Aftermath and Reunion

As Ardugan passed on beyond the vale of living men, so did others leagues to the south on the edge of the forest.  Mardil’s cavalry had quickly regrouped after the ruse of the swifts.  The center formations now charged hard against the Eastern barbarians.  Flanking wings, once little more than random bucking stallions, now swept towards panicking orcs, milling confusedly a hundred yards outside the arms of the forest.

Beneath these charging hooves the lives of many orcs and Easterners were snuffed out.  Fully a third of their numbers fell.  The forces of Dol Guldur lay stunned and wounded on the plain.  Gondor’s cavalry had passed roughly through their ranks, now taking position between the disarrayed orcs and men and the walls of the forest. 

But it was not another charge that came to pass.  Instead the horsemen spurred their mounts on, parallel to the forest at first, then carving a great circle around their prey.  Faster and faster they rode, forming an impenetrable barrier of flying hooves between the beleaguered forces and the dark forest’s sanctuary.   

Now it was slaughter.  The riders pulled lances from their deep leather pouches.  Angry arms hurled pointed death at hapless targets, one after another.  As the orcs and Easteners fell, the ring gradually tightened.  High above another death rained down as the eagles dropped from the skies.  Each selecting their marks, they struck with violent speed, pointed talons tearing at the faces of Zeorn’s wolves, blinding them, ripping flesh away in ragged clumps.  Horribly wounded, the bleeding beasts howled their agony, then attacked at random, seeking retribution for their pains, inflicting further chaos on the shrinking ranks of men and orcs, within which they were trapped. 

Drazakh was no fool.  His dark gimlet eyes surveyed the scene before him.  To the south, the orcs, fractious and disorganized at the best of times, had lost all semblance of battle discipline.  The riders were quickly cutting them down.  A few minutes and they would be a pulpy memory under the hooves of the big steeds.  His own men had paid dearly.  The surprise charge and the hail of lances from the encircling cavalry had reduced his effective force to about two hundred.  With the circle narrowing, the riders were now three, four, even five deep where once they were strung out in single file. 

“Bavuk!!  Zeorn!!” he roared above the shouts and cries of the battlefield.

The short swarthy form of his subcommander appeared, blood oozing from a gash in his face and a puncture wound in his thigh.  The Wolfmaster followed soon after with a handful of wolves in his trail, whining and snapping.

“We must attempt a breakout now or die on this plain!  Zeorn , “Are these whelps still fit to fight or are their tails stuck between their legs!”

Zeorn glowered at him.  “They are all that remain unblinded…and they will fight!”  He turned and emitted a harsh inhuman cry while savagely kicking one of the wolves.  They backed off a bit, snarling, showing their teeth, eyes lit with anger.

“Good! Now, Bavuk.  Quickly, get as many of the lances as you can.  I don’t care if they are still stuck in living flesh, just get them!  Form the men in the grazkk, lances on the outside.  Zeorn! Bavuk’s men will charge, hurling the lances.  Men and horses will fall.  Those behind them will charge into them, stumbling and falling.  Let your wolves make for their intended prey.  Before they can close the circle again, many may escape to the forest’s edge!”

In moments they were ready.  The Easterners had coalesced into a tight wedge formation, the grazkh.  Bavuk shouted the order and they moved en masse directly towards the cavalry thundering past, still hurling fresh lances.  Then at once they released their own darts.  Horses and men screamed as the spears found home.  Swiftly moving horsemen immediately behind could not stop and plowed into their badly wounded comrades, trampling some.  The handful of wolves made their charge, some leaping onto struggling horses, others ripping at the throats of dismounted cavalrymen.

With a roar the men in the grazkh formation surged forward through the temporary gap in the cavalry encirclement.  Ten, twenty, thirty were through, pressed on by the desperate mass behind them.

But now additional cavalry were streaming in, part of the inexorable circle of hooves and armor.  Just over fifty had made the breach when a wave of horsemen closed the gap, crushing dozens of bodies along with any hopes of escape.  The noose was closed again.

