7. The threads of fate connecting

March 25th, 3019 T. A.

Waiting. The entire world seems to be waiting. An army camps to the north-west of Morannon. The fires of twisted long-dead branches burn into the night. They enlighten the pale faces and glistening eyes straying to the darkness behind the circle of flickering light cast by the flames. Creatures of shadows creep there, and their eyes shimmer with menacing light.

Six thousand. That much stands against the entire might of Mordor. A desperate move, the last one. They do not sleep. Who knows what lurks in the dark corners of dreams in this place? They do not speak. The words are distracting, when every one of them is alone in the presence of the others, with his own thoughts, concentrating on the simple feeling of living, because tomorrow, it may not be true any more. Is this the end?

I seek one face among those six thousand. He watches the dance of flames with an absent-minded expression. What paths does his mind wander tonight? All the threads of fate connect here. This is the last step of the journey. Oh Aragorn, as I watch your face, like carven stone in the light of fires, I have tears in my eyes. So much toil, so much hard work and suffering to achieve this while, this day when everything will be decided, when everything can come in vain in one wrong step, one wrong movement.

What will I see when the stars will rise on the sky tomorrow? Will I search for your face among six thousand dead? This is not a march to victory. It is a sound of marching feet to conceal the sound of two silent footfalls, nearing to the Mount Doom... It is an eagle flying bravely to the nest of a dragon, so that a sparrow might slip between its claws...

The sky was filled with wings. Dragons and eagles locked in deadly fight, feathers and scales swooping in thought-quick pirouettes, and then falling to the ground carried with the wind slowly and calmly like a lazy rain, while their previous owners crashed into each other fiercely, claw against claw, beak against flame. And above them, in that strange silence above the clouds, a white swan faced a huge black dragon, seemingly helpless against his terrible power.

The land around Mount Doom is barren and grey. It takes all my attention to spot the two small figures curled among the sharp stones. Even in sleep, one is embracing the other protectively. They are so thin.... Their lips are parched, and eyes sunken deep in their sockets. When I watch them, my heart bleeds. It feels so wrong to see them thus... They are no warriors. Almost like children they look from above....

The simple strength and courage of their spirit astounds me. It feels like something precious, something that I see close to shattering now, and it is so painful to watch. They know it already. They know what I knew when I sailed to the West. This is a journey without return.... And yet they struggle on... to save that piece of green land that is simple and pure, not for themselves any more, but for those who know nothing about the rings and high towers, for those who know nothing about their sacrifice....

With heavy heart I avert my sight from the lands below. For the first time in many years I look up, to Varda's stars that shine like silver blossoms on trajectories above my own, and to the emptiness behind the stars. Tomorrow, the fate of Middle-earth will be decided. Will the stars shine unchanged? If the darkness veils the lands, will it reach to the stars, and make them wander lost in thick shadow, or fall to the ground and shatter like broken dreams? Maybe it would be better, than to watch the line of Elros obliterated and all hopes being broken, Gil-Estel like a mocking sign of something that is no more....

No, no, there is still hope! There always is.... I see the fires behind the Black Gate, twinkling like many small red eyes into the darkness, while a big eye of fire looks down from the Dark Tower. The black mass of a huge army lies there; ready to crush the Heir of Isildur and those faithful to him. They do not know that he is faithful too, and to something else than the power of kingship and foolish pride to challenge the Dark Lord. To the light, to his friends, and to an oath made in a time that seems like an entire life ago. If by life or death I can save you, I will.... The mass of Mordor's army lies in Udûn, and the way to the Mount Doom is clear.... No, as Arien rises on the sky with the bright light of dawn and I must return to my haven, I still believe in hope....

The ship with swan-prow charged against the dragon bravely. Eärendil grabbed the shield, and exchanged the sword for one of his spears. He stood on the prow of Vingilot, and the ship obeyed his very thoughts, even without his hand on the helm. The wind swept his hair, and his helmet reflected the fires of Angband. The Silmaril was like a white flame, tearing the shadows with its clear light. But the shadow of the dragon was of thick darkness.

Ancalagon turned in the air to shatter the ship with his claws. Vingilot changed her direction in the last moment, avoiding the claws by mere inches. Eärendil waited for a chance to throw the spear. As if the dragon would know it, he turned cunningly, avoiding exposing any softer spots, like a knight in full plate armour.

Vingilot made a wide arc, and turned back to attempt another throw. But Ancalagon attacked first this time. Right before he could catch the swan's wing with his sharp teeth, she sank like a stone through the layer of clouds in the attempt to avoid him.

Before Eärendil could balance the ship and rise again, a column of fire shot after him. A cry of pain told the dragon that he succeeded, but before he could attack again, Eärendil evened the flight with clenched teeth, and rose above the clouds again.

The dragon did not expect that, and for a moment his belly was exposed to Eärendil's spear. It flew with full strength from the Mariner's hand. But the dragon's scales were thick even there, and the spear made only a shallow scratch, annoying the dragon more the harming him. Quickly Vingilot swept to the side and Eärendil reached for another spear.

