most in fact.”

Denulf stared at his wife open mouthed. She returned to the kitchen, pretending to ignore the sensation she was causing.

Denulf sat back and rubbed his forehead. Elves, or at least an elf, riding around in his village, and he was out delivering a new mill wheel to Miller Brand. It was like something out of a fairy tale.

“What did he look like?” he asked helplessly.

Ealhhild brought a dish of vegetables over to the table, put them down, and then leaned her weight against the back of her chair. She glanced at her homely husband again and decided to edit a little, he didn’t need to know of the visitor’s unearthly beauty, and she would keep that image for her own secret dreams. “He was tall, blond, dressed like a warrior. He was carrying a dwarven axe on his back, and he had two long white-handled knives at his belt. He looked a little battered actually, had some fading scars, here, “ she waved a casual hand across the side of her face and neck. “You noticed his ears, the points,” she picked her own ear up in demonstration. Denulf still looked bewildered so Ealhhild continued. “ He rode a pretty grey mare, it had bells on its neck strap, but he rode with no saddle or bridle. Don’t know how he controlled her but he didn’t seem to have any trouble. He drank the ladle of water that Aethel drew for him, passed the time of day with us in a friendly enough way for a few minutes, and then he rode off.”

She pushed herself upright again and went to the door, opened it and yelled for the two missing children. “Aethel, Earnulf, dinner!”

“What did he do to the children then?” Denulf was slowly catching up with the afternoon’s events, and the idea that legends could come to life in the middle of his village.

Ealhhild snorted. “He asked for what news was current about the bandit attacks, and Aethel chatted to him about the comings and goings of folk up into the hills and so on, told him about her brother-in-law’s theories about the Withergield clan and their grievances, bored him to tears no doubt. Then Earnulf managed to find the courage to ask the Elf about his horse and his lack of tack, and he was kind enough to spare a word or two for him, he took him up to the mare and introduced him as if she could understand his every word, and what do I know? Perhaps she could.” Ealhhild sat herself down at the table and reached for the bread, breaking a lump off and then handing the loaf to her husband. “ He hopped back on his beast, after bowing his thanks to me and to Aethel, as if we were ladies, and then he was gone.”

She took a mouthful of bread and then reached to serve her husband some vegetables. “Aethel has been in a dream ever since; she’s probably shut herself in the henhouse and left the hens to roam. Earnulf has been annoying his pony all afternoon trying to ride him without any tack, so I suspect he is walking home after Stybba’s finally dumped him somewhere in a bramble bush.”

She blinked at her husband. “Eat man, and enjoy the peace. The elf’s a five minute wonder and dinner will get cold if you don’t pay attention to it.”

Denulf shook his head; the inn would be lively tonight. He tucked into his dinner; he would need the ballast to soak up the ale that would prise this tale out of him in the common room. Such doings there never was.

TBC

Reviews are gratefully welcomed, treasured and replied to.

Rose Sared

Cadenza

Set in the same universe as ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Beta by the wonderful Theresa Green – Read all her stuff it is great.

Chapter Five

Gimli saw Legolas slip into the back of the council chamber and then quietly work his way round the walls until he was beside one of the windows by a tray of refreshments, left for the Lords’ convenience.

Aragorn and Elfwine were deep in discussion with Elfwine’s deputy, master of the Westfold, Erkenbrand’s heir, Frealaf. A large map of the Westfold, the near reaches of Enedwaith and Dunland was unrolled on the table before them, every known clan marked with either red or green ink for proven allies or known troublemakers. A few clans were lettered in blue if their status was unknown.

Gimli left the men and approached the elf.

“I envy you your ride, my friend. I fear my head is so full of ‘Harelds, Healfdrens and Headreds’ that I may give up on vengeance out of purest boredom. How these humans increase. No wonder they quarrel, they have the land parcelled between them like some maiden’s quilt. Any news?”

Legolas smiled grimly at his companion. “A rumour I would share, although it casts suspicion only. Unless the bandits are more stupid than they have proved themselves thus far, we are unlikely to be bothered while this force is encamped.” He waved at the view of ranked tents visible from the window.

Gimli climbed onto the bench below the window to see more fully, then met Legolas’ eye in agreement.

The elf poured himself a generous glass of wine, after checking the contents of a decanter, and accepted a rosy apple selected for him by Gimli from an artistically arranged display. Gimli cut himself a slice of cheese and then passed another over to the elf, who accepted it without thought much to the dwarf’s secret pleasure. Feeding up his only just-well friend was a mission Gimli persisted in at every opportunity. Legolas still looked frail to the dwarf’s eye; although he knew that to fuss was to invite the elf to try to prove to him how unimpaired he was.

“Come,” Gimli said. “Tell us of this rumour.” He led the way back to the map table.

Aragorn nodded at Legolas and Gimli as they joined the company round the table.

He glanced round at Elfwine and Frealaf. “To recap, gentlemen. We will call a general counsel, all the chiefs will be required to attend on pain of our combined displeasure and the messengers will be backed up by at least a troop of soldiery.” He glanced at the two men flanking him. “Oaths will be extracted and some sureties given, and it will give us a chance to root out discontent. It is the best we can do with the current load of escort duties and regular patrols.”

Gimli nodded, as did Legolas.

The Elf asked, “Where does the Withergield clan hold?”

Elfwine and Frealaf both frowned. Frealaf placed his finger on the western slopes of Thrihyrne high in the Adorn valley.

“Here, of old, is their home. Ever they are a thorn in Rohan’s side. Rumours spread that Wulfgarn is pursuing some ancient claim to Rohan’s throne through his descent from the traitor Wulf, Freca’s son. They nurse their grievances in those hills, but of late things have been quiet.” He turned to the elf. “ Have you heard aught other?”

Legolas shrugged. “A woman’s gossip only, but it is the first time I have heard a name in connection with the bandits that robbed the dwarves. I though we might learn more of them.”

“They will be summoned, as will the others of like mind that dwell there and in Dunland. They have no leader to unite them so should pose no threat except to each other. They wallow in their poverty in those hills, I doubt if they could find a sword between them.”

Elfwine glanced at Frealaf. His marshal sounded bitter, as if there may be a few old grudges still brewing in this western part of his land.

Aragorn also looked at the two men, then simply stated. “Call the moot, Elfwine. We will deal with what difficulties arrive when the clans are gathered.”

*-*-*-*

“Do we have the numbers?” Wulfgarn clutched Frecern’s arm, stepping suddenly out of the dark to stay the hurrying man.

Frecern half drew his sword in surprise, then let the blade snick back into its scabbard as he realised the identity of his assailant.

“It is as I told you, my Lord. The hill clans rise with us. Our allies in Dunland chafe, as we do, under the hated bridle of the horse lords. Five chiefs have accepted our gifts and promised us support. They are battle ready, they see the opportunity our enemy has gifted us by calling this moot.”

Wulfgarn peered into the younger man’s eyes, desperate for reassurance.

“But Gondor is with Rohan, and what of the dwarves?”

Frecern spat on the ground at his feet.

“Curse the dwarves, and be gone with these womanish vapours, Wulfgarn. No wonder our people have long cowered in these desolate hills. The dwarves lurk in our mountain, grubbing for the gold we will levy them. What threat is a rat in its hole? The plan will trap them. Are you deaf that you have not heard our experiments in the hills?” Frecern moved a step closer and dropped his voice. “You know the plan, old man, and you know to do your part. Are you saying me nay, now, when all is nearly ready?”

“Nay. I mean I will do my part, Frecern. But there is little honour to be had in this sneaking and hiding. We should declare war.”

“And be cut down by the fine troops of Gondor and Rohan who have fought across the land for the last hundred years. Don’t be a fool. Stealth will give us our first victory, and when the head is severed the body will fall limp. Think you Eldarion half the leader his father is, or Elfwine’s infant son. Frealaf will be no loss either. The strike will remove our enemies at a blow, and then you,” Frecern gave Wulfgarn a shake, “you can reclaim the heritage of our clan, the throne of Edoras.”

Wulfgarn seemed to grow a backbone under his hands.

“Aye, sister-son. Our time is nigh.” He walked nearer the light cast by the brazier.

“How many of our men have we already in the garrison?”

“Fifty, working as grooms and cooks and messengers, all sworn and well paid, all loyal to you, my Lord. Eohric and Cedman, working under cover of darkness, have hidden the explosives in the mouth of Aglarond and by each entrance to the caves in the Hornburg; their work as smiths gave them easy access, and the allies grow careless in their power. They think themselves so secure, those arrogant lords, they have yet to feel the wrath of the hill clans.”

Wulfgarn clapped his nephew on his velvet-clad shoulder. Money was power; the mithril traded through Lond Daer had brought wealth to leverage the resentments of the recent past and now was the time to make their move. The money was well spent but few outside of their close kin suspected their growing influence. Now to strike and trap the dwarves, remove the leadership of the two kingdoms, and fill the gap left, a position of power. His rightful heritage.

Wulfgarn gazed into the fire, happy again, and Frecern continued on his way to complete the briefing of his men, his own mind busy with plans for the inhabitants of Edoras.

*-*-*-*

The peace of Rivendell lay like a mist, permeating all thought and action. Even now, with her father gone, merely to be there was a cure for weariness, fear and sadness. Arwen stood on an arched bridge, and it could have been tomorrow that she would first meet her love, her doom, her Aragorn. Or yesterday. A flight of white doves spiralled through the trees, fluttering into the sky, drawing her eye to the ridged heights that guarded the valley. She saw movement on a path leading in from the north, the sun on banners. Thranduil’s expected party from Lasgalen, she guessed. Her lip quirked up, it seemed that Legolas’ father found Celeborn’s company more congenial than that of her father, or perhaps it was that he no longer feared contamination from the influence of the half-elven. He was such a bigot, that Elf, it remained astounding that his son demonstrated such different attitudes.

Arwen let her gaze roam down the streams and falls of Rivendell’s valley, coming to rest finally in the sliding waters beneath her. A flick in the water betrayed the position of a fish dwelling in the shade cast by the bridge. She felt kin to the fish, sheltering in the security of her home. Her health was now stable; Celeborn and her brothers had sought long in the archives and managed to find meditations and healings that had cleared the paths in her mind. Her end still haunted her, but terror no longer stalked her dreaming. The promise of her mortal fate she was able to see as a gift at last, at least here in Rivendell. She looked forward to telling Aragorn; she suspected her doom was haunting him likewise.

Arwen moved then and started back to the main group of buildings, Celeborn would appreciate warning of Thranduil’s arrival, and Minuial may be with him. Arwen hoped so, she had enjoyed catching up with the March Warden last year, but she had better make sure her mortal guards were well out of the way. Minuial shared her Lord’s prejudices against humans, and was more likely to take violent offence than most. The thought of craggy Throndar, and the willowy Minuial, squaring off, was enough to destroy any peace of mind she might have gained during her visit thus far.

She started planning the words she would use to tell that worry to her husband when she wrote to him this night, as she wrote to him every night. He did so enjoy intrigue, deny it as he would. Arwen clasped her love for him around herself, as a warrior would clasp his shield, and hurried off to find her Grandfather.

*-*-*-*-*

Aethel tugged Earnulf’s sleeve. “Come on, “ she said urgently, “What if we miss him? Can’t Stybba move faster?”

Earnulf urged his chubby pony into a slightly faster trot, but the gelding was not inclined to hurry this early in the morning and Earnulf did not want to push Stybba into one of his stubborn moods. At least he was carrying them both faster than they could walk.

“He stays all morning, I told you.”

Earnulf guided Stybba through the trees, watching for low branches and obstacles. He earnestly wished he had never told his sister his secret, but it had been so wonderful he had to tell someone. He had tracked the elf to his weapons practice after seeing him returning from the woods several days in a row. The clearing was not far now, a grassy glade in a hollow where the boy had hidden himself to watch what the magical being was doing. Legolas had called him out of his hiding place after only ten minutes, and Earnulf had crept out cautiously to find out why the elf was practising novice exercises his bow master taught him on the village green on Sundays. Legolas had encouraged him to work on his own skills alongside him. It had not taken the boy long to realise what a master Legolas was, and what a golden opportunity had presented itself to him, Denulf the Carter’s son, to become an archer of skill. The elf was a teacher with endless patience and exacting standards, standards he applied to both himself and his pupil. Earnulf had told no one of his miraculous luck except his sister, clutching his secret to his heart. He felt babyish tears prickle as he realised the news they had to tell the elf would end this enchanted time.

Earnulf felt Aethel leaning forward, trying to glimpse Legolas’ horse Ascallon, or the Elf Lord himself. Earnulf twisted his head to look at her again; she looked as if she had been crying in the night, her eyes were red rimmed and her face pale. For once she did not care about her appearance, all she wanted to do was to tell what had been discussed last night, between her father and their sister’s husband Cerdic. She had crept to Earnulf’s bed in the small hours of the morning and whispered the overheard treachery. Cerdic had been warning her father to stay away from the clan moot that was continuing today, because of the violence that was planned.

Earnulf didn’t know what made him feel worse, his sister’s tears or his father’s lack of courage. Why should it be up to them to warn the high Lords? He felt too young for the responsibility. Aethel had no such doubts. So here they were, riding to warn the only Lord who was likely to listen to them.

“Are you sure he’ll be there.” Aethel fretted.

“He said he would be.  He feels it is better that men deal with oaths of loyalty to men. That is what he told me anyway.”

“Aiee, I don’t understand, Earnulf. I thought it was the dwarves that were attacked.”

“Aye, Aethel, but it was men who did the attacking, and both the dwarves and men are supposed to be loyal to Edoras and Gondor. That is why the Kings are asking for Oaths of fealty. Then if there are further attacks the bandits may be declared outlaw throughout the land and find help no-where without the clan breaking oath.”

Stybba spotted Ascallon grazing in the trees and quickened his pace a little so the two children finally arrived at the clearing at a solid canter. Earnulf pulled the pony to a halt and Aethel slipped off his back and ran into the sunlit space in front of them. She gave a cry of dismay.

“He’s not here. Oh, Earnulf, where could he be?”

She cast round to the left and right as if she could conjure the elf out of the air, finally she spun round to run back to her brother, only to see the elf drop lightly out of the branches of an oak tree to land lightly on the meadow grass in front of her.

His beauty still shocked her but she had no time for her heart’s fancies this morn. Her news filled her to overflowing and without hesitation she stepped forward and laid her hand on his arm.

“My Lord, please, for the kindness you have shown my brother, you must listen. The Kings are in great danger, and your friends the dwarves also. The clans plan treachery and murder, you must stop them.”

TBC

Reviews are gratefully welcomed, treasured and replied to.

Rose Sared

Cadenza

Set in the same universe as ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Beta by the wonderful Theresa Green – Read all her stuff it is great.

Chapter Six

Legolas lay low against Ascallon’s neck, urging her forward, wishing the virtue that dwelt within him could lend her wings.

Ascallon lengthened her stride, catching his broadcast anxiety. Most of the people that were important to the Elf were contained within Helm’s Dike, if he could not save his friends from peril and treachery he would at least join them.

The guards in the breach of the Dike this day were his own dwarven crossbowmen, volunteered for the job to relieve the humans so they could attend to clan duties. Legolas had never been so glad to see their compact, steadfast forms.

“My Lord?” Thror, the captain of the squad had moved to intercept the flying rider, recognising this ally from afar. “Is there trouble?”

Legolas shifted his weight, and Ascallon skidded to a prancing halt.  

“Vast trouble, if the information I have been given is sooth. Send some messenger to warn your Lord, Gimli. Aglarond is attacked, as are the Kings. Some of the tribes are planning revolution, here, now.”

Legolas had earned this warrior’s trust. Thror nodded at a couple of guards and they took off at a smart trot towards their home.

“Ware Orthanc fire.” The elf called out after the departing dwarves; but just then his warning became moot as the distinctive bone-deep thud, thud of explosives shook the earth beneath their feet; shortly followed by the sounds of men calling out in anger, the blacksmith sound of metal on metal ringing down the dike towards the horrified dwarves and the elf.

“How will we know friend from foe?” Thror asked plaintively. 

Legolas peered up the Coomb towards Helm’s Gate, then looked helplessly back at the dwarf.

“Use your best judgement, Thror. Trust only those humans you know. I must go and help.”

The elf moved his position on Ascallon’s back, and the horse sprang back into motion, then they were through the gap and away. Three more explosions followed his flight, like a salute. A yellowish cloud of fine dust and smoke could be seen drifting above the ramparts of the fortress and from further up the Coomb near the gates of Aglarond.

Thror disposed his forces along the wall of the Dike. He would hold the breach and let the mighty judge him if he held it against the wrong people. 

**

Aragorn spent the morning trying to pinpoint the source of his unease. Well used to pomp and interminable ceremonial he realised, at some point in the proceedings, that the seventy nine clan heads and chiefs pledging their fealty had become blurred in his mind. He let his ‘official’ persona take over during these symbolic occasions and cultivated the ability to be seen to be doing one thing whilst actually paying attention to other details that he found more interesting. For the last half hour or so he had been mentally comparing the various clan plaids and working out how many of each clan chief’s entourage was made up of sons and how many of more distant relatives. A few of the leaders were women, supported by brawny sons; some of the male chiefs brought their fierce daughters or wives to the swearing. The diversity at least made the day more interesting.

His count of the clans that had sworn loyalty had just passed fifty-four when the itch of anxiety, that had been nagging at him, started to demand attention. 

Frealaf had just announced the Withergield clan, Wulfgarn the chief.

Wulfgarn, resplendent in moss green and brown plaid, strode forward bristling with aggression. Aragorn met his glittering eye and felt the short hairs prickling on the back of his neck His hand reached for Anduril’s hilt without his conscious direction. Wulfgarn was flanked by several black-browed, plaid clad, relatives whose eyes flicked round the company in a cold measuring way that spoke of combat experience and deep suspicion. The party was of course overtly unarmed, an impressive array of swords, pikes and daggers having been collected by the entry guards before the party had access to the Lords.

Aragorn felt his bodyguards stiffen to attention as they also felt the tension and menace generated by this small party. Out of the corner of his eye Aragorn saw the same frisson sharpen up Elfwine’s bored guards

 “Wulfgarn, head of the Withergield clan and master of Osbaston Keep. Do thou acknowledge and swear, the sovereignty and overlordship…”

Frealaf’s reading of the oath was interrupted by the boom of the first explosion, closely followed by the hissing of arrows being loosed from the curtain wall above. As a man the royal party turned to the sounds, so Aragorn saw his bodyguards fall, pierced by arrows fired by supposedly friendly forces. At the same time the earth rippled beneath his feet with the force of the explosions wracking the fortress above him. The King’s battle-hardened reflexes dropped him into a crouch, but Wulfgarn was upon him from behind, stabbing him with a blade he had concealed from the searching guards. Then someone grasped Aragorn in a strangle hold.

Time seemed to slow for Aragorn, he was aware of a searing pain in his shoulder, smoke-scented wool draped across his face, and an arm like iron cut off his air, squashing his attempts to defend himself.

His vision first sharpened, shocked faces seemed to spin around him as Wulfgarn manhandled him off the dais and onto the grass. He could feel the reverberation of hooves through the ground beneath him, then the buck of more explosions, two, and three.

His view of the trampled grass started to dim from the edges as his air supply diminished, pain swept his body, radiating from his back, along with a strong feeling of nausea. As the world vanished into darkness he heard Legolas’ distinct voice shouting tardy warning. Then nothingness took him from it all.  

**

The elf could see archers on the curtain wall draw and loose into the crowd, and then he saw the King’s bodyguard fall to a man. Legolas felt he was in a bad dream as Ascallon made her best speed through and around struggling knots of suddenly fighting humans. Still he could not get to his friend, but he saw the clansman drop an unconscious Aragorn to the ground, then rush up to assist the struggle around King Elfwine, who still had two of his bodyguard fighting for him.

Legolas glanced up and saw a company wearing the colours of Rohan advancing on the renegade bowmen on the wall. He looked back to the group near Aragorn and saw the struggle was now thickest around Elfwine. The elf swung Gimli’s axe off his back and threw it. It buried itself in the back of one of the clan chief’s henchmen with a horrible meaty sound, the man dropped without another noise but it was enough to draw the attack away from Elfwine, who was clutching his arm.

Legolas vision seemed to narrow to only take in the crumpled form of his friend, laying like a discarded garment on the grass.

“Aragorn,“ he yelled.

Ascallon finally managed to bring her master through the melee and stopped by the fallen King. Legolas flowed off her back and gathered his friend in his arms. “Aragorn?”

Aragorn’s head fell back limply and Legolas could feel a spreading wetness from the wound in his friend’s back. The elf looked around frantically for help and spotted a determined wedge of black and silver clad guards fighting their way towards him.

 Legolas bent his head over his friend, leaving Ascallon to defend them both with her weapons of teeth and hoof. He moved his hand to feel for the pulse in the man’s neck, and was comforted to find it.

A last, echoing, blast rang around the cliffs, the ground shuddered again and then the noise of fighting seemed to die down as fast as it had risen.

Legolas looked up again to see a ring of soldiers in black and silver eyeing him and his horse warily.

“My Lord?” the Captain said at last.

“He lives, but is sore wounded. Can you see what is happening?”

“The forces of Gondor and Rohan hold from here, ” the Captain indicated the wall, “ to the camp. The tribesmen seem to have mostly got themselves out of the way and are making their way down to the Dike.

 Legolas nodded. “The Dwarves?”

“They hold the Dike, my Lord.”

Elfwine came into view, supported by two of his guards, one arm all over blood.

“The King?” he asked.

“Wounded.”

“Poisoned.” Elfwine swayed and sagged in the arms of the brawny guard that was holding him up. “The knife merely grazed my arm but I can feel it. Frealaf is dead, from a scratch on his chest.”

Legolas spread his hand over the skin on Aragorn’s throat and closed his eyes.

The elf seemed to sag slightly, and then he opened his eyes again and addressed the Guard.

“How fares the camp?”

“I cannot tell from here, my Lord.”
”We must get both kings to the healers.” The elf scanned the battlefield. “Send a man or two to find out how things fare. We must subdue this rebellion and sort friend from foe. Trust no-one not vouched for by your men personally.”

The Captain saluted, grateful for the Elf’s leadership.

The silver thread of Aragorn’s life ebbed and waned under the elf’s determined grip.

“You will not go now, my friend. “ The elf murmured in Sindarin, “I will spend my own life first.”

He bent over Aragorn again, sharing his strength.

*-*-*-*

The inhabitants of Aglarond gathered by ones and two’s, coughing and blinking the ubiquitous dust from their eyes. The Great Hall was mostly undamaged, only the windows shattered and causing hazard underfoot, the afternoon sun cut shafts of gold through the rock dust and illuminated the grazed and bewildered dwarfs, as they searched for relatives and friends.

Gimli was sitting propped against the wall beside the windows, a grey, bloodstained rag bound around his head. Gliver stood in front of him.

“My Lord, you can see they are all coming together here. Please let me look at your head.”

Gimli glared at the younger dwarf. “Its but a scratch, made me a bit dizzy, that is all. Now, have the search parties in west three returned yet?”

Gliver peered into the smoky gloom. “I have had no report. East shaft and the entrance to the Hornburg have been cleared of wounded and two parties have ventured to see if anyone was caught in the Glittering Caves. The kitchen reports they have the fire under control now, and Siri has sent a bucket chain to refill the second cistern so we will have some drinkable water soon. The large cistern is cracked.”

Gimli had rested his head back against the wall during this recitation, he felt sick enough to vomit, but there was no time for weakness. His people needed to feel their leaders were in control.

“Are any of the main entrances open?” Gimli closed his eyes, it stopped the image of Gliver swaying in front of him and adding to his nausea.

“Nay. My Lord, are you truly well? You look terrible.”

Gimli forced his eyes open again, “Gliver, stop fussing. I have a hard head. It is but a scratch and just needs binding more tightly.”

 He levered himself up to his feet and then stood for several seconds waiting for the blackness to recede so that he could see his heir in front of him again. Gliver wordlessly lent his support by steadying Gimli’s shoulders.

Gliver looked around and saw that the great table had been righted and Gimli’s chair also. Once again forestalling argument by action, he guided the older dwarf over to the table and sat him down.

“There now everyone can see you are well, and you won’t have to disprove it by falling in a heap at their feet.” A little annoyance tinged Gliver’s voice and Gimli opened an eye to glare at him.

“Don’t bother,” Gliver stalked away from his Lord. ”I’m going to see if there is a broom left in the kitchen to clear up this glass. You sit, with your hard head, and see who makes it back here.”

Gimli met Gliver’s eye again. Then waved him away, wearily.

**

The afternoon sun baked the air in the tent and added to the discomfort of those who worked around the sick. The only person without sheen of sweat on his face was Legolas, who sat beside his friend Aragorn, deep in some elvish meditation. He had one hand resting lightly on his friend’s knee. The smell of athelas sweetened the heavy air.

Aragorn looked as if he was asleep, arranged neatly on the cot with a snowy bandage crossing his chest and the sheet pulled up to his middle. But he would not waken. The poison on the blade had dropped him into a deep coma, and Tolman thought to himself that the only thing keeping his chest rising and falling was the determination of the elf who sat beside him.

