This is the penance, this is the price.
Up close, his smile makes her bones go soft. He tilts his head and moves closer, his breath sweet.
Her legs, strong from riding, wrap around his waist. He motions for her to release him but she refuses and instead pulls him closer so she might kiss him, slow and deep. As their tongues meet and entwine, she falls past reason, past desire, until he clasps her face between his hands and forces her back so she might stop and gather breath. The night air, thick with humidity, gasps into her lungs.
The wind blows the soft darkness of his hair around her face as she undoes the front fastenings of her dress. The garment slips from her shoulders, and as the clouds flash, lit from within by lightning, the hunger in his eyes drives away any lingering wisps of doubt.
He does not hesitate, but pulls her to him, letting his hands explore her body. His touch possesses an urgency that matches her own. She presses up against him and as she does, inhales the smell of smoke from dying fires rising from the city's dwellings, the tang of sweat, and above all, the scent of rain.
Somewhere below, a man lies in recovery's sleep, his dreams untold.
His neck's salt-taste, his day's growth of beard that presses rough against her cheek drives her fervor. As he lifts her skirt to find nothing to impede him underneath, his fingers slip inside her and she is certain she could not have imagined any of this, not in her wildest moments.
He withdraws his hand, and reaches up to guide her own fingers between her legs so that they may grow wet with her tell-tale sign of desire. The boldness of the gesture excites her. Everything about him is different than she had imagined: the taste of him in her mouth, the way her body fits against his, the feel of his fingers as they slide in, then out. All of this is foreign territory, outside anything she ever thought she wanted and in a flash of insight, she kens that he is hers and she is his; no matter of restraint or chastity would change this. Each of them owns a part of the other. It is simple and clear.
It is no maiden's flush that appears upon her cheeks as she sees him reach down to prepare himself. Quickly, she pushes his hand out of the way, places her own against the fabric of his breeches, tracing the outline of what lies inside. She unlaces the simple fastening and as she reaches in, revels in their like thinking for her fingers meet only the glorious combination of warmth and hardness that readily response to her touch.
He gives a soft intake of breath as she draws him out, then squeezes gently, stroking once, running the ball of her thumb up his length then back down with an assured touch. A feeling of power races through her and she repeats the gesture once, then again until he reaches down and places his hand over hers.
The first drops of rain fall from the night sky as she kneels in front of him, unrepentant. She takes him again in hand and smiles, feeling his hands caress her hair, stroke her cheek, feeling him grow harder in anticipation. Savoring each moment, she slides her tongue across exquisite softness and revels in the taste of salt and sweat.
She wraps her lips around him, feels the subtle movements that act as signals to slow her pace as she slides him into her mouth, flicking her tongue up and down the underside of his shaft, enjoying the way his hands tighten in her hair. In the darkness, her mouth ministers to him, first quick, then slower, then quick again until she feels his hands reaching down to lift her, pulling her back up to face him once more.
His lips are rough, hurried with desperation. He wraps his arm around her waist, lifts her as he did when he first saw her waiting in the shadow of the battlements, and pushes her against the wall, pausing only to position himself as she wraps her legs around him. She thinks that he might speak, but instead, he moves forward; pushing in, stretching her to what he offers. She is more than ready. The feel of him so close, so deep within, nearly drives her over pleasure's edge.
He pins her against the wall, supporting her by the weight of an arm made strong from a life time of archery and swordplay. His other hand reaches down to part the soft hair between her legs, his thumb tracing light circles that send delicious shudders throughout her entire body. She shifts her own position and squeezes down upon him, thrilled at the soft groan only she can hear over the falling rain.
He drives forwards again, thrusting up. He wraps both arms about her, as if he would meld her to his body. She meets his embrace, clutching his neck, sinking her teeth into his shoulder. With each thrust, she grows warmer until red flashes appear in the darkness and her own wet warmth mixes with the rain upon her thighs. She can feel his body shake in restraint as he pushes forward once more. She pulls back for she must see his face, she must see what this is between them, must find a way to understand why it is they must do this, why they would risk all.
