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Sons of Fellowship  by Conquistadora

Four days later, Éomer’s guests made ready to depart northwest toward their own homes.  But there were some who would stay.  Faramir and Imrahil would go no farther, and Arwen Evenstar would remain as well until Aragorn’s return.  She and Elrond her father had disappeared for a time, saying their final and bitter farewells ere they were parted forever.


Glorfindel was seeing the pavilion of Imladris disassembled in the absence of his lord.  The day was a warm one, with hardly a cloud to grace the sky.  He was indeed sorry to face at last the loss of Lady Undomiel.  A passage West began to seem more appealing every day, for in a few years there would not be much left for an Elf this side of the sea.  Unless, of course, he wanted to go abide with Thranduil.


He laughed softly at the thought.  Ah, Thranduil, that incorrigible old lionheart.  His own Elves adored him, but his rougher Sindarin edges must be forgiven.  Glorfindel turned then, seeing Legolas approaching him.


“Well met, once again,” he greeted him kindly.  “You will be riding with us, I presume?  Or have you come to say farewell?”


“I came to return this,” Legolas said.  In his hands he bore a clean and neatly folded pile of clothes.  He was garbed once again in his own woodland tunic and the grey cloak of Lórien.  “I shall not be needing them where I am going.”


“And where are you going?” Glorfindel asked, accepting the bundle.


“Home,” Legolas smiled, “even if I must take the roundabout road.  Thank you, my lord, for everything.”


“It was my pleasure, Legolas,” he insisted.  “But roundabout or not, I believe my road will soon be much longer, that I shall travel but once.”  He paused a moment and met his gaze earnestly, seeking an answer that had doubtless weighed upon both of them.  “Might I expect you?”


Legolas was silent at first, but in the end he knew his choice had truly been made months ago.  “You may,” he said at last, turning his back upon what meager future Middle-earth could offer him.  “I know not when, but I will follow.”


Glorfindel smiled.  “It is best for you,” he assured him.  “As I said, it brought you joy at first.  Remember what called to you then.  Fix your mind’s eye upon what awaits you, rather than what lies behind.”


“I fear it is not within my power to see such things,” Legolas said.  “I have no memory of the West.”


“Remember the face of your mother,” Glorfindel suggested softly.  “I am certain she at least awaits you there.”


Legolas lowered his eyes and nodded.  “Thank you,” he said again, before turning back whence he had come.


Glorfindel watched him go, likely to find his horse and his Dwarf before it came time for their departure.  “You are most welcome,” he said softly.  


Valinor was not all it had once been, but it was Valinor still, and he was certain the Twilight Elves would come in time to love it even as the Calaquendi did if only they overcame their reticence to leave behind the faded shores of Endorenna.  He knew they had some legitimate grievances against the woe wrought by the Exiles in their pride and ambition.  But what was done was done, regret it though they might.


“Namárië, Laiqalassë,” he sighed, “until we meet again.  If only Elvendom had borne more princes like you.”


~ `*` ~ `*` ~ `*` ~


Before they were all to leave, the principal lords and companions of the Fellowship were gathered before the stairways of Meduseld to receive their valediction from the Lord and Lady of the Mark. 


“My halls stand ever open to you, Elessar, when you should deign to honor them again,” Éomer said, accepting the comradely embrace Aragorn offered.


“It will be not many days hence,” the Gondorian King assured him.  “I leave my Queen in your care, and trust to the hospitality of Rohan.”


“You need never doubt it, my lord.”  Éomer turned then to the wizard.  “Fare free, Gandalf Greyhame,” he bid, using the old epithet almost in jest.  “May Shadowfax bear you to the aid of many as be your need, now that war has ended.”


“It has ended but for a time,” Gandalf said somberly.  “Other clouds shall gather than that of Sauron, but none perhaps so terrible.  There may be many years yet of strife ere the White Tree may grow in peace.”


“When Gondor calls, Rohan will answer once again,” Éomer affirmed.  “And as for yourself, your counsel will ever be welcomed in the Mark, and the White Rider a glad sight upon our plains.”


Now both he and his sister turned to the Hobbits, or rather to one in particular.  “Farewell now, Meriadoc of the Shire and Holdwine of the Mark!” Éowyn said gladly.  “Ride to good fortune, and ride back soon to our welcome!”