Tolman had watched the Lord Celeborn sit vigil like this, and Elrohir. He had not known that Legolas knew the technique, but supposed that given his warrior past it was not surprising he had learned.

The hobbit was worried none the less.

Legolas was not long recovered from his own grievous hurt, and seemed to be fading before Tolman’s experienced eyes.

The Captain of Aragorn’s Guard stepped into the tent and nodded to the hobbit. “Master Tolman, how fares the King?”

“He lives, Captain.”

“May I disturb the Lord Legolas?”

“Aye, I wish you would;  it is time and more that he came back to us.”

The Captain eyed the pair uneasily and Tolman realised he didn’t know how to go about attracting Legolas’ attention. The hobbit bustled over to the elf and removed his hand from Aragorn. The elf’s eyes snapped open and he swayed slightly in his seat.

Tolman handed him a goblet. “Drink.”

The elf eyed the little being, sniffed the cup, and then drained it. Strength seemed to flow back into him.

“Where on earth did you get miruvor, Tolman?”

The hobbit smiled at the elf and tapped the side of his nose.  Then they both looked at Aragorn.

“He is no worse, Legolas. The Captain here needs your attention.”

Legolas looked over at the black-clad guard, who was waiting patiently by the door flap. He nodded, then stood and stretched like a hunting cat.  His gaze flicked round the tent, taking in Tolman, the human woman mashing some herbs in a pestle, the ranked jars and potions and resting finally on his friend.

“I will see you outside, Captain.” The man bowed slightly and stepped out of the tent. Legolas regarded the hobbit, “Any change, send for me?”

Tolman nodded and walked the elf to the door flap.

“I promise, My Lord.”

**

Outside the air tasted like wine after the stuffy tent and Legolas took a moment to breathe and look around. The camp was full of disciplined activity, squads of foot soldiers and Rohirrim horse were on guard, and no clansmen were in view. From further up the Coomb Legolas could hear the sound of rocks being moved. Thror and his party, no doubt, starting to clear the entrance to Aglarond, not for the first time that day Legolas sent a thought to his friend Gimli. He chose not to believe his best friend lost or injured.

The guard led him to King Elfwine who was installed under an awning. The poison had not knocked him out as it had Aragorn, although he looked sick and weak, and he had insisted on directing the clean up operation, so the healers had moved his bed outside.

Legolas stepped lightly up beside him and bowed. Elfwine looked up, pleased to see the immortal Lord.

“Legolas. How fares the King?”

“Poorly, my Lord, but no worse than earlier. How fares the clean up?”

“We have none of the ringleaders, which is an irritation to Aragorn’s good Captain here. The clans have hurried back into the countryside, and my riders cannot tell loyal from friendly. The perimeter of the camp and the Hornburg are secure, and all locals have been sent home so we should be spared further treachery, tonight at least. The Withergield clan have been declared outlaw, but so far no one has identified the members of that group. They have vanished back into the hills, I suspect we will have to lay siege to Osbaston Keep, and even then we will be hard pressed to be seen to do justice.”

Legolas looked up towards Aglarond, where the sound of rock moving was becoming more intense. Elfwine followed his gaze.

“Things are in control here, Legolas, if you wish to find out how the dwarves are doing?”

Elfwine met the elf’s eye and could see the contrary pulls of duty and desire warring across his expression.

“Has there been word of those trapped in the caves?”

Elfwine looked to the Captain, who shrugged slightly.

“Not as yet, Legolas, but we have been distracted. Thror has been directing operations, I am sure he will be able to tell you.”

The elf eyed the King of Rohan; he sensed a conspiracy to remove him from Aragorn’s side.  He sent a thoughtful look at the two army healers who were working in the background of Elfwine’s makeshift command post. Perhaps they were right, he could not lend Aragorn any more strength without diminishing his own, this afternoon at least. He would come back after twilight had restored him somewhat, and in the meantime join the dwarves in their labours. Hard work sounded like a good prescription right now, it would stop him from worrying.

TBC

Reviews are gratefully welcomed, treasured and replied to.

Rose Sared

Cadenza

Set in the same universe as ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Beta by the wonderful Theresa Green – Read all her stuff it is great.

Chapter Seven

“Rock headed, pebble brained, stubborn, old fool. He deserves to be trapped. If he had the sense Aule gifted a cave troll, he would not be down there.”

Gliver finally stumped onto the gallery overlooking the Glittering Caves, his disgruntled complaining warning those waiting that he was coming.

A young dwarf held a flaming torch out as far as possible to illuminate the cavern below. Gliver could see Gimli waving cheerfully up to him from his perch atop a massive boulder. A lake of inky water surrounded the boulder and stretched from wall to wall of the cavern. A dwarf child was sitting on Gimli’s shoulders, and he waved as well.

The child was Gliver’s only son, Tivor.

Gliver waved back sheepishly, and then rounded on the group of dwarves who were coiling ropes and driving pitons into the living rock behind him.

“What happened?” he asked in a voice of icy calm.

The young dwarf who had held the torch exchanged looks with his companions, then sighed and stepped forward.

“Dolan, my Lord. I headed one of the parties sent to check the Glittering Caves after the explosions.”

Gliver nodded curtly.

“Balor lead the other, that followed the lower tunnel that enters the cave over there,” The dwarf pointed to the left and behind Gimli where the very top of an arch could still be seen above the water.

“He found the children on the other side of the marble bridge, yonder.” Dolan waved into the darkness. “He called me to help because a falling rock cracked the bridge open, and the children were afraid to cross.” Dolan squinted into the dark. “Balor went back to the main hall for help and ropes, and I stayed by to keep an eye on the children. We realised the water was rising fast, dammed by one of the rock falls I suppose.” Dolan glanced at Gliver who was peering into the cavern again.

“The water rises yet,” Gliver commented.

“Aye, my Lord.”

“And my Lord Gimli?”

“He arrived with the search party Balor brought back, my Lord. He was a great help, really, my Lord. The children were happy because he had a plan for getting them across the gap in the middle of the bridge. We tossed a rope to them, and then the adults pulled them across to our side. We got five across and safe when the bridge started cracking further, and your Tivor still had to get across the gap.”

“And how did they both get there?” Gliver indicated the boulder.

“Gimli watched as Tivor tied the rope round his middle, then wrapped a loop around his own middle, and went into the water with Tivor as the bridge crumbled. The current was so strong that it whipped the tail end of the rope out of our hands. We thought them lost, my Lord, but luckily a length of the rope snagged on that rock, and Gimli pulled Tivor up with him to the top after cutting them free.”

Gliver shut his eyes for a second, shamefully glad he had not been here to see that. He looked into the cavern again; the water was rising up the boulder as he watched.

“What have you tried so far, to rescue them?”

“We have thrown and swung ropes from here, but we cannot get them far enough to reach them. Then we called for you, my Lord. Have you any ideas?”

Gimli’s voice could be heard then calling from the cavern. “Get the Elf.”

Both Gliver and Dolan looked at the pair in the middle of the lake and then at each other.

“Why?” Gliver yelled back.

“Just get him, Gliver, please.”

“We will not let you drown, my Lord.”

“Gliver, get the Elf. And tell him to bring his bow and some elven rope.”

Gliver stared at his Lord. Had the knock on his head he had received earlier in the day addled his wits? They were dwarves; they did not need help underground. Then he looked at the water inching up the stone and thought of his complete lack of ideas, and waved at Dolan.

“Go out the windows of the great hall and see if you can find him. I doubt if he is far away.”

Dolan looked as if he would say something, then shrugged, swung a hank of climbing rope over his shoulder, and trotted off.

**

Gliver and Gimli were left looking at each other across the rapidly filling cavern; Gliver struggled to find words, any words. Gimli lifted a hand to him in a dismissive way, then swung Tivor down off his shoulders and bent to speak to him, pointing further into the cavern as if they were on a sightseeing visit.

Gliver turned back to the younger dwarves who were coiling ropes and sorting the kind of climbing equipment that clanked, into piles.

Finally Gliver heard Dolan’s returning footsteps and peered hopefully up the tunnel. He felt his heart lift as he spotted the distinctive glow given off by the elf.

“Hail, Gliver.”

“Well met, my Lord. How fares the world outside?”

“Poorly, Gliver.” Legolas moved to the edge of the gallery and snagging a torch from the wall examined the cavern and its occupants. He turned again to make eye contact with Gliver.

“Treachery has laid Aragorn low, and wounded King Elfwine. Frealaf is dead.”

The elf darted towards the pile of metal implements stacked tidily to one side and picked up a ringbolt and a mallet. Taking a short length of light cord from his belt he whipped a loop onto each item. Then removing a large coil of cord from his shoulder he consulted with Dolan then watched as the dwarf attached the end to a well-driven piton in the back wall of the gallery.

“Ho, Legolas.” Gimli’s voice called from the dark.

Legolas moved to the edge and waved. He took his carved bow from its comfortable position on his back and quickly strung it.

“Have I a target, Gimli?” He shouted into the void.

“Have you elven rope?”

“Aye.”

“Two lengths to the north, and a half to the east, a pillar, Legolas.”

“Down, and stay down, Gimli.”

Legolas tied a fine cord to an arrow, then shot, the buzzing of his arrow loud in the darkness. The company heard it wrapping itself around an obstruction, then the splash of the rest of the rope hitting the black water.

Gimli was already on his feet and they could see him reaching for the faintly glowing strand as it draped over his perch.

“I’m sending down a ring bolt and a mallet. Will you secure your end?”

Gimli waved in reply and handed the end of the retrieved loop to Tivor, spending a moment to make sure the youngster had a good place to stand. Gliver felt a surge of affection for his Lord. He was ever mindful of youngster’s hopes and dignity, Tivor would hero worship him even more after this adventure. Gimli let the youngster pull in the more substantial coil of still thin elven rope that Legolas fed to the pair, Gliver noticed that Gimli’s boots were now getting wet;  he had positioned Tivor on the boulder’s highest point.

Legolas looped the bolt and mallet onto the rope and sent them down to Gimli, who quickly used both to secure the end of the more robust rope, taking up the slack until the rope made a nearly straight slope between the gallery and the boulder. The Elf put down his bow and quiver, put a foot onto the bridge to test the tension then, before Gliver could protest, or even wonder what he intended, Legolas sprang onto the rope and ran down to join the couple on their little island. It looked impossible, and if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes he would have scoffed at the tale, but in a trice Legolas was at Gimli’s side. Gliver saw the elf place a hand on his friend’s shoulder; Gimli covered it briefly with his own.

Gimli basked in the nearness of his friend; all things were possible when they worked together.

“Can you carry him up?” Gimli indicated Tivor, who was shifting from foot to foot, overwhelmed by being close to two of his heroes.

Legolas went over to the child and hefted him experimentally. He turned to Gimli.

“Easily, but what of you?”

“I’ll think about it as you take him back.”

Gimli lifted the child onto Legolas’ back piggyback style. “Trust him, Tivor. He will not let you fall.”

Once again the Elf stepped onto the tightrope, this time he inched his way slowly up the incline, their combined weight bowing the rope until it nearly touched the water. Gliver and his crew pulled mightily on the other end to maintain the tension and the gradient remained possible until the Elf was within a couple of metres of the gallery.

“Tivor,” He said softly.” I will have to throw you the last few feet. Will you trust me?”

He felt the dwarf child nod against his neck.

Legolas could see Gliver’s anxious face as he carefully manoeuvred the child round to his front. The Elf shifted his balance and the rope began to sway slightly. Legolas held Gliver’s eye then thrust the child up and away and into his father’s waiting arms.

The suddenly lightened rope rebounded and the Elf soared in a graceful arc up and away into the darkness, only to somersault and re-grasp the rope on his way down.

“Legolas!” Gimli’s anxious voice reached him from the darkness behind.

“I am well.”

The Elf swung lightly up onto the rope again and ran back down to Gimli. They both stood looking at the steadily rising water.

“And your plan is?” The elf’s glow showed Gimli the raised eyebrow the elf trained on Aglarond’s leader.

“You go on back, I’ll tie this end around me and you all can tow me across the water to the other side, then I’ll climb up.”

Legolas eyed him for a moment then nodded. “Be quick, Gimli. This water is fell cold.”

“I have been in it, Legolas. None knows better than I how little I want to get back in. Now go before I am frozen by inches.”

Legolas looked down and saw the water lapping at the sides of Gimli’s boots. “You have your knife?”

“Aye, mother. Go.” Gimli waved the knife at the Elf and pushed him lightly onto the rope. Legolas gave him one more look then ran up the rope almost as easily as he had run down it. Willing dwarf hands helped him up the last steep couple of feet.

“Go, Gimli.” Legolas stationed himself at the head of the rope and watched his friend as he tied the other end to his middle. “Come, friend. We will pull you quickly.”

Gimli stepped off the rock and into the water with a great splash. He vanished instantly beneath the surface.

Legolas and Gliver exchanged dismayed looks and then started pulling lustily on the rope.

Legolas saw Gimli’s head break the surface and he started making slow progress towards the gallery side of the cavern.

At that exact moment the party of dwarves working diligently outside the gates of Aglarond managed to dislodge one of the wedged boulders and so break the dam. With a roar to rival the falls of Rauros, the confined water leapt for freedom, dragging all that floated in it to a swift escape.

Gimli felt the sudden change in the water’s flow and then was grabbed by current. Water mounded up against his resistance, making it impossible to keep his mouth clear of the liquid. He coughed and choked, the rope halter wanting to cut him in two, and then tumble him over and over like a leaf in the wind. He fought against the cold, the pressure and the confusion, swinging on the rope like any fish. Then the unyielding stone of the cavern side intersected the arc of his travel. He was slammed into granite and his world went dark in a sparkling show of pain.

“Gimli. Gimli!” Legolas yelled into the chaotic dark, leaning against the pull of the rope and trying to wrest his friend from the rampaging torrent. Behind the elf the dwarves maintained their grip on the rope and yielded not an inch.Tivor leaned out to see if he could see the missing Lord.

“Over there.” The child’s shrill treble cut through the roaring of the water. He pointed to the right. The weight on the rope suddenly increased as the water fell below the level that would support Gimli. Legolas felt the weight swing quickly down, until the rope once again fell straight over the edge of the gallery.

“Pull, for the Valor’s sake. Let’s get him up.”

The party put their back into the work and in no more than a minute Gimli’s sodden, bloodstained, unconscious form was tumbled over the edge and into the arms of his waiting people.

Legolas stooped beside him, placing his hand on his chest. He turned a wide-eyed panicked look on Gliver. “He breathes not.”

Gliver rolled Gimli onto his side and knocked him un-gently in the middle of his back. Water spilled from his slack lips, but no answering breath stirred the air in the gallery.

Legolas grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Breathe, Gimli, breathe. Don’t leave me, here in the depths of your mountain. Come back.” He leant his shining forehead against Gimli’s sodden hair and concentrated, his light dimming in the intensity of his need.

Gliver felt his own breath surge once, and again. He saw the Elf sway, and dim and falter, seeming to fold into himself over his friend. Gliver reached a hand out to lend something, comfort, support, he knew not. His hand reached Legolas’ back as Gimli gasped and convulsed, coughing water from his lungs as if reborn  into this bitter world. The Elf leaned for a moment into Gliver’s well-meant support, looking for once dim and almost old.

Then Dolan was beside them offering a blanket and Tivor was untying the silver elven rope from behind Gimli’s back and life lurched into banality again, the old enemy driven back for yet another eve.

TBC

Reviews are gratefully welcomed, treasured and replied to.

Rose Sared

Cadenza

Set in the same universe as ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Beta by the wonderful Theresa Green – Read all her stuff it is great.

 Minuial may have been met before by readers in ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’.

Chapter Eight

Celeborn watched Minuial watching Arwen.

The Hall of Fire was an oasis of peace this evening, the song drifting like dream from lay to lay, with no more complication than a bud unravelling itself in the spring.

Minuial, Thranduil’s March Warden; once memorably described by Aragorn as, ‘…just about the most frightening Elf woman I have ever met, and that includes my grandmother-in-law, Galadriel,’ sat at one of the long tables, at her ease. She was unarmed in this gallant company, but, like an unstrung Galadhrim bow, radiated an air of waiting power. Anon, she leaned towards her lord, King Thranduil, and murmured or listened to some soft voiced comment of his, but her eyes never left the Queen of Gondor.

Arwen could have been a study in portraying Minuial’s opposite, soft where Minuial was iron, dreamy where Minuial was alert, but she also radiated a sense of power equal to that of her warrior contemporary. The power of water on stone, sun on leaf, light over dark, even as her life’s grace faded in tandem with her lover’s, so this sense of power grew. The mystery of it kept Minuial’s eyes on her, and spread its influence throughout Rivendell. Celeborn had never experienced its like in all his long life.

“My Liege, with your permission?” Minuial rose and waited for the King’s attention. Thranduil inclined his golden head and Minuial stalked over to where Arwen was perched, lost in the dance of the flames.

“Arwen, may I join you?”

Arwen came back to herself unhurriedly and smiled up at Minuial, the smile becoming more eager as she recognised the March Warden.

“Minuial. Good, here, sit by me.” Arwen patted the long seat. “Tell me of your summer and the doings of your kin.” Arwen leaned so that their two heads became conspiratorially close. “I am sadly out of touch; Celeborn has a mouth like a discreet clam.”

Minuial laughed and leaned in likewise to share.

Celeborn raised an amused eyebrow and caught Thranduil looking at the unlikely pair askance. The two males shared a look. Who could fathom women?

The next afternoon Minuial once again sought out her friend, finding her at last set up in a glade outside the weaving house. Arwen was central to a flutter of ladies; a large tapestry stretched on a frame the object of their industry.

“Repairs again?” Minuial came up beside Arwen and peered at the stitching.

“This section.” Arwen turned her serene smile on Minuial and pointed with the tiny gilded scissors in her hand. “The brown crumbles in time and you can see the weft, here, and if you look carefully over here.” She sighed. “It’s the iron in the dyes, none of my father’s charms could prevent it.” She dimpled a mischievous glance at Minuial, “although his words were wonderful at keeping away the moths. He sometimes claimed they were the only residents of Rivendell who obeyed him without question.”

Minuial looked over the rest of the large hanging, a merry hunting scene. The action drew the eye as was intended by the designer, Arwen herself if Minuial was not mistaken, but now with her attention directed she could see the areas that needed work.

“You will be busy awhile then. I thought to steal you for a ride up the valley. My liege is occupied with Celeborn and he has released me.”

Arwen stepped back, put her hands on her hips and glared at the elf woman working beside her, who smiled but did not look up from her work.

“You have been conspiring,” she accused.

The Elf shook her head but her smile broadened.

Arwen turned her frown onto a bewildered Minuial.

“Arwen, what?”

Arwen softened her expression.

“Luthial has been nagging me all morning to take some exercise, and now you…” She shrugged and smiled once more. Defeated she handed her scissors into Luthial’s safekeeping and linked arm with Minuial’s. “Lead me to the stables, I am your willing captive.”

*****

“And how fares the stony course of your feast day friendship with our friend the Prince of Ithilien?”

Arwen’s question broke the musical lulling of the Bruinen’s waterfalls. The two elves had ridden up to the watch-heights in companionable silence, and were now enjoying the still unparalleled view across Rivendell’s golden valley.

Minuial picked up a loose rock and pitched it over the drop.

“I know not,” Minuial stated with a deliberate lack of emotion. “You could tell me how we fare better than I, as you have seen more of him lately.”

“I am dismayed, Minuial. Did he not ride to join you this midsummer? Aragorn told me he was unavailable for our celebrations.”

Minuial stalked away a few paces and balanced on the stony edge of the chasm. Her voice mingled with the water’s roar.

“We quarrelled.”

“Again.”

Minuial glanced at Arwen ruefully, then turned and jumped down from the rocky edge. She moved over to the grazing horses and patted her mount’s wither.

“Aye, again. Ever we strive against each other, even as often as we meet as loving friends. He is so fierce.”

Arwen blinked and smiled, somewhat surprised to hear her gentle friend so described.

“Legolas? Who allowed Eldarion as a babe to ride him horseyback, using his braids as reins? Legolas who befriends and is beloved of most of the free people of Arda, are we speaking of the same Elf?”

Minuial swung round to glare at Arwen. “ He is fierce. Have you never seen him in combat, Arwen? He is as deadly as a knife and as focussed as one of his arrows. He will follow but refuses most stubbornly to be pushed. He is as self sufficient and powerful in his own way as this gentle river before it pours unstoppably over the cliff.” She waved at the tumbling water.  ”We disagree over how he bestows his loyalties, and he is not disposed to forgive me my criticisms.”

The elf warrior walked over towards the queen and stood before her, her stern face looking suddenly vulnerable. “I find myself hungering for news of him, and have to content myself with the official despatches he sends to his father on the progress of his colony. It does not suffice.”

Arwen put a consoling hand on the other woman’s arm. “Well I can tell you what I know. Aragorn writes to me often. He has told me of Legolas doings, how he is much recovered from that unfortunate skirmish and almost back to his old form with the bow. Come, we will go get my letters and pick through them for news….” she started away towards their horses then suddenly stumbled and fell to one knee.

“Arwen! What ails thee?” Minuial caught her arm and helped her to her feet, the queen’s face had drained of all colour, and she clutched at her chest as if it pained her.

“Aragorn. “ She panted as if hunted. “He is hurt. Treachery, Minuial,” Arwen was fighting to stay conscious despite her distress. “Treachery in Helm’s Deep,” her gaze turned inward as if she was sleeping, and she wavered and started to fall. Minuial slid to the ground behind her and caught her in her arms.

Fighting for her own composure she gazed out across the valley to the south, as if elven vision could pierce the veil of distance and show her the kingdom of Rohan and all who dwelt there.

“Arwen, Arwen come back, follow not the road of your bond now. Arwen!”

Arwen sighed and relaxed into Minuial’s wiry grip, her eyes drifted closed then sprang open to meet those of the warrior.

“We must ride, Minuial. They need help, and Aragorn is not well. Come.” She sprang up as if her illness had been some phantom and raced for the horses.  ”Come, I must ride with my guard to his aid.”

Minuial followed but despite her fitness and training Arwen was first off the plateau, Minuial was close behind her. That Legolas was at Helm’s Deep she would not allow to colour her attendance to duty, but she knew that he would be in the thick of any battle, and so worried nonetheless, and wondered if she could convince his father that now would be a good time to travel south, as he had not for centuries.

*****

“You mind now Lad, that’s another advantage that Dwarvish warriors have, for not only are we small and feisty but our axe’s never run out of ammunition, as flighty archers do...”

Gimli paused in his lecture to Earnulf, hoisted said axe further over his shoulder and shot a cautious glance up at his elven friend, who should have risen to this last remark.

It was twilight, and they were wending their leisurely way back to Aglarond from weapons practice in the woods, Legolas on Ascallon, Earnulf on Stybba and the Dwarf on his sturdy two legs for a change. Gimli was determined to regain his fighting fitness, feeling his wind was sadly compromised following his near drowning, and so disdained his usual position riding behind Legolas. The elderly Dwarf did not seem to be distressed at the pace but Earnulf had the feeling Ascallon was checking her walk to accommodate the small being.

This was a suspicion he wisely kept to himself; the two friend’s constant bickering was disturbing enough without him adding to it.

Earnulf looked up at Legolas also, for even in his limited experience it was odd for the elf to let a barb pass. The elf lord was fairly quivering to attention and Ascallon stopped, head up, ears forward, pointing to the north. Stybba’s ears, then head also swivelled to catch an unheard something and then she let out an unmannerly neigh.

“Gimli.” Legolas looked down with his face shining with eagerness. “Up, now, behind me. A party approaches the like these young woods have never experienced.”

Gimli gave him a considering glance, then meekly reached up a hand to be swung up. His friend looked as if he was about to jump out of his skin with excitement.

“Earnulf, stay close. We will go meet them.”

Ascallon spun round on her hocks and cantered off the path and into the trees to the north. Stybba gamely following at an increasing distance behind.

Soon even Earnulf could hear the sound of some unearthly music and saw a pearly light approaching through the trees, gentle harness bells like the ones on Ascallon chimed on the harness of a large travelling column of horses and walkers.

Legolas on Ascallon could be seen straddling the route and Earnulf heard him hail the outriders in his musical native tongue.

“Elves,” Earnulf muttered to Stybba, pulling the pony to a reluctant halt. “Lots and lots of elves.”

The boy hung back, suddenly and for the first time in his life, embarrassed by his rude mortality in the face of the Eldar. The singing reached a swelling peak and then finished as the column’s guard returned Legolas’ greeting and the riders at the head of the column pulled up around him. Earnulf heard laughter and saw more than one elvish hand reach to touch Legolas’ jaw length hair; all the other elves wore theirs long and intricately braided, Earnulf noticed.

Stybba had been creeping forward while Earnulf watched the exchange and the boy turned his attention to her again to make her behave and stand. When he looked up again it was to see his friend dismount, leaving Gimli sitting on Ascallon, and run forward to greet a powerful looking Elf Lord who was riding in the second group. Earnulf was amazed to see his friend go down to one knee in front of this person. Stybba by this time had inched her way up beside Ascallon where she was finally prepared to stand. Gimli was looking at the scene in front of them with his arms folded, a considering look on his open face.

“Who are they?” Earnulf whispered to the Dwarf Lord.