This is the penance. This is the price.
A chill goes through her. In the blink of an eye, despite the heat of the man she clings to, she cannot feel warmth at all. The very darkness seems to intensify, grow deeper. She shivers and her eyes burn despite the rain that falls upon her face and she is cold, so very cold.
The arms that hold her tighten, mutate against her skin. She looks down to find the fine-boned hands that hold her have turned into talons that score her flesh. She looks up and gazes straight into the hell of the Witch King's eyes.
A silent laugh echoes through her head. The Ring Wraith plunges into her, colder than death, seed barren and toxic. Blood runs down her legs as her sanity slips and cracks.
Below in the city, a man lies within the Houses, his body torn. His fever breaks and his eyes open for the first time in days.
"Eowyn," he gasps.
Eowyn's screams echo off the stone battlements. Her eyes snap open, the sound still ringing in her ears, rain dropping upon her face. A peal of thunder rumbles over head, further blurring the lines between past and present. Caught for an instant in the place that lies between the world of dreams and the world of man, Eowyn struggles to find to which she belongs.
The ache in her hands and chattering teeth help her to decide. Wiping the blear from her vision, the Queen remembers she camps within the realm of Anorien, still upon the far side of the Anduin from Ithilien. She turns her gaze upwards, shivering as raindrops land upon her face. Her strength fails her and she rests against her pack once more.
A crack of lightning brings the copse around her into brief focus. Earlier, she had watched the moon rise in the clear night sky like a waking giant, bedecked on all sides by twinkling stars. She had seen no danger in rest; indeed, there had been no other choice; she had not been able to stave exhaustion any further. With great reluctance, she had settled against her pack and shut her eyes.
Now as the patter of rain sounds all around, Eowyn curses her body's frailty. Her need for sleep has cost her precious time; it is clear that the ground has become too treacherous to venture forth in the dark. Her last push towards Osgiliath must be delayed until the dawn.
A shiver courses through her. She is cold from lying in the rain for even a short period of time. She tries to rise to her feet only to find every joint in her body seems to have frozen while she lay cradled in sleep's embrace. In agony, she reaches for where the spear rests next to her on the ground.
Through the gloom, a low nicker reaches her ears. Windfola stands a short distance away, trying to find shelter within the thin grove of trees. The horse gazes woefully at her master. "If you feel as miserable as you look, then we are a sorry pair indeed," the Queen rasps.
Another bolt of lightning brightens the sky. Eowyn sits up slowly, turning her attention to her pack. It lies partly sheltered beneath her, still in the precise spot it landed when she freed it earlier. Her fingers fumble with the knots and straps for they are stiff from cold.
Persevering, she opens the pack. A faint smile graces the Queen's face as she views the contents. Her sons, in their concern, have provided her with ample comforts. There is tinder and flint, food and water and a light flagon of wine. There is a thick blanket and a bedroll for her to place her head. Eowyn curses softly, for had she not been so weary when she stopped, she would not have fallen victim to nature's will.
Looking down at the collection of items, a longing for home and family courses through the Queen like a flood-driven river. When her sons were small, they had played a game to see which one could bring their mother the nicest surprise. She would find wildflowers in her wardrobe, a sparkling stone next to her place at dinner. Now, years later, Eowyn's sons still surprise her. Even in their absence, their love for her is made apparent.
Eowyn swallows, feeling the hot flare of pain in her throat. Slow and carefully, she gets to her feet, ignoring the shriek of pain in her joints and muscles. She must make a fire to warm herself against the soaking rain.
Even a Ranger would be hard pressed to find dry wood in such adverse weather. Still, the queen does what she can, leaning on the spear to help her to her feet and as support on the treacherous ground. She searches the clearing gathering what she can and then sets to the business of getting sparks to catch. It is to no avail. Flint and tinder do not obey orders in such damp, even from a queen.