A battle signalman rode up breathlessly to Mardil, astride his mount on a slight rise, looking down to the north on the doom his men were about to deliver.

“Steward! A small group has broken through, making for the forest!”

He looked to the skies.  It was getting dark, the light fading fast now.  He could just make out the retreating flight lines of the eagles as they soared north away from the battlefield.

“Let them go…we have other matters at hand.”  He turned to Perrian, “Finish it captain…and take care that no others see the light of day tomorrow”

The Steward’s face was cold, grim, implacable.  Perrian saluted and rode out into the circling ranks, shouting orders to unit commanders as they passed his position.  A savage roar burst out from the throats of the horsemen, none of which had any desire to be encumbered by the useless baggage of prisoners slowing them down on the way home.

Something caught Mardil’s eye far to the north, a flicker of light, the distant rumble of thunder.  The wind gusted up suddenly on the plain, dust swirling.  Then the rains came, gentle at first, increasing steadily to a downpour, drowning out the cries of the orcs and barbarians as they met their fate.

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The same heavy rains pelted the dome atop Dol Guldur, spilling in through the dome’s opening to the sky at its pinnacle, pooling on the floor below.  There four figures hovered about the still form of a fifth, eyes closed, a peaceful smile gracing his face.

“Is he…? “Arahael whispered, still catching his breath.  Yards away the young drake he’d slain was twitching its last in a widening pool of its own blood.

Aranarth looked up at his son from his kneeling position beside his brother.  The scowling, grim countenance had retreated to grief’s advance.  Tears glistened, tracking down in ragged tracks through his unshaven face. 

“He is gone, Arahael….”  He replied hoarsely, throat caught with loss.

Gandalf rose slowly as Haldir approached quietly, sensing the need for the men of the Dunedain to have some privacy.  The wizard gestured that they step aside to speak.

“We can do no more for him, Haldir.  But the others need our aid” He pointed to Hagar, still insensate at the far wall, Arthed, struggling to get to his feet, Eradan, sprawled near the body of the great wolf and Drianna, face tight with pain as she managed to a sitting position despite broken legs.

Dusk met the rainy night as wounds, both physical and emotional, were bound as best as could be managed.  Gandalf spoke a few words and the tip of his staff began to glow as it had during the fight with the spiders.  This time around there was little fear of discovery with Sauron’s exit. 

Just as the last shred of gray light left the sodden sky the form of an eagle glided in low and sure from the south through one of the open arches of the rotunda.  Circling once over their heads, it confidently luffed its wings, scattering drops of rain, picking a landing point next to Gandalf.  The wizard went to one knee beside the raptor, it beak still red with the blood of the wolf it had torn into a half hour before.  He nodded silently in response to its series of low whistling cries and keyas.  A growing smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.  He reached into the small pouch slung over his shoulder, extracting a small piece of parchment, a stylus and a length of blue ribbon.

He inscribed something on the paper, then wrapped it securely within the cloth strip and bound it about the eagle’s right talon.  A whisper to the eagle and the great bird launched itself upward wheeling about the dome once, twice, building speed, before making exit to the blackness of night and rain through the same southern arch it had entered moments before.   

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They spent the night in the sorcerer’s lair, not by choice, but by necessity.  Battered and bruised, laid low by serious wounds and the loss of life, they were in no condition to attempt a descent of the Stair in the depths of the stormy night.

Dawn broke clear.  The night’s weather had retreated over the eastern horizon. The sky molted from black to purple, then to a deep azure as the sun rose bright and true.  A freshening wind from the northwest flushed the stench of the dead reptiles from the dome.

Aranarth’s massive stocky form was framed under an east facing arch as he stood, brooding, arms folded.  He had been there for hours, unable to sleep after wrapping his sprained ankle sufficiently to bear weight. 