Gimli glanced across at the boy and then at the party at the head of the column, “There rides the Queen of Gondor, boy, and never a more beautiful sight will you see, even if you live as long as I.”  He looked at Earnulf’s absorbed expression and guessed he had just spoken prophetically. The Dwarf gave him a moment, then continued, indicating the second party where Legolas was now standing and talking animatedly up to the regal Elf on his magnificent horse.

 “And that, if I am not mistaken, is Legolas’ father, the famed, or infamous if you be dwarf-kind, King of the Greenwood, Thranduil. I wonder what his presence in these lands heralds?  Some interesting times I warrant.” He narrowed his eyes at the royal party and stroked his beard as if deep in thought.

Earnulf looked back at the elves, and tried to impress the scene on his mind so he could carry it like a fire to light the dark nights of winter. He could see the sturdy dwarf had his reservations but all the boy could see was the glamour and magic of the elves;  Arwen flanked by two warriors that had to be twins, they looked so alike, and all the ethereal company strung out behind like pearls on a necklace.

Then his awe was made complete as Arwen rode forward to greet Gimli, and even graciously himself, to his everlasting tongue-tied embarrassment.

The Queen was kind and smiled at him, capturing his heart forever. Arwen turned her lambent gaze back onto Gimli and then spent what felt like the next age interrogating the dwarf over the health of her husband and of Gimli’s people following the treacherous attack of less than a fortnight ago.

“So why do we tarry, Gimli? Forth now to Helm’s Deep. Come Elrohir, Elladan. We must finish our journey.” The Queen whirled her horse and started away closely followed by her escort.

Earnulf saw that several companies of troops dressed in the livery of Gondor followed the Elves, and cemented an ambition to join them when he was grown. When he looked back Legolas was once again mounted on Ascallon and the other party of elves were travelling deeper into the woods in the direction of Legolas’ practice green.

“Will your father not lodge with the men in the Hornburg, Legolas?” Gimli’s voice sounded gruff after the musical tones of the elves.

Legolas followed the other party with his eyes until the glow of their passing was quite faded and the strengthening night closed around them once more.

“Nay, my friend. It is enough that he has come south, more than one miracle a night is not to be sought.” He turned his rare smile on both his friend and the boy.

“We must away, and warn poor Elfwine that he has more royalty to deal with. Still I would not be a rebel in these days, I suspect the time of banditry is finished in Rohan. Come,  let’s go home.”

*****

Aragorn suffered.

Deep in his mind there was a place, reached only when fevered, drifting in and out of the confines of flesh. He’d been here often enough in his unsafe life to recognise the mental furniture – the opening that beckoned now he had even visited in his dreams when he was well. It seemed a door, a door barred but able to be opened by him, if he wanted.

He squirmed fretfully and turned his head on the sweat-chilled pillow, the pain in all his joints protested the slight movement and his chest tightened.

A barking cough jerked him more awake and half onto his side, then racked him until he was gasping and retching. The pain, in his chest acutely, and in the rest of him generally, crowded black fog into the edge of his awareness even as firm hands caught him and smoothed healing cool across his face.

“Hush, lie still love. Lie still, let the steam do its work.”

He blinked his eyelids open a crack. Athelas, that inevitable sick room smell. It was daytime and that surprised him more than a little. Surely it was night. When had he slept?

He shivered and drifted his eyes closed again. Slipped into the comfortable dark and contemplated that opening again. The bars seemed absent. Perhaps he could lean a little, open that door just…

Arwen wiped a hand across her own forehead, absently tucking her hair behind her ears again. Looked forlornly up at Legolas who had taken up a seemingly permanent perch in the deep window embrasure.

“This fever does not seem to want to break. Have you ever seen him so sick?’

Legolas looked at Arwen’s worried face and then,  as she turned back to her husband, glanced out of the window of the Hornburg at the deceptive calm of the mountains. His own demons tugged at him; his need to stay close to his friends when they were threatened by sickness and strife warring with his duty to his father and his duty to his colony in Ithilien, the ever present and wearing sea song that always seemed louder in times of stress, Minuial and all the complications of their relationship brought suddenly into this place where he had not thought to have to deal with them. He sighed, his worries were known enemies and he suppressed them, as usual. He looked back into the sickroom and saw  the wide bed with Aragorn dark and tormented in the middle of twisted covers. Arwen, hovering over the oil burner, Master Tolman working in the corner with mortar and pestle grinding another of his cures. Elladan had stepped out only a few moments ago and he expected Elrohir any minute. Sickness was a state he rarely experienced, being elf-kind, but sick rooms seemed to have become something of a hobby of his in the latter years. He met Arwen’s blue eyes as she turned away from the bed again, and told her the truth.

“I have, Arwen. So have you, even in these usually peaceful times. He will not go yet. He will not go until he chooses, this is but a wearying step along the road.”

Arwen closed her eyes for a second and seemed to pull calm around her again like a cloak. Then she smiled up at her steadfast friend and found a mournful smile for him.

“How fares Gimli?”

“He coughs still, when he thinks I cannot hear him, but is more and more hale each day. The fire of his rage is burning so hot against those rebels that attacked us that I think no contagion has the strength to bow him. He storms around Aglarond supervising the repairs. Gliver is avoiding him for fear of coming to blows, and I am truly hiding here because this is the one place he will not come and harangue me for a timetable of attack on all men who hale from Dunland. “

He cast a melting look upon Arwen that begged for understanding and looked so much like a repentant puppy that Arwen found a laugh jolted out of herself involuntarily.

“And here I was thinking you were hiding from Minuial.”  Legolas’ look changed from chagrined to embarrassed and he turned his head to look out of the window again.

“And here I was thinking you were looking after me.” Aragorn’s weak voice from the bed summoned all the occupants of his room to his side. The King looked weak, but the fever had subsided again and his wry comment proved his personality was as intact as ever.

Arwen took his hand.

“Which of course we are, my love.” She wiped his forehead with a cool cloth again and Aragorn closed his eyes for the pure comfort of it. Then his grey eyes snapped open again and focussed on his wife.

“You are in Rivendell.”

“Not any more.”

“How did you get here?”

“I was escorted by your guard, Rivendell’s guard, and the King of Eryn Lasgalen, yonder scapegrace’s father, no less. The Eldar has not made such a showing since the Ring war so I hope you are satisfied. Your dignity, and that of Gondor’s Queen were royally upheld.”

Aragorn closed his eyes again. “I can feel a relapse coming on,” he murmured weakly.

Arwen flicked him on the end of his nose with a long finger and he opened his eyes again in outrage.

“Awake now, here comes Elrohir.”

Aragorn’s dark haired foster brother entered the room silently and patted Tolman on the shoulder by way of greeting on his way to the bed. He carried a large slightly steaming goblet.

“Good morning, sister. How fares our patient this noon.”

“I’m fine.” Aragorn spoke up, inaccurately. He stifled a cough, with a little effort.

The elf handed the goblet to Arwen, who sniffed at the contents cautiously as the twin helped Aragorn sit up a little in bed. Aragorn eyed the cup uneasily, well acquainted with Elrond’s unpalatable potions.

Elrohir retrieved the cup and handed it to the King, who took a quick look at the contents then swallowed the lot in a gulp. He closed his eyes, whether against the taste or because the effort had exhausted his meagre store of energy was debatable.

 Elrohir placed an experienced hand on Aragorn’s head and placed the other over the wound in his shoulder. Aragorn felt the healing power that the twins had inherited from their father flow into his weak and disobedient body, it commanded sleep and in his disordered state he was unable to resist. He slipped into a healing darkness again.

Arwen bent over him for a minute, feeling this more healing sleep, then straightened and gathered up the occupants of the room with a regal glance.

“Tolman, I believe it is your time to sit with him now?”

The hobbit simply nodded and clambered up onto the chair beside the bed, toting a leather bound volume that would have dwarfed even a man.

“Research, ”  he stated explanatorily.

Arwen smiled at him.

“Then the rest of us will take a meal and rest break. Elrohir you are staying?” The elf nodded at his sister and took up station in the window seat recently vacated by Legolas.

The Queen linked her arm with Legolas’ and swept out of the chamber.

TBC

Reviews are gratefully welcomed, treasured and replied to.

Rose Sared

Cadenza

Set in the same universe as ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Beta by the wonderful Theresa Green – Read all her stories, they are very funny and very good.

Chapter Nine

A little way up the formidable cliff forming one side of the Deeping-coomb, a tangle of gnarled fir trees found rootholds on the site of an old rock fall. On a level with the tall tower of Helm, opposite, they were a good resting place for a stone-weary wood-elf in the autumn twilight, and provided a convenient lookout as she attempted to track her elusive quarry.

Minuial relaxed onto the fissured bark and let the tree gossip to her of the other elf who had graced its boughs this growing time. The tree sang of strength and endurance, sun and wind, of birds and the healing touch of the quick one the grove had begun to love.

“Believe me, I understand.” Minuial murmured, breathing in the sharp fragrance of the needles held gently in her hands.

The incurving sweep of the curtain wall filled her view, and she shuddered as she recalled tales of its defence in the Ring War. So many immortal lives lost to middle-earth; the pain and suffering resonated still. Her eyes filled, remembering Haldir, the golden, invincible warrior who had often fought against her at tourneys, the rivalry and pride of their different elven kingdoms upheld in a balance of wins and losses that would happen nevermore.

The tree whispered to her of endurance, and patience, of the stars and of one of the few who had survived, physically unscathed at least.

Minuial filled her lungs to sing, and was startled into silence when another elven voice lifted into song, coming from the wall in front of her.

She knew that voice, and sprang to her feet on the branch, leaning to see.

Legolas was standing, bright like a flame, on one of the crenulations near the tower end of the wall, singing the introduction to the lament for the fallen, his clear voice alone and lovely and, to her ears, aching with isolation. Without conscious thought she breathed in and sang, her voice adding depth to the sound. From the gloom in front of the wall other elven voices joined in, Thranduil’s guard, waiting by the horses for their Lord to return to the woods nearby. The sound filled the evening until it seemed the very granite of the citadel would harmonise.

**

“Your elves are disturbing the peace again, my Lord.” Gliver’s wife paused by the broken window of Aglarond’s hall and listened to the singing for longer than she was comfortable with. “Bah, Elves,” she continued grumpily, “They are worse than mice in the pantry. If you see one you’ve got twenty and the only way you know is by their noise in the quick of the night.”

She bustled out of the hall leaving Gliver and Gimli to their lamp lit paperwork. The two dwarves shared a smile and Gimli rose and went to the window to hear better. He heard the sorrow in the song and picked out enough words to follow its drift. He thought of his own battle plans, drawn up on the table behind, and for a space considered the random, violent, chances of war, and his determination to repay past sorrows in kind. For a moment he wished for a better way, but knew not how else he could secure safety for his people. The campaign plans were becoming final.

**

Elven superiority was a given in King Thranduil’s universe, but Celeborn appeared correct in his oft-voiced assertion that this particular crop of men was a very fine vintage.

The King of Rohan, Elfwine; now there was a man who understood his ancient duties to elf-kind whilst providing a civilised table, the wine tonight had been especially fine. Arwen’s husband had managed an appearance and conducted himself, as ever, as if he were Thranduil’s equal, but there was no novelty in that, at least the Evenstar had lost the fading look she had carried at first when he had met her in Rivendell, and the dwarves, curse their busy little minds, had only been represented by their magnificent goblets and artful stonework. All in all, the King of Eryn Lasgalen had spent a pleasant evening.

The Elf King stepped out onto the grass of the Coomb, and the singing that had been filling the air trailed off respectfully.

Thranduil tilted his head to catch the last notes of his son’s voice. It was too long since the kin had heard Legolas’ part of the song.

Thranduil looked up and called, “Legolas, attend us.”

Not waiting for acknowledgment, or reply, the King walked over to his guards, mounted and rode off to the forest, secure in his power.

Minuial winced at the peremptory summons and looked anxiously to Legolas, who remained standing on the wall. His chin dropped and she saw him clench his fists. She closed the half dozen steps she had left between them, and, when he turned and jumped lightly down to the walkway, placed a hand on his slumped shoulder.

“He never changes, Legolas.”

He turned his head to look at her, the rising moon washing his pale complexion into translucency, deepening the furrow between his brows. He gazed at her for a moment out of eyes that saw other visions on this wall, then shook himself slightly, like Ascallon after a hard ride, and let his expression relax into a rueful smile.

“It is his greatest strength and largest failure.” Legolas reached up and covered her hand with his, briefly, before turning to the stairs that led to the stables. He paused on the top step and looked back at her.

“Come with me, Minuial. We can talk later.”

“Coward,” she teased, “You just don’t want to be alone with either of us.”

Legolas looked away, towards the windows of Aglarond shining like candles up the Coomb. Gimli would understand his duty to his father, and excuse him this one evening.

“Probably, Minuial. But I have other duties that call, so best I start with my royal father.”

Minuial pushed him lightly on the back and then chased him down the stairs as he pretended to stumble as a result of her shove.

Arwen watched them as they ran laughing to the stables for their mounts, then raced neck to neck out into the night. She leaned on the stone balcony rail and looked to the north, but could see no sign of the elvish encampment. She squashed the pang of homesickness that wanted heart space.

“Arwen?”

Aragorn’s call from inside summoned her back to her life and love. He wanted to discuss the coming campaign with her, and still she would chose nowhere else to be but by his side.

**

 King Thranduil enjoyed beauty, and liked his surroundings to be ordered to his satisfaction, and for people and objects to array themselves harmoniously. He ordered his vast woodland realm thusly, and dealt with all that may disrupt his peace with little mercy, and great dispatch, for centuries. Now, as he ventured from his well ordered realm into the vagaries of the rest of Middle-earth, he admired the disordered calm of the world’s wooded places, the sweeping movement of her grasslands, the vast majesty of the mountains. He did not approve of the men who infested her, but had no recourse for amending that sorrow.

The time of the Elves was past, so saith Celeborn, so sang the song of Arda. Thranduil smiled grimly into his wine. His own stubborn attachment to his woodland realm was un-swayed, and he had an immortal lifetime to thumb his nose at the proper way of doing things. There would be elves in the Greenwood for as long as he could persuade any to stay under his protection and if they chose to go he would stay alone. He was not the fading kind.

That thought prompted him to seek his son in the crowd of merry elves in front of him. The patterns of dancing forms made graceful kaleidoscopes of movement in front of him, the long table full of fruit and wine the island about which they circled. Legolas handed his partner to another at the end of the line, and then turned his bright gaze to meet his father’s, feeling his regard despite their distance.

How could his child be so different from his parent? If he were not the image of his mother Thranduil would think him a changeling.

Thranduil sighed and motioned his son to come to his side. He doubted his arguments would fall on any more fertile soil than his previous attempts at protecting his son from his own nature.

The King had rejoiced at Legolas’ expressed desire to fund a colony in Ithilien, and carefully encouraged his friendship with his good right arm, Minuial, but, as he watched the archer thread his self-contained way through the pattern of dancers in front of him, he realised that he had been fooling himself. Legolas would not last another yen. He was as attenuated as thistledown, clinging to Middle-earth with only his inherited mulishness, like a last autumn leaf on a bare branch or a candle lit from both ends, his light was blinding, but brief.

Thranduil’s sudden pang of grief drew his eyebrows together and presented a grim visage to Legolas, who bowed respectfully in front of him.

Thranduil waved him up and scowled at him, Legolas looked serenely back.

“My son, why do you persist in this foolishness? The mortals you grace with your life are of less value than your smallest finger. Why are you here, and not governing your realm?”

“Have you heard ill tidings from  Ithilien, Father?” Legolas’ gaze sharpened and his voice was tinged with a degree of anxiety that gladdened his father’s heart. At least the lad was conscious of his duty.

Thranduil waved a dismissive hand. “Nay, nay Legolas, all I hear is well, but most of that is from your own hand so may not be entirely unbiased, hmm?”

 The King smiled appraisingly up at his son, who narrowed his eyes at him, then turned and snagged a cup from a passing tray and sat on the wooden step at the King’s feet. Legolas took a swallow, shared an appreciative glance with his father, then looked thoughtfully into the remains as if to scry a future there.

“And are you enjoying your grand tour, Father. Surely your advisors were not entirely happy with your decision to travel? The land is not safe, you know.” Legolas flipped his short hair in emphasis.

Thranduil snorted a laugh and leaned down to speak conspiratorially. “ They were most discomforted, thinking your wildness had infected me.” The King reached for his own goblet, “ Their thoughts have grown inflexible like ancient  branches on gnarled trees, it was time for a storm to clear the dead wood.” The King sat back, drinking in small sips. “Life has become safe again for a small space in my Greenwood, and I find myself unused to peace.”

Legolas slanted a glance up at him, startled.” Would you aid us in this conflict, then? It is hardly your fight.”

Thranduil laughed openly at that suggestion. “Spend Elven lives for a mortal spat? Hardly, my son. But yonder mortal upstart,” Thranduil waved towards Helm’s Deep, “would like me to escort his noble wife back to his stone folly, and since it is on the way to your realm I graciously accepted his charge.”

Legolas decided to let most of the bluster pass, it was a good plan and would clear most of the non-combatants from the Hornburg leaving the army free to deal to Osbaston Keep. Trust Aragorn to use any resource wisely.

“I will join you in Ithilien shortly then, Father.”

Thranduil looked at his son again, at the faint mottling of skin down the left side of his neck, the legacy of mortal perfidy, and felt unaccustomed frustration at his inability to influence his child.

“I can understand you would like vengeance, my son. But they are only dwarves and men, after all. Why not come with me instead, leave them to their petty squabbles.”

Legolas looked at his father over a gulf deeper than the chasm under the bridge of Khazad-Dum. His eyes must have displayed the depths of his distress because his father looked away first, discomforted. He waved a dismissive hand at his son.

“Hie thee to the revels then, Legolas.” Thranduil arranged his features into his customary regal mask and Legolas bowed in profound relief that this interview was over. “I will be waiting in Ithilien when you have finished satisfying your honour with your allies.”

Legolas vanished into the crowd of courtiers and soldiers. Thranduil saw Minuial take a step or two after him, then turn to cast an appraising glance back at her King.

Thranduil tried to make sure his grief did not show on his face but may not have been entirely successful as his March Warden shook her head at the departing back, and moved up beside her liege instead.

The King decided to forestall any words of compassion or pity from his aide.

 “We hunt on the morrow. You will lead the spears.”

Minuial bowed her head but did not comment.

The King found himself consoled, however, by her steadfast presence at  his side during the rest of the evening.

TBC

Reviews are gratefully welcomed, treasured and replied to.

Rose Sared

Cadenza

Set in the same universe as ‘Adagio’and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Beta by the wonderful Theresa Green – Read all her stories, they are very funny and very good.

Chapter Ten

"I shall miss your company, Gimli."

Legolas picked at the pale lichens that patterned the low wall he was
sitting on, avoiding his friend's eye.

The dry-stone wall edged the paved way that welcomed visitors to Aglarond.
Behind the elf, Ascallon made a meal of the tender grass that grew on the
verge, the gentle sounds of her grazing suddenly loud in the silence
following the elf's admission

Gimli shifted his feet under the weight of his friend's unvoiced plea. He
glanced down at the helmet he held in his hands and turned it fretfully.

"We walk different paths in this campaign, Legolas." He looked at his friend
and was caught by how rarely he saw him like this, at eye level.

Gimli took the opportunity to examine his friend, now recovered from his
injuries and back in fighting form. The great arch of Legolas' carved bow
rose like a wing above the elf's shoulder and his hair had finally grown
long enough to be drawn back in his customary braids. Legolas wore his usual
worn campaign clothes with no more armour than the leather wrist guards
Gimli had inlaid with gold vine work for him this past month. A slight youth
playing at war the eye would say. The dwarf's heart and mind knew the
quality of the warrior.

Gimli shifted again, uncomfortable with the rising tide of emotion
constricting his breathing. The friends had waged war as a partnership for
nearly a century, he worried who would guard the elf's back, and knew he was
being ridiculous.

The dwarf stepped forward and placed a heavy hand on the slim shoulder in
front of him, he met Legolas' clear gaze with his own smouldering intensity.

"Take care on the road. I would be easer if we were together but even apart
we will prevail, if the Valar permit."

Legolas smiled at him and shrugged under his hand. "Both Aragorn and the
sons of Elrond ride with me to work the Valar's will, not to mention a man
or two."

Gimli snorted at Legolas' dismissal of the combined fighting forces of
Gondor and Rohan. He squeezed slightly to transmit his amusement and shook
his head.

"Until Edoras, then?"

"Aye."

Gimli removed his hand allowing the elf to spring to his feet.  For a second
Legolas held his short friend under his eye, then he whirled and flowed  onto
Ascallon's back with his usual uncanny grace.

"Farewell, Gimli."

Legolas saluted his friend with his hand on his heart, then spun Ascallon
and cantered off down the greenway towards the Deep and Aragorn's army. The
elf turned and waved at Gimli once more before vanishing around the first
bend in the road.

Gimli lowered his own hand slowly. Forebodings were for maidens and he had a
war to fight. He jammed his helmet onto his head, thumbed disobedient
moisture from below his eye, and stumped back to meet his troops, mustering
in the great hall.

"I shall miss your company, fool of an elf," he muttered to himself. "A
plague on all men's houses that so disrupt other folk's lives."

He passed grumbling into his own realm, a small force of nature discounted
in the greater scheme of things at men's peril.

Four hours on the road towards the Fords of Isen and Aragorn found in
himself a peace that gave his conscience no pride.

Being on campaign, in armour, it felt as if the rest of his life was lived
in anticipation or regret of this reality, full of horses, men, dust and the
creak of leather on leather.

Partly his peace was the simple relief of an arrow loosed. Their plans were
set; the commanders had their orders, for better or worse events ere moving
forward carrying him with them.

Aragorn's horse missed a step, jogging a pace or two over some unevenness on
the path and the King's reflexes had the animal under control again before
he was even aware of the movement. Aragorn felt his knee brush that of the
elf riding beside him and shared a brief apologetic glance with his friend.

Legolas smiled at him and then turned his attention to the front again, but
Aragorn spared the elf a rather longer scrutiny. He looked well, and that
added to the King's sense of comfort. This was the person who rode on his
left in as many campaigns as he cared to remember.

Beyond him rode the tight anonymous circle of the King's Guard, cocooning
them in a small oasis of privacy.

"You did find some time to spend with your father, these last weeks,
Legolas?"

"Aye," the elf replied evenly. " We had several conversations of an evening.
He even joined a hunt." Legolas' smile broadened, "He is enjoying himself,
not that you would ever get him to admit it."

"Your kindred were a sight to gladden a child's heart, last eve." Aragon
felt a smile relax his own face. "My wife and your father and their company
fading into the woods. Of such are fairy-tales made by mortals."

"Likely; such tales must start somewhere, " Legolas replied, remembering
Earnulf's manfully suppressed tears of the previous eve. His family had
looked equally awestruck at the company they found themselves keeping on the
greensward near the woods. Legolas' apprentice had begged mightily for a
place in this troop even daring a final plea in front of his father and
mother at the end of the feast of farewell given for Arwen and Thranduil.

"One day, Earnulf. Soon enough you will be grown, but not this time, I
think."

The elf had caught the relief on the face of the child's mother and father
at this final proof that the Elf-Lord would not steal their child from them.

They had stood in the twilight and watched as the company of elves and men
dispersed into the woods and back to the citadel respectively, finally
leaving the family and Legolas alone.

Legolas then bowed to Denulf the carter, his wife and their forlorn children
Earnulf and Aethel, and left them to find their beds. Along the path he had
come across Gimli, waiting for him seated on a stump smoking his vile pipe.

The dwarf had walked back to Helm's Deep with him, discussing battle
strategy and Legolas had been fiercely glad of his companionship.

Now the elf scanned the increasingly rolling country they rode through and
noted the scattered crofts and villages that dotted the previously sparsely
populated hillsides. In the distance he could spy small flocks of sheep
biting their way across manicured downs that marched steeper and steeper
into the blue distance until the mountains swallowed them to left and right
at the Gap of Rohan. He imagined shepherds looking down on their formidable
column of soldiers with alarm wondering what disruption such a force would
bring into their lives.

Few trees graced this ragged countryside as they forged up out of the plains
of Rohan. The elf felt exposed.

Soon the advance guard and the King's party crossed the Fords of Isen and
turned at last to the left to trace a large arc around the foothills of Ered
Nimrais and into the vale of the River Adorn.

**

"My Lord, may I crave a boon?"

Arwen looked guilelessly up at Legolas' father from her perch on the back of
the delicate white palfrey Aragorn had provided for her to ride.

Thranduil looked into the dazzling beauty of her eyes and felt an
un-familiar sense of helplessness wash over him.

"I hesitate to say anything, my Lady, " Thranduil allowed the side of his
mouth to crook up in amusement, "for fear of disappointing you, but if it is
in my power to please you, ask on."

"First tell me, are you in a hurry on this journey? Do you have appointments
to keep that I would mar if I ask for a diversion?" Arwen looked earnestly
at the King.

Thranduil looked at her, sensing a trap but unable to put a stop to this
conversation.

"Nay, I ride at my and your leisure, my Lady. What diversion would you
request?" he asked cautiously.

