IV

The curtain of the stars pulled back, allowing a new day to pass across the sky.  Clouds gathered, thick and white, blotting even the sun from view, and the crown of the mountains disappeared into their haze.  Cold winds danced around the stones and lifted the fine dusting of snow that lay atop the ice.  Another day of weakness and of suffering began, and the figure lain upon the peak of the mountain braced himself to count the hours once again.  Painfully the days passed and even more so the nights, when the bitter cold was all the more increased.  Despite his having been born of a race well used to the great stretch of time, each day seemed to last an eternity.  Yet he watched the skies with continued hope that one day something might come to alter his circumstances, even if it were Saruman’s orcs bringing a second death.

And then, that day, the Valar at last remembered him.

Staring at the white cloth of the sky, Gandalf beheld a speck, drawing nearer as he watched.  When the shape was close enough to make itself known, the wizard smiled weakly and, if he had had the strength, would have waved to the great bird swooping down towards him.  Whether sent by Radagast or perhaps by Aragorn or Elrond, the sight of Gwaihir brought a warm hope to Gandalf’s heart.

The eagle’s claw scratched against his skin, yet the grip was not uncomfortable and, as they took to the skies, was reassuringly firm.  It would have been easy to let sleep come, thought Gandalf, once they were on their way to Lothlórien, to release his mind for a while.  With luck he would sleep for a long while, lulled by the songs of the Elves, with Celeborn and Galadriel’s skills to heal his newly acquired form.  So fragile were these hroar, he mused, and he resolved to take better care of this new body, if he had the chance. 

For although the battle he had fought in Moria proved more taxing than any feat he had met in Middle-earth, Gandalf knew in his heart that greater deeds lay ahead.  A more perilous road twisted away from him and yet he could not see its end, nor indeed in which direction it led. 

Strange notes had entered the music of the world.  As he had lain, unclad, upon the mountain, Gandalf had no other companion but the natural rhythms of the world.  He had not listened to their song in a long time, for his human form made it more difficult to hear, but he had taken comfort from the voices of the rocks and land around him.  Though he noted the subtle change in their tune.  It was not enough to change the theme, not even enough to cause a discord, but it was there nonetheless. 

‘How I look forward to seeing the fences of Lórien,’ he said.  ‘My body needs rest, but my mind will only follow suit when I know where the pieces lie upon the board.  What news have you of Frodo?’

‘When last I saw the halflings,’ replied the Lord of the Eagles, ‘they had taken the road West.’

‘West?’

‘To Rivendell.  I saw them as I searched for you.’

‘Then they have turned back,’ mused Gandalf, his heart sinking.  A black mist seemed to fill his chest.

‘Perhaps they do not wish to fight in the Elvish war,’ said Gwaihir.

‘What Elvish war?’ asked Gandalf.  ‘Gwaihir, before we come to Lórien, you must tell me all that has happened.’

~*~

Celeborn had not felt the weight of armour on his shoulders for more than three thousand years.  Standing beneath the trees, alone in a clearing with the golden leaves drifting down to gather on the ground, he raised his sword and practised his strikes, as his body grew accustomed once more to being so heavily laden.  Annoying how sluggish his muscles had become.  No doubt to an outsider, the change would have been indiscernible and he would seem as sleek and fast as any Elven warrior, yet Celeborn felt the slowness in his movements.  It had been too long, he mused. 

Then with a sigh, he thrust his sword into the ground and walked away from it. 

‘Muilin dairador,’ he breathed.  ‘Will you not show me which is the proper path?’

He let the breeze wash against his face for a moment as he listened to the songs amongst the trees, though for once there was a drumbeat beneath the elves’ voices.  Celeborn grabbed his sword and swept towards a flight of wooden stairs, heading back up to the telain.  He passed over delicate walkways and hurried from platform to platform until he found himself above a clearing where part of the army had assembled. 

He came to the edge of the talan and stood with his arms folded, watching the young captain, Faelvallas, rap out his orders with unwarranted zeal.  They practised their formations and drills, trampling the leaves into the ground. 

