Chapter 19. At the End of All Things*

Shortly after Merry became aware of movement, it stopped, and then he felt a hard surface under his back and the withdrawal of Éomer’s supporting arms. Opening his eyes, he saw healers and assistants closing in on the table where Éomer had laid him, and called, ‘Wait!’

Éomer turned. ‘I must not come belated to the Citadel,’ he said.

‘But I’m supposed to be there with you!’ Merry protested. He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder and gingerly turned his head to meet Frodo’s concerned gaze at his right side. His cousin must be standing on tip-toes to see above the edge of the tall table, some part of Merry’s mind said. ‘How ridiculous,’ he murmured aloud.

‘Not at all,’ Frodo said. ‘I believe the diary shows a prior commitment... that is, the King told you to wait here until his return.’

‘As does this King,’ Éomer affirmed. ‘It is my desire that you rest, Master Meriadoc, and suffer the attentions of the healers in these Houses, that I might find you well upon my return.’

‘Or at least find you better,’ Frodo said, and then he shifted to his most formal tones as he turned from his scrutiny of Merry to address the King of Rohan. ‘But I must beg a boon of you, Lord Éomer.’

Éomer gestured assent, ‘Whatever is in my power, Ring-bearer; that shall I endeavour to grant you.’

‘I have the strongest impression that I too must be on the spot to greet the Haradrim as they arrive at the Citadel,’ Frodo answered. ‘I’m not quite sure where it comes from, except that Gandalf said something this morning about being there without delay’.

‘And I’m coming with you,’ Sam asserted.

Frodo’s face brightened as his gaze found Sam, standing at Éothain’s side. ‘Of course!’ he confirmed. ‘And how glad I am to hear you say those words again.’

Sam blushed at his master’s praise, even as Éomer echoed, ‘Of course!’ and added, ‘We will ride together to the Citadel, even now,’ while gesturing to Éothain and the two Ring-bearers to follow him to the waiting horses. All hurried out of the room before Merry could protest any further, the hobbits almost running to keep up with the Riders’ long strides in light of the need for haste.

*** 

Faramir pulled up at the stables outside the walls of the citadel, where several Rohirrim stood holding the reins of lathered horses with both Gondorian and Rohirric trappings. As he slid from the saddle, he nodded to the Rider who stepped forward to seize the reins of his horse, then turned away to walk the last stretch to the entrance to the Citadel, taking deep breaths to steady his nerves as the weird ululations of the battle song heralded the approach of the marching Host. Two of the Periain – the two he’d first met at Henneth Annûn – waited at either side of the Seventh Gate leading to the High Court, standing alongside black-robed Guards stationed on both sides of the gate, and flanked by high-ranking Rohirrim. Faramir nodded to the Riders and Guardsmen, and sketched a respectful salute to one Ring-bearer, and then the other, as he passed the gateway. 

Guardsmen filled the Courtyard of the Tree, forming the living walls of a passageway leading to the Tower of Ecthelion, yet wide enough to allow the ranks of Haradrim to march unhindered. More were inside the Tower, Faramir knew, ostensibly an honour guard, put in place to pay tribute to the surrendering enemy combatants, though in their planning, he and Mithrandir had maintained other contingencies in mind, as well.

The sound of singing swelled behind him; reaching the entrance to the Tower, Faramir turned and, hearing echoes that bespoke the vanguard’s entering the lamp-lit tunnel leading up to the Seventh Gate, he shouted, ‘Sword – salute!’

With breath-taking precision, swords were swept from their scabbards and raised high, held aloft by their bearers, forming an open arch of glittering steel framing the passageway.

The battle song stopped suddenly, as if in response, and Faramir found himself holding his breath – until he saw the first of the marching figures enter the Courtyard, three tall Haradrim, two of them appearing to support the third between them, their bright robes drawing the eye so that he almost overlooked... Faramir fought a feeling of dizziness, suddenly remembered to breathe and, now, saw clearly the diminutive escort, two small figures walking hand-in-hand, as if on a rest-day stroll, with the leaders of the Host – walking, indeed, at a hobbit’s pace, for it seemed the vanguard of the Haradrim had altered their long strides to match those of their escorts. 

Swallowing down his wonder, Faramir spun on his heel. Entering the Tower, he repeated his recent command in a ringing shout, drew his own sword and held it high, and watched the massed Guardsmen’s shining blades spring free of their scabbards as he swiftly crossed the Hall to the dais. At the corner of his eye, he saw Mithrandir raise his staff in a similar gesture as Faramir took his place beside Elessar, who stood at the foot of the steps leading to the throne on the dais, though Andúril remained in its sheath.