"The city of Edoras lies a day's ride yonder," Arwen waved a graceful arm to
the south. " I would visit with some friends there if you could find the
time to tarry?"

Thranduil felt the frown crease his face even as dismay swept his heart; he
was not fond of men or their cities. To his left he heard Minuial muffle
what sounded like a snort of amusement.

"You have a comment?" Thranduil asked her icily.

His March warden cast him an innocent look she must have learned from Arwen.

"My liege. I have acquaintances in Edoras also, in common with the Queen's,
I would enjoy a visit I am sure."

"You!" Thranduil felt his jaw drop open in amazement. "You… men…but…." The
King spluttered to a halt and squeezed his eyes shut for a second. He was
besieged.

Arwen and Minuial shared a brief opaque look behind the King's back before
turning their attention back to the unfortunate focus of their interest.
Arwen decided to sweeten the pill.

"Forests clothe the foothills of Starkhorn. Mighty trees that hunger for the
touch of the elves they have not known since the first age of this world.
Would you not visit in their vaulted halls even as I take my ease with my
friends in Edoras, my Lord?"

She smiled as if the outcome of her plea was of little concern to her,
glanced up at the blond King and then out into the gathering twilight that
painted the rolling grasslands in tones of gold. The silver thread of the
Entwash glittered like a mithril chain on the edge of her vision. When she
looked south she could see the lowering sun painting the roofs of Meduseld
gold. The King followed her gaze then lifted his to the forest softened
knees of the mountain. He found himself tempted.

"How long a delay?"

"A matter of days, by your leave. A handmaid of mine from seasons past has a
babe; I would visit and coo a little. You would be welcome I am sure if you
would like to seek hospitality?" Arwen looked brightly at him, pretending
not to notice his dismay at the idea of a babe of any kind let alone a human
one.

"Nay I will tarry in the woodland. Minuial will guard you and I suppose
Aragorn's guards will also attempt to keep you safe."

Arwen hoped Throndar's ears were not sharp enough to hear Thranduil's
denigration of his service. She knew she would be safe and was so looking
forward to seeing Gleowyn's babe. Minuial's support was interesting; it was
unlike her to seek out the company of men.

Arwen awarded Thranduil a smile that would rival the sun in the sky, and
then turned her mount to ride back to her honour guard and apprise them of
her plans.

Thranduil looked askance at his March warden. "You have friends in Edoras?"
One blond eyebrow raised in astonished query.

Minuial smiled, "Friends of your son, my Liege. You would enjoy the babe's
mother she has some spirit. Mayhap a visit?" She matched him eyebrow for
eyebrow.

"I am not fond of men and their dwellings, as you well know. I think not,
Minuial. I always thought that you would be an influence to the good on my
son. I am pained that his eccentricities appear to have infected you."

Minuial laughed out loud, and then snorted herself into silence at her Lord's  less than amused look. "I know not what is funnier, that you should think I could influence Legolas, or that you think he has influenced me." She smiled to herself for several paces of her horse then met his eye again.

" Peace, my King. Perhaps Arwen and I will persuade Gleowyn to visit you in
her woods. Would that be acceptable to you?"

Thranduil felt more powerless than he had for many an age. Give him some
necks to hew, or his own woods to rule and right was equal to his will. Give
him two powerful women to deal with and he felt like a doddering fool, or
some callow youth, tongue tied and confused.

"Enough," he snapped.

Minuial bowed in her saddle, and fell back a few paces. Allowing him the
last word, for now.

**

Gimli led his band of picked warriors out of the comforting embrace of
Thrihyrne's tunnels and into the cold and windy dark of the upper reaches of
Harrowdale under the light of the stars. His eyes sought out Earendil
sailing constant in the sky, and he felt comforted by its elvish presence, a
comfort he kept firmly to himself in this company.

Cliffs and spires of the ragged mountains ringed the vale and barred the way
to the Adorn valley where his friends should by now be camped in
anticipation of the battle for Osbaston Keep in the morrow.

Gimli's task was no less precise. Aragorn had charged him, and his people,
with the task of cutting off the supply of sulphur. Blasting powder and its
recipe was a dwarven or wizardly secret no longer, but Gimli and his mine-masters knew no way to manufacture the substance without sulphur; sulphur that ran in yellow seams across the White mountains Aglarond was part of. The mineral was mined in various places in these very hills.

The dwarves had spied out the quarries used by Frecern’s  rebels, the King of Gondor was very tired of  defending his people from the dishonourable use of the substance as a weapon.

Aragorn had taken Gimli's advice on the matter.

"Stop the rebels’ supply, Gimli. I will leave the securing of it to your
discretion, but I want no more explosions from these Withergield traitors."

Aragorn looked grim and determined but Gimli needed no urging. Here was a
task suited to his dwarves and a task they would pursue it with a will.

On the mountainside now two scouts met with his party of warriors and after
whispered consultation with the sentries were led to Gimli.

Gimli was pleased to see that one of the scouts was Dolan, who had proved
himself trustworthy when helping with his rescue from the rising waters in
the Glittering caves.

"The main workings are no more than four hours to the west, my Lord. They
have posted guards but they are unwary. They have two wains loaded and ready
to move at first light. We spied no stockpile outside of the keep. It appears they mine only the amount they are to use soon."

Gimli patted Dolan on the back and gestured for his band to gather close.

"We hie to battle then, for take this diggings we must. Gliver is already
positioned to take the factory out with his greater band. Let us now hurry
to battle and vengeance sore long delayed. " Baruk Khazâd!,” he yelled with
enthusiasm into the uncaring dark.

 " Khazâd ai-mênu!" his warriors completed for him. Then silence fell and
the small army vanished into the hills.

TBC

Reviews are gratefully welcomed, treasured and replied to.

Rose Sared

Cadenza

Set in the same universe as  ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Beta by the wonderful Theresa Green – Read all her stories, they are very funny and very good.

Chapter eleven

King Thranduil and his travelling court breasted the virgin forests of Starkhorn with all the pleasure of swimmers plunging into a cool river. The horses were left to gambol on the lush Rohan grasslands while the Elves took to the trees with only their packs and their weapons, as gleeful as a group of elflings on holiday.

The forest sang to the Elves in accents unheard by the Eldar for nearly two ages. Sweet conifers, brash shrubs and mighty trees welcomed the visitors with green joy.  Palms and silver ferns brushed softly against elven hair and fantails and tui flitted in lively escort from red flowered rata to purple-berried puriri, singing their delight at the beings visiting their home.

Slender-trunked young trees dotted the forest like so many ships’ masts, leading the exploring party up the slope by way of their branches, eventually showing the elves to a clearing on the knees of the mountain. A mature kauri, of a size to rival one of Lothlorien’s mallorns, reigned content in the heart of its kingdom and welcomed the elven King as one monarch to another.

Thranduil leapt from its limbs to land lightly beside the rushing stream bordering the clearing. Curious, he followed it to the forest margin where a view across the plains of Rohan was framed by branches above the waterfall formed by the brook tumbling down a granite cliff.

On the sunlit plains below, Thranduil could see the city of Edoras on its knoll with Meduseld glowing like a jewel on its highest point, and the King could also clearly see a large company of men and horse approaching the city. They straggled down the road from Harrowdale that wound its way from the valley of the Snowbourne across the foothills below.

Dismissing the doings of men, Thranduil looked back into the sun-dappled shade and saw his people enjoying the pleasures of this green glade.

“Set our guards and let us hunt our supper,” he announced. “I see signs that both boar and deer browse this forest. It is time to be merry and live as we would in the first age of this world for a space.”

Nothing loath, his people scattered to do his bidding. The King climbed into the welcoming arms of a whippy five-finger that grasped for the light over the waterfall, and started to weave himself a crown of white clematis and purple fuchsia to wear at the evening festivities.

As he worked, he idly observed the group of men likewise setting up camp outside the city. His eyes narrowed at the military formation the camp was assuming. A thousand men and horse, he estimated, and new banners were being struck, unfamiliar to the elf-King.

Arwen was in the city, on her visit to the wretched handmaid, and although his trusted right hand had accompanied her, a niggle of worry wormed its way into Thranduil’s holiday mood.

**

Arwen bent over the cunningly gimballed and intricately carved crib and inhaled the distinctive cherished smell of the baby cocooned in its care.

Not much could be seen of Gleowyn and Telfaren’s first-born, bar a tuft of wispy dark hair and a porcelain face moistly asleep. He looked as all babes did, human or elven, deliciously fragile and improbably small, and he looked like himself as all babes did, despite the best wishes of friends and kin.

“He is made in your image, Gleowyn.” The Queen needed no instruction in the politics of the nursery.

She smiled up at the hovering mother, whose eyes were dark ringed but whose being radiated contentment. Arwen was happy for her erstwhile handmaid. Until now she had always rather stood out like a pine in a beech forest. In this role she was equal to all.

“Nay, my Lady, you are kind, but Telfaren’s mother claims he is his father re-born.”

Gleowyn rested her eyes on her beloved son and Arwen could see that it would not matter if he looked like an orc. Perfection was now re-defined in Gleowyn’s world and it slept in the crib in front of her.

“He looks to be a bonny boy?” Arwen straightened and paused beside Gleowyn who looked happily at her former mistress.

“Aye, he likes his food,” Gleowyn shifted her chest in slight discomfort, “and feeds with great concentration, often, day and night.” She sighed, wearily.

Arwen lifted a hand to brush a stray hair from Gleowyn’s face.

“It is exhausting work, I know, but I promise it lasts not as long as it seems it does. Before you know you will have to call him to his meals.”

Gleowyn looked at the Queen in slight disbelief, then smiled and led the way to the nursery door.

“Will you join me now for some refreshment, while he sleeps? We will not be left in peace for long, I know that much.”

Arwen laughed softly and followed the young woman out of the nursery and back to the garden-room where Gleowyn had initially received her visitors.

Arwen had given her a little notice of her arrival -  it was not fair to inflict a royal visit without at least some warning -  but her timing had been calculated so that Gleowyn would not become too flustered by her attention, whilst having time to lay in supplies for her bodyguards and her attendant, Minuial.

Such niceties she had down to a fine art after decades of rule in Gondor.

Arwen seated herself and allowed Gleowyn to order her household. Within minutes tea and a light meal was spread and Minuial had been fetched from her examination of her herb garden to keep the women company.

“Gimli will be thrilled to know his gift is so well used.” Arwen observed over the rim of her teacup. “He will no doubt bluster in here at his earliest convenience to examine your son and make him cry with his loud ways.”

Gleowyn smiled. “My Lord Aglarond is generous to a fault, and as soft as tallow around children. If he made the babe cry he would be apologising for ever. Does he campaign with the Lord of Ithilien as of old?” Gleowyn directed this last enquiry politely to the aloof elf-maid she had seen last in the company of the Lord of Ithilien at her wedding.

Minuial turned her cool gaze on the woman, and then glanced at Arwen. The Queen became interested in a small cake she was sampling from the table, leaving the conversational ball in Minuial’s court.

“Legolas rides with the sons of Elrond and Arwen’s husband. I believe the dwarves are attending to some other tasks more suited to their nature, in the mountains.” She waved vaguely to the south. “I do not know the details.”

Arwen smiled at the elf-warrior’s discomfort, she had been rather astonished at Minuial’s volunteering of her self on this visit. The march warden was a notable separatist, usually barely tolerating non-elven company. Arwen had teased her lightly on the road to Edoras.

“…and I am sure I can see the points of your ears rounding nicely even as we approach the city,” the Queen concluded merrily.

Minuial had born her jibes stoically but eventually met the Queen’s jokes with a truth of her own.

“I must, somehow, find some good in the humans you love, Arwen. He will not tolerate my opinions, and I cannot bear the distance that is growing between us. If he finds them worthy of his love, and you find them worthy of yours, I must find my own truth to replace that knowledge I have known as sooth since the battle of Dagorlad.”

 Minuial wore a wry expression; neither woman needed explanation of the ‘he’ she referred to. Legolas was rarely far from Minuial’s thoughts.

Now the conversation around Gleowyn’s tea-table lapsed as a disturbance could be heard at the gates of Gleowyn’s home. Military challenge and counter challenge followed by the sound of a horse clattering into the stable yard.

Gleowyn looked up with unabashed pleasure.

“Telfaren. He managed to get home after all. Excuse me, please, my ladies, I will bring him to you.” She rose and stepped quickly to the entryway of the garden room.

As she reached the door she was forestalled -  it opened and Arwen could see Telfaren, supported by the captain of Arwen’s own guard, Throndar. Blood marred the messenger’s brow and he was clutching one arm in the other.

Gleowyn screamed, a thin high sound, and Minuial leapt to her feet, her hand to her knife.

Telfaren met the Queen’s eye then fairly fell into his wife’s arms.

“Edoras is attacked. You must go to Meduseld, my Lady. “He clutched at his wife, “Quickly, get the babe, we must flee!”

**

The afternoon sun was sinking behind the high peaks of Thrihyrne, casting long black shadows over the allied troops of Gondor, Rohan and Ithilien that were now drawn up in front of Osbaston Keep waiting on King Elfwine’s parlay team currently meeting under a flag of truce in front of the barred wooden gates.

Aragorn was aware of the massed ranks of the combined might of Rohan and Gondor mustered in orderly rows that filled the mountain valley behind him. The troops were vibrating in anticipation, like an audience awaiting the commencement of a play.

The Keep was built using a natural rampart so that the wall towered seventy or eighty feet above the heads of the team talking to the representatives of the Withergield clan that had exited from a swiftly-barred sally port. The height and the poor light hid the defenders on the wall from Aragorn’s view, but he could see that the walls were fully manned.

The King glanced sidelong at the Elves flanking him. Legolas, Elrohir and Elladan were busy scanning the ramparts with their keen eyes, counting heads for him in an effort to estimate the force they were facing. Banners snapped and lifted in the keen wind funnelling down from the heights, but Aragorn was surprised to see Legolas shiver.

The Elf turned to him before he could comment, a fey light in his eyes.

“They man the walls with children and women. Is this custom for mountain people that they should send innocents against us?  Or did they learn this from us so many years ago when we forced such into battle on the walls of Helm’s Deep?”

The three elves exchanged glances; all looking worried by this development.

“There appear to be no more than ten adult men on the wall, Aragorn,” Elladan leaned and made some comment in Elrohir’s ear and nodding the twin carried on. “And they have propped straw men with helmets in every third mullion.”

Elrond’s sons both looked confused.

“Think these rebels that war is a game?”

“They think to trick us, I believe.”

Aragorn felt the weight of his leadership as he always did going into battle, but overlaid with frustration at the antics of these mountain rebels.

He looked to his General, sitting at horse behind him.

“Did you hear?”

The man nodded.

“Let Elfwine know, we need a strategy meeting. Hold this line but stand down the support troops. Our attack plan must change.”

Aragorn and his companions wheeled their horses and moved to the rear, following the lengthening shadows down the valley while the troops were ordered behind them. Soon campfires bloomed amongst the besieging host, lighting the dusk in echo of the stars opening above.

In the command pavilion confusion reigned.

“Your scouts reported a force of at least a thousand, Elfwine. Were they counting scarecrows?”

“Nay, they were here, and left no more than a day round or two before we arrived. But we have not been assailed and they seem merely to have pulled back further into the mountains.”

“And the Keep?” Aragorn took a drink of the wine that his squire had poured for the company.

“Fifty of my troops could either besiege it, or take it, whatever is your pleasure.”

Aragorn banged the cup down onto his desk.

“Take it Elfwine, and tonight. I have had enough of these insolent clansmen. Spare all those that yield, but clean out that nest of vipers and bring their leaders to me. I find myself angered and not inclined to be overly merciful. Burn them out, if that is what it takes.”

Rohan’s King nodded and then left the pavilion, leaving Aragorn staring into his wine and ignoring the three elves who stayed in the tent with him. Eventually the weight of their combined gaze got to him.

“What!”

The elves exchanged glances again. Finally Legolas got to his feet and held Aragorn’s eye.

“We will scout into the mountains tonight and find your missing foes, Aragorn.”

The brothers stood in the background and swung bows and packs onto their backs.

“Elfwine will have sent scouts.”

Aragorn sounded petulant to even his own ears.

His brothers left the tent. Legolas lingered a little.

“This clan has done me injury, King of Men. I think it is time I sought some vengeance. Elfwine had not sent elves to scout, and Gimli and his people will be somewhere up in those hills,” he waved in the direction of the peaks. “The dwarves will not be expecting such a host. I would like to go with your blessing, but with or without your consent we are going.”

Aragorn felt tired, once he would have slipped out with his brothers and his friend, those days were over. Now he went to war on women and boys, and the elves got to seek out the true foe.

“So be it, Legolas. Please report back to us. Even three elves and the mighty dwarves might find back up some use if the rebels number in the hundreds, as Elfwine believes.”

Legolas laid a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder, and then he was gone into the windy night.

TBC

Please review, I will hoard it and admire it and even reply

Rose Sared

Cadenza

Set in the same universe as 'Adagio' and 'Mayflies'. One hundred years into
the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Beta by the wonderful Theresa Green - Read all her stories, they are very
funny and very good.

Chapter Twelve

The wind attempted to pluck one slight wood-elf from his perch, high on a spire of rock. Legolas was trying to be systematic, examining the moon-drenched quilt of black and white that was the White Mountain range.

From his high point he could just make out the dim pinpricks of yellow light that revealed the farms of the Snowbourn valley, but no other sign of life was obvious in the mottled night. He could hear nothing except the howling wind wearing down the mountains.

Legolas marked the pass where he had agreed to meet the twins at moonset, and then jumped down from his eyrie. He had spotted a likely route that would lead him near one of the mines the Dwarves had pledged to hold for the alliance. Perhaps one of the companies of small folk had noticed the passing of the Withergield warriors.

As he descended from his vantage point, the high cliffs of Thrihyrne seemed to wrap him in stone again, blocking off his view, and intensifying the strength of the gale. Thinning his lips in determination he pushed on into the night, picking his way down a cliff that barred his path, concentration robbing him momentarily of his awareness of the eyes that marked him as a dark spot on the moon drenched wall, and noted both his progress and direction of travel.

Legolas made good time along a sharp divide, and then had to enter the maze of cliffs and gullies that formed the lower ridges of the great mountain range. Soon he would be far enough down to enter the forest that clothed the lower slopes. He was looking forward to leaving the unspeaking stones for the gossip of the forest; sure he would find out from the trees the location of his missing foes.

He paused once more, uncertain of which gully would lead him to the mine he had spotted on his earlier reconnaissance. Suddenly his deliberations were shattered by a crossbow bolt that split a rock just in front of him, peppering the elf with stinging shards of stone. The elf's bow was in his hands in purest instinct, the wavering tip of an arrow seeking for a target even as his brain caught up with his reflexes and identified the wind-muffled footsteps of one of the company that approached him.

"Gimli!"  He barked in irritation at the black shadows that were even now resolving themselves into small warriors trotting out of a side path. Legolas lowered his bow, slightly.

"Made you jump, though, Laddie. That was worth almost getting spitted for." Gimli sounded as if he could hardly contain his mirth.

Legolas relaxed his stance and jumped lightly down from the boulder he was standing on. He walked over to his friend and deliberately loomed over him for a moment. Gimli stood his ground, which surprised neither of them. 

 
Legolas looked along the line of dwarven warriors and noticed they had a prisoner.

"Company?"

"He sings a merry tale. Claims his leader is the King of Rohan, unjustly spurned. Claims his people are even now reclaiming his heritage." Gimli walked with the elf along the line of dwarves and took the end of the rope halter from the sturdy axe-wielder who had been leading him. He tugged the captive into the moonlight.

"I thought to bring him to Aragorn and Elfwine. Think you they would be interested in his tale?"

The bound man spat at Gimli's feet. The guard beside him hit him hard on the back with the flat of his axe causing the man to stumble to one knee. Legolas looked down at the prisoner dispassionately, thinking.

"This may be old news by now. I should think that the women holding Osbaston Keep would have been convinced to talk. The King was not amused by their deception. Nor was Elfwine."

Gimli looked a little startled. "Women hold the Keep?"

Legolas smiled rather grimly, "It seems our foes had urgent business elsewhere. Aragorn was in the process of persuading the women to tell him what they thought they were doing when I left to find my enemies."

The prisoner looked up, alarm on his face. "What would Gondor want with Osbaston? The usurper Elfwine is weak. Our women are safe from him."

The mismatched pair looked down at the man, considering. Then dismissed him as of no consequence and walked back to the front of the line.

"Wait!" called the man. "They would not hurt the women, Frecern said…" The man's cries became muffled in the wind and Gimli looked up at Legolas, waiting for his decision.

"Could you take him to Aragorn, friend Gimli? I must rendezvous with Elladan and Elrohir in an hour or so. We would catch up with you," the elf sniffed the air, "oh, about dawn, I should think." Gimli looked up at his friend and rocked back on his heels. "Aye we will away. Until dawn, Elf."

**

Another crossbow bolt bounced from the brickwork not a hand's breath from Minuial's face and she ducked back, just long enough to calculate trajectories, then darted out to fire her own longbow, well before the other archer would have had time to re-load. She found her target, and another of the attacking rebels fell from the roof opposite to the narrow alley below.

"Stupid weapon, the crossbow." She remarked with some ire to Throndar, who was sheltering behind the chimney pot adjacent to her own, nursing his own slightly shorter battle-scarred longbow.

"Only if you miss, my Lady." The old soldier replied evenly, as another bolt skittered between them, over the tiles to wedge itself in the sill of the skylight behind them. The short, brutal, shaft buried itself, thrumming, to the halfway point in the soft wood and the elf and the man considered it for a moment. Neither wanted their foes to become any more skilled any time soon.

Throndar darted to the opposite side of his own chimney pot and also found his target, although he was answered with a yell, not a satisfying falling body. They both heard reinforcements moving up through the house opposite but took the lull in firing to mean that they had time to retreat to a slightly more secure position on the opposite side of Gleowyn's roof ridge.

"How many more arrows, Throndar?" Minuial knew she had ten.

"Eight, my Lady," the man replied. They would not be able to defend the roof for much longer.

Minuial signalled for the man to retreat back into the skylight. The soldier met her eye for a challenging second, then nodded and slipped into the hole as quickly as he could.

Minuial reflected, as she covered him, that he was agile despite his age and his limp, and competent, for which she was even more grateful. A pity they had not been able to get away before this attack had solidified, but the plan to stay put had seemed reasonable at the time they made it. The reconnaissance she and Throndar had just completed worried her.

She slid into the skylight and shut it behind her, even as it became studded with a hand of bolts firing at where she no longer was. One of Throndar's foot soldiers was standing by with a piece of wood and some nails to board up the weak point. The two leaders left him to his hammering.

"The fighting has surrounded us," the elf remarked as they trotted down the steep stairs and into the courtyard, now deserted, that Telfaren had ridden into scant hours before.

Throndar looked grim. "Aye, and the main force looks to be attacking the citadel. They must have had inside help to breach the city gates so quickly." The old soldier spat into a pile of straw. "I hate civil conflict; you can never tell friend from foe."

Minuial swallowed the remark about men and treachery that wanted to escape just then; somehow the timing seemed inappropriate.

The two warriors trotted quickly across the open space and entered the main house, nodding to the various members of Throndar's picked troops who were stationed at doors and windows. They entered the kitchen, which had seemed the most defensible place in the building, and became the instant centre of attention.

"We cannot leave, my Lady." Minuial cut to the chase, standing in front of Arwen who was sitting to one side of the large kitchen hearth.

Gleowyn handed Throndar a mug and offered one to the elf. Minuial took a second to sniff its contents – broth- and take a sip. Then continued, "For some reason it appears this building is a target for the rebels."

"The main force has moved closer to Meduseld. We could hear fighting," Throndar cut in,” but it is as my Lady states, we are besieged here." The old commander smiled slightly at his Queen. "It was a quite small force; I suspect they are surprised by our level of resistance. But while we were out
there," he waved up at the roof," we could hear reinforcements arriving."

Gleowyn sat herself down beside her husband at the big worktable. The young couple shared a look of woe, and then, as a pair, looked to their son who was sleeping in a day-cradle at their feet.

"It will be Frecern." Gleowyn would not raise her eyes, "I am so sorry, it is all my fault. He has never forgiven me. He has been boasting of the revolution to come for so long that we all stopped taking him at all seriously. He threatened Telfaren, only last month but we ignored it as the bile of a bitter man. If we had only..."

Arwen got up and moved over to the young mother, she placed a hand on Gleowyn's shoulder.

"Even if we knew all things, many things would still be out of our control." She patted Gleowyn gently and the young woman turned a tear-brightened eye to her patron. "I think my presence was not part of any plan of this man,
and hopefully it will raise the stakes so high he will reconsider any insult to our person. For now we will rely on our loyal troops and try to be as easy as we may in your charming home." She turned her gaze back to that of her elven friend. "Minuial, this conflict is most certainly none of yours. Would you let me presume on our friendship?" The elf-warrior shifted her weight and held her silence, knowing she would not like whatever it was that Arwen had in mind.

"It would be a matter of ease for you to evade these humans, especially if you leave in the small hours of the night and take ways only the elves would consider roads." Minuial nodded, cautiously.