So they danced together, a deadly dance in the sky through the long hours of night. The pristine white swan-ship was stained with smouldering traces of the dragon's flame now, and Eärendil barely stood on his legs, shaking with exhaustion and the pain from his burns. Three times he managed to throw a spear. First time he scratched Ancalagon's belly, but the second time he missed. The third spear remained embedded in the black wing, slowing the dragon slightly, but making him even more furious. Evil red light glistened in his eyes.

Now Eärendil's last spear was in his hand.

He bid Vingilot to fly like an arrow, right against the dragon, a white flame against a terrible shadow. The first ray of sun glistened on the Silmaril with thousands of reflections. Ancalagon's jaws clasped, but missed, blinded momentarily. Vingilot made a sharp curve in the last moment, and flew straight down, Eärendil's hair blowing in the wind. As the dragon turned to hit her with his tail, he uncovered his armpit. Eärendil's spear flew with deadly accuracy, the light of the Silmaril reflecting on its point like living fire.

The dragon roared in pain, and with a last thrust he swung his tail at the ship, to swipe down in his final moments the tiny Man who mortally wounded him. Eärendil managed to lift the shield, but the force of the blow broke his arm with a sickening crack, and sent him flying across the deck.

Through a red haze he felt himself falling... they were falling together – the black dragon and the white ship, entangled in deathly throes. An impact. It sent him across the deck again until the rail stopped him. He moaned in pain. But it was not the ground... He was not falling any more, but moving gently up and down, as though carried by the wings of a bird. Manwë's eagles... he realized dimly, as the force of another impact far belowshook Vingilot. The sound of crumbling stones, no, entire mountains, rose to the sky, but Eärendil no longer perceived it, rocked gently by the beats of eagles' wings.

***

When he woke, he found himself lying on the cot in his own cabin. He knew the feeling of smooth and even flight, and he knew that Vingilot was sailing among the stars again, guided by a steady hand. He opened his eyes slowly, and blinked a few times. Everything was blurry, but a fresh scent was in the air. A wave of pain assaulted him suddenly, as he became aware of his injuries, and made him nearly cry out.

Someone leaned over him then; he felt the presence of a Maia. The Ainu supported his head gently, and poured some sweet liquid into his mouth. It soothed the pain, and soon his sight focused on the Maia's face. It was Olórin.... Eärendil relaxed, and closed his eyes.

He woke a few times after that, and always the Maia was with him, washing his brow and holding his hand while Vingilot sailed to the West. Once he had the feeling that he heard the cry of a gull from his sleep, but his eyelids were too heavy to lift and the darkness too warm and inviting....

It was Elwing's face that he saw when he opened his eyes again. He was in a soft bed. After a while the memory came. The bed was his own, in Elwing's white tower.... She smiled at him, and he found himself smiling back weakly. The war was over. Morgoth was defeated....

I stand high in the tower, and let the East wind blow into my face. It toys with the eagle feather in my hair. It was Thorondor's gift, after that battle where he saved my life... And Éonwë has made a bow for me, from one of Ancalagon's black horns. It hangs in my cabin on Vingilot now, and dust falls on it. It was long ago, a great battle in another age of the world. But somewhere there, to the East, another battle is going on, and I do not know what is happening there. I wonder now: what is worse? Fighting myself, feeling the pain and exhaustion, dancing on the thin line between life and death, or this oppressive uncertainty? The silence... An expecting silence...

Suddenly the wind brings a change. It is fresh and clear, as if a great evil had passed,and the land breathed out in relief. It brings pictures of crumbling dark towers and bonds of darkness breaking, and above the vision, an eagle flies, and sings:

Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor,
for the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,
and the Dark Tower is thrown down.

Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard,
for your watch hath not been in vain,
and the Black Gate is broken,
and your King hath passed through,
and he is victorious.

Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West,
for your King shall come again,
and he shall dwell among you
all the days of your life.

And the Tree that was withered shall be renewed,
and he shall plant it in the high places,
and the City shall he blessed.

Sing all ye people!

Your King shall come again... There is a lump in my throat. Your King shall come again... How beautiful are those words...They did it! The hobbits fulfilled the quest that seemed almost impossible. Aragorn, my son, what seemed like a sacrificeturned to victory! You live, and you are victorious! Sing all ye people! Sing, for a great enemy is defeated, and light shines on the land again! Sing, for the line of Elros will bear the winged crown again! Sing, for the hobbits... Oh. Oh no... The hobbits! What happened to them? Did they survive? Could they survive? Sing... Oh yes, sing. But is the hymn a dirge for them? What will you tell me about them, messenger of Manwë? Why are you silent? Why don't you sing anymore?

The eagle looks at me, and like in a memory, I see Vingilot, supported by Thorondor and his eagles while a black dragon crashes to the ground. But the image changes. Two hobbits are carried out of fire in the claws of the eagles... I sigh with relief. Thank you, oh thank you, messenger of Manwë for coming to me in my uncertainty! For once, the message of my light was also for me. I believed in hope, and it fulfilled.... The Dark Tower crumbles, and the Tower of Guard stands proudly in the light of a new day. Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West!

The eagle's song - J. R. R. Tolkien: The Return of the King, Book VI, Chapter 5: The Steward and the King