The others had wakened, stiff and sore.  Drianna had slept little, her legs wracked in pain.  Arthed shared her fate, face drawn and haggard, shoulder rent and torn from the drake’s savage attack.  Hagar had come to with a ferocious headache, but otherwise intact physically.  His face told another story, older suddenly, soberly assessing the twisted remains of the dead drakes sodden in sticky pools of their own blood. 

Eradan was at his sister’s side, stoically ignoring his own bruises and aches, which were legion.  Haldir and Gandalf were amongst them all, tending to wounds, whispering encouragement, readying all for the descent.

A figure approached Aranarth hesitantly, sensing the man’s solitude, respecting his thoughts.

“Join me son…” Aranarth’s voice took him by surprise, he was still thirty paces away.

“How did…” Arahael started, now within reach of his father.

“I know the rhythm of your step, son.  You will see, now that it is your time.  The Wild teaches you lessons about sound and smell, light and shadow.”

“The others will soon be ready, father.”

Aranarth now turned.  The face was unfamiliar, not the unusual scowl or grimace of disapproval.  His heavy square jawed countenance was a curious blend of sadness, acceptance and quiet satisfaction.  Something had been lost, yet another gain had been made that settled a deeper hole within him.  He laid a meaty palm on Arahael’s shoulder, drawing him close.

“You have done well son.  Soon you will be Chieftain of the Dunedain.”

Arahael’s eyes widened, his mouth opened as if to respond, but Aranarth interrupted, bracing his hands on his son’s shoulders.

“Listen to me.  I have followed your progress from the earliest days at Rivendell.  Though I was long absent, there was little that I did not know.  Your training was proscribed from the beginning to set you on the lonely path that is your destiny as it has been mine.  Doubt cloaked you when we left Lord Elrond’s sanctuary.  You had not been tested, yet you were in the company of those who had met and overcome adversity.  The true test was not of sword and blood, but of besting yourself, casting aside doubt and acting when action called.  None will follow a man who has not first met the trial of his own making.”

For the second time Arahael saw tears well up in his father’s eyes as the man clasped him  and hugged him close, then stood apart from him, an unaccustomed smile upon his face.

“You will have a son some day.  I feel it though I am no wizard to know all.  The boy will be proud of his father.  And his grandfather will abide with him in the years to come, reminding him of his heritage, the duties that he will inherit from you, and the strengths you have.”

Now it was Arahael’s turn to blink away the moisture in his eyes.  Still Aranarth spoke.

“Let us join the others as you bade me.  Save the elf and the wizard you alone still bear full strength and it will be needed if we are to make our way safely back.”

Arahael nodded in assent and the two of them walked away from the open arch, back into the heart of the dome where preparations were underway.

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It was the better part of the day for them to make their awkward descent down the Hidden Stair.

Eradan and Haldir took turns carrying Drianna, her broken legs painful and useless.  Hagar served to support Arthed, still swaying with the pain of his ravaged shoulder.

Aranarth insisted on taking Ardugan’s still form, heavy over his powerful shoulders, ignoring the pain of his wrenched ankle, though little begrudging Arahael’s frequent assistance.  Gandalf took the lead, still wary of what remnant orcs might cause trouble.

But of orcs there were no sign and by mid-afternoon they had reached the base of the Stair, tired and worn.  As the lasts of the steps slid invisibly back into the rocky face, Haldir paused, lifting his head, sensing the air, scanning the eaves of the forest which crowded close to the side of the mountain.

“It is different, though only a day separates our passage at this point.”

Indeed, although the signs were small, they were significant.  The greasy black lianas with the ghostly blossoms hanging from the trees were beginning to brown and curl.  The vines were drying in gray patches.  The slimy molds and mosses were sloughing off the trees and rocks, plopping noxiously like dead limbs as they hit the forest floor. 

“Bereft of His presence, many of His unnatural creations now lack the ability to survive”  Gandalf observed

“Then we may yet see the return of Greenwood’s glory” Haldir replied, optimism in his voice

“It is too soon to tell, Haldir’, Gandalf cautioned, “Much harm has been done and not all evil can be expunged.  Some things of His may find sufficient purchase to last well beyond the reach of His power.  It may be many a year before these woods are a place of welcome.”

