Chapter 21. Thorn: Clarifications

Bucca wakened from nightmare; the sharp breath he drew stabbed through him, leaving his head swimming and the darkness rising up to claim him once more. It was true! The forces of the Witch King had overtaken the last of those fleeing to the boats; the fearsome sorcerer had thrust an iron-gauntleted hand into the air and the Lune had raised up waves in answer, cutting the boats off from safety, dashing them against the Eastern shore and the deadly blades waiting there to drink of the refugees’ blood. And now he lay in unending torment in the dungeons of Angmar...

He clenched his teeth against the scream that rose in him, but could not suppress the moan that was wrung from him as he felt hands pushing him back down onto some instrument of torture only whispered of in memory. He heard other moans around him as if in answer, and he breathed his brother’s name, for in dreams he’d seen Tokka in this place. But instead of splintered wood at his back, he felt incomprehensible softness, as of yielding cushions, and pillows propping him half-sitting. Soft voices murmured, and now instead of menace it seemed they spoke comfort.

Opening his eyes wide, he stared into the shadowy face of the one who tended him: another of the Fair Folk, undoubtedly, at once youthful and ageless, eyes that were depths of understanding and gentle sorrow. A voice that was low and musical spoke in soothing tones, a hand gentle for all it was overlarge came to rest upon Bucca’s forehead, and the hobbit gave a shallow sigh, though he trembled still.

 ‘Not... Angmar?’ he whispered, dread melting away into relief.

 ‘Not,’ the Elf said softly, and added a few more words.

Bucca shook his head. ‘I don’t understand,’ he whispered.

The Elf nodded soberly and then his gaze grew more intent, more demanding, his eyes taking on depth until Bucca felt he might possibly drown. He was saved by the drooping of his eyelids.

Memory rose up to surround him; nightmare strove to encompass him once more, but a soft word, filled with command, blew the chilling fog to tatters and the darkness took on comforting warmth and softness. Bucca slept.

When he wakened again daylight was pouring into the room through wide windows; indeed it was difficult to tell where the room ended and the sky began.

 ‘Are you with us?’ a voice spoke to his side.

He turned his head with difficulty, so great was the lassitude that held him in its thrall.

 ‘Who...?’ he whispered, staring into a face that seemed familiar to him.

There was a movement beyond, and Thulion—how glad Bucca was to see the Man alive! —stepped forward to say, ‘My Lord Aranarth, the ship is nearly ready to cast off...’

The Lord Aranarth, Bucca thought. Of course! He’d seen this Man once before, when he’d come to gather hobbit archers to aid the King against Angmar. ‘Prince...’ he whispered.

The Man’s lips tightened in a humourless smile, and he nodded his head, irony lying heavily upon his features. ‘No longer,’ he said, ‘or at best, a prince without a land.’

Thulion stiffened. ‘Gondor will come,’ he said. ‘We’ll drive Angmar back into the bogs whence they crept. Once more they’ll be little more than the scum atop a midgewater pond.’

 ‘Gondor will come,’ Aranarth said wryly. ‘And Cirdan’s ship will find my father the King in the ice lands and bring him safely to Lindon, to march at the head of the splendid army of Elves and Men, at last uniting North and South in glorious cause.’

 ‘My lord,’ Thulion said in protest.

 ‘He will have another chance to claim the Kingship over both Kingdoms,’ Aranarth said bitterly, ‘and of course there will be none of Arnor to gainsay him, with so many dead, and perhaps influential lords of Gondor will conveniently die in battle to clear the way to the Throne...’

Bucca breathed a little too deeply and could not suppress a gasp of pain.

Immediately Aranarth leaned forward, taking up the hobbit’s hand. ‘Steady,’ he said. ‘Shallow breaths. I fear I made kindling of your rib bones when I stumbled over you in the wood.’

Bucca nodded. ‘M’lord,’ he breathed.

Aranarth’s lips tightened in what might pass for a smile. ‘They told me you’d be wakening soon,’ he said, ‘and so I am here, before I am swallowed again by pressing matters. I wanted to thank you for leading my brother’s family to safety.’

Bucca nodded again, at a loss for words. He wasn’t quite sure how one ought to speak to the heir to the King. His father would know, of course, and Tokka would have been easy, making a joke perhaps about how Kings put their breeches on one leg at a time. Of course, this Man was dressed in mail and tunic with a cloak thrown over all. He didn’t seem to be wearing breeches as it were, rather some sort of leggings made of leather and mail. Bucca thought it must make for uncomfortable sitting...

As if the Man read his thoughts, Aranarth’s lips lifted in a more genuine smile. ‘Very like,’ he said. ‘Tokka used to wear the same expression, just before setting an entire mess to laughter.’

 ‘Tokka,’ Bucca said eagerly, leaning forward despite the pain it cost him. ‘Tokka, is he with you? Did he come with the army? My people...’

 ‘Steady,’ Aranarth said again, settling the hobbit back against his cushions with a gentle but firm hand. ‘We know not who might have crossed the Lune, nor even what number might have been saved. Some are yet straggling in, having taken a northerly course around the Lake.’

 ‘But no Halflings among them,’ Thulion said. The son of the King flashed him a look of annoyance but the soldier stood his ground. ‘I will offer no false hope,’ he said, meeting Aranarth’s glance without apparent discomfort. ‘Bucca has been true in all his dealings with us.’

 ‘Would that you would offer the same courtesy to your prince,’ Aranarth said.

 ‘The King rode to the North,’ Thulion said. ‘I myself chose his guard, and they rode the swiftest horses in the realm. Angmar pursued the army, not the King.’

 ‘As Angmar prevents the King, if he lives, from retreating over the Lune to Lindon,’ Aranarth said.

 ‘Doubt you that the King waits even now? Art so eager to assume the crown, my lord?’ Thulion said softly, and the two men locked gazes as if they were alone in the room as some unspoken message passed between them.

Bucca moved restlessly, and the moment passed. Aranarth released the hobbit’s hand and rose with a pat to the shoulder. ‘Marshall your forces, my friend,’ he said, ‘that you may heal as quickly as your folk seem to do. I remember Marroc broke his foot and yet he was able to march less than a month later...’

 ‘It might have had something to do with the fact that he cared not at all for being carried like a babe in arms when the army was moving,’ Thulion said.

 ‘He wouldn’t,’ Bucca said involuntarily, and when the Men turned to him, he added, ‘He’s youngest in his family, you know, with more older sisters to worry him than you could shake a stick at.’

Aranarth chuckled and patted the hobbit’s shoulder once more. ‘Is that why he’s one of Tokka’s doughtiest warriors?’ he said. ‘And always out to prove that a Halfling is twice the warrior that any Man might be.’

 ‘That sounds like Marroc,’ Bucca said.

 ‘As soon as I have any word at all of the Shire-folk I’ll send to you,’ Aranarth said, ‘or Thulion here will.’

 ‘I will,’ Thulion said.

 ‘But for the moment I must go to see off the mariners who will brave the winter seas to rescue the King, who is caught between the claws of Angmar and the jaws of the northern ice,’ Aranarth said. 'Rest well, my friend, and heal. We will yet have need of archers, should Gondor come.'

 'Gondor will come,' Thulion said.

Aranarth's lips tightened, but all he said was, 'Come along, Captain. Let us not keep the mariners waiting.'