Seeing Celeborn above the training ground, Faelvallas paused and saluted, though Celeborn waited a moment before returning the gesture, and he turned away immediately afterwards.

Heading up the next stairwell to the upper telain, Celeborn listened to the sound of regimented feet crushing the leaves.  Memories crystallised on the air before him.  Rarely had Lórien gone to war, but those few occasions were all too vivid in his mind.  Except that Celeborn did not remember the shining armour and the rousing chants quite so much as the carpet of death that covered the hills.

He did not dare look to the future any more, for he found it hard to separate those images of the past from his imaginings of days to come.

~*~

Faelvallas appeared suddenly before the Hobbits, having moved soundlessly through the woods to their pavilion.  He stood with his helm in the crook of his arm, his face far sterner than the others of his kin they had met in Lórien.  All but Frodo looked up at him with tired, slightly anxious expressions as he surveyed the group like a crow picking out a scrap to eat.

‘I am in command of your escort,’ he announced.  ‘Lady Galadriel has charged me to protect you, and see you safely back to your Shire.’

‘That’s very kind,’ replied Merry, with a dour yet respectful nod.

Faelvallas almost seemed to flinch. It took a moment before the Hobbits realised he was trying to smile. 

‘If you would gather up your things then,’ he said.  ‘The rest of the guard is waiting.’

He turned with military abruptness and disappeared into the trees.  After exchanging a few glances, the company gathered up their packs and followed the same path, with Aragorn walking slowly at the rear, his head low.  Sam, once or twice, gave Frodo a slight nudge at the elbow as they walked along, and then smiled encouragingly, but Frodo looked frequently over his shoulder as they drew farther away from the city.

‘I wonder,’ Pippin said conversationally, ‘how easy the journey will be with an escort?  I’m hoping it’ll be quicker, with less to challenge us.  I mean, if we have a couple of Elven soldiers with us to see anything nasty off…’

‘Not a couple,’ muttered Merry, as they reached a clearing amongst the mellyrn.  Ahead was a field of gold, or rather it was a pincushion of gold, for nothing moved.  Perhaps two hundred elves stood in tight ranks, completely still, their faces more emotionless than corpses.

Sam stared open mouthed.  Merry whistled and shook his head.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘that should see us home safe.’

‘Are they all for us?’ asked Pippin, looking up at Captain Faelvallas, who stood with an icy aura beside the group.

‘Of course,’ replied the captain.  ‘Lady Galadriel will honour her promise and ensure that you get home.’

‘Seems a large part of the army to send with only five people,’ remarked Aragorn.

Faelvallas made another smile-grimace.  ‘The Lady sets a high price on the liberty of the Shire,’ he replied.  ‘Come.  We have many miles to cross.’

‘Which way will we be going?’ asked Pippin, hurrying to keep up with Faelvallas, as the captain marched to the fore.  ‘We can’t go through Moria.’

‘I am aware of that,’ snapped Faelvallas.  ‘We will take the high passes.  We know the way, and the safe routes.  You need not trouble yourself.’

He barked orders in his native tongue and walked away.  Pippin watched him go and suddenly was surrounded by noise as the soldiers jerked into life.  Aragorn stepped up behind him and set a hand on his shoulder, muttering a quiet reassurance as he led the Hobbit back to the others.

Still, as he turned away, the Ranger threw a wary glance towards their ‘allies’.

~*~

Legolas strode across the stone bridge, with the Forest River gossiping gently below.  He had almost reached the steps on the far side when he realised he was alone.  Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Gimli standing by the edge of the bridge, looking at his feet with a sombre frown.

‘What is it, friend?’ asked the elf, almost bemusedly.  ‘We have been on the road for days, and taken longer routes than we could in times of peace, and now we have only a few more steps to endure before we are in warm halls full of light and laughter.’

‘Aye,’ muttered Gimli, ‘there is that.’

