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Stirrings of Shadow  by Fiondil

22: Ierre

Wídfara looked about him, wondering where he was and how he had gotten there. He was standing in a field surrounded by tall grass undulating gently in a breeze that reminded him more of summer than the tail-end of autumn. There was the scent of grass and water and... something else.... something that seemed familiar, or at least welcome, but he could not quite place it.

He shrugged, not really caring. Turning slowly he saw nothing but the open steppes rolling forever to the horizon. He tried to recall what had brought him here. He remembered helping Lord Earntungol with the woman and then lying down to catch some rest. After that....

Something made him shy away from the memory and he shook himself, feeling suddenly afraid. Then the breeze wafted through his hair and caressed him and the sense of fear left him. He decided standing around wasn’t going to get him anywhere so he started walking, randomly choosing a direction. He headed toward the West, never realizing that any direction he might have chosen would have taken him into the West.

How long he walked he did not know, nor did he care. He felt lighthearted and lightfooted and the day was beautiful. Climbing to the top of a rise he stopped in amazement. There before him on an endless plain was a building, though Wídfara suspected that ‘building’ was too weak a word for what he saw. It was enormous, easily twice as tall as Meduseld and he thought perhaps that Edoras itself would be swallowed by it. The facade was of black marble flecked with gold. Fluted pillars held up the roof, forming a colonnade. He made his way towards the edifice, awestruck by its sheer size and beauty. Doors made of gold and mithril and crystal that formed a pattern of the Sun-in-eclipse slowly opened of themselves. Wídfara felt drawn to them even as the sight of them sent a frisson of fear through his soul. He slowly approached, suddenly reluctant, knowing, without knowing how he knew, that if he crossed the threshold he would somehow be forever lost. He swallowed nervously as he stood before the entrance and peered into the darkness beyond.

"Wither dost thou go, Child of Eorl?"

Wídfara turned around with a startled gasp and found himself facing...

The... man was tall, taller than Earntungol. He wore a simple knee-length sleeveless tunic of dark green silk split in the front and back for riding. The hem, slits and neckline were embroidered with gold and silver threads in a pattern of running horses. Underneath was a shirt of fine lawn with bloused sleeves dyed an olive-yellow. Over this was a deep rose and lavender-shot silver-grey robe of heavy brocaded silk open in the front with a high collar and coming to mid-calf. The sleeves were slit in three places and tight to the wrist so that the sleeves of the shirt showed through. The robe was trimmed all around with sheared mole fur of a shade that was closer to rose than brown. It was lined in a figured silk the same shade as his shirt. He wore olive suede leather leggings and black boots, which came almost to his knees. The tunic was belted and a sword hung from it, the scabbard made of black tooled leather. The hilt was of mithril with a single large emerald on the pommel. His long hair was blue-black and braided in an intricate pattern that reminded Wídfara of the Elves. His head was graced with a simple coronet of gold set with a single emerald cabochon.

Wídfara could only stand there and stare, fear beginning to creep into the marrow of his soul as he began to realize that perhaps things were not as they seemed. The... man stood there patiently waiting for an answer.

"Whither dost thou go, Child?" he asked again and now Wídfara found himself on his knees, trembling.

At that point, another... man appeared and Wídfara knew only awe. This person was as tall as the first, but lighter of coloring, his hair a rich auburn and flowing unbraided down his back. He wore a simple hunting tunic of dark green worsted wool with a linen shirt of unbleached muslin underneath. His leggings were undyed leather and his boots were made from black bear fur. Over all, he wore a greenish-grey hooded cloak that fell below his knees. It was trimmed with black fur and clasped at the throat with a mithril-wrought star set with a white opal. A mithril circlet set with a single white opal surrounded by four cut sapphires graced his head. A baldric crossed his chest and Wídfara saw that a mighty horn chased with gold hung from it.

"Why are you frightening the child, Námo?" the person said, speaking mildly and smiling kindly upon Wídfara, his hazel eyes warm with love for this Child of the Mearas.

Námo merely gave his brother Vala a considering look, amusement brightening his slate-grey eyes. "Is that what I am doing, Béma?" The Lord of Mandos deliberately addressed Oromë by the name by which he was known among the Rohirrim and had the satisfaction of seeing the mortal child’s mouth drop open.

Oromë ignored Námo, turning grave eyes upon Wídfara. "Dost thou know where thou art, my son? Dost thou not know the danger thou art in?"

"D-danger, lord?" Wídfara whispered.

Oromë nodded and Námo took over. "Thou standest before the doors of Mandos, son of Éonoth," the Vala said gravely. "Thou standest upon the threshold of Death."

Wídfara felt his eyes widen at that and stole a glance at the doors that stood open behind him, beckoning to him. He trembled as he stood up, feeling the draw of Death upon him. He looked again at the two before him, their expressions unreadable. "I-I don’t want to... to die," he finally said, his voice full of despair.