"Please, my friend, would you go then tonight, and tell our tale to your liege as he takes his ease in the forests of Starkhorn? I would beg that in his generosity he could perhaps spare a messenger to alert my husband of the vile treachery that has taken place here."

Minuial looked at the Queen standing so fearless and regal in front of her and thought to herself that if Thranduil showed even the slightest reluctance he would find himself bereft of a march warden. She showed none of that on her face however, simply nodding, then bowing and stepping back out of the spotlight of the Queen of Gondor's regard. Arwen turned her attention back to Gleowyn and her family.

"You see, my dear. All will be made well. Even my father was in awe of the King of Lasgalen."

Gleowyn smiled, but found in her heart an anger growing that had little to do with any but the vicious thug she had once loved.

"Then we will look to our defences, my Lady, and take any help we can get."

TBC

Please review, I will hoard it and admire it and even reply if you leave
your e-mail addy.

Rose Sared

Cadenza

Set in the same universe as ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Beta by the wonderful Theresa Green – Read all her stories, they are very funny and very good

Chapter thirteen

Grey morning crept over Osbaston Keep stained with smoke, the plume bent up the valley of the Adorn by the same wind that pushed thick clouds from the coast, drizzling rain on the assembled armies. The increasing light seemed to mock the wails of the women and children guarded in the midst of Elfwine’s troops.

Aragorn sat his battle-hardened destrier and tried to screen out the laments of the dispossessed.

Elfwine had allowed the rag-tag bunch of elderly men, unrepentant women and sulky children to leave the keep with all they could carry or drive before them. Then he ordered the village behind the walls burnt, along with the great hall.

Even in the steady drizzle, thatch and seasoned wood caught and burned with frightening alacrity; just as the wooden gates had burned last night, allowing Elfwine’s éoreds access to the poorly defended interior. It was a tribute to the discipline of the Rohirrim that casualties were minimal, despite some serious provocation by the enraged women who seemed astounded that Elfwine would dare to attack them.

Aragorn turned his horse, scanning the dripping foothills for movement, hoping to see his brothers or Legolas returning from their night’s scouting. Finally he was rewarded for his patience by the faint sound of challenge and counter-challenge ringing from the guards posted at the perimeter of the valley. Hope swelled; perhaps the return of his friends would allow the lifting of the feeling of doom that had been dogging him since early morning. The Elves would have the intelligence he needed to help him make a decision about how big a garrison would be left to prevent the Adorn valley from being re-occupied by the disgraced clan.

The King of Gondor and Arnor tried to disregard the baser desire that nagged at him to engage the phantom clansmen in battle, reminding himself firmly that they were not his problem, they were Elfwine’s. Despite his resolve he found the prolonged inaction wearing. Sighing, he turned his attention back to the party from the hills, following the buzz of reaction until it reached the edge of the circle of black clad guards. Aragorn nodded minutely to his captain and then watched as the party stepped through the gap that opened in the close-held ranks.

Legolas, Elladan and Elrohir stepped into the gap, the twins marching a bound prisoner between them. They were followed by the stout figure of Gimli, acting as rearguard, axe held ready, even in the presence of the King.

“Legolas, brothers, my lord Gimli,” Aragorn inclined his head then turned his gaze onto the miserable captive. “What news?”

***

 Less than four hours later Aragorn rounded the knees of the White mountains in the van of his cavalry, heading back as fast as was humanly possible in an attempt to defend Edoras.

Even as he rode, his heart was shadowed; he knew Arwen had somehow become involved in this conflict, and as the day advanced his feelings of dread increased.

“Aragorn! The horses! We must slacken the pace awhile,” Elladan, one of the few people who could have distracted the King of Gondor at this point, yelled at his brother.

For a moment it seemed that Aragorn would forge on, despite the damage to Rohan’s precious horses, betraying the unspoken trust put in the King to not take advantage of the alliance. Even Aragorn’s brother recoiled from the burning look the irate monarch shot his way.

Human rage met eternal elven calm and for the moment Aragorn’s fire was quenched. The King raised a mailed arm and slowed his mount.

“Walk then, for an hour only, then all who are with me, ride again!”

King Elfwine caught up, along with his own guard, and met the madness in Aragorn’s eye with his own desperation.

His family was in Edoras, as was the seat of his government. He knew Aragorn felt his wife was at risk, by whatever arcane method he had of knowing trouble, but Rohirrim tradition called Elfwine’s kingdom forfeit if he lost the Golden city. Aragorn looked at his strained face and then nodded again understanding the other man’s fears.

Both Kings dismounted and walked, silent, grim and purposeful, until they were met by a party of Silvan warriors, riding out of the misty rain to tell them of Thranduil’s confirmation of the tale told by Gimli’s captive. They told also, somewhat less eagerly, of Arwen’s ill-timed visit that had led to her capture during the occupation of Edoras. They told of Meduseld besieged and citizen battling citizen within and without the city walls.

Aragorn listened and grew cold, grim and even more determined. He stripped off most of his heavy armour until he stood before his company in a Ranger’s fighting strip and then eyed Elfwine and his guard of blond-maned Rohirrim.

“I ride now,” he declared in ringing tones, “and naught on this plain will stop me until I reach Edoras.” He drew Anduril and pointed in the direction he intended travelling. “I ride to rescue my Queen,” he pointed the sword at his soldiers. “Guard me,” he swung the sword to include his brothers and the King of Rohan. “Accompany me, if you will,” he slammed the sword back into its scabbard and mounted his now rested war horse, “but I wait for no man.”

He wheeled his mount in a great arc and then set off at a gallop to the east, Elfwine and the armed company at his heels, the Elves riding on the flank and the great army of Gondor and Rohan trailing behind like a cloak of fury over the rolling wet grassland.

***

Gimli straightened up after shifting the last damp rock to the top of a teetering pile poised over the widest of the winding game trails that crisscrossed the mountains at the head of Harrowdale. The dwarf peered along the scarp face that was grey and dark in the late afternoon light. Everywhere he could see evidence of busy groups of dwarves rigging ambushes and barricades along the mountain paths that allowed access to the interior of the White Mountain range and eventually to the Adorn valley and the home of the Withergield clan.

For nearly two days his people had been at this labour, their mission to prevent the cursed clansmen from retreating back into the hills and vanishing like so much mist again. The clan may have been able to disappear after every previous encounter, but this time the dwarves that called these mountains home held the high ground.

Legolas paused as the turn of the mountain path revealed Gimli and his completed rock pile. This mission he had accepted  reluctantly. Aragorn had been cold and furious once he had learned of the continued treachery of the hill clan. The Dwarf had met Legolas’ eye, the two communicating wordlessly that they would ride to support their old friend in his trouble, but the King had begged Gimli to secure these mountain passes, and Legolas, torn, had decided to go with Gimli rather than Aragorn. Elladan and Elrohir would of course ride with the King, but he could not bring himself to leave the dwarves with no elven help.

“How goes the work, friend Gimli?”

Gimli was startled by the sudden query from behind him but had trained himself over the years to never betray surprise by a physical jerk. Then Legolas would have won!

“We are as prepared as we will ever be, laddie.” Gimli turned to catch the suggestion of a smirk on his friend’s face; it was hard to fool an elf. “Have you caught any more creepers with your bow?”

Legolas shook his head, and then surveyed the ongoing work, much as Gimli had been doing a few moments before.

“Nay, it is early for cravens and deserters to be trickling from the fray. How fares Edoras, think you?”

Gimli followed Legolas’ line of sight with his own frowning regard, as if they could, by sheer will, pierce the bulk of Starkhorn in front of them to see Edoras on its knoll.

He looked back to see a look of thoughtful calculation on Legolas’ face.

“Now the traps are set, how many of your people do you think you will need to defend these hills Gimli?’

Gimli smiled grimly into his beard; sometimes his friend was as transparent as glass.

“We are over-manned, if defence is all of your concern.” He turned a shrewd glance on his friend. “Think you we could take a troop of the best and gain some exercise more suited to our weapons?”

“My bow arm itches, Gimli. It may be the end of its healing, or mayhap a desire for revenge. Think you Gliver could cope without you?”

Gimli grinned openly now. “It is how he copes best, no matter how he protests. Shall we?” He waved the elf forward with a mock bow, and the two warriors trotted off down the path to find Gimli’s second and arrange matters to their satisfaction.

By nightfall the valley of the Snowbourn echoed again with the steady mile-eating beat of dwarven feet, and the fleeting shadow of one elf.  Following the rushing river to battle.

***

Minuial paused, invisible in the watery night, as two groups of rain-drenched human raiders challenged each other in the lane below, then crossed paths splashing away from each other over puddle-seamed cobbles, the lights from their guttering torches casting even deeper shadows onto the roofs above. Getting back into the city was actually proving more of a challenge to complete undetected than getting out of the city had been the previous evening.

“I feel I have travelled this path before,” Minuial remarked softly, if facetiously, to her elven companions when the way below them was clear again.

Minuial lassoed one of the solid chimneys across from her, secured the rope on her side, and then ran lightly across to the slippery tiles of Gleowyn’s roof. Once in place she unlimbered her bow and covered first one then the other of her companions as they followed her across the gap. The rope followed obediently when she shook it.

Finally Minuial had managed to get back to Gleowyn’s home, although the buildings were looking rather more battered than when she had left, reluctantly, the night before. Circling the compound via the rooftops before approaching it directly, Minuial had seen both the front and back doors violently flung from their hinges, and signs of fire, doused by the rain, streaking soot up from one wall’s windows.

Minuial moved now with utmost caution and hoped that she would not find all of her friends butchered below.

The skylight remained securely boarded up so the three elves negotiated the pitched roof until they were just above the courtyard, then used the obliging elven rope to slither down into the smoke-scented courtyard. Minuial felt her heart sink; bodies lay like so many logs in the oily puddles, a group spread like a fan around the ruined door.

“Explosives,” Minuial muttered to Camthalion on her left. The other elf nodded, sniffing the air with a grimace. The sour smell of the black powder hung like a curse over the building.

The elves followed Minuial into the main section through yet another shattered doorway, the warden leading them on through smoke-damaged corridors towards the kitchen at the back.

A sepulchral groan rose from the dark threshold ahead and all three elves flattened themselves against the walls, instinctively damping their glow.

The groan sounded again, along with the sound of a breath indrawn in pain as the person attempted to move.

“Wait here,” Minuial commanded, then she slipped forward to investigate, knife in hand.

The kitchen was lit fitfully by the red remains of a fire smouldering in the large grate. More bodies littered the floor, but only one was moving, albeit fitfully, trying to gain his knees from a position adjacent to the solid legs of the huge kitchen table.

Minuial moved silently to the man’s side and halted all movement, including his breathing, by slipping her knife under his chin. Cold steel spoke a universal language. 

The fire glittered in the man’s rolling eye as he tried to identify his assailant. “Minuial?” he squeaked.

“Telfaren?” Minuial swiftly pulled the man into her arms and removed the knife. The man seemed to sag, losing consciousness again briefly.

“Silmarwen! Camthalion! Come, secure this room and let us have some light.” The others were swiftly at her side and rushed to do her bidding even as Telfaren came to again, his eyelids fluttering then opening in pained alarm. He reached a bloodied hand to grasp at Minuial’s sleeve.

“They have the Queen, and my wife and my son. It was that whore’s son, Frecern. “ He gasped for breath, eyes darting around the ruined room. “ We tried to stop them but they held my babe at knife point.” Telfaren strained in her grasp, peering into the shadows. “My babe, my wife, Minuial, tell me, are they here?”

Minuial glanced around at then up at the two other elves. They shook their heads.

“They are not here, man. Here there are only bodies, and the ruin of fire and crossbow. The Queen and your wife and son are not here.”

The man looked desperate and twisted in her grasp, as if to see for himself, jarring one of his many injuries and sending him back into the halls of unconsciousness once again. Minuial sighed over the weakness of humankind, but put him gently down, careful of the bloodied area on the side of his head.

“We will stay here until he is stable, then search for Arwen. Let us move him closer to the fire so we may dress the worst of his ills. If his wife lives, she would have him hale. Silmarwen first watch please, Camthalion some water?”

Camthalion slipped outside to the well through the broken back door, and when he returned he was supporting another survivor. Minuial recognised Arwen’s captain, Throndar, despite the blow that had mashed his nose across his face and the two crossbow bolts that protruded from a shoulder and his side. The old soldier looked battered but determined.

“You were right. It really is a stupid weapon, the crossbow,” he commented to Minuial. Plucking the bolt from his side.

Minuial could see that it had only pieced his armour. He looked at her expression and explained.

“It pinned me to the wooden surround of the well. Then this one went through my shoulder guard, it cut the skin below but did no real damage, but the force of the blow had rammed my face into the well housing and broke my nose. I got left for dead, because, you know, you don’t survive being shot by a crossbow. My nose hurt so much I didn’t argue, and I might have passed out for a little while.”

Minuial acknowledged his attempt at humour with a faint grin.

“The Queen is hostage?”

“To my shame, Warden. I promised Aragorn death before her life was in danger. I know not how I will face him in my failure.”

Minuial bent over Telfaren, sponging gently at his battered head, blood seeped queasily from the deep wound in his scalp. She glanced up at the old warrior again. “Could you hear where they were taking her?”

“Meduseld. It fell this afternoon to their demon fire. They claim some sort of right to its throne. They will take the Queen thence.”

“And his family?” Minuial looked at the man at her feet with some compassion.

“The Queen claimed Gleowyn was under her protection since her husband was slain at her feet. “ The warrior watched as Minuial ripped a serving cloth to act as a bandage. “ I am glad they were incompetent in his case also.”

“We will wish for much incompetence over the next few days I warrant, Captain. Until Aragorn and Elfwine’s armies arrive I suspect we will needs be in hiding. Even the elven King cannot storm Meduseld alone.  I think we will spy and provide some information to our lords.”

“Sounds like a plan.” The old warrior sat down rather heavily at the table, and leaned on his hands for a moment, more sorely affected by his wounds than he was prepared to admit. “Spying, aye. That might work.”

TBC

Please review, I will hoard it and admire it and even reply if you leave your e-mail addy.

Rose Sared

Cadenza

Set in the same universe as ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Beta by the wonderful Theresa Green – Read all her stories, they are very funny and very good.

Chapter fourteen

In the blackest hour before dawn a demanding wail jerked Gleowyn out of fitful sleep. She blinked open eyelids that felt like fat, gritty fingers, the tingle of her milk answering her baby’s urgent demand.  Gleowyn ignored the acid trickle of yet more tears and scooped Brytta up from his nest beside her. As she arranged him to suckle, her tears seemed to take on a life of their own, mourning Telfaren even as her disembodied self looked out of her eyes and was in control of nothing.

The room was dark and, as Brytta’s wails were muffled into hungry snorts and grunts, Gleowyn could hear the rustling of Arwen’s gown as she sat up from her own bed, pushed against the wall opposite under the open barred window. Arwen had claimed the she needed the glimpse of stars the window offered. Gleowyn had argued, feeling the wash of cold air dropping down through the barred opening but Arwen had only smiled, and claimed elven immunity to cold. This was the royal nursery; precautions for keeping royal toddlers safe had worked well enough to detain two female hostages, and a baby.

There was a brief flurry of sparks and then the Queen lit the stub of the single candle that they had been granted.

The soft golden light seemed to sway as Gleowyn looked at the elf through her veil of misery. She sniffed, and turned away from the Queen, hating her weakness, wishing she could be less of a burden in Arwen’s life.

Arwen reached out a hand and patted Gleowyn’s bowed head, smoothing her hair. The kindness made Gleowyn’s sobs come harder, even as she marvelled at herself for the seemingly limitless font of tears she had discovered in her broken heart.

The hand departed as Arwen poured some water from the tin pitcher into a heavy ceramic mug.

“Drink, Gleowyn. The babe takes much from you, drink.”

Gleowyn took the water, awkward with her left hand with Brytta cradled against her breast, and drank thankfully. Between the tears and Brytta’s demands she felt as dry as a Haradian desert.

“Let me change him this time. Rest, dear heart, it is not so long that I have forgotten how to care for a babe. Please Gleowyn, I would be occupied?”

Gleowyn managed to stem the tide of grief that wrung her heart long enough to smile tremulously up at the kindness offered. They still had a small pile of baby clouts she had been able to snatch up from the drying rack in the kitchen, even as the thrice damned and damnable Frecern had kidnapped them from her home. The nursery had come equipped with several more, along with a changing table and some coverlets that had allowed Gleowyn to make a bed for the babe beside her.

Gleowyn rested her eyes on the elven Queen, loving her in this moment simply for her wonderful calm beauty, along with her ability to turn the most basic of functions into art. The simple room was magnified by her presence into a royal chamber, and Gleowyn felt both soothed and unworthy of being in such company. Brytta, equally entranced, gooed his best gummy grin for the vision attending to him, his merry chirps sounding odd in these grim circumstances.

Arwen picked up Brytta and held him against her shoulder, patting his back to ease up his wind, rocking slightly as if to music she alone could hear. Gleowyn looked on dully, then stirred herself to ready her other breast so Brytta could sooth himself to sleep, suckling the end of his meal. When she looked up again it was to see Arwen stiffen into a pose of intense listening. Her whole being seemed to strain, like a sapling in the wind, towards the barred window above her bed. Even Brytta seemed to pick up her urgency, turning his head in a wobbly arc to see what Arwen was gazing at.

“My Lady?”

Gleowyn swung her legs off her own bed and reached the Queen’s side in one stride. Absently she lifted her son from the Queen’s embrace and installed him onto her own shoulder. She strained to hear what had caught the Queen’s interest and in a moment was rewarded. The distant sounds of battle could be heard, the clamour growing more obvious as the conflict became more widespread. A wild horn blew into the night from close by, answered by a glorious chorus of deeper horns sounded from beyond the walls.

“Aragorn.” The Queen’s eyes reflected only the poor light given out by the candle, but at that moment their brilliance could have out-shone the dawn. “He comes, Gleowyn, and all the might of Rohan and Gondor with him if I am not deceived. My dear,” she embraced the girl and her baby both with joy lighting her face, “ we are as good as saved.”

Gleowyn mustered an unconvinced smile for her mentor, and took Brytta to her pallet to nurse again, listening all the while for the sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor beyond their prison. Somehow she doubted either Wulfgarn or Frecern would give up without using their hostages in some foul way. Life, as had been brutally demonstrated to her, was rarely either fair or amenable and she suspected some further rough times ahead.

***

Aragorn sat on his blowing horse and glared at the shadowy city, sitting all serene on its hill. Under the cloak of night all looked to be well, the moon’s light flitting between flying clouds rippled innocent light over the town’s towers and banners. In the dark no sigil could be read, and no lamp or fire broke the seeming peace on the city’s walls.

He believed his eyes no more than the lies of the hill-people. His heart was heavy with Arwen’s peril, and his anger flamed bright enough to shine truth through the very curtain of stone in front of him.

His horse raised his weary head and looked to the south, Aragorn also heard the four-part beat of horsemen approaching across the rolling grassland. The King drew his sword, and the sound of his bodyguard’s weapons unsheathing behind him gave him a grim pleasure.

On Aragorn’s right flank Elladan’s clear voice rang out in challenge. The approaching riders paused to answer, then thundered across the face of the army, still assembling itself behind the King. The voices were unmistakably elven, and Aragorn re-sheathed his sword, and then urged his mount a pace or two forward. He glanced over his shoulder and saw his guard still battle-ready, and nodded at his Captain. Aragorn’s anger and grief did not dispose him to be over-welcoming to these visitors.

The elven King was riding in the front of his own warriors, the great banner of Lasgalen, revealed by the fitful moonlight, snapping in the wind of their riding.  Aragorn was impressed, despite himself; the ancient monarch was coming to face him in person. He felt mildly mollified by the honour.

Thranduil reined up in front of Aragorn, bringing his own brand of elven glory with him, lightening the hearts of all who saw him. Aragorn met his eye, unyielding, waiting for the Elf-Lord to speak. Thranduil paused, until the last of his riders pulled up behind him, and then bowed his head, fractionally, to the man in front of him.

“The eternal perfidy of men has cast me in your power, King of Gondor. I am in default of your earnest charge, to keep the Evenstar in safety until she reached your stone city. This causes anguish in my heart, and throws darkness on my royal honour.” The elf met Aragorn’s frowning gaze with one equally grim. “How may I help you right this wrong?”

Aragorn gave the King one swift nod then sat silently on his horse for a long moment.

“Your strength in arms, my lord?” Aragorn glanced at the twelve silent warriors flanking the king.

Thranduil gestured towards the black forests of Starkhorn. “Three twelves of warriors, two sixes of the court, the same again of servants and my attendants. We are not a war-band, Aragorn.”

“But you would pledge what might you have, in the cause of returning the Queen to our side?” Aragorn was not going to dismiss the chance to utilise thirty-six elven warriors, no matter how reluctantly given.

Thranduil sighed and glanced around the bristling company of men, then back at his own stoic troops. “ I would, even though the thought of spending immortal lives for the payment of mortal debt causes us great anguish. I would pledge my guards to your cause, King of Men.” The Elf-King’s glance was sharp, “Spend my troops wisely, Aragorn. There will be an accounting.”

Aragorn bowed his own head then, in assent and in acknowledgement of the gift of trust the Elf-King was placing in his hands. “Would you join our war-council then, noble King of the Greenwood? We will arrange our assault in this very hour, and your wise counsel will be welcomed. I do not plan to let the sun set again with Edoras occupied, or my love and the better part of me, held in peril of her life. Come,” he dismounted and waited by the elf’s stirrup, “let us plan our assault.”

***

At the turning of the night all was quiet under the strict curfew imposed on the city. Throndar left the back door of Gleowyn’s devastated home and slipped into the welcoming shadows of the service-alley that led to Master-Smith Bardor’s workshops. Bardor had been helping to shelter and supply Throndar, and the three elves, ever since Throndar had made his presence cautiously known three days ago. The smith’s public behaviour was held in hostage by Frecern’s capture of his daughter and grandson, but he was a man of standing,  respected by many of Elfwine’s loyal citizens. He had been able to shelter and bring a healer to Telfaren, and had introduced Throndar to those loyal citizens willing to organise resistance to the upstart Withergield clan.

Tonight they planned to free the hostages. Elfwine and the King of Gondor would only be a day or so away, and none of those loyal to the crown wanted their captives killed out of desperation when the wrath of the combined forces fell onto the arrogant heads of the usurpers.

Master-Smith Bardor had spent the day-lit part of the last few days toadying to the upstarts, flattering them with his attention and seemingly bringing most of the first families of Edoras around to his own expressed view, ‘That of course Wulfgarn had a perfect right to Meduseld’s throne’.

The night belonged to the resistance. Thanks to Bardor’s flattery and to Minuial’s night-time reconnaissance, the small band of men now gathered in Bardor’s yard, had a good idea in which wing of the rambling palace the hostages were being held.

After scouting with the elves for the last three days Throndar was ashamed of the positive racket the group of men made as they waited in putative silence for his arrival.

“They are not soldiers,” he muttered darkly to himself, and parenthetically to the March warden, who was no doubt attempting to damp down her mirth at this fumbling attempt at stealth from a group of men who, only last week, were in more danger of injuring themselves by tripping over their long robes rather than by bearing arms.

Minuial appeared at his shoulder, silently, her expression more grim than mirthful. “These are our support?” Her disgust was palpable.

“ ’Tis their city, my lady.” Throndar stepped out of the shadows and approached the group.  “They want to help.”

Throndar was sure he heard a snort from either the march warden or one of her companions. A swift ripple of Sindarin passed between the three, and Throndar felt his ears burn, both embarrassed and rather annoyed at the elves derision. Not for the first time in this week he swallowed his irritation, and strode forward to shake Bardor’s hand.

“Is all set, as we planned, Master-Smith?”

The smith glanced at Throndar’s silent, aloof companions, then back at Aragorn’s Captain. “Aye, the ale was well received by the guards, and Wulfgarn received the  gift of wine with his usual grace.” The smith grimaced. “He knocked the top off the bottle and swilled it in front of me.” The smith turned and spat on the ground. “Pig.”

“And Frecern?”

“The snake was not in the audience chamber. We must hope one of the other dozen bottles found its way to him. He is but one man, no matter how great his treachery.”

“ Come.” Throndar turned, gathering up the loose band of men with his eye, using skills practised in Aragorn’s service his whole life. “The plan is simple, we all know our parts.” He rested his gaze for a significant moment on the elves; would he could predict what they might take it in their heads to do! “ Go now to the posts we have planned, and good fortune rest on our work this night. May our loved ones be freed with the dawn.” Throndar waited out the grim cheer the men raised for him then barked, “ and be silent! The health of our captives rests on your ability to use stealth!”

Cowed and solemn, the men filed out into the night. Throndar did not even have to turn his head to know that the elves would have melted into the night like so much deadly mist. Sighing again, he pulled a frayed rope out of his pocked and held out his wrists to the smith. “As the lamb to lure the wolf, I will be bait as we planned, Bardor.”

The Smith shook his head and bent to his task with a heavy heart. “I wish we had different parts in this play, Captain. My heart forebodes me.”

“More likely it’s your dinner complaining of the company you keep at board.” The old soldier eyed the old smith and they shared a rueful grin. “Lead on, mighty hunter, our prey awaits.”

TBC (soon I promise)

Please review, I will hoard it and admire it and even reply.