And all seemed frozen, as if the Army of Gondor stood poised on the brink of some momentous instant in Time that would bring either victory... or calamity.

*** 

Weakened by his injuries and the long, uphill march, Ha’asal faltered as the vanguard of the Host entered a lamp-lit tunnel, leading ever upward. As if by unspoken accord, General Ha’alan and the Grand Ambassador of Harad broke off the battle song and moved inward to support him, the General grasping and lifting Ha’asal’s unbroken arm and ducking under, to take the younger Man’s weight upon his shoulders while the Ambassador steadied the aide from the other side. Somehow, they managed to maintain their marching pace... until they broke into the sunlight, their eyes dazzled by the glimmering Tower, shining like a spike of crystals, pearl and silver against the sky and crowned with the banner of the Tree and Stars, waving high above.

But their hesitation lasted only the briefest of moments, the time it took to draw a deep breath, and impelled by some force beyond their understanding, the Haradrim marched on.

Ha’alan scarcely recognised the Riders, standing proudly at each side of the gateway, without their fierce steeds. His mind was a blur of battle and memory, waves of horses breaking against the wall of Haradrim spearmen, loosing unnerving screams of fury and agony as their Riders slashed about with mighty swords until even the vaunted ironwood of the spears crumpled under the onslaught.

A touch on his hand brought him back to the present moment, and he faltered, then halted, feeling rather than seeing the Host come to a disciplined stop behind him as the battle song ceased, leaving only the sound of the wind, keening high above them.

The General looked down to behold... a Halfling, whom he recognised as one of those that had visited the encampments of the Haradrim in the company of the Gondorian King. The small hand nestled into his, much as a child seeking a parent’s reassurance, and yet there was nothing of the child in the face turned up to his. The wide eyes seemed to look inside him, piercing to his very soul despite his veil, perceiving his sorrow and the deep pain that encompassed his being, his failure, his loss and disgrace, his sense of doom and despair.

I know, those eyes seemed to convey. I understand.

And then a welcoming smile transformed the Halfling’s face, and the small hand returned the General’s instinctive handclasp, and the little one spoke, words of reassurance that belied the Haradrim's looming destruction. ‘Come. All will be well.’

And the General became aware of the other Halfling in that moment, not quite so tall and fair as his own greeter but equally bold as the shorter Ring-bearer tugged at the Grand Ambassador’s hand and said, somewhat incongruously, considering that these small beings had themselves wrestled with the Dark Lord – and triumphed! – ‘Come along then, there’s a good Ambassador.’

Ha’alan raised his eyes then, and his breath failed him. For it seemed to him that the better part of the Army of Gondor stood in the courtyard, swords raised to the sky. Would their doom fall upon the Haradrim, even before they entered the Tower and came before the Dread King, as they marched through the inescapable passageway left to them?

In deepening despair, he adjusted Ha’asal’s arm over his shoulders as his aide sagged further. ‘Not far now, my son,’ he whispered, ‘and we will find an end of all things, and peace beyond.’

But small fingers squeezed his other hand, and the gentle, encouraging voice at his side repeated, ‘All will be well. Now, come.’

As if in a dream, Ha’alan answered, ‘I come,’ and in response to the Halfling’s urging, began to walk again, and though he was now half-carrying Ha’asal along, he was easily able to manage the relatively slow pace set by the Halflings to either side of the three Men leading the Haradrim.

The Host of Harad moved forward under the open arch of shining Gondorian swords, taking half-steps now, constrained by the leaders’ choosing to match the strides of their diminutive escort.

Inside the Tower were more raised swords, too many to count in his dazed state, completing Ha’lan’s feeling of inescapable doom, but at another squeeze from the Halfling’s hand, he raised his head, straightened his spine and walked firmly towards the dais of many steps leading to the high throne – and the figures waiting there, though his eyes were drawn to the foremost figure; the others behind him and beside him seemed to fade by comparison.

He was clad in silver-girt black mail from which the interwoven mithril shone in a gleaming pattern that resembled spiderwebs, and he wore a long mantle of pure white clasped at the throat with a great jewel of green that shone from afar; on his head rested an ancient crown, shaped like the helms of the Guards of the Citadel, save that it was loftier, and it was all white, and the wings at either side were wrought of pearl and silver in the likeness of the wings of a sea-bird, for it was the emblem of kings who came over the Sea; and seven gems of adamant were set in the circlet, and upon its summit was set a single jewel the light of which went up like a flame.