"Then why art thou here, Child?" Oromë asked softly. "Why dost thou linger? Shouldst thou not be among the Living?"

"I-I don’t remember the way back, lord," Wídfara replied.

"I do."

Wídfara turned in surprise to see Aragorn standing there, his arms open to receive the younger man’s embrace. "Earntungol!" he cried, hugging his friend. "Are you dead, too?" he asked in confusion as Aragorn hugged him back and held him.

The Dúnadan looked up at the two Valar standing there patiently watching and gave them a brief bow of the head in acknowledgment.

"Greetings, Estel," Námo said. "I am glad to see you have arrived in time to lead this child back to where he belongs."

"Lead me back?" Wídfara asked from the safety of Aragorn’s arms. "But we’re dead, aren’t we? We... I... th-the door..."

"Is that what thou truly desirest, Wídfara Éonothsson?" Námo asked, his eyes hooded. "To be counted among the Dead?"

Wídfara glanced up at Aragorn, confusion in his eyes. "C-can we go back, Earntungol?"

"If you so desire it, sweordbroðor," Aragorn answered and Wídfara’s eyes widened with shock at the epithet, for he did not think himself worthy to be addressed as such by one whom he held in great esteem.

Wídfara stepped out of Aragorn’s embrace and stared at him for long moments. No one moved, all waiting for the decision that the young man needed to make which would determine his fate. Finally, he nodded. "W-will you lead the way, lord?" he whispered, sounding uncertain.

Aragorn nodded and held out his hand. Without hesitation and without acknowledging the Valar standing behind him, Wídfara took Aragorn’s hand. And then everything changed....

****

"...how I found them, Captain."

That was Grimbold. Wídfara felt absurdly pleased that he recognized the gruff man’s voice. He was not sure what was happening, only that he seemed to be caught in another fit of coughing and someone was holding him.

"How is the lady?"

That was Captain Alric. Again, Wídfara felt immensely pleased with himself, though he was in misery from the coughing.

"She has merely fainted," Grimbold replied. "What of Earntungol? He was nearly as dead as Wídfara appeared to be."

"He’s alive and I think he is coming around," Alric commented.

Wídfara found himself frowning at Grimbold’s words, not sure what they meant, but too exhausted from the coughing fit to really care. His head was lifted and a goblet of water was pressed to his lips. He drank eagerly and felt strong enough to try to open his eyes to see Grimbold staring down at him, his face full of anxiety.

"Hello, Grimbold," the younger Rider said, or at least that’s what he thought he had said. It didn’t seem to come out right but Grimbold didn’t seem to mind, smiling down at him. Wídfara closed his eyes briefly, trying to remember what had happened.

"Wídfara."

The Rider opened his eyes again to see Aragorn kneeling beside him. "Earntungol," he whispered. "H-how did you find me?"

"It is a gift that has been given me," Aragorn said. "I-I was not sure it would really work. I have never had to call someone back from Death before."

"I-I am glad you did... sweordbroðor," Wídfara said somewhat shyly.

Aragorn smiled and bent down and kissed the younger man on the brow before straightening up. "As am I, sweordbroðor. As am I."

Neither he nor Wïdfara noticed the looks of surprise that were exchanged between Grimbold and Alric as they stood there listening.

****

Námo breathed a sigh of relief, then turned to Oromë, who watched his fellow Vala with faint amusement. "Thank you for helping me to distract young Wídfara long enough for Elessar to come and fetch him," Námo said.

Oromë nodded. "Why didn’t you just throw him back into Life as you’ve done with others whose time to leave the Circles of Arda is not yet?"

Námo shook his head. "Normally I would, but Eru decreed that the choice was to be his, and his alone."

"Yet, you did not wish him to cross into Mandos," Oromë stated, giving Námo a shrewd look.

The Lord of Mandos gave the Lord of Forests an elegant shrug. "No. I did not wish it." He smiled slyly. "Not that I’m not grateful... but why did you come just now?"

Now it was Oromë’s turn to shrug. "I have decided to call a Hunt and both Wídfara and Elessar are needed."

Námo raised an eyebrow in surprise. "A Hunt! You have not called one in over an Age, not since that incident with Glorfindel. Why now?"

Oromë grimaced and his voice went cold. "The Shadow is stirring. Soon our brother Aulë’s fallen servant will rise again... but he is not the only one."

Námo sighed. "No, he is not." Then he quirked an eyebrow. "Tea?" he asked, deciding to change the subject. "Vairë has made scones."

Oromë grinned. "Has she now?" He nodded. "Yes, I think I will join you."

The Lord of Mandos gestured toward the open doors, giving his brother Vala a short bow. Together they stepped across the threshold and the doors of Mandos closed silently behind them.

****

Ierre: (Adjective) Wandering, gone astray, confused.

Sweordbroðor: Sword-brother.





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