Aranarth approached the two of them, favoring his one good ankle.

“We have not the strength to reach the first dolmen before nightfall” His voice betrayed an unaccustomed resignation and weariness.

Gandalf well knew of what he spoke.  Arthed was slumped on the ground, back propped up awkwardly against the rocky flank of the mountain.  His face was ashen, his tunic wet with blood still seeping from the deep bite wounds the young drake had imparted.  Eradan knelt beside Drianna, utterly spent, having carried her limp form down the entire Stair.  Thanks to a hastily conceived potion by the wizard and Haldir, she had settled into a temporary sleep, her face no longer framed in pain, just lolling amidst her red and gold tresses, now in total disarray.

Arahael stood watch over his fallen uncle, whose dead countenance bore the simple bliss of an unknown hand of welcome from beyond this world.  Hagar stood by Arthed, his eyes still not fully focused, his concussed head still spinning from the impact of the dragon’s mighty tail that had hurled him across the dome.

“We have but to reach the main trail, Aranarth, through the passage your brother Arthed hacked yesterday afternoon.  Help is on the way even as we speak.”

“Help? What help comes to our aid in this dark corner?” he replied tiredly.

“Come, gather the others.  Trust in the good fate your efforts have borne.” Gandalf smiled and gently pressed his hand on the grizzled chieftain massive shoulders, beginning to sag with accumulated grief and exhaustion.  Aranarth nodded absently and hulked off to the others.  Slowly they gathered themselves, then made way single file through the narrow passage until they reached the relative openness of the main trail along Dol Guldur’s western side.

For a moment they stood there, those that could, looking expectantly in Gandalf’s direction.  Then Haldir perked up, eyes alert to the south where the trail tunneled off to the south into the gloom of a Mirkwood afternoon.

“Something comes.”  The elf went to his knees, gingerly pressing his ear hard to the coarse gray grass. “Horses…at least two score, moving fast, less than half a league away!”

Aranarath and Arahael drew their swords.  Eradan released Crusher from its position strapped to his side.  Hagar, still dizzy, managed a long knife, his black sword destroyed the night before.  Haldir, though, stood unarmed, a smile broadening on his face.

“This is no time for mirth Haldir” Aranarth growled.  “Draw your sword.  We can scarce defend ourselves as it is!”

“It is not defense that beckons, Aranarth.  The signature gait of these steeds is that of Gondor, its cavalry at full gallop.”

“Haldir speaks true, Aranarth,” Gandalf replied, “Put aside your weapons lest you alarm the Steward’s personal guard.  Look…down the path!”

It was a smudge of milk against the dim gloom.  Then larger, a creamy shifting blur that resolved itself into an advance guard of charging horses, snowy white, with men in silvered armor and flowing capes.  The ground shook with the pummeling of the hooves.  Aranarth sheathed his sword, the others following his example, as the first of the riders arrived.

Their faces widened in astonishment at the entourage before them.  An old bearded man in a pointy hat, a blond haired man of the north, an elf, cool and appraising.  Then the others, an older man clad in light mail over leather, glowering at them, standing next to a younger man with auburn hair, similarly clad.  On the ground next to them the still form of another.  Then to the rear they spied two more, a man, bruised about the face, clad in nondescript clothing and mail, kneeling next to the silent form of a young woman with golden hair streaked with crimson.

“Eradan!” the lead rider cried, quickly dismounting and running to his side, ignoring the others.

The Steward’s son looked up, managing a small smile in a face cast with exhaustion and concern.

“Pellor…how…”

“The Steward received word at nightfall, a message borne by an eagle.  We have ridden a good ten leagues through this cursed forest.  Your sister…she is…?”

“Badly hurt, but sleeping for now thanks to the arts of Gandalf and Haldir.” Eradan nodded in their direction. 