Short of the dais, the leaders of the defeated host stopped in their tracks. Ha’alan heard the Host of Harad halt behind him though he issued no order to do so, a large part of the mass of warriors remaining by necessity outside the Tower due to the sheer size of the marching body, an eerie echo of the incident earlier in the day, when Haradrim had packed the space inside the crumbling ruins and more had crowded outside. It was as if, coming this far, reaching this point, they could go no farther, stopped by more than the mere limitations of space and time. As one, the Host halted, stood, breathed deeply, and waited.

Yet the White Sorcerer spoke no word, made no gesture, might have been taken for a statue if the General had not recognised him from the Final Battle before the Black Gate, still fresh and raw in his memory. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes as General Ha’alan watched the Grand Ambassador loose the smaller Halfling’s hand and step forward, to stand proudly before the Dread King. Bow though they might or even kneel in obeisance to their own rulers, the Haradrim were not the subjects of this Son of Númenor, and though he represented their deaths, they would not bend the knee to him, so long as they maintained their own free will and had breath in their bodies.

Death seemed to hover in the air as the General and the Host behind him watched the Ambassador slide his curved, shining blade from its scabbard, slowly, reluctantly, yet reverently. Then the Grand Ambassador raised the scimitar to his face. As he kissed the blade, he closed his eyes, and tears spilled from beneath his lids; not born of fear but, instead, sorrow at this forced parting from his lifelong companion, the impending loss of all honour as the Dread King accepted his surrendered weapon.

And then the Ambassador lowered the blade, opened his eyes, and shifted his grip so that now the razor-sharp curved weapon rested upon his palms as he extended the scimitar in defeat.

The air felt too heavy to breathe; Ha’alan swallowed hard, seeing the Dread King slowly unsheathe the long, infamous Sword that, if rumour was to be believed, had once been wielded in a past Age by King Elendil and had, by the hand of Isildur, the son of the King, cut the Ruling Ring from the Dark Lord’s hand. Now! his heart and mind cried within him. Now was the moment to swiftly draw his own weapon, giving the signal the Host was awaiting, to fall upon the Enemy and sing and slash and deal out death until he, himself, was cut down at last, or the Host were victorious. Yet at the same time the General of Haragost felt himself unable to move; moreover, the Host stood as if turned to stone behind him. 

But another reassuring squeeze pressed upon his hand and then released it.

The Halflings moved forward to stand beside the Gondorian King, yet a little apart, as if they were observers rather than mighty figures whose actions, in casting down the Dark Lord and defeating his vast armies, had ultimately set this scene in motion.

Ha’alan waited for the Dread King to order the Ambassador’s weapon seized, the Man of Harad bound, lifted, laid helpless upon the stone, the first of a Host of bloody offerings... The General blinked to clear his vision, blurred by the strong emotions surging within. Apart from the throne atop the dais, and the lower chair of black stone, standing upon the lowest step, he saw no other furnishing in the room, though perhaps the bloodthirsty stone slab lay hid behind the massed Gondorian Guardsmen. 

When no such command came, he fixed his eyes upon the fabled Sword gleaming in the Gondorian ruler’s hand, watching for the upswing that would signal the Dread King’s intention to slay the Grand Ambassador where he stood. He willed his hand, now freed of the Halfling’s clasp, to grasp the hilt of his weapon, to begin the slaughter of their enemies, but his nerveless fingers refused to obey him and he could not take his staring eyes from the tableau of King and Ambassador before him.

Ha’asal, who had been leaning heavily against him, stiffened and, with obvious effort, straightened himself to stand upright at the General’s side. ‘The Gondorian,’ the aide whispered. ‘He is the one...’ And looking more closely, the General now saw other details of the Gondorian King standing before them, details he had not seen before. Beneath the long white mantle, light-coloured dust sprinkled the black and mithril-girt mail. Moreover, the dark hair under the tall crown was not silvered with age, Ha’alan suddenly realised, but displayed the remains of plaster dust, too hastily brushed away and leaving a reminder of the crumbling ceiling that had showered a forewarning of danger upon the rescuers in that cramped space, some levels below them in the White City.

Utter silence fell upon all those present, broken only by Ha’asal’s audible intake of breath. In the same moment, Ha’alan saw what had galvanised the younger Man... the Gondorian King now mirrored the Grand Ambassador’s stance, his sword resting flat upon his upturned palms, and the Gondorian seemed to be offering the weapon to the Man of Harad!