As if to taunt her, the storm renews its efforts. Thunder shakes the air as a great streak of lightning splits the sky. In the moment of white brilliance, Eowyn begins to pick her way back over to her pack, returning the flint and what she can salvage of the now-soaked tinder. Her trembling hands remove the blanket, wrapping it around her like an embrace. She looks up at the clouds, noting they bear remarkable resemblance to the ones over the battlements long ago.
Pulling the blanket closer, the Queen eases down to rest against the base of a nearby tree, spear in hand. She drapes the blanket over her head and in an effort to block out the driving rain, shuts her eyes.
Darkness does not offer peace. There, in memory's vault, she sees the White Tower gleaming in early morning. There is her eldest son, forgetting protocol and running across the courtyard to greet her after a visit of state to Rohan. There is Meriadoc Brandybuck, looking up at her with desperation in his eyes. There is her husband before she could rightly call him thus, striding into the Great Hall of Meduseld by the side of the wizard.
There is the Steward, his smile tender, his face and hair wet with rain.
The flood gates that hold back Eowyn's sorrow lift. She wishes with all her heart that the Riders would come for her now; that she could die. It is too wearisome, too heartbreaking to be tossed between such reality and regret.
She pulls the blanket closer, yet it matters not. As rain and grief pour over her, the Queen of Gondor feels certain she will never be warm again.
****************************
At the first light of day, horse and rider begin the remaining trek to Osgiliath. The day and journey progress, but the path is thick with mud and the clouds that hang above in the leaden vault of sky do not relent. The rain is a constant presence; coming down first in mists, then moments later in sheets, keeping all who would venture into it chilled to the bone. The cold and damp has cast a pall upon the world, turning what is a pleasant path on a sunny day into a morass which seems almost too thick to navigate.
Windfola's hooves make sucking noises as they pull out of the path. Eowyn's head aches at the sound. Her throat is raw and swollen and she shivers uncontrollably as she tries to keep firm hold on the reins.
"Miss high and mighty! You best not think of making that beast gallop. Or perhaps you should for you're sure to break its leg and I could have a meal."
Eowyn tries to sit taller in the saddle but another chill goes through her. The orc has been following her for most of the morning, stamping through the mire. She feels its dead eyes upon her as she rides, remembers the detail of its costume down to the blood dried upon the creature's tunic, left there from where her sword had run it through long ago.
"You are naught but dust." she mutters. "Be gone, I tell you."
The remark elicits a wet laugh from the creature. "I may be dead and gone, Lady Grace, but you're closer my side of things than yours," it chortles. "I smell the fever on you. Light of day must burn your eyes like it burns ours. It doesn't burn mine no more. Hasn't since the day you killed me."
The gray afternoon seems tinged with rainbows. Eowyn presses her eyes closed to clear her vision and clutches the reins tighter. "I have no memory of you," she mutters, afraid to turn around again for fear she will fall from her seat. "Go away and leave me be."
The orc remains undeterred. "Well, I remember you well enough." It heaves a great sigh. "Doesn't seem fair, really. Here you were, killing me, never once considering if I had little ones, me own wee family." The creature snickers. "Well, perhaps that is a bit much, the family part. I helped eat a family once. Does that count?"
The orc brays laughter once more. Eowyn tries to turn her attention to anything but the apparition. She thinks back on the day she killed it, for if the truth is told, she remembers the event well enough. The orc was the first life she had ever taken and it paled in comparison to the one she had ended next.
All events of that day are still clear in her mind. The orc had run at her as the battle began and she had thrust her sword at it, shocked to see the blade sink into his mottled flesh. Black ichors had poured from its mouth as its eyes rolled up into its head. She had already stepped back and yanked her blade free before she realized she had taken her first life. Caught in blind panic to find Theoden so that she might stand by his side, she had not felt a drop of remorse and had she had the proper time to do so, still she would have felt none. The orc was not a creature worthy of sympathy, but a minion of Sauron. Turning her back upon the foul thing, she had thought upon the event no more until today.