Now the rumble of a larger company of cavalry shook the earth.  Eradan looked back along the trail to see perhaps forty riders, armored and caped as well, the Steward’s personal guard.  A familiar face was in the lead, grave, aristocratic, clearly in command.  The man reined in his horse, signaled to several in the party, then dismounted and strode over.  Eradan rose to greet him.  The two of them embraced briefly. 

“I had despaired of ever seeing you alive again, son” Mardil’s voice was husky, tight with emotion.

“Had I but followed your command to stay on the west bank of the Anduin those many weeks ago you would have scarce need of despair.  And Drianna would be happily hunting boar in the White Mountains.”

“Do not scourge yourself, Eradan.  An old evil has been driven out of these lands, at least for the while.  Perhaps it was your fate to be lured into his trap, forcing us to take action.”

“Fate has been costly, father.  My men are dead.  Drianna’s legs broken.  Ardugan has fallen, his brother Arthed grievously wounded.”

“The Surgeon and his attendants are seeing to them even as we speak, Eradan.  We have several horses rigged for the wounded, others for those able to ride on their own.”

Indeed the area was a beehive of activity as the Surgeon directed his men to put fresh dressings on Arthed’s seeping shoulder.  Another applied salve to minor cuts and scrapes on Aranarth and Arahael.  Hagar’s scalp, crusty from dried blood after the spider attack, received a cleaning and fresh bandage.  Ardugan’s still form was reverently carried off to a horse with a framework specially designed to carry the honored dead.

The Surgeon himself worked on Drianna, cutting away her leather trousers, examining the breaks in her legs, which were now swelling ominously.  Mardil and Eradan joined him, noting the concern etched on his face.  Two attendants arrived with splints and wrappings.  Another brought small jars of ointments and a cloth roll containing a series of sharp knives and other implements.  The Surgeon rose and spoke to the Steward and Eradan.

“Two breaks in her left leg, one in the right, all clean.  But hours have passed since the injury.  We can splint the legs well enough and the bones should mend, but steps must first be taken to reduce the swelling.  She will wake to pain and it will not soon leave.”

“Make it so, Surgeon, we cannot tarry here long.  It will be at least two hours ride returning to camp.”  Mardil ordered.

A figure approached the Steward, clad in his characteristic cloak and pointy hat.

Mardil stared for a moment as if recalling a memory from a time long past.

“Yes, we have met, Mardil” Gandalf commented as he stood before them, seeming to read the Steward’s thoughts.

“It was long ago.  I was a young man then and you were paying your respects to the court of the king, one of many that day.  You seem little changed for all the time that has passed.”

“Time seems to spare me, though the times themselves often do not.  But this is a good day.  I prayed my message would reach you safely and events would allow you to respond.”

“Thanks to your plan the field of battle was ours.  Only a few stragglers escaped and the forest will not be a kind refuge.”

“You will be heading south upon our exit.  My companions must make for the north.”

Mardil nodded.  “I have given this some thought.  Other than my chief captains and members of my personal guard, none know the full depths of this plan and the true nature of the evil that has been banished.  They think that we have caught the rogue orcs and men that captured Eradan and killed the traders and soldiers.  They will rejoice at Eradan’s return, but I have no wish for them to know of your mission.  Times are still tenuous in Gondor and my authority is not gladly accepted by all, particularly those who were strong allies of the last king.  The thought that He was lurking so close to our north at a time when the Witch King bides his time to the east…the people need no more news to trouble them.”

Gandalf nodded in assent. “If you can provide horses and provisions, we can make our way along the forest’s southern edge, then bear north, making for the river and the crossing below the Carrock.”

“It will be done.  I must also make plans to have the Surgeon take Drianna back to Gondor by a route separate from our main cavalry force.  Her presence would be difficult to explain.”

Mardil then paused for a moment, as if catching his breath, now noticing other details about him, with the fate of his son and daughter secure.

“Your companions…” he nodded in the direction of Haldir, Hagar and the Dunedain of the North.

“Haldir is Marchwarden of Lorien.  The young long haired warrior is Hagar, son of Breor, chieftain of the horsemen of the far northern reaches of the Anduin.”