Rose Sared

Cadenza

Set in the same universe as ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Beta by the wonderful Theresa Green – Read all her stories, they are very funny and very good.

Warning OC character death this chapter (sniffle).

Chapter Fifteen.

Minuial ghosted up behind the unwary guard posted on the outer-door of the family wing. Moving with inhuman speed she whipped her blade under his chin and placed her other hand as an unforgiving gag over his mouth.

“You will lead me to the Queen, Traitor-to-your-kin. You will be silent. Understand.” Her menacing whisper was loud in the silence of this remote wing. She almost gagged at the taint of drink on his person; at least some of the ale had found its target.

The man erupted in struggles against the frail-looking female, and remained locked in her iron, elven, grip. The knife pressed harder and a trickle of blood warmed his neck, warning of the flood if he continued to resist. Camthalion appeared from the shadows on the left and removed the man’s sword and two daggers. Minuial could hear the heightened, frightened, breathing of the five men she had left at the bend in the corridor even over the eye-rolling snorts of her captive.

The guard’s fear-widened eyes caught the gleam of the rush light burning on the wall opposite, then seemed to dull in acceptance of his capture. Minuial cautiously allowed one of his arms free, twisting the other well up his back. Camthalion kept the business end of an arrow targeted somewhere around his heart.

The guard nodded meaningfully at the door that he had been protecting.

“Silmarwen, bring the others.”

The five citizens shuffled out of their hiding place, holding their swords awkwardly, looking anxiously in all directions like a herd of rather dim sheep. Silmarwen shadowed them from behind.

At least they had learnt to hold their tongues, and do what they were told, Minuial thought. The two guards that lay behind them may not have had to die if they had not been alerted by the human’s inability to follow orders. Minuial found herself appreciating Throndar’s skills to a keener degree than she had allowed herself during these past days. For a human he really was good.

The mismatched cavalcade moved cautiously down yet another hallway. Camthalion scouting in front, Minuial and the captive next, with the humans and Silmarwen last. Minuial spared a thought for the old soldier. Some of the lack of personnel in this wing of Meduseld may have been due to complacency and the ale, but she suspected that many of Wulfgarn’s guards had been called forward to watch the great hall as Bardor’s captured ‘spy’ was brought in to be judged. Bardor had been persuaded that the diversion was necessary, and survivable. Minuial was not sure Throndar was so sanguine. Minuial sighed and pushed her own captive forward as Camthalion signalled the way ahead was clear. Selfless bravery was admirable, no matter the species that displayed it.

Finally the captive indicated a well-lit hallway. “Them ‘as been kept ‘ere.” He muttered, sullenly.

Camthalion signalled- four guards - then drew his great bow and then waited for Silmarwen to move into position. She paused, as if counting, and then slipped across the lit opening. Minuial watched as Silmarwen raised her bow and picked a target, then felt the captive guard, under her hands, draw breath and tense, preparatory to yelling.

Hardly pausing, Minuial knocked the man sharply on the point of his chin with the hilt of her knife, and then almost absently handed his suddenly limp form off to the nearest human.

“Bind him,” she ordered in a low voice. The startled man nodded, turned to his neighbour and the two of them moved back along the hall carrying the burden, mercifully quietly. Minuial dismissed them from her mind and crept nearer to the intersection. The remaining three men moved up behind her, the steel in their hands catching the reflected firelight in tremors, echoing the nerves of the men holding the weapons.

Minuial signalled sharply with her free hand, and the bows sang, and again in the space of a breath. Silmarwen fired one last time and then there was a deadly silence.

Minuial jumped round the corner in a defensive crouch, and then allowed the men with her to storm noisily up to the doorway. The guards lay in so much disjointed abandon, skewered by the great arrows of the Greenwood like so many rabbits.

Minuial nodded to her compatriots and signed for them to guard the escape route, then went forward to meet the milling humans.

“The keys?” Habit kept her voice soft. Within moments the prostrate bodies had been searched and a rattling bunch of keys produced. Minuial handed them back to the man and gestured to the door. “Get it open, you fool. We do not have all night. We must away with them to safety.”

With admirable dispatch the double doors swung inwards and Minuial snatched a torch from the wall beside her to light the dark room. It was obviously usually used as the linen store for the wing, but as an interior room it had served well enough as a cramped prison.

A woman holding a baby flinched from the light and shielded the babe’s face. Two other women stood guard, a step in front of the one with the baby and behind them, to the left, Minuial could see two young children clinging on either side of a boy on the verge of manhood.

The man that pressed into the cramped space behind her dropped to one knee.

“My lady, we come to your aid.”

Cyneth, the Queen of Rohan, stepped forward, still shielding the baby’s eyes from the light.  “Master Lėod, you are known to us.” The Queen reached out her free hand and raised the kneeling man. “ Come, young Eomer, bring your sisters. Rise sir, and lead us out of this vile prison. You will always have the love of our house.” The Queen beckoned to the two other women. “Come Hilde, Aenwyn carry the little ones.” As she efficiently shepherded her family into the hall and into the care of the men waiting, Cyneth dropped a bob of a curtsey to the stunned elf. “My eternal gratitude to you, fair one. A tale lays in your timely presence I am sure, to be told at some other time.” The Queen managed a faint smile, and Minuial nodded to the woman, and stayed in the room as the corridor outside swiftly emptied of humans.

She closed her eyes, briefly. Where in Edoras was Arwen?

Minuial stood in silent thought. Noises from outside intruded; horns, and the sound of distant battle, closer she could hear the sound of running feet and shouts. Time, and beyond time, that she and her kin found their way out of this stone trap. Minuial left the room and gathered her two lieutenants.

“ I must find Arwen,” she instructed, tersely. “Go, both of you, with these humans and make sure they get to safety. Then join me, if you can, or help with the assault if that seems more prudent. I will search until I find the Evenstar.”

Both elves nodded, although they looked far from happy with their orders, and then the three set off into the shadows, silent deadly and determined.

**

On all-fours, Throndar spat blood onto the grubby tiles that fronted the throne of Rohan. He sadly examined the tooth that shone in the puddle; he had so few left. He shook his head gently then struggled to get up, and was helped in that endeavour by the forceful pull of his guard on the back of his surcoat. The hill-man made sure that this time the soldier stayed on his knees. Throndar was happy enough to comply, the hall seemed to be spinning, a side effect of the backhanded blow Wulfgarn had dealt him when he had not been forthcoming with Aragorn’s plans. The horse-tapestries of Rohan seemed to plunge past his watering eyes, draped here and there with the more garish banners of the hill-clan. Bardor’s appalled expression, glimpsed between the shoulders of the impassive ring of hill-men, was transparent enough; their ruse would be instantly exposed, landing both of them in direst peril, should Wulfgarn have eyes for it.

The usurping Chief was luckily engaged in urgent whispered conversation with a burly colleague, who from all descriptions had to be the infamous Frecern.

Throndar tried to stay conscious. It felt like hours since Bardor had started their act, dragging his resisting self by his bound hands up to the guard post at the foot of Meduseld’s stair. Those guards had been alert enough, but the door wardens had been sluggish and hard to rouse, sodden with ale. It had taken what seemed a lifetime for the stair guard to convince the door warden that Bardor’s spy might have information that was important enough to rouse the Chief. For a queasy minute or two it looked like Throndar would just be summarily executed, that being the quickest way to solve the problem of his inconvenient arrival. Throndar had felt Bardor behind him, loosening his dagger as if he could defend the bound man from a squad of guards. The Smith’s obvious anger had been the spur to getting them into the great hall. He was a known friend of Wulfgarn and the problem suddenly got too big for the guard-captain to handle alone.

Throndar and Bardor had been escorted to a position in front of the throne. Throndar had been taken in custody by a brutal-looking hill-man and Bardor had been escorted to one of the side tables and told to wait. They would wake the Chief and his Court.

“And may the gods have mercy on you, Smith, if you are wasting Wulfgarn’s time. He looks not kindly on fools and has only lately got to bed. Sooner would I disturb a bear in the spring.”

Bardor affected unconcern and they had awaited Wulfgarn’s arrival.

The night advanced, and Throndar hoped against hope they had bought Minuial and her charges time enough to get away. More and more of Wulfgarn’s men filed into the hall, bleary-eyed for the most part but still holding a reasonable, if sloppy, discipline. They were all impressively armed, many with crossbows as well as sword or spear. Throndar wondered where they had managed to gain access to such a bounty of new arms; he was looking at the wealth of a small city. Then he almost allowed himself to grin as he remembered the raid on the dwarven convoy that had so energised his King.  He glanced at the surly face of his guard and kept his face impassive

Finally Wulfgarn and his followers had entered the hall and a space of questioning had taken place. Throndar winced at his various agonies that reminded him that neither his guard nor the upstart King had any patience with his short and uninformative answers. At the end of a time that seemed longer than the hour it probably was, Wulfgarn himself had knocked Throndar to the ground, and then stormed off to consult with Frecern.

Throndar felt grimly amused and also wondered if he now measured the rest of his life in pain-laced breaths.

There was a disturbance at the doors and then a flustered-looking stair-guard almost ran up the length of the hall.

Wulfgarn turned his attention to the interruption.

“My lord, the enemy is at the gates, King Elfwine and the Elessar. They storm the walls.”

Horns could clearly be heard now, blowing wildly in the night outside the walls. Wulfgarn spun to pin Throndar with a furious glare.

“How could he have got here so quickly?” The irate Chief stormed to the captive and pulled him to his feet by bunching his fist in the soldier’s shirt. “Tell me, you stupid rat!”

Throndar spat a mouthful of blood in the face of his tormentor, and at the same time brought his knee into the fork of his legs. As the man bent forward he brought his bound hands up swiftly and caught the Chief under his chin, whip-lashing his head back. The satisfying crack of the Chief’s neck breaking was the second to last thing Throndar heard, the last was the glorious blowing of the horns of Gondor and Rohan. Then three crossbow bolts pierced his body and the guard plunged his sword into his back to finish the job.

Bardor watched Throndar’s violent fall with a pang of deep grief; he had been the bravest of warriors. Sternly suppressing his feelings until a more appropriate time, he quietly unsheathed his own sword and dagger, and then moved stealthily to put his back to the wall, all the while watching what the snake, Frecern, was doing. The guards had all rushed forward to look to their fallen Lord, and Bardor and Frecern had been left out of the suddenly contracted circle. Bardor, concealed by his position behind a pillar and in the shadow, could see an expression of rage blacken the traitor’s face, followed almost immediately by a thoughtful expression of calculation. Bardor saw the man glance around the hall, then move off quietly and without fuss towards a door to the left. Before any of the hill clan had eyes to mark his passage, Frecern melted out of the main hall, followed at a moment’s pause by the hulking shadow of the Master-Smith.

“Oh no, laddie, not this time I think,” muttered Bardor as he slipped after his prey. “ A time for some accounting has come.”

**

Aragorn cut his way relentlessly into the streets of Edoras.

Resistance he met with steel, merciless in his rage. Those citizens that submitted got passed to the rear of his force, sent outside the walls to join the growing crowd of refugees, guarded with inhuman efficiency by a circle of Throndar’s vigilant warriors, reinforced by an éored and a squad of Gondorian city guards.

Elfwine was working his way towards the city garrison with the bulk of his own forces, having heard from Thranduil’s very efficient spies that the majority of his home guard were trapped in their barracks and had been for the duration of the occupation.

Aragorn was heading directly to Meduseld, where Thranduil was confident Arwen was being held.

A desperate group of rebels attacked, yelling, from two side streets. Aragorn ducked a wild swing of a mattock and quickly gutted his attacker. He crouched as a flight of crossbow bolts lanced into his troops from an adjacent rooftop. His bodyguards moved up beside him, and two of the great Gondorian bows sang from the rear. A body fell with a meaty thunk into the road in front of the King. Black clad warriors made short work of the rest of the attacking party.

Aragorn’s captain dared a hand on his arm, and was met by a steely glare.

“My liege, please. Let us clear the way.”

Aragorn’s anger was not yet sated. “Clear the way by keeping up with me, Captain.” The King glanced all around then stood. “Meduseld lies at the top of yonder street.” He raised his voice so that the troop could hear. “ To Meduseld, without pause now.” The new dawn painted the tip of his sword and the soldiers could see Meduseld’s roof flush with gold on the top of its hill ahead. “To victory! To Justice!” The King lowered Anduril and strode forward, his beleaguered personal guard keeping pace perforce.

TBC

Please review, I will hoard it and admire it and even reply.

Rose Sared

Cadenza

Set in the same universe as ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Beta by the wonderful Theresa Green – Read all her stories, they are very funny and very good.

Chapter Sixteen.

Anor rose above the plains of Rohan, her nearly horizontal rays polishing each leaf of Starkhorn’s forest to gold. Birds exulted at her return, filling the air with sweet chatter, abetted in their joy by the song of a wood-elf, welcoming the day.

Legolas finished his praise, and then shared the breath of the forest and meadow for a while, content to wait for his short companion to catch up with him, in his own time.

“Can you see aught?” Gimli finally huffed his way to Legolas’ side, and then peered earnestly into the new morning.

Legolas slanted his companion a tolerant half-smile. Gimli’s path up to Legolas’ perch could clearly be seen as a dark furrow in the dew-whitened grass, pointing like a finger at the temporary camp the other dwarves had set up at the base of the hill. The elf shaded his eyes against Anor’s glare and scanned the exposed plains below them for a moment or two.

“I can see the golden hall of Meduseld.”

“Well, even I can see that, Elf. Edoras is hard to miss on its great hill,” Gimli grumped.

Legolas narrowed his eyes, ignoring the interruption with the ease of long practice. “ I see many people fleeing the city, they pour out like dry sand through open fingers. But look!”  The elf gazed innocently at his friend. “ A ring of elves and men make an arc at a space from the gates, they are detaining the refugees - see?” The elf raised an enquiring eyebrow to Gimli, who glowered at him and then glared into the impenetrable, to him, brilliance.

“Nay, I see not -as you well know.” He screwed up his eyes, and then turned blinking to look at his tall nemesis, haloed now with ghostly after images of the sun. “ Can you work out what is happening?”

Legolas shaded his eyes again, “I can see fighting on the upper slopes of the city. The soldiers wear the livery of Gondor and Rohan, and a few, more barbarously clad, are resisting.” He turned back to his friend, blinking himself, then gazed for a thoughtful space at the great arc of soldiers corralling the fleeing citizens.

“The banners of Imladris and Lasgalen fly there, Gimli, along with the White Tree of Gondor and the Running Horse of Rohan. Methinks our answers lay yonder.” He stood thinking, a long finger curled on his top lip, a slight furrow to his brow, and then something else caught his attention. He placed a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder and turned him westward, so that he could see the great north road leading from the Fords of Isen. He pointed, “Can you see the movement on that road?”

Gimli looked obediently, and was rewarded by seeing the sun-flash on metal, repeated over an arc of the plain. He nodded to the elf.

Legolas continued when he was sure Gimli could see what he meant. “I can see the baggage train of Aragorn’s army now catching up with its van. Many more men ride with it, making haste but not driven.”  He looked seriously into his friend’s face. “If we don’t hurry, Gimli, all the fighting will be over before we can take part!”

Gimli barked out a short laugh, “The Valar forbid, Legolas! Then let us hurry, lad,” and with no more ado he plunged down the slope towards his warriors. A third of the way to his goal Legolas overtook him and sped on ahead; not even leaving a trace in the dew-jewelled grass, Gimli noticed, sourly.

Minuial dropped the last man she had managed to capture and question. His limp form hit the floor with a substantial bump. Minuial quickly re-checked his pulse, and then sighed in relief. He was still breathing, it would be poor form to reward his enforced cooperation with a curtailing of his ephemeral life.

The nursery. Where in this Valar-deserted, mess of a building, would she find the nursery?  She crept further along the endless corridor that she had found by chance behind a double door. Ahead, trying unsuccessfully to hide in the shadow thrown by a wall junction, Minuial could see a trembling form curled up with her arms over her head. A female.  Minuial suddenly felt a surge of hope. Clearly this was one of Meduseld’s servants. She would know where the nursery was!

Minuial swooped silently down on the trembling servant and spoke softly in her ear. “Come mortal, would’st thou help me to find the Queen of Gondor?”

A terrified, wide, brown eye peeked out from her sheltering arms at the glowing apparition that had materialised beside her, and gave out a high pitched scream that would have put a Wraith to shame. Startled, and pained, Minuial clapped an ungentle hand over the young woman’s mouth and quickly scanned the corridor for signs that the woman had brought unwelcome attention to her search.

“Hist, do you want the hill-men here to question you? Tell me, chit, knowest thou the location of the nursery?”

The girl simply looked at the elf, paralysed by awe and fear. A large tear sprang from one of the doe-like eyes, swiftly followed by others. Minuial let her shoulders sag, depressed by the futility of her quest, and loosed yet another sigh. She removed her hand from the girl’s mouth and leaned alongside her, against the wall.

“Oh for the Valar’s sake, child. I mean you no harm. It is just that I must free the Queen of Gondor, she is being held in the nursery. I know not where that place would be.”

Just then Minuial, and the maid, heard the first sounds of a baby crying. Soft at first, but becoming louder and more furious as its needs were not met on an instant. Minuial knew that cry, it was Brytta, Gleowyn’s baby. Surely the babe would not be far from the mother? Minuial thought quickly.  Gleowyn was sensible at least, if luck had not placed her in the same prison as Arwen, she would at least be able to pry the information Minuial needed from this hopeless human.

Minuial clamped an unrelenting hand over the girl’s upper arm and dragged her down the corridor to the noisy door. A large bar had been fitted, crudely, to brackets either side of the architrave. Minuial ignored the futile battering her other arm was taking from the servant girl as she tried to escape her. The elf lifted the bar one-handed, and then swung the door out, and open. Dawn light flushed the room inside with welcome brightness, and Minuial stepped forward with a pleased smile as she recognised Gleowyn sitting on the bed opposite, under the window. The baby’s cries were deafening and a quiver of alarm pricked her warrior instincts, even as night fell, for her. Arwen, in hiding behind the door jamb, swung the heavy tin jug down onto her head, the blow fuelled by fury and adrenalin, pulling the stroke only at the last moment as she realised she was attacking friend, not foe. It mattered not to Minuial, she fell like a cut tree and measured her extensive length into the room. The serving girl let loose one more of her impressive, blood curdling, screams, before fainting away in a dishevelled heap in the doorway.

ooo

Frecern slipped, like a slinking dog, from shadow to shadow along the long corridor that crossed the back of the great hall. He held his sword low, but ready, and listened for any sign of activity ahead of him. So far all he could hear was the uproar that continued in the great hall following the slaying of Wulfgarn.

“Fools!” he muttered grimly, under his breath. “They have not the wit to see we are defeated. I will not fall with them. No, the stinking horse-dung will not drag this one down.”  He scuttled to a cross-corridor and hesitated at the double doors that sealed off the nursery wing. Should he fetch his hostages?  A piercing scream stood the back-hairs up on his neck and stopped his hand on the door-handle. Whatever was happening down there, it sounded dangerous. In an instant he thought better of his half-formed plan to utilise one or more of the women as a shield. In the ominous silence that followed the scream he distinctly heard a scuffed footfall some way down the dim corridor, behind him.

What!  Pursuit?

“May the darkness shrivel my luck. I thought I had slipped away clean from the wretched leeches,” he muttered.

Frecern crouched slightly and attempted to peer back up the corridor -there -a gleam of dusty sunlight on a blade. Someone was stalking him. Frecern wasted no more time. Springing up, he turned and ran, as fast as he could, down the passage away from the double-doors and towards the sideway at the end that led to the outside and the stable yard. Panting, he clattered down the first of a long wooden flight of stairs, and then paused on the landing to listen. Heavy footsteps could be heard, echoing, down the passage behind him. Frecern stilled his frantic breathing and glanced around. A guttering torch gave out a feeble glow to light the stairwell. Long, dusty, horse-banners hung limply on the walls. His pursuit was getting nearer and Frecern ripped the nearest tapestry off the wall, piled it onto the landing and threw the burning brand into the middle of it. The ancient fabric caught light with a hungry crackle, choking black smoke rose into the air, and Frecern leapt down the final flight of stairs and gained the door to the yard. With a calculation that almost appalled himself, he left the door open behind him, the better to fan the flames.

Bardor ran, panting, and rued his life of ease that had so stolen his wind. The rat was getting away, and that was a woman’s scream, curse the wretched weasel. He clattered to a halt at the top of the stairs, and then reeled back choking as a cloud of black smoke funnelled out of the stairwell to meet him. Was there no end to that madman’s evil; he had fired the palace!

Bardor turned and ran, gasping, back down the endless passage towards the great hall. Another scream rent the air and the Master-Smith stopped at the double door. Tendrils of smoke crept along the ceiling above. He needed to get out of this firetrap, but he could not leave that woman in distress if there was a chance to save her. The Master-Smith boldly opened the double doors and then quickly shut them behind him. They were solid wood; they would hold the fire, for a space.

Ahead the corridor was half-blocked by an opened door. Bardor could hear a baby screaming and under its relentless siren, the urgent sounds of women’s voices. With some caution he walked down to the room and peered round the door to see what was happening. He was greeted by a sword to his throat, wielded by the hand of the Queen of Gondor. The Queen did not look amused; in fact, back-lit by the morning sun she looked positively alien.

“My Lady!” squeaked the Smith.

“Father!” cried Gleowyn.

The serving maid, at their feet, blinked her eyes and woke, her eyes widening at the sight above her. With barely a pause she took a lung-full of air, only to let it all out with a rush as she found herself pinned by the glare of the regal elf standing over her.

“Don’t you dare!” snapped the Queen, two inches beyond the end of her patience.

Arwen swung Minuial’s sword down, away from Bardor’s throat, and nodded to the Master-Smith. “Sir, we are in need of your assistance. Think you that you could carry this elf?”

Arwen indicated the prostrate, but still breathing, Minuial with her blade, and then she stooped and urged the servant to her feet, patting the girl absently on the shoulder with her free hand.

“As you command, my Lady.” Bardor took a step into the room, and then looked over to his daughter, who was walking the howling Brytta up and down, trying to calm him, whilst keeping an iron grip on the short blade in her left hand.

“Are you well, Gleowyn?” 

“Father - much the better for the sight of your face.” Gleowyn sent him a smile of heartfelt gratitude, then jiggled Brytta again, trying to calm him.

Arwen turned to the trembling maid. “Your name child?” 

“Morshy, milady, but the housekeeper always calls me Mouse, ma’am.” The young woman bobbed a slight curtsey, Arwen smiled at the flustered girl.

“Are you good with children, Morshy?”

The girl brightened, “Ai, yes milady – I’m a nursery maid, with the royal bairns.” Her great liquid eyes filled. “Do you think they’ve  harmed them, the little ones I mean. I haven’t seem ‘em for days and I’m that worried!” Morshy sniffed and then wiped her face quickly on her sleeve, pulled herself back in control. “Sorry ma’am, don’t know as  how you could know how they fare. But aye, I’m good with the babes.”

Arwen smiled at her again, bolstering the maid’s shaky bravery, and then the Queen turned to Gleowyn, who was hugging her father whilst still trying to quiet the cranky Brytta.

“Gleowyn, would you let Morshy carry Brytta? I shall need you as rear-guard.”

Morshy stepped forward shyly, but reached out her arms for the baby almost involuntarily. The baby took a long look at Morshy’s pleasant face, and then reached happily for a brown curl, cooing as if he had never been upset. All the other adults in the room rolled their eyes at each other. Morshy glanced up alerted by the sudden silence and grinned a little at Gleowyn’s rueful expression.

“N’er mind, mistress. Me mam always reckons they only do it to annoy!”

Arwen handed her sword to Gleowyn and then faced Bardor again. “Master-Smith if you could lift Minuial.”

The Smith paused. “The elf is Minuial?” He stooped and rolled the warrior more onto her side so he could see her face. “Ah, Lady I would not of thought to see you brought so low!” The Smith gathered her into his arms and then stood rather suddenly, as if he had been bracing himself for a much bigger weight. “Oof, my lady, she weighs next to naught!’ he exclaimed in surprise.

Arwen picked up Bardor’s sword and hefted it, experimentally. “Ah well, Smith, elves are full of surprises. Do you know Lasgalan’s brave march warden, then?”

Bardor shared a speaking glance with the Queen. “ Aye, I met her, along with your Captain of guard, Throndar, as we attempted to plan your rescue, my lady.”

Arwen sighted him along the length of his own blade, despite the sword’s weight the blade stayed steady. “Is Throndar waiting for us then, outside?”

Bardor felt his face crease with grief and he bowed his head in sorrow. “My Lady, he fell. “ The Smith shook his head, then met the Queen’s gaze. “But he took the traitor Wulfgarn with him. He lays yonder,” Bardor waved, “in the great hall.”

Arwen raised a dismayed hand to her lips, then sternly repressed her feelings for a later time.

“I am grieved, Bardor. He was a true man. Come,” She tilted her head up and sniffed the air. “ We must hurry. I smell fire. It is not safe here.”

The little party stepped into the hallway, all senses alert. The left end of the hall was starting to fog up with smoke, so with a glance at the Master-Smith, Arwen set off resolutely, to the right.