"Regret was never your strong suit," the orc cackles. "Well, no matter. You'll die soon. I smell it on you."
Up ahead, the path veers to the right. The land has changed much since the Queen last traveled this path. If she is headed correctly, this is the road that will lead her back across the Anduin and down towards Osgiliath from the west, avoiding the White City and those who might wish her return. If she continues on this way, she can enter Isildur's city under cover of darkness and find the Steward. There she can make her peace and be done with all of this at last.
From behind her, the orc comes nearer. "Peace?" it snorts. "You think you'll find peace? There is no peace for those of us who done wrong in this life. Only suffering; that's our lot."
"My life was not like yours," Eowyn mutters.
"No, it was worse. At least I was what I was, lady. I didn't try to be anything else. Besides, betrayal's betrayal. You can't change that."
The orc's words stab deep. Eowyn shivers, hearing the thunder sound again overhead. "It is not the same," she tells herself. "I do this to myself."
"You do," the orc agrees. "Doesn't change things one bit. The truth is what it is as well. Some thing can't be atoned."
Eowyn glances down. She can see the orc following just out of the corner of her eye. Its feet squelch in the mud.
"So, do you have a plan?" it asks, a leer upon its face. "Are you just going to ride up to the gate and say 'boo hoo, do forgive?' and think it can be set to right?" Slyness oils the orc's voice. "How do you know the fancy Prince will even grant to see you?"
Eowyn lifts her chin. "He will."
"But you don't know, do you? And that's the worst part of it somehow. Oh yes, you're proud and it would serve him well to turn you out like you did me. It's what you deserve Or better yet—" The orc shrieks with glee. "Yes, that's the way! He could tell the one you really should amend to. Make his peace and leave you out to dry. That would set it straight!"
"It will not be so," Eowyn whispers. Tears sting her eyes. "The Prince is a man of honor—"
"He's a man. No more. You---you betrayed one and abandoned the other. You don't deserve forgiveness. Not in this lifetime or the next."
"I do not seek forgiveness," Eowyn snaps.
The creature is walking besides her. She looks down into its rotting face. "Then what do you seek?" it hisses. "Because I'll tell you, Queen of Gondor, the only thing you'll find in the end is not your precious Riders. All that waits for you lady is decay and suffering. It's all you deserve. In the end, it gets us all."
Eowyn pulls on the reins hard. Windfola, startled by the sudden action, flounders in her step and is almost brought to her knees.
"It was NOT THAT WAY!" Eowyn shrieks and with the last of her strength, raises her spear.
The orc is gone.
Above, the clouds have gathered once more. Ignorant of the Queen's deteriorating state, the rain begins to pour merrily down.
****************
The bridge that separates Anorien from Ithilien stands well-guarded. Peace may reign in Gondor, but the Dark Lord's influence was felt upon these lands for far too long. Because of this caution will ever remain the watch-word to those who make their home upon the edge of the wild.
Stars appear in the deepening vault of blue overhead. Stationed in the southwest bridge tower, Geollyn, the young corpsman on duty, peers out into the gathering dusk. His breath appears as a pale cloud, scarcely visible here at the outset of night. Unlike his fellow soldiers he prefers to stand his watch in darkness.
A crooked smile crosses the young man's features. Back at the garrison, his friends will be heading towards the taverns where food and drink will dull their sense and sharpen their wits. Although Geollyn enjoys a night of good-natured debauchery as well as any of his fellow soldiers, the truth remains that he is more than content to do his duty instead. The vows of honor and fealty he took when joining the guard have grown in meaning during his brief year of service. He is proud to help preserve Ithilien's peace, whether by giving his life's blood to save her or standing routine watch to protect her from those who might bring harm.
His companion and friend, Rabryn, stands on the other side of the tower. Geollyn can hear the corpsman singing softly under his breath. He recognizes the tune as one he has known since childhood.
House of Stewards,
Stand you by,
The King has come,
His land reclaimed.