‘Then what halts you?  Come, my father’s scouts spotted us ere we entered the wood, and will have told him we are coming.  There will be a feast already laid for us.’

Still Gimli did not move. 

‘What is it?’ Legolas asked him again.

Gimli took a deep breath.  ‘I’d hardly like to offend.  It was a kind thing to offer me hospitality here.’

‘A kind thing were we strangers,’ laughed Legolas, ‘but for companions, this is a duty!’

‘But I would not want to put you in bad stead with your father,’ Gimli admitted, then mumbled into his beard.  ‘I hear he does not have much liking for Durin’s folk.’

Legolas smiled and shook his head.  ‘Such things are rumour, spawned from mistake.  I know of what happened with your father, but I thought that matter had been settled.’

‘Aye, so it was,’ said Gimli.  ‘But since then I have heard stories.’

‘And they were naught but stories.  For even if my father might distrust your kin, he has faith in his own.  Whomever I call friend, he will welcome.  Now come, and then you can return to Erebor with tales of the friendship of the Elves!’

Gimli took a cautious step onto the bridge, as if it was made of paper.

‘There is venison,’ said Legolas.  Gimli glanced up.

‘And mead,’ the elf continued.  ‘And several different sorts of wine.’

The Dwarf overtook him and walked on towards the grassy plateau and the great gates of Thranduil’s palace.

A pair of guards in pale green robes met them at the entrance and led them down a narrow passage into the Great Hall.  Gimli stayed close to Legolas’s heels.  He peeked out from behind his friend and saw a wide, pillared chamber and up ahead a throne, where sat a figure with long silver hair and a crown of autumn leaves.  He rose and approached them, opening his arms to embrace his son.  No words passed between them, but Thranduil and Legolas hugged briefly and held each other’s hands for a moment.

‘Welcome home,’ Thranduil said quietly at last, then with the remnants of the glow from his reunion still on his features, he looked down at Gimli.

‘This is my friend,’ Legolas told him.  ‘Gimli, son of Glóin.’

Thranduil nodded.  Gimli stared back, seemingly undecided as to whether he should glower in defiance or implore for a welcome.  But after considering him for a while, the Elvenking gave a slight bow with his hand against his heart.

‘Then you shall be our honoured guest, Gimli son of Glóin, and again such errors that were made in years gone by might be set aside.’

‘Very kind,’ muttered Gimli, blushing slightly as he realised the Elves all around the hall had turned to look at him.

‘Bring food,’ Thranduil ordered, then turned to Legolas with a slight shadow in his eyes.  ‘And we shall talk, for I feel there is little time to waste.’

Legolas bowed, then followed his father to the throne. 

Another elf stood waiting there, arms folded and a stern but not unpleasant frown on his face.  He remained still until Thranduil and Legolas reached the throne, then he stepped down to meet them, patting Legolas gently on the arm.

‘Well met, brother,’ he said.  ‘And once again, the Valar are to be praised for your safe return.’

‘We may need prayers yet, Sadron,’ replied Legolas.  ‘I come with grave news from Lórien.’

‘There have been rumblings,’ mused Thranduil.  ‘Strange whispers from the Golden Wood, tales of our cousins and mysterious armies.’

‘They are more than whispers.  Lady Galadriel holds that which was thought lost.’

Thranduil’s eyes widened slightly and he quickly finished his wine, before calling a butler across for more.  ‘How?’

‘In Imladris, I was shown it.  I was charged to aid the bearer in his quest to destroy it.  At first our purpose was to travel to Mount Doom and there see it returned to the fires, but in Lórien that purpose changed.  Lady Galadriel feared for our success, pitted against the armies of Mordor, and after much debate has chosen to bear the burden herself.  When I left they spoke of fortifying the north against the Dark Lord’s incursion.’

‘It cannot be done,’ said Sadron.  ‘With spies and minions behind every tree.  They would eat any alliance from within.’

‘So Galadriel said,’ Legolas continued.

‘Much credit must be given,’ added Thranduil, with a solemn glance towards his elder son.  Sadron looked thoughtfully back.  ‘The Lady is no fool, and will have made plans.’