They hurried as much as they dared , but the smoke was thickening, white puffs blowing through cracks in the ceiling to set all the party coughing.

“My lady! My lady!” Morshy ventured in a voice made hoarse by coughing.

“What Morshy?” Arwen blinked, eyes watering now from the creeping pall.

“The next door,” Arwen looked and saw an anonymous panel with a discreet handle inset. It looked like a store cupboard and she would have passed it without a glance.

“Yes, that one milady. It is a service way, it leads down to the servants kitchen and thence to the kitchen yard.” The party gathered around Morshy looking doubtfully at the narrow door. Morshy shifted Brytta to her shoulder so she could gesture. “It is a stairway, cut through the stone of the hill for the most part. Would it not keep us safe?”

Arwen kissed the earnest young girl on the forehead and went to seize the handle.

“Check if it is hot first!” Bardor yelled, inhaling a puff of smoke that made him choke so hard  he wondered if he would ever get his breath again.

Arwen laid a sensitive palm on the wood, then with no more ado, wrenched the door open and shepherded her spluttering charges into the clear air and welcome cool dark of the stairway. As she closed the door behind her, the Queen could see the first tongues of flame breaking through the roof of the hallway they had traversed just moments before. With a swift prayer to the Valar, she shut the solid wood on the conflagration and secured the latch behind her. She could hear Brytta’s fretful coughs, and the sniffs and footsteps of the others descending into the dark, escaping, she most fervently hoped, to freedom.

TBC

Please review, I will hoard it and admire it and even reply.

Rose Sared

Going for the evil cliffie author medal (snerk)

Cadenza

Set in the same universe as ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Beta by the wonderful Theresa Green – Read all her stories, they are very funny, well written, and very good.

Chapter Seventeen

Aragorn sliced into the throat of a charging clansman and flipped the suddenly limp form to one side, clearing his way. He glanced back; behind him the stairs were full of his own guard, and ahead was Meduseld. At the last landing, before the courtyard, he finally allowed the rest of his troop to overtake him and paused to catch his breath, something of a mistake, as all the small ills of his weary body took the opportunity to catch up with him. He stretched his shoulders back, and ran a grimed hand over his face.

The King shook his head as the battle fervour left him, and then walked up to the second-to-top stair, panting slightly, and watched the tribesmen pouring out of Meduseld to engage his men. Aragorn realised, gradually, that the hill-folk were fighting to get away, not to defend the hall.

Six more Gondorian soldiers made the upper landing and three large Rohirrim thundered up the stairs, nodding to the King deferentially on their way past. The new arrivals threw themselves into the battle with all the energy of youth. More followed.

Aragorn raised his voice, so his Captain would hear him above the clanging of weapons.

“Clear the way to the doors. Let the others mop up.”

Finally having caught his breath, Aragorn moved up to the courtyard and stalked forward behind the advancing line of alert soldiers.

The great, ironbound doors of the hall were unevenly open, and the darkness behind them invited caution.

Aragorn’s Captain motioned to two soldiers, and spared his King a speaking glance, before slipping, with them, into the quiet hall. Aragorn, as a gesture of respect, gave the man a second or two, and then entered, four more men at his shoulder.

His troops dispersed efficiently into the dim interior and Aragorn took a moment to allow his eyes to adapt to the gloom. Behind him were the sounds of battle, diminishing as the allies secured the area. In the distant reaches of the building, muffled shouts, the sounds of doors slamming, and in the near distance the distinctive sound of running feet, but in the cavernous hall itself all was hushed, like a church – or a tomb.

As the interior resolved Aragorn could see his men securing the perimeter of the hall, so he started walking up the middle, towards the distinctive huddled shapes on the floor in front of the throne. As he skirted the central fire-pit, Aragorn could see his captain and another soldier stooping to one knee beside them.

“Sire!” The Captain waved a beckoning arm, and then turned the nearest body over, with obvious care.

A shaft of light from one of the windows set high above the throne spotlit Throndar’s peaceful, dead, face. It was the face a lover might see, relaxed and youthful, as if deeply asleep. Aragorn felt involuntary tears prickle, grief draping him like a blanket.

He dropped to his knees, all anger, all pride, deserting him as he shaped a gentle hand to cup the face of this faithful servant of his reign.

“Ai, Throndar, thou willst’ be most sadly missed.”  Once again, as he knelt beside the grizzled old warrior, Aragorn saw him as a young man, pledging to his service, and again and again over the years proving his worth to his King and his country.

The King closed his eyes then in silent prayer, and then looked up, eyes still full, to his Captain. “The other?” he asked.

The Captain nudged the other body with his foot. “ The Chief, Sire. Wolfling, or some such.” The captain reached a hand and assisted his King to his feet. Aragorn felt so worn, in that instant, that he accepted the help without comment.

“Even in your death you serve us, Throndar.”

 Aragorn lifted his head and sniffed, he noticed some of the soldiers circling warily looking to the roof.

“I smell smoke, Captain.” The man nodded, looking alertly about, there was no sign of fire yet but the smell was increasing.

Aragorn stepped away from the bodies. “You, and you.” He pointed to two foot-soldiers standing in the shadows, “Remove Throndar’s body with all care. Take him to the camp outside the walls; we will farewell him with respect, later.”  The soldiers moved to obey and Aragorn dismissed them from his thoughts. Arwen was somewhere in this building, he must find her. He felt his mind snap back into focus as he scanned the hall for doors into the interior of the palace. The smoke smell grew ever more intense and panic started its mosquito buzz at the edge of his mind.

“Captain, open that door. Let us find the Queen.”

Aragorn was at the man’s shoulder as he pulled the door back, and was almost knocked to the ground as the Captain reeled into him. A great billow of black smoke puffed eagerly into the room, along with a furnace blast of heat. Without conscious thought the King and the soldier put their shoulders to the wood and slammed the door shut again. A chorus of coughs sounded from the equally startled guards behind.

“Outside! Away, quickly, before we are trapped here.” The King coughed, but pushed forward, herding the startled troops before him, the Captain barked commands beside him and the whole group ran, urgently, for the welcome sunlight beyond the hall.

ooo

“ Father, well met, and sooner than we had expected.” Legolas strode, smiling, into Thranduil’s pavilion, passing unchallenged between the elven King’s willowy, and deadly, armoured guards. The elves tensed, but allowed Gimli’s passage between them, at Legolas’ heels; the rest of Gimli’s dwarven warriors stationed themselves in an arc, just close enough to exchange challenging glares with the guards, but not so close as to give rise to serious offence.

“Legolas!” The King rose from the leaf carved, double-bowed camp chair, and then stepped forward to embrace his son. A fair of delicate, peeping, forest birds wheeled around the heads of the two elves and then flittered off to perch momentarily on the struts that held the tent.

“Making friends, Father?” Legolas indicated the pretty things.

“They visit to keep me company, away from the trees.” He glanced at the spiralling, ever moving birds, “or they like the honey water I offer them.” Thranduil winked at his son, and then sat again.  Legolas also sat, at his father’s feet on the grassy floor of the tent. Gimli stood silent behind, near the outside wall, his stoic demeanour somewhat spoiled by having two little green and apricot birds choose his helmet as a likely vantage point. Another investigated the head of his axe, undeterred by Gimli’s best dwarven scowl.

“And how is it that you are away from the trees of Starkhorn, Father?”  Legolas waved an arm at the camp that seethed outside this small charmed enclave. “I see most of your warriors helping guard these humans.”

Thranduil looked away. He held up a hand and a couple birds flew down to perch, peeping earnestly to the King. Thranduil examined their feathers as he replied, almost so softly that Legolas could not hear him. “I lost Arwen.”

Legolas smiled slightly at his father’s discomfort. “Nay, I heard she was kidnapped, by foul treachery. Say not that you lost her, Father.”

The King turned his regal eyebrow on his son. “She was in my keeping, charged so by her husband. I was compelled to help make amends.”

“And with what work has Aragorn charged you, as wergild?”

“To guard and keep safe those unreasonable and disobedient mortals, yonder.” The King’s voice took on a more cutting edge. “They are worse than children. First they flee their homes, and then they want to go back, some fight with others. It is appalling!”

“I see the forces of Gondor and Rohan are lending you aid.”

The King shifted, uncomfortably. “Yes, sometimes the mortals will attend to them. We have sorted them into three camps, women and children, men and those wretched hill-men of yours.”

Legolas raised his hands in protest, “Call them none of mine, please. I want nothing to do with them, except to extract a little revenge, and I can hardly do that to the prisoners if they are under your august protection.” Legolas laid a sympathetic hand on his father’s knee. “Father, Gimli and I will go see if we can help Aragorn mop up, and perhaps we will have a chance to avenge ourselves in the process. Elladan and Elrohir are tired of cooling their heels here and assure me you are managing with your usual effectiveness, so they are coming with us. “ Legolas rose to one knee and kissed his father’s hand. “Don’t let them grind you down, Father. We will be back before sunset.”

“That’s what Aragorn said.” Thranduil, waved Legolas, and his unfortunate companion away. “Find Arwen, son, I have no faith in these mortals. Minuial, Silmarwen and Camthalion also have yet to return to my side. Be my eyes and arms son; find my people and bring them back to me.”

ooo

Arwen led her little flock into the welcome light of a large, deserted kitchen. Sunlight glanced cheerfully off polished pots and surfaces. Behind her, Brytta took up his fretful grumbling again, despite Morshy’s comfortable presence, and in the background a great roaring and crashing could be heard, as Meduseld burned above their stone-sheltered heads.

“Come, I spy the door to the outside yard, let us leave this hall and be under the sun, at least for a space.” 

All the members of the party, except Minuial who remained unconscious, exchanged looks, and then headed for the door. They clattered out into a kitchen garden behind a stout, stone wall, The yard gate was shut but not bolted; it seemed this area of the palace had been evacuated in an orderly, calm fashion.  The sun shone benignly on rows of cabbages and lettuce, marigolds danced amongst them in the little breeze that made its way over the wall.

Arwen looked up. Above their heads the roof of Meduseld, which was all she could see, was well alight. A much stronger wind, the inspiration, no doubt, for the sheltering garden wall, was blowing the smoke directly away to the north, and there appeared no danger from any falling debris, as the terrace above was wide.

Arwen looked at her dishevelled refugees. “ We will wait here for a space, I think. Master-Smith put your burden down here, on this grass, and then let us examine her. Gleowyn perhaps Brytta could be fed, and it would make him happier. Morshy, some water, child, from the pump there.”

Arwen, having disposed her troops, sank down onto the welcoming grass and just breathed for several seconds, re-connecting herself with the spirit of Arda. Aragorn was close, she could feel him. A great longing to see him again came into her heart. Being the Queen was all very well, but right now she could do with the support of her love’s strong arms.

ooo

Legolas and Gimli’s small party had only been climbing Edoras’ steep, and eerily deserted, streets for about twenty minutes, their anxiety redoubled by the plume of smoke that now marked Meduseld, when they were hailed by a group of refugees descending and about to join them from a side street.

Legolas peered into the shadows of the alley way and then gave a cry of pleasure. “Camthalion, Silmarwen. I am but lately come from my father who is most concerned for your safety. Where is Minuial, and who do you escort?”

“We are charged with the continued safety of the royal family of Rohan, prince Legolas. Queen Cyneth and her family.”

Legolas bowed to the Queen, who he had met on a few previous occasions. The woman looked tired and her children at the end of their tethers.

 Camthalion continued. “King Elfwine was called away, with his troops, when the hall was fired.” The elf waved vaguely up the hill. “He persuaded us to continue to escort his dependants until they could be placed in the charge of his commander outside the wall.” Camthalion seemed to run out of words, Silmarwen picked up the conversation. “Minuial gave us a similar charge before she left to look for Arwen, Legolas. Shall we carry on?”

Gimli shot his friend a sharp look when he did not reply for a second. Legolas looked suddenly pale. Arwen was his friend, but how much more his friend was Minuial. The prince seemed to shake himself back to life. “Our task becomes urgent then. Carry on Silmarwen, Camthalion, and when your duty is discharged please report to my father; he frets.”

Legolas moved to rejoin the twins and Gimli’s troop and spent a moment updating the other elves even as the royal party made their way through the warriors. Gimli had a quiet word with two of his dwarves, who quietly peeled off and followed the party at a distance.

“Rear guard,” Gimli replied to Legolas’ eyebrow.

Within minutes the street was empty, one party forging on up towards Meduseld, the other to safety outside the walls.

ooo

King Elfwine met King Aragorn on the doorstep of his ancestral home and the two men looked at each other with nearly matching pain on their faces.

“My lord, has Arwen been rescued?” Both men winced as a beam gave way somewhere inside the burning building and collapsed with an ominous thud. Smoke reached out of the shattered windows and streamed across the city, the fire driven by the gusting wind.

“Not to my knowledge, Elfwine.” Aragorn looked up at the burning roof and then around, as if he could find some way to his wife. “She lives yet, I know that, but I am powerless against this fury.” He turned back to the other King. “Is there another way in to your fortress, that might yet be open?”

Elfwine looked distraught, then as daylight spreading over the grassland, an idea quite obviously occurred to him. He turned and consulted with a member of his guard, who looked startled, then nodded vigorously. The man collected a couple of his troop and trotted off to down the stairs. The heat from the burning building was relentlessly driving the other spectators back to the stairs.

“Come, my lord. There is a slight chance, the servant’s kitchen is carved out of the hill itself, and it has several passages leading to the main wings of the house. If a way is to be found that is where it will be on this grim day.”

They departed quickly down the stairs, followed once again by both their squads of loyal bodyguards. Meduseld continued to burn, merrily, even without an audience.

ooo

Arwen was the first to hear the tramp of troops gathering in the street beyond their little island of safety. Alert, she moved the damp cloth from Minuial’s forehead and gestured sharply to Bardor to pick up his sword and get to a position beside the gate.

Minuial groaned as the gentle cool was removed from her head. She was wakeful but hardly aware yet, confused by the light and noise around her.

“Morshy, get behind me with Brytta, and Gleowyn,” the Queen looked round and found the Smith’s daughter already ready at her side, sword held in determined hand. “Thank you my dear. Now quiet - perhaps they will pass us by.”

The little group tensed as the gate was rattled, then thumped from the outside. Again the gate was assaulted and Bardor sprinted back towards the women to take a stance in front of them.

Groaning the wooden blades scraped open against the light latch, then suddenly bounced back against their hinges as the lock gave.

Morshy, despite herself, let go another of her quite ear-splitting screams as the yard seemed to fill, on an instant, with armour clad soldiers. Brytta, understandably startled, started his own loud protest; but Arwen gave another kind of cry, and sprang to her feet in delight, running without care or dignity into the welcoming arms of her love, the King of Gondor and Arnor and her own precious man.

TBC

Please review, I will hoard it and admire it and even reply.

Rose Sared

Cadenza

Set in the same universe as 'Adagio' and 'Mayflies'. One hundred years into
the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Beta by the wonderful

Theresa Green - Read all her stories, they are very
funny, well written, and very good.

Warning  OC death.

Chapter Eighteen

Elladan sprang lightly up the stairs that fronted the great pyre that had been the hall of Meduseld, drawn to the roaring flames like a moth. Elrohir paused on the first landing and scanned the outer-bailey, bow at the ready. There was no sign of anyone moving amongst the clustered outbuildings in this quarter - stables, workshops, storerooms, the place was a warren but apparently an evacuated one. He lifted his gaze and watched the teeming hoards of people and animals moving around in the camps outside of Edoras' walls for a moment. The contrast was eerie.

Elladan, from his perch on the top terrace, also scanned the city. His black hair whipped around his face, blown by the fierce wind augmented by the draw of the fire. Elrohir watched as Elladan took a step or two nearer the southern edge, peering at something, then smiled as his brother ran back and down the stairs to meet him.

"The soldiers of Gondor and Rohan are massed in the streets, down there." He pointed over the shoulder of the hill, behind Elrohir. "They are breaking down a gate with a battering-ram." He tilted his head at his brother who grinned back.

"Sounds like fun.” Elrohir turned and descended the steps again. "Legolas, Gimli! Ell' has found them. This way!" The brothers saw Legolas turn and wave at them, and then they trotted off, around the curve of the hill, heading for the action.

"The quarry is sighted, Gimli. Let's go" Legolas turned, but Gimli placed a hand on his arm to stay him a moment.

"Our quarry is not the King, Legolas. I misbelieve all the hill-scum have departed Edoras so lightly. They will be lurking in nooks and holes awaiting a chance of plunder. They are our prey, and yours, if your cry for revenge be more than bluster."

Legolas turned eyes of ice on his tormenter. "Bluster! Gimli, my father charged me with finding Arwen and Minuial. When I know their fate, then I may indulge in vengeance."

Gimli glared up at his friend, "Bah! Legolas; happy am I that I am no prince. Go, do your daddy's bidding then. My warriors and I will sweep these buildings at least, and see if we can flush some vermin."

Gimli softened a bit at Legolas' outraged expression. He patted his rigid friend on the back, and gave him a shove in the direction Elladan and Elrohir had gone. "Away with you, lad. I will meet up with you, yonder. I have misgivings about these buildings, that is all. Indulge me; such dark and twisted pathways suit dwarves best, aye?"

Legolas measured his friend in the weight of his regard for a second, flicked his glance over the rest of Gimli's stoic guard, and then nodded and sprang away like a hart, following the twins.

ooo

Frecern had been hiding in the sweet straw of the hayloft for what seemed like hours, waiting for his opportunity, as the horse-master and one groom had gradually evacuated the king's stables. He shifted, cursing the sharp blades of dry grass that pricked and itched his sweaty skin, and threatened his security by provoking his nose until the need to sneeze was almost overwhelming.

"Just get going, you lazy, good for nothing, urchin." Frecern muttered as the stable boy followed his master leading the last three, but one, horses. The King's stallion, snorting and pawing in the stall beneath Frecern's hiding place, let out an outraged whinny as the last of his stable-mates left the building.

"Hist, Elarof, the master will be back for you directly.” The boy's high voice reached Frecern in his hiding place, and then all went silent except for the sound of the great horse pacing his stall and the diminishing clip-clop of the led horses as they followed the groom. Sounds from outside filtered in. The roar of the fire consuming Meduseld - Frecern grinned at the success of his ploy - and the nearer sounds of conflict, or at least of military movements. Frecern could hear shouted orders, the tramp of many feet, and then the thudding of what sounded like a ram. All a comfortable several buildings over from where he was hidden, but escape was urgent, and the means was below him. A horse such as Elarof, with a little easy camouflaging, would be enough to set Frecern up in a new life anywhere in Dunland, or to the east.

After a long interval, when the martial sounds from the activity a couple of buildings over had died down to nothing, Frecern hung his head out of the trap-door and scanned the stable below. There, on a peg, a discarded cloak in the livery of Rohan. Frecern shinned down the ladder and darted over to swathe himself in the disguise, and then, he grabbed a halter and a lead rope and approached the great stallion's stall. The horse eyed him warily
and backed into his box, ears back as the smith approached.

Frecern rolled his eyes; this was all he needed, a balky animal. However Frecern was Rohirrim enough to have been around horses all his life. He approached the stallion with confidence and swiftly secured the halter and clipped on the lead rope, smacking the beast on the nose when it attempted to take a bite out of him.

"Enough!" Frecern barked roughly, jerking the animal's head when it tried to pull back. "Come. Now." Frecern towed the very surprised, and slightly cowed, animal out of its stable and started for the door. Elarof was happy enough to be following his stable-mates, so he walked behind the man with no more fuss until they reached the yard. There they both met an obstruction four and a half feet tall and armoured to the teeth, a wicked battle-axe held ready and flashing in the sun.  

"Now, where do you think you might be going, Frecern?" growled Gimli.

Frecern drew his sword, but the horse, which started jigging and pulling at Frecern's iron grip, hampered him. Elarof was a trained warhorse, weapons were not a problem for him, but this strange groom was, and now an enemy had appeared in front of him and anger stained the air and frightened the animal. He pulled and half-reared, forcing Frecern to take his eyes off the dwarf. Frecern brutally hit the horse on the head with the end of the lead rope and pulled it to a halt beside him.

The blade of the dwarf's axe now rested on the back of Frecern's neck, the razor edge cutting the skin beneath by its own weight.

"Yield, man." Gimli demanded, his voice full of poorly-restrained fury, "Yield, or lose that precious head of yours."

Terror loosed Frecern's grip on both his sword and the horse. The sword clattered to the cobbles and the horse prompted by the noise, pulled back, and then struck, with the training instilled over years and the anger provoked by the brutal man who had hurt it. It lashed out at the armoured enemy at its knees.

Frecern, because he was standing so close to the horse, was pushed backwards off his feet and out of the way by the horse's lunge, but Gimli, just in range, collected the full force of the horse's ironclad foot on the top of his helmet. He dropped like a stone, and then the horse sprang over him catching the middle of his back with a rear hoof, laying him out.

Whinnying loudly, Elarof bolted out of the stable yard, trailing his lead rope, quickly followed by the bruised and bleeding form of Frecern, running for his life. Two of Gimli's dwarven guard, attracted by the racket, entered the stable yard just as the pair left it. Exchanging glances, one immediately followed the man, the other started over to his lord.

Gimli, stunned, lay on the filthy cobbles of the yard, trying to get his breath, refusing to let the darkness take him again. Pure fury filled his lungs, "Legolas!" he bellowed at the top of his voice, the sound echoing round the enclosed yard. "It is Frecern. Stop him!" and then injury defeated even dwarven stubbornness, and his world went black from the edges.

ooo

Elladan, Elrohir and Legolas arrived at the kitchen yard just in time to see Arwen run into the arms of her husband. The elves slid inconspicuously around the ring of royal guards, who were looking studiously anywhere but at the royal couple. and made their way into the little green enclave, basking for a moment in the reviving feeling of being around plants and pleasant emotions for a change, rather than around stone and grief.

After a minute or so, Legolas made his way to the other side of the yard where Minuial was still lying on the grass. The prince smiled and nodded at Gleowyn's murmured greeting as he passed her. Gleowyn was retrieving her still-whimpering baby from the servant with the impressive scream. The Master-Smith, Bardor, was leaning over the elf-warrior with a cloth in his hand as Legolas approached.

"Bardor, well met." Legolas started to say, when the smith's head snapped back, and he landed on his rear with an oath. Minuial, still not really conscious, had lashed out at a perceived attack. "Bardor!" Legolas called out in alarm. "Minuial - no!"

Minuial had snatched up the Smith's sword, left on the grass beside her by Arwen, and now she crouched, wavering, one hand steadying herself on the ground, the other holding the blade, the point making unsteady circles above the Master-Smith's heart.

Legolas skidded to his knees in front of the blinking, confused elf. "Minuial," he leaned forward to make eye contact, his voice soft. "Be easy, you are with friends. Come," he inched forward, conscious of the stunned silence that now filled the yard as everyone held their breath. "Give me the sword, Minuial. This man is no foe."

The smith shook his head vigorously, never taking his eye off the unsteady weapon so near to his chest.

Legolas reached out an open palm, and with a gasp like a sob, Minuial loosed the weapon into his hand, and then fell back to all fours, squeezing her eyes shut in pain. Bardor scuttled back out of range and Legolas moved forward to slide a cautious, calming hand over Minuial's shoulders. He became aware of twin shadows that had moved up behind him, and the sudden buzz of renewed conversation around the yard as people took their attention off them in order to give as much privacy as possible.

Legolas eased the still trembling Minuial back into sitting and glanced up at the twins, who had now crouched down in front of them.

"Can you help? See she has a great gash, here." Legolas indicated the bruised area on the side of her head and face. Elladan moved so that he was sitting on Minuial's other side and placed a long white hand round her head, cupping her skull. He closed his eyes. Elrohir motioned to Legolas, who shifted aside and let the other twin take his place. Minuial made a small distressed sound as he shifted so he reached to take her hand. At that moment every head in the courtyard snapped up as Gimli's great shout split the peace. Legolas was on his feet so fast he seemed to blur.

"Legolas, it is Frecern. Stop him!" They all heard, and when they turned, the elf had already sprung to the top of the wall and thence to the roof of the next building over, unlimbering. his bow as he ran across the tiles.

Aragorn pulled, reluctantly away from Arwen's grip. She kissed him, and then helped with the gentlest of shoves.

"Go." She said.

The King held her eye, promising much, for a further second, and then, gathering a squad of guards and

King Elfwine, he set off down the first side-alley that looked like it would take them in the same direction.

ooo

Legolas paused on the roof of the stable-block and looked down in dismay at the sight of Gimli, sprawled on the cobbles, his battle-axe yards away from his hand. He looked so still that for a moment a grief too deep to be borne threatened his sanity, a grey cloud dimming his vision. Thror, on one knee by Gimli's side, must have somehow sensed Legolas' stare because he looked up and met the elf's eye.

"He breathes, my lord. The man went that way. Ris follows, but her legs are shorter than her courage, and the man ran as if he knew you were not far behind."

The news cleared Legolas' head in an instant. Nodding to Thror he sprang away, picking a rooftop route that would take him in the direction the warrior had indicated. As he sped after his prey he tried to make sense of the multiple echoes thrown up by the densely packed buildings caused by a galloping horse, a man's panicked run and the steady thud of a dwarf in pursuit.