Ithilien now will you dwell,
Fair and green the wild remains.
The song speaks true. When Geollyn was young, his grandfather told tales of the times before the coming of King; of the monsters that called Osgiliath theirs and the great battles waged to reclaim Isildur's seat once more. Yet even in the face of his country's history, Geollyn has ever found it difficult to imagine a time when minions of darkness ran unchecked throughout this land. Peace and order have reigned in this country during his life, restored and maintained by the efforts of her beloved Prince.
From the other side of the tower, Rabryn stops his song and clears his throat. "It grows colder," he mutters. "I wish you would allow a fire."
Geollyn laughs silently for as long as he has known him, Rabryn has always complained about the weather. "I told you the far side of the bridge is not clear to me with a fire lit," he says, careful to keep his voice low.
"Our watch is this side of the bridge; the far side is Owec's and Deonyc's worry tonight. Besides," Rabryn's teeth chatter pathetically, "I freeze."
Geollyn is not fooled by his fellow soldier's display. "Perhaps in a while," he concedes, "when night has fallen."
"What do you mean? Night is upon us." Rabryn waves out towards the darkened landscape. "If it has not struck yet, dear friend, this darkness would signify that it *is* night."
Geollyn sighs and turns back towards the bridge. "Sing some more," he implores his fellow guard. "It will keep you warm and me, entertained."
Rabryn grumbles at the request but Geollyn can tell he is pleased to be asked. His fellow corpsman takes a deep breath, then lets it out. "So, why do you suppose there was no dispatch sent?" he asks suddenly.
"What?"
Eagerness drips from Rabryn's voice. "You heard what the messenger told the Sergeant the same as I did. The Prince; why do you suppose there was no dispatch concerning his arrival? "
Geollyn rolls his eyes. This is a topic of which he would rather not speak and one his fellow watchman would tenaciously chew for hours.
"I do not know," he replies, looking down at the bridge. "He is the Prince; I suppose he can come and go as he pleases without dispatches."
"But there is always a dispatch," Rabryn argues. "The Prince does not make surprise visits to Osgiliath. Indeed, it has been a long time since he last visited."
"Since his wife died," Geollyn says under his breath. "The Prince has not been to Osgiliath since Princess Amoniel's passing."
Rabryn's ears are sharp. "Say, you're right. I had not thought of that," he muses. "It does make sense. They were madly in love, you know."
Geollyn grits his teeth before he answers. "The Prince and Princess were devoted to each other, aye. That much is common knowledge."
"I have heard it is because he didn't marry until much later," Rabryn says, wrapping his arms around himself to keep warm. "My mother used to say--" He places his voice higher in pitch. "'Prince Faramir forsook the pleasures of home and family for many years so he might make the King's desire to see Osgiliath restored in splendor.'"
Geollyn cannot help but laugh at the imitation. "Did your mother really say that?" he snickers.
Rabryn smiles. "Perhaps in so many words she did. You must admit it rings true; Prince Faramir did not marry for a long while." The corpsman shook his head. "It is a pity the Princess died. She was passing fair and her kindness knew no bounds."
"Aye," Geollyn murmurs. "It is a great loss."
Rabryn shrugs. "Still, you could be right, my friend. It could be grief that's kept him homebound all this time. He's stayed in Emyn Arnen since last spring. And now---"
"--Now he is in Osgiliath and let us speak no more of this," Geollyn grumbles, annoyed that his fellow corpsman would give the topic resurgence. "I, for one, understand that a Prince can go where he likes when he pleases and know better to ask questions."
"It is good to be curious," Rabryn retorts. "One must know the news of the day and where people are."
Geollyn shrugs, full aware that he will not be able to change the subject without dire means. "I suppose," he agrees. "Still, I beg of you, Rabryn, no more on this. Sing to me instead. All this talk of intrigue wears upon me and we still have a long watch ahead of us."
"A long, cold watch," Rabryn mutters, but after clearing his throat once more, acquiesces with a