*** 

At his master’s side, Samwise somehow managed to hold in his own gasp of surprise and recognition as the two Men, surrounded by their respective hosts, exchanged blades with one another. As of one accord, each then bent his head to his newly acquired weapon, making a close examination, running fingers along the shining blade, testing the edges; took hold of the hilt; swept the razor-sharp weapon in circles and other patterns, making it whistle through the empty air around himself, coming close to the Man facing him but neither flinching at the approach of the other’s blade nor menacing the other figure in this curious shared dance.

Dance was certainly an odd term, but it was the first thought that came to the gardener’s mind; yet it was soon overset by the memory of the bargainers in the encampment, as he sat upon a finely woven rug and sipped fragrant tea from a jewelled cup. The latter impression grew stronger as both Men finished testing the weapons’ balance and reach and made a move as if to sheathe the weapons they held... but the Haradrim weapon, wider than a Gondorian sword and curved into the bargain, would not begin to go into Elessar’s sheath, and while Andúril’s point could be slipped into the Ambassador’s sheath, the curve in the sheath, formed for a scimitar, prevented the sheathing of the better part of the shining blade.

The bargainers (for so Sam’s mind insisted on calling them) looked from one half-sheathed weapon to the other, and then their gazes met, and if his eyes did not deceive him, they shrugged at the same time, much as the bargainers in the encampment had indicated the impracticality of carting around all the worldly goods of the other Man in the bargain upon determining that the youngest (“and most precious”, Sam heard Galador whisper in his mind) children were too young to travel. However, unlike the bargainers in the encampment, King and Ambassador did not fall upon each other in an apparent wrestling match. O’ course, Samwise thought, such would have been highly impractical with each of them holding a deadly weapon!

With a ceremonial bow to each other, as if in answer to the hobbit’s unspoken thought, the Men at the centre of all eyes exchanged weapons once more, sheathed them satisfactorily, and clasped right hands together; and then, with his left hand, the Ambassador pulled his veil free, baring his face to the world. A rustle of robes heralded the actions of the rest of the Host of Harad as they followed suit.

‘Order swords!’ Sam heard Faramir shout, the order echoed as it was passed along to the Guardsmen in the courtyard and beyond, and soon all weapons had been hidden once more, and all the warriors, Gondorian and Haradrim alike, stood as proud and straight as before – but now, all hands were empty. 

*** 

With eyes unclouded by dread and the lies of the Mouth of Sauron, Ha’alan reconsidered the figure of the Gondorian King who stood before him. Tall as the sea-kings of old, the Man stood above all that were near; ancient of days he seemed and yet in the flower of manhood; and wisdom sat upon his brow, and strength and healing were in his hands, and a light was about him. And something deep in the General’s heart and mind and spirit broke within him and then, miraculously, reformed, fresh and light and healed and, at last, made whole.

*** 

At the sudden lightness in the air, which had seemed so dark and oppressive but a few moments before, Frodo laughed aloud, a pure sound of joy and relief that pierced the hearts of the Men in that place, and a mighty cheer arose from every throat.

And Elessar swept Andúril free and held the blade aloft, shouting, Praise them with great praise, Frodo and Samwise! For they have brought peace to the West, and new life and new hope! Long live the Halflings!

His words were echoed by Gondorians and Haradrim alike, each shouting in their own tongues, an echo of the celebration at Cormallen.

Even as his cheeks grew warm with the red blood blushing in his face – and a sideways glance revealed that Sam was in similar straits – Frodo couldn’t help thinking it a good thing that Pippin had not been there, during the ceremonial ritual that King and Ambassador had performed, for he could just imagine his young cousin pulling at his sleeve and asking in an all-too-audible whisper in the hush that had infused the Hall in those silent moments, ‘So when do you think the feasting will start? I’m perishing of hunger!’

*** 

A/N: Some descriptions or turns of phrase were borrowed from “The Breaking of the Fellowship” in The Fellowship of the Ring, along with “Minas Tirith”, “The Field of Cormallen” and “The Steward and the King” in The Return of the King by J.R.R. Tolkien.

*As mentioned in the chapter summary, not much more to go. Only one or two chapters, I think, to wrap up all the rest of the loose ends nicely, and then this one will be finished. We sadly and reluctantly said goodbye to our second Giant Schnauzer last Sunday, utterly beloved and deeply missed, and so this story is now dedicated to both Zoe and Panda, gone too soon.

***