Ahead the noise changed character as the horse reached a wide, paved, square and galloped across it heading for the fields it knew outside the walls. Legolas took a short cut across the steeply pitched roof of some civic edifice, and came out on the edge of the square just as Ris reached the same exit the horse had used, about fifty feet behind the fleeing man. The dwarf skidded to a halt and, all in one movement, pulled out a flashing axe and threw it, with all her might, after the fugitive. At the same moment Legolas' great

Galadhrim Bow sang its deadly song.

The man fell, and all the sound that was left was the fading four-beat of galloping hooves, echoing down the alleyways of Edoras.

Ris walked, puffing, over to the corpse. Her axe was wedged firmly in the middle of his back. She looked at the body for a moment then reached down and removed her weapon, wiping it clean on the lying cloak of Rohan he still wore, treacherous to the end. A grief-laden tear worked its way down her nose and splashed onto the material, another followed. She sniffed, and then nudged the body with a booted foot. The two green fletched arrows waved obscenely, but he was good and dead.

"For Nain, human. For our children that will never hold his talent in their hands." She became aware of a tall, calm, presence behind her. "That was a mighty shot, elf." She sniffed again and turned to look up at Legolas, who stood leaning on his bow looking at the corpse. "Although it was my axe that finished him." She tried her best glare on him but was defeated by his gentle smile.  

"It was indeed your axe, Ris. I merely held him still for you."

Ris sniffed her tears away, again, and then turned to stump off back to join Thror and Gimli. "You should eat more, elf. With some meat on those bones, and an attitude like that, you could pass for a decent Dwarf one day."

Legolas escorted her, his merry laugh ringing around the silent streets of Edoras.

TBC

Please review, I will hoard it and admire it and even reply.

Rose Sared

Cadenza

Set in the same universe as ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Beta by the wonderful Theresa Green – Read all her stories, they are very funny, well written, and very good.

Chapter Nineteen

For Gimli there was darkness, a comfortable void undemanding of his attention, and then a sharp hook of pain snared him, and drew him, inexorably, into the bright shallows of consciousness. He opened his eyes to soft, yellow, light, filtered by the grey canvas of a field-tent. Twenty - no make that fifty - industrious masons were excavating a great hall in the tight space behind his eyes.

Gimli blinked back tears of pain. Confusion replaced the simple sensations he had been experiencing, he could not place the tent, or the circumstances of his injury. He tried to turn his head to read his surroundings more fully, which was unfortunate, because then the real pain hit him. His stomach rebelled, and groaning he rolled to his side. He was barely aware of a soft cry of remorse sounding, and then blessedly cool hands were helping him, dealing with his hair, holding a bowl, easing him with wordless murmurs and support. The pain retreated a distance and Gimli felt able to open his eyes again. He felt ashamed of his weakness and absurdly grateful to the helper.

The hobbit settled him back onto his pillows, slightly propped up, and then handed him a cup of cool water, steadying the vessel when reaction shivers threatened to spill the contents. “To clear the foulness away, Gimli. I am sorry; I did not expect you to wake so soon. You took a wicked blow, your helmet looks cloven by an axe.”

“Nay,” Gimli found the events of the day coming back to him, “’Twas a horse, proving its fell-beast ancestry, master Tolman. What glad fortune brings you to my aid?  We thought you on the road to Rivendell this ten day or more.”

Tolman laid a conspiratorial finger to the side of his nose, and then, instead of answering, he bustled away for a moment, spoke a word or two at the tent flap, and then vanished outside to deal with the evidence of Gimli’s indisposition.

He was back before Gimli could gather his thoughts enough to feel annoyed. The industrious masons were opening up a new chamber, and the pain took all Gimli’s attention. Tolman took one look at his parchment face, and then hurried to a chest and pulled out a blue vial. He sent the dwarf a considering look then shook three drops into another cup of water.

“Drink.” Tolman gently lifted Gimli’s head. “ It will help.”

Gimli eyed the hobbit, then managed to drink the potion, although it was touch and go for a moment over whether it would bide in his stomach. His eyes closed during the struggle, and when he opened them again it was to see Legolas, in place of Tolman, by his bedside. The hobbit was over the other side of the tent, fussing with his medicines again.

“You look terrible, “ said Legolas.

Gimli tried a scowl, which turned into a pained wince as the masons protested the movement. His eyes must have shut again because the heat of his friend’s hand, calming the workers in his head, was his entire world for a space; it felt like the warmth of summer sun against closed eyelids. He drifted into darkness again, aware of Tolman’s voice, scolding, as he slipped away.

“That’s enough, Legolas, you are becoming transparent. Your father will have my ears. Here, drink this ….”

ooo

Minuial opened her eyes to the dappled dance of leaves against an eggshell-blue sky. Two beautiful, identical, elven faces occupied centre right, and left, of the view. She groaned.

Elladan’s brow creased. “ Does your head still pain you, Minuial? We thought…” He exchanged a look of concern with his brother. Minuial sat up easily, rolled her shoulders, and then cocked her head to look at the twins.

“I groan because it is you that tend me, imps. I have yet to forgive you for the trick with the honey and the bees last tuilë. Does my King know you are here?” Minuial raised a hand and gently traced the side of her head. “ And how is it that I bide in Starkhorn’s forest again? Last I remember I was trapped in that stone labyrinth of men.” Minuial’s brow creased, and then she winced and put her hand back to the tender area on her left. “Someone hit me.”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously as she saw the sons of Elrond exchange a look that nearly screamed ‘Shall we edit this?’

“Where is Legolas? I remember him, he was with me; and then he was not.” She clambered inelegantly to her feet and put out a hand to the fissured trunk of the tree whose branches had sheltered her; the tree murmured happily, basking in her presence. Elrohir risked a hand to steady her, and such was her disorientation that she did not shake the contact off immediately.

Elladan moved in front of her, looking into her eyes. She pressed her back firmly against the tree, and felt strengthened again by its delight, and even rather bolstered by the feel of Elrohir’s hand, sturdy on her shoulder. She took a breath. Then simply turned her clear elven gaze, honed by more years of command than she cared to remember, on Elladan.

“Tell me,” she demanded.

ooo

The sun set behind the White Mountains turning the snow-capped peaks first black in contrast, and then pink in reflection of the blazing sky.

To the beat of a lone drum, Gondor’s men carried Throndar’s flag-shrouded body through the ranks of the army he had trained to his final resting place on the lush plains of Rohan. An honour guard of Elven warriors sang an unearthly lament in the twilight, as the elves finished their song another was started, by the massed riders of Rohan, their sombre bass voices full of emotion as the cortège made its way through the cavalry. 

Many mounds already dotted the grassland; the afternoon had been spent burying the victims of the ruin of the city. Throndar’s interment left to the last.

Waiting at the graveside, Arwen stood tall beside her equally regal husband, ignoring the tears slipping unheeded down her cheeks. King Elfwine and his entire family flanked Aragorn, and King Thranduil stood back to one side, a crown of white flowers gracing his head, his court at attention around him.

“From boyhood to manhood you served us.” Aragorn stepped forward and rested a hand lightly on the shroud. “ No man could have tried harder to discharge his duty. Go to your fathers with honour, Throndar.”

The bearers placed the body on the prepared platform and took up the ropes. At a signal Legolas, robed as a prince, took his father’s crown of flowers and, stepping forward as lightly as a breeze, placed the glowing circlet on the body.  Once again the pure voices of the elves rose in song as in the fading light as Throndar was lowered to his rest.

Finally a squad of dwarves stepped forward, dealt with the pile of soil with respectful speed, and then carefully placed previously gathered rocks over the place, permanently marking Throndar’s grave with a stone cairn.  The captain of Aragorn’s guard wedged a flag of Gondor into a crevice. The banner flapped once in the dying breeze, then hung limp.

The crowd silently dispersed to their makeshift rest. Edoras was to be re-occupied on the morrow following the judgement of the remaining hill-men.

Legolas wandered over to Aragorn’s side after exchanging a couple of words with his father. Arwen, still tearful, left Aragorn’s side to gather her friend into a hug.

“How fares Gimli?” The King enquired, over his wife’s head.

Legolas gently disengaged himself from Arwen’s slightly damp embrace and moved a few paces away, frowning at the line of tents that included those of the healers.

“It is the second time in so many months that he has suffered a head injury. The healers frown at him, and then at me as if I am at fault. Even master Tolman scolds me for aiding him with what poor magic I possess.” Legolas turned his head and his eye glittered in the wan light. “ Where did the hobbit spring from, Aragorn?”

Elfwine, turning from dispatching his tired family to their deserved rest in the care of his household, answered the question before Aragorn could claim ignorance.

“He was already in the city, visiting with my healers, again. They say he wanted to pass on the benefits of some herb he had discovered in the woods near Ardscull village.” The King bowed slightly to Legolas. “Apparently the presence of the Eldar in the woods had wakened some common plants to virtue unknown outside of the elven realms, so Tolman thought his diversion justified to inform my master-healer of the resource.” The King shook his head. “Such intensity in such a small person. Never should one judge a horse’s spirit by its conformation; as the goodwives say.”

Legolas returned the bow with a gracious nod, but still he looked distracted.

“And Minuial?” Arwen had gathered herself again and tucked one hand into the crook of her husband’s arm. “ How fares the march-warden?”

Legolas and Aragorn looked at her with some surprise. Her voice sounded almost too bright, as if she was hiding some deeper emotion than concern.

Legolas answered. “The twins have taken her to the forest to complete her healing. They were most confident she would be herself by tonight. When I am sure of Gimli’s health I will seek them out and enquire.”

Arwen shared a speaking glance with her husband, a look lost on the elf who was looking back to the healer’s tent again.

Legolas continued, “My father returns to the forest tonight. He was asking me of her, even as you are. When I told him Elladan and Elrohir were with her he seemed almost as annoyed at me as the healers are. It seems I please no one this eve.” Legolas turned a confused face to Arwen. “ I do not really understand. She is his good right hand, as he has often said.  I am sure he will care for her, as will the trees.”

Arwen sighed; Legolas just did not have a romantic bone in his body, and he appeared as naive as a teenager about Minuial’s growing attachment to him. She felt even more sorry for Minuial. Bad enough that she had been felled by a friend, rescued by a mortal and healed by elves she held in disdain. From Legolas’ demeanour now, it was obvious that he had no interest at all in pursuing anything more than the casual, formalised relationship the pair had maintained for the last two yen. She would have to seek out her friend and offer some support, and a heartfelt apology.

Aragorn read Arwen’s sigh with the ease of a man long married. He squeezed his wife gently in both comfort and admonition, and then turned to his elven friend.

“Go to Gimli, Legolas. Your heart is with him even as you talk to us. I will call in on him later and see if my skills can aid in any way that the healers have not already tried. He is a mighty warrior, try not to worry so.”

Legolas bowed his head slightly to his friends, took another long look at Throndar’s grave, and then was away like a leaf in the breeze to resume his vigil.

ooo

In the small hours of the morning Brytta woke Gleowyn. She took him outside of the women’s tent after his feed, to ease his wind and avoid his fussing waking the others who slept fitfully on the grass of their homeland. Gleowyn felt re-born, Telfaren was not dead, but recovering from his wounds in the tents of healing, just over that rise. It seemed a gift undeserved that she should be so blessed.

The night blazed with stars, the moon had set and the night was diamond clear, the mountains saw-toothed silhouettes against the glory of the sky.

Gleowyn walked, swathed in the blanket that wrapped both her and her boy, up the grassy hill to where she would be able to see the tent housing her husband. She tried to pick it out of the ghostly group of identical lumps, and then tilted her head to admire the sky again.

“Well met, Gleowyn.” Legolas drifted up beside her.

Gleowyn smiled. How wonderful the world was when the night contained not only stars, but also elves.

“My lord,” she murmured, turning so she could see his gentle glow. Her grandchildren would never believe her, she knew, when she told them of this beautiful being and his kin. They would think her wandering and daft in her age. “How fares, the lord Gimli? I heard he was gravely wounded.”

The elf smiled, his beauty magnified by the expression. “He rallies, Gleowyn. The King has been with him and the healers look much less grave.”  Legolas reached a long finger to engage the seeking fist that was waving at him from Gleowyn’s shoulder. His smile grew at the fierceness of Brytta’s delighted grip. “He will be most entertained by your child when he is a little recovered. Will you visit him, as you did last year, and ease his convalescence?”

Gleowyn laughed softly, remembering. “Aye, that we will. And your lady, my lord? Minuial had some bad luck at our hands, is she recovered, and will she ever forgive us?”

Legolas pulled a wry face. “ The march warden will not thank you for calling her my lady, Gleowyn. We are friends.” He looked at Gleowyn’s rather amused expression and rolled his eyes. “As to her forgiving you, I suspect you may need to stand in line. I am not in her favour, nor for the moment is the lady Arwen, and I doubt her opinion of mortals has been raised at all despite your father’s heroics. So I will be grateful to him for her, if you and he would accept my proxy.”

Gleowyn nodded, and smiled at the earnest elf. “He will be delighted, Legolas.” She moved a little closer and lowered her voice. “I think he might be a bit scared of her, actually; so thanks from you, instead of her, would be most appreciated.”

Legolas laughed. “Well, he is not alone in that prejudice. I will see your father on the morrow, Gleowyn. Should you not be getting back to bed? Brytta has given up trying to hold open his eyelids.”

Gleowyn glanced down at her sleeping son, nodded to her friend, gathered the end of her blanket, and then swept off down the hill to her rest, leaving the elf to commune with the stars as the world turned beneath them.

TBC

Please review, I will hoard it and admire it and even reply.

Rose Sared

Cadenza

Set in the same universe as ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Beta by the wonderful

Theresa Green – Read all her stories, they are very funny, well written, and very good.

Chapter 20

Minuial felt quite revived. Thranduil had returned to the forest in the early evening, received the twin’s report on her health with frigid courtesy, and proffered thanks to them for their skill. Despite his stiff demeanour his sincerity could not be faulted.

The twins managed to look both proud and uneasy during this audience. They both suspected, with good reason, that under any other circumstance they would have been escorted firmly out of the Elvenking’s presence, with a curt reminder of the wood-elf’s quite intact memory. Looking positively Noldor in the impassivity of their faces, and the exactness of their courtesy, the twins bowed, disclaimed any virtue with becoming meekness, and then vanished from the woodland with a dispatch that was just short of panic.

Thranduil’s court settled in their absence, melting into the forest to tend to food and reverie. A steward handed his liege a goblet of wine, and offered another to Minuial, who was now sitting cross-legged on the ground to her King’s right. She looked up from massaging the still-tender side of her face to take the cup from the steward, and found herself pinned by her King’s regard.

“My lord?” She turned away to take a sip of the very fine wine, and then looked at the trees that were settling into the night around them.

Thranduil also attended to his drink. “How fare you, Minuial? Legolas sends his regards. He seemed quite confident you would be well, more confident than Arwen and her husband, at least. I am glad that in this instance, and despite the unorthodox means he employed, he was right.”

Minuial sighed, but in exasperation, not pain. “He sends his regards, but not himself, I notice.” She toyed with her goblet, turning it to catch the firelight.

It was Thranduil’s turn to sigh. He slid down in his chair a little. “He attends to his hobby, that wretched dwarf that tags along behind him like a pet. I fail to understand the fascination.”

“How fares Gimli then, my Lord? The twins knew his injury was grave, but no more than that.”

“I know not, and care less, Warden. Would that he would follow his mortal path and free my son from at least one of his ties to these friends of his. I hate to see him so mired in mortal doings, it is destroying him.”

Minuial eyed the King thoughtfully, amused at herself. The impossible had happened, she had shifted her attitude a little; enough to know that, for Legolas, losing one of his unsuitable friends would lead to either his death from grief or a least his departure from Middle-earth, as surely as if an arrow had pierced his heart. That was knowledge Thranduil would neither countenance nor understand should he live to the end of Ardar.

She finished her wine and rose to her feet, glad to find her balance was back. Mentally she took the twins off her list of people to be dealt with. It was the least she could do after their unselfish help. She refrained from telling Thranduil of her resolve. Following the twins joke with the honey he had not dealt with the bee stings with any kind of graciousness. Minuial found she had a sneaking regard growing in her heart for those wicked elves that had dared so much, for a prank. With a sense of shock she found herself understanding what Legolas saw in them.

She bowed to her King and then took to the trees, seeking the peace of the forest, feeling unsettled. Her own sense of self confidence had been central to her soul for more centuries than she would like to recall. How was it that Legolas, and his petty mortals, had changed her mind about truths she had decided so long ago? She needed time to think.

ooo

Gimli woke, and then lay very still, having learned, over the last day, to assess his condition before making any sudden movements. The tent was very dark. The air smelled of the middle of the night, perhaps shading towards morning. That he could smell the cool air was perplexing, so he turned his head, very gently on his pillow to investigate the tent flap. It was indeed hooked up on both sides, and there, beside his bed, framed in the faintly lighter patch shown by the open door, sat Minuial, tossing and catching a slim silver blade, all in elvish silence.

Gimli felt his mouth drop open in astonishment. Of all the beings to find in his tent, she was the least likely. Gimli blinked his eyes, wondering if he was still dreaming, but still she sat there, tossing her little knife. He found himself almost mesmerised, watching the flashing blade rise and fall. He supposed she would have been almost invisible to human eyes; she had damped her glow and made no noise. But Gimli was dwarf-kind, and he could see perfectly well in the simple darkness of night. The elf finally turned and met his astonished gaze.

“I owe you an apology, master Gimli.”

“My - my lady?” Gimli’s throat felt like squirrels had been nesting in it for the winter. His stutter came out like a croak.

Minuial leant forward and made a long arm to snag a cup that rested on the table near the bed. She handed it to Gimli, who had scooted himself up in the bed a little. He accepted it and drank, taking a moment to be pleased that the whole automatic sequence of movements had not woken the nauseating pain in his head that had so bothered him earlier. His head still hurt, as did his back, but it was a trifle he could deal with easily.

Minuial did not miss the care with which he moved, but he seemed hale enough to hear her. She ploughed on.

“I spoke harsh words to you, last year, when you came upon Legolas and I, in Ithilien.” She shifted a little in her chair and seemed to find the opposite side of the tent suddenly interesting. “I drove you from his side, and for that I am sorry. He needs you, dwarf. I know not why.” She looked at him again, and shrugged. “He needs all of his mortal friends, otherwise he will sail, and be lost to us all until we meet again in Valinor.” She sighed. “I would delay his departure for as long as possible, Gimli. He has a place in my heart, even if my place in his is quite different. I know not how things will fare in Valinor. I feel no compulsion to go. This world is mine for now but I would share it with him, as much as he allows, for as long as I may. So, I am sorry that I caused you grief with my words, and I take them back. Be hale, live long, love my prince, for then I will be able to have him as well, and I will treasure the moments I can have.”

Gimli closed his eyes against the sudden tears that prickled. It is because you are sick, he told himself. Not because you are a soft old fool who cannot bear that a creature so noble should sell herself so short. He blinked his eyes open, and saw her examining him, her expression curious.

“My lady,” Gimli said softly. “He is a great fool. My dear friend, but a fool nonetheless, to spurn what you offer. My heart grieves for your pain, and I will ease it by living, if it pleases you, for a very long time. Time you have, my lady, time and more time to work on him, and who knows what the future holds? You have eternity in your hands, and I will thank you with my dying breath for the generosity of your soul.”

Now it was Minuial’s turn to blink suddenly. The creature was charming. No wonder Legolas cleaved to him. His spirit was as true as the gold that was supposed to rule his race. She could almost hear the cracking as another long-held belief dislodged itself from her heart. At this rate she would soon be as mad as her lover, and Thranduil would send her from his side in disgust. She smiled, and stood. “Get well Gimli, and I will look forward to seeing you again. In Ithilien perhaps?”

 Then she was gone, and Gimli was left in the soft night, wondering if the whole visit had been a dream. His eyes drifted shut, and when Legolas returned to his side, just as the sky greyed before dawn, he was sleeping as peacefully as a babe, not even snoring, for once. Legolas sat on the chair beside his bed and idly picked up a silver dagger that was on the dwarf’s side-table. He tossed it in the air and caught it, wondering why it seemed so familiar.

ooo

Arwen supervised the packing of the last of the bales of her and Aragorn’s personal possessions from the royal pavilion, and walked with the porters to see it safely stowed on the back of one of the waiting wains.

 In this little oasis of personal time she prodded at her emotions, trying to gauge how she was coping with the changes of the last few days. Celeborn had warned her to live as serene a life as possible to ward off her illness. She smiled wryly to herself, if would appear the Valar had other plans for her and her husband, the quiet life eluded her. Nonetheless, as far as she could tell she was well enough, she would apply the disciplines Celeborn had taught her and hope. Hope had always been her watchword.

The great draft-horses turned their heads to her as she passed, and she took a moment to fuss at their heads once the wagon was secured to her satisfaction. As she stroked the velvet muzzles she looked at the long baggage train and shook her head in wonder. How did they accumulate so much stuff every time they stopped? Surely she had ridden from

Minas Tirith with only a company of soldiers and her husband, and then returned to him from Rivendell with only the addition of a few elves. It was quite unfathomable.

“My lady?” Arwen turned her bemused gaze on Ingold, the new captain of her personal bodyguard. “The King sends for you. Elfwine and his court have gathered.” The man waved a mailed hand to indicate the small crowd of people gathered in front of the scaffolding that now marked the gates of Edoras. The sound of hammer and saw echoed through the morning, along with snatches of song in both Dwarven and Human tongue. After only  a week the restoration and refortification of Edoras was proceeding apace, and the whole city sounded like a building site. It reminded Arwen of Aragorn’s city in the early days of their reign. The busyness made her feel quite nostalgic.

As she approached the group, Arwen could pick out the distinctive pairing of Legolas and Gimli, chatting animatedly with her brothers and the little hobbit, Tolman. Arwen smiled to see them.

Thranduil had moved his court on to Firien wood yester-eve, with the intention eventually of abiding in Ithilien for a space, so the twins had finally lost the nervous habit they had formed of glancing all around in case of being surprised by one of Thranduil’s escort. Arwen smiled. They deserved any discomfort that Thranduil or his people cared to inflict on them. Minuial had told her of the joke they had connived that had Thranduil and his court as its butt last spring. Arwen thought the menacing looks and complete silence on the subject that Thranduil had commanded his people the best punishment they could receive. Before the wood-elves left, Ell’ and ‘Ro were both jumping at shadows, sure that revenge was on its way. Now they had resolved to escort Tolman back to Rivendell, perhaps to make sure he arrived at his destination for once, at least he would be merry company for her chastened siblings.

“Arwen!” Aragorn moved forward to take her hand and draw her into the group.

“My Lady.”

King Elfwine inclined his head and Cyneth dropped a bob of a curtsey. The Royal party followed suit, including Gleowyn and her now recovered husband, Telfaren. Arwen nodded and smiled at them all, wondering who was caring for Brytta. Then she lifted her gaze a little and saw little Morshy with a babe on her hip and another toddler holding her hand a little removed from the formal party. The Queen allowed herself a brief moment of sorrow, to be paid for this evening with meditation she knew, but despite the terrors of her captivity she had come to love these folk. She would miss them.

“So comes the time for parting, Elfwine.” Aragorn reached forward and clasped the other King’s forearm with his own.

Elfwine returned the clasp and placed a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder. “I am - we are - most grateful for your steadfast support, Aragorn. Gondor has amply proved itself Rohan’s great friend. Know you,” he released Aragorn and turned to the whole party including the armed escort, “Gondor more than proved its friendship with Rohan this campaign. Call, Gondor, and Rohan will answer; at peril to ourselves we will answer, for as long as they remain our two Kingdoms will be joined in bonds of alliance.”

The soldiers cheered and the party broke up reluctantly, Elfwine and his family returning to Edoras and Aragorn, Arwen and their men starting out on the journey back to

Minas Tirith.

Legolas and Gimli lingered, watching as Tolman fussed around Bess and his wagon. Finally the last goodbyes were said, the healers of Edoras, and some from Aglarond, waved the small party away and the sound of the merry bells on Tolman’s wagon sang a jaunty road song. Legolas and Gimli watched them out of sight.

Frior approached Gimli in a purposeful manner.

“I know.” Gimli raised his hands in surrender. “I was only allowed up for this farewell and I must return to your care.” Gimli shared a long-suffering look with his friend. Legolas laid a pale hand on his shoulder.

“I promised Gliver I would make you attend to your healers, as, I might remind you, you made me but recently.”

Gimli huffed, but started off meekly enough towards the work camp the dwarves had set up outside the gates of Edoras.

His grumbling voice, interspersed with the lighter tones of his friend faded into the background noise produced by the re-building activity in Edoras, and a skylark sprang into the air from the grass near where they had been standing, winging its way over the busy city, hovering over the ruined shell of Meduseld that would rise soon from its ashes like a phoenix to again inspire the hearts of the Rohirrim.  The bird sang its delight at the peace that was now returning to its grasslands, its liquid song lightening the hearts of all in Middle-earth that were blessed by its joy.

The End of Cadenza

Please review, I will hoard it and admire it and even reply.

Thank you, more times than I can express, for all the support and encouragement I have received during the writing of this tale. I will miss it, and you.

All my love.

Rose Sared