‘She has,’ Legolas told him.  ‘At this moment she is amassing an army to march on the enemy’s fortress, his sanctuary within this wood.  But she has sent me here to seek aid from you, and my friend Gimli will tomorrow leave for Erebor to seek aid from the Dwarves too.’

‘It will be no easy battle,’ said Thranduil, shaking his head.  ‘Dol Guldur may be a pimple against the vastness of this forest, but in that pustule is concentrated evil, foul things that are the stuff of nightmares, and strong magic.  We are few, Legolas.  We do not hide in this cavern because we love to live as Dwarves; we hide because we must.  Your grandfather led us when last we went to war, and ne’er returned.  Nor did most of our kin.  We are not strong enough now to oppose Sauron.’

‘But we would not be alone,’ argued Sadron. 

‘Amdir’s legions were cut down in great number too.’

‘But they have the enemy’s power,’ said Legolas.  ‘And if we attack in concert with them, then the enemy’s forces will have to divide.’

‘It will require greater thought than this,’ concluded Thranduil.

‘I am willing to lead,’ Sadron told him.  ‘If it means freeing the Wood at last, and shaking off the darkness…’

‘We must think,’ Thranduil insisted, taking both his sons by the shoulder.  ‘We cannot decide to go to war on the basis of one conversation.  I will need my council, and my friends, and Legolas, you must come and tell us all you know of Galadriel’s plans.’

~*~

Fires flickered all across the mountain ledge, throwing soot-black shadows against the grey stone, like bloodstains on the rock.   Merry, Pippin and Aragorn sat around a meagre campfire, with Frodo and Sam a short distance behind them, sitting against the boulders.  Pippin glanced frequently at the far larger blazes where the soldiers cooked their food.  Then he looked down at the pathetic flames licking at his pot.  At the same time, a cold breeze whined around the pass and stung his ears.

Luckily the Elves had kept their promise, and had chosen a fairly easy route so far, in that nothing had attacked them and they had kept to the more sheltered paths, avoiding the thick snows that capped the mountains.  Yet the ledges were narrow and crumbling, and Pippin could not help but wonder if the precarious passes were truly up to the thundering march of hundreds of Elves.  Still, he thought, Legolas had been light footed, so perhaps these Elves, despite the noise of their chants and songs, moved gently as well.

Only Faelvallas did not rest, or at least sit by the fire.  He wandered around the ledge, which sat between two peaks, so that the high walls gave some shelter from the wind.  His hands were clasped behind his back and he scanned the many faces, his gaze lingering particularly over the Hobbits.  Perhaps he had not seen their kind before, thought Pippin, but it was still unnerving and just a little rude.

Faelvallas, in return, noted the dark tinge to the Hobbit’s look and moved on through the shadows, constantly listening for sounds amongst the rocks.  He breathed out and his armour moved like a second rib cage.  Once again his hand returned to the hilt of his sword and he imagined the clear, pristine sound the weapon would make as it was drawn from its scabbard.

‘The scouts have returned,’ reported a lieutenant in Sindarin, rising from his campfire as he saw the captain approach.  ‘We should be in Imladris in good time, and with luck the road to the Shire will be equally unhindered.  Perhaps we shall not be needed there…’
 
‘I doubt that,’ replied Faelvallas.  ‘There will be many battles ahead of us.  We are not singled out from the fray.  We are chosen to tackle a fight of our own, one that will decide the fate of Middle-earth perhaps.  There will be glory to be had.  Our names will be carved beside those of Fëanor and his kin for this.’

The lieutenant glanced towards the Hobbits.  ‘And them?

Faelvallas shrugged.  ‘All they care about is their precious Shire.  They cannot see the greater good that land might serve.  But what does it matter?  When the first blood is spilled on their lush green fields, they will fight.  I guarantee it.’
 

~*~
Notes

Muilin dairador – Doriathrin – ‘Shadowed is the land beneath the trees’.