“Kings of old would have laden you with gifts that a wain could not bear for your deeds upon the fields of Mundburg,” Éomer said; “and yet you would take naught, you say, but the arms that were given to you.  This I suffer, for indeed I have no gift that is worthy; but my sister begs you to receive this small thing, as a memorial of Dernhelm and of the horns of the Mark at the coming of the morning.”


With that Éowyn handed to Merry a silver horn, of marvelous craftsmanship, worthy to grace the armory of kings.


“This is an heirloom of our house,” said Éowyn.  “It was made by the Dwarves, and came from the hoard of Scatha the Worm.  Eorl the Young brought it from the North.  He that blows it at need shall set fear in the hearts of his enemies and joy in the hearts of his friends, and they shall hear him and come to him.”


Merry accepted it, somewhat abashedly, and kissed Éowyn’s hand.  She gladly embraced him in return, her comrade-in-arms.


“Made by the Dwarves,” Gimli echoed, jabbing Legolas in the ribs, eyes glinting.  “Have a look at that, lad.  Have you ever seen the like!”


“No,” Legolas had to admit, absentmindedly snaking his arm around Arod’s silver head where it hung over his shoulder, stroking the stallion’s face.  “But I have much yet of my own to show you, friend Gimli.”


“Ah, Legolas,” Éomer said at last, turning from the hobbits.  “Neither have I anything worthy to bestow upon you.  Freely would my sister and I open our vaults for you to choose your reward, but I suspect neither gold nor jewels would tempt you.  Therefore I beg of you to accept something greater that yet lies within my power to grant.”


“And what would that be, my lord Éomer?” Legolas asked.


“The horse you ride,” replied the King of the Rohirrim.


Legolas knew well how these people valued their horses, and so appreciated the magnitude of the offer.  “I do accept, Lord of the Mark,” he assured him, with a gracious bow.  “And indeed there is naught I would desire more.  But tell me, what is his name in your tongue?”


“In the words of the Mark,” Éomer told him, “arod means ‘quick’, ‘swift’, or ‘ready’.”


“Very well,” Legolas replied, smiling.  “It is a fitting name.  But henceforth it shall be considered in the tongue of my own people, for in the Sindarin Elvish of my house, Arod signifies ‘royal’, perhaps more fitting still to recall the memory of he who bestowed him.”


“And to honor he who would mount him,” Éomer insisted admiringly.  “I marvel at such a chance as that.  More is decreed by Powers unseen than we know.”


“There is much truth in that, Lord Éomer,” Gandalf said.  “There is no such thing in this world as mere chance.”


The mere fact that they lived now in victory, the preservation of all Middle-earth accomplished by their own efforts and ultimately redeemed by the deeds of the diminutive heroes in their midst, abundantly made his point.


“And you, Master Gimli,” Éomer said.  “When you have repaid your promise to return to King Elessar, you will not forget your pledge to come rebuild the fortress of Helm’s Deep with the renowned skill of your kin.”


“Certainly not,” Gimli stated emphatically.  “I am eager to show the world of Men how stonework is done properly.”


“No doubt,” Éomer smiled.  “But I do not forget that you saved my life in that selfsame fortress.  And I shall be accounted no less than King Elessar in rewarding my friends.  Even as Prince Legolas now bears the double crown of the Woodland and Ithilien, so you, Gimli, shall be named Lord of the Glittering Caves of Glæmscrafu if so you desire.  You spoke so fittingly of your love for them before, I think it only just that you should receive full measure of what Men have neglected.”


Gimli’s features formed the very picture of Dwarvish delight.  “I should be only too glad to accept, my lord Horsemaster!” he said with irrepressible enthusiasm.  “Such is the make of my wildest and dearest dreams!”


“Then you shall have them,” Éomer said with a laugh.  “Some will no doubt accuse me of ulterior motivation, for granting lordship of storehouses is a small price to pay for a guard of Dwarves in our mountains!  Farewell, my friend!  May your beard grow never less, and your axe never dull!”


And so with many other kind words they took their leave of him and the Lady.  For some their parting was but for a while, for they would return in time; but others knew they would never see again the golden hall of Meduseld, nor the green plains of Rohan, for theirs too would soon be a longer road. 


Their ride down through the city was attended by many along the way who would catch a last glimpse of these wondrous lords from distant lands, for it seemed to them that never would such a company pass the streets of Edoras again.








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