“Well does Gondor know their people.  Their aid over a hundred years past may have saved the kingdom.  Frumgar’s departure for the north left our northern flanks bare, though we at least still maintain trade and contact with them.  And of the others?”

“The others are also men of the north.  Come, I will introduce you.”  Gandalf escorted Mardil over to where Aranarth and Arahael stood silently next to the body of Ardugan.

“The fallen one?” Mardil inquired of Gandalf.

“Ardugan, youngest of the three brothers.  Arthed is badly wounded, but will recover.  Aranarth is the eldest, standing with his son Arahael.”

Mardil approached Aranarth.  Clad in his cape and silvered armor he felt a stark contrast with the man before him, iron haired, built like an oak, clad in old leathers and light mail.  The face bore lines of grimness, determination, and defiance.  Steely blue eyes smoldered under heavy dark brows.  The younger man next to him was different, exuding the beginnings of quiet authority and an educated upbringing.  Yet the two seemed close, bound together.

“My condolences for your loss.  I am Mardil, Steward of Gondor.”

“I am Aranarth, son of Arvedui, chieftain of my people.”

“Arvedui…last king of the northern realm of Arthedain?”

Aranarth nodded curtly.

“But he is dead nearly 90 years.  You could scarcely be more than sixty”

Aranarth’s face momentarily hardened, his eyes flashed anger.  Then it passed and he spoke distantly as if telling a tale in an empty room.

“Sixty…when I was just past twenty I rode with the host that destroyed Angmar’s army to the last orc.  At sixty I was the father of a young son taken to Imlandris.  Seventy…high on the side of a mountain watching your father, Vorondil, and his hunting party.  Eighty, behind a column at the far end of your court, observing you as the young Steward advising an already impetuous prince Earnur.  One hundred years…wandering in the wilds of Minhiriath while king Earnur challenges the Witch King.  Now one hundred thirteen...

Aranarth’s voice trailed off.  He gave Mardil a long look then resumed.

“My father claimed the throne of Gondor.  Your grandfather, Pelendur, rejected his claim, though Arvedui…and I…are of direct lineage from Elendil the Tall.”

Mardil made to respond, to cite the ruling of Pelendur, that Gondor was to be ruled by the heirs of Meneldil.  Arnarth held up his hand, knowing what he would say.

“Well do I know Pelendur’s reasoning.  My father spoke often of it…but in his heart knew that Gondor would not relinquish the throne to a distant king of a fragile kingdom, no matter what the lineage.  Such a thing cannot be claimed by mere birthright.  It must be earned.”

Aranarth turned, looking at his son for a moment standing beside him.  Warmth, sadness and pride crossed his face as he collected his thoughts amongst the debris of memories nearly a century past. Then he returned his attention to Mardil.

“Like your son Eradan, my son is strong and brave, and well tutored in the history of this land.  Would that I could leave him a kingship.  But fate has dictated otherwise and he, like me, will spend most of his long years in the empty northern lands.”

“He will be welcome in my house, should his travels take him south” Eradan interjected.

“The Steward’s son will find that his hospitality will be honored, though my visits may be long scattered amongst the years to come” Arahael replied quickly.

“It seems our sons have plans of their own” Mardil smiled wryly

“Well they should if they are worthy to succeed us” Aranarth concluded. 

There was a sudden bustle of activity about them.  The Surgeon has done his work, the Steward’s personal guard were ready to mount the companions and Ardugan’s body on the backs of the spare horses.  The afternoon was waning and they were eager to depart.

Mardil turned to Aranarth.

“Aranarth.  Would you accompany me as we exit this dark wood.  I would here more of past events of the north, the battle with Angmar.  Much of what I know is from the dry scrolls of historians.  Only you and your brother yet live who have witnessed these past hundred years.  I would value the measure of your experience.”

“As I would the challenges of your Stewarship” Aranarth replied equably.

Arahael and Eradan exchanged smiles.  Then the company mounted their horses.  Arthed and Drianna gently eased on their steeds, Ardugan’s body carefully reposed on a small platform firmly fixed to the largest of their horses.

And so they exited the forest, the two older men absorbed in conversation of times past, events present, and the world yet to be.  In their wake Eradan rode close with Drianna, Hagar with Arthed, Arahael beside his fallen uncle, and Gandalf with Haldir.

Late in the day they emerged into the plains of the Brown Lands.  Mardil sent a small scouting party south to the encampment of his main force, just over the horizon five leagues away.  Word was passed that the Steward and his guard would pass the night at the edge of the forest, joining the rest of the cavalry just after daybreak.

Long into the night Mardil talked with Aranarth, then took words with Hagar, inquiring into the affairs of the horse people who now called themselves Eotheod.  Later he spoke with Haldir, conveying his respects to the Lady of the Wood. 

In the morning they all began their separate journeys.  The Surgeon and a small guard took Drianna west, heading to the Anduin where they would turn south and cross the great river, eventually arriving quietly at Minas Tirith.  There Drianna would complete the long healing process, the story told of a near fatal fall while hunting in the White Mountains.

Mardil would counsel his guard not to tell of the curious group of companions they encountered in their foray into Mirkwood, only that they found Eradan held by a small guard of orcs who were quickly dispatched.  Gondor’s cavalry was overjoyed at the return of the Steward’s son later that morning.  Mardil would address them all, telling only that Eradan’s original force had been wiped out to the last man weeks ago, leaving his son as prisoner.  He congratulated them on sealing the fate of the rogue group of men and orcs that had committed the deed. 

Then they made their way back through the Brown Lands to the crossing at the Undeeps.  Soon after, Mardil began to exchange his cavalry with the forces manning the outposts.  The first at the most northern fortresses, then positioning men near the Emyn Muil, followed by a larger group at Cair Andros.  The remainder of the cavalry that had made the journey to the edge of Mirkwood was dispatched to duties along Gondor’s eastern and southern borders.

The cavalrymen told stories as soldiers do.  The stories grew of their journey, the defeat of the orcs and men, and of Eradan’s almost miraculous recovery.  The tales also grew apart, becoming so embellished and divergent over time as to blur the truth.  By the time their distant tours of duty were up and they returned, the events were in the past, and their telling regarded more and more as campfire stories.   It was as Mardil had planned.  For he had no desire to make known the true nature of the threat that had lurked in Mirkwood, nor the risk inherent in the plan or the participants in its success.     

He bade no official record be made.  Of events, he and Eradan would demur when asked, only saying that Mardil’s journey to the edges of the kingdom had fortuitously brought the opportunity for his rescue.  In time their reserve in the manner dissuaded further inquiry and of the stories that circulated they would only smile.

To the north, a small detachment of the Steward’s guard accompanied Gandalf and his party to the small grove where the horses still waited with the bodies of Balas and Ensil.

They were returned to Gondor and quietly interred in a high cemetery above Minas Tirith reserved for Gondor’s fallen heroes. 

The others continued on to the north, crossing at the Carrock.  Here Haldir bade them farewell and returned to Lorien.  Hagar too made his parting, riding north to the land of his people between the Greylin and Langwell.

Gandalf accompanied the Dunedain to Rivendell.  Here Arthed received additional ministrations, hastening the healing of his badly mauled shoulder.  Arahael arrived to find that Oriel had given birth to a daughter.  But their stay was short, as Aranarth was intent on the task of taking Ardugan to his final resting place.  

And it was some days journey to that spot, the Rendezvous, a place secret, yet familiar to the privileged few who knew of it.  As in years past they entered through the door under the waterfall, using the curiously fashioned knives to turn the tumblers of the locks.  Near the pool at the base of the springs Aranarth laid his brother to rest, Arthed and Arahael joining him in paying their last respects as Ardugan slept in the place his father had reserved as ‘a place for kings and their sons’. 

Leagues to the east, over the Misty Mountains, past the banks of the Anduin, another had been set to rest, days past.  She had arrived in the clutches of the chief eagle, Aquilar who had flown all night after the battle with the bats.  The other flocks, raptors, starlings, swifts, had all made way west from Mirkwood towards Lorien, guided by the light of the great lamps in the high trees.  There they had fed again on elven provender, mustering energy for their departure north, back to their traditional territories and nests.

An older man in a brown cloak had faced the great eagle.  His shoulders were slumped, eyes welling with tears, barely able to meet the hard gaze of the magnificent bird.  Thoughts were exchanged, both sharing a deep loss that one so small and peaceful by nature should pay such a price.  Then the raptor left, soaring off into the morning sky for distant aeries to the west, high in the ramparts of the Misty Mountains.

She had been his favorite of all.  Loyal, selfless, pure hearted…and now dead for heeding his call in time of need.  The avian hunters, hawks, kestrels and the rest, he knew, had little sentiment in them and would quickly resume their ways.  The starlings would gather in their flocks, like vast schools of fish with no singular personalities or presence.  But for him the little swifts were individuals who he could see and who could see him, particularly Apodidie. 

Though the mission had been a success, evil driven from the forest, Radagast felt that he had failed.  As a Maia of Yavanna he was committed to the plants and creatures of the world for their own sake.  Having involved them in the affairs of men had been uncomfortable at best, and now the price paid within his own soul bore a guilt that was too great.

And so he withdrew into himself, staying deep within his small refuge in Rhosgobel.  Though surrounded by the great trees, birds, and other living things, his sense of purpose began to erode, and along with it the subtle projection of the power he had with living things. 

Far too the south, there were others with little remorse over the outcome of events.  Survival left little time for it.  Fifty or so in Drazakh’s breakout group had escaped the doom of their companions cut down to the last by the vengeful cavalry of Gondor.

But escape from one death only opened the door to another for most of them.

They had headed east along the southern marches of Mirkwood.  But it was an inhospitable wood, made so by His works.  Little game and what of it was vile tasting as were the plants.  Within a few days the inexorable pressure of hunger and thirst drove them to the base savagery of killing each other for sustenance.  This included two wolves that had survived the charge through the ranks.  Though in this instance their first meal was Zeorn who had made the fatal error of competing for a scrap of meat they had managed to secure after the slaughter of one of the wounded men.

By the time they reached the eastern fringe of the forest days later there were only two left, Drazakh and Bavuk.  They were no strangers to cannibalism. In their harsh home land, winters often required the thinning of their tribe so that what little there was to eat could be spread over fewer mouths.  And so they made their way out into the empty plains beyond Mirkwood, eastward towards their distant home, heavily laden with what limbs and organs they favored from the bodies of their former companions.  Of their destiny this tale does not say.

The two wolves had been driven off after turning on their master.  Lean and hungry they instinctively made their way back to Dol Guldur, making meals of the orcs and men who had begun to drift away once the magnitude of the defeat had become clear.  Then they ranged further north, meeting other wolves, mating, gradually spawning a more intelligent, vicious breed of canine that would eventually evolve into the wargs of the late Third Age.

The forest itself would partially heal, freed of the oppressive presence of His power.  The foulest plants and molds would fade, decay, and die.  The trees at the margins of the wood would return to fuller life, though deeper in the forest another more sullen breed would persist.  The outlandish creatures He had bred quickly died in their cages for lack of care by the small force of orcs and men that abandoned Dol Guldor.  But the spiders seemed to thrive without Him, spreading north, and in time infesting a goodly part of the forest.

And of the bobcats little is known.  They were not seen the morning after the battle with the drakes atop the mountain.  Hunters along the northwestern edge of Mirkwood in years to come would share tales of pairs of eyes in the night, one green, one gold.   The next morning they would find the twisted remains of a large spider just paces from their camp.

In time the sightings grew infrequent, then ceased altogether and the tales faded.  Time claimed them as it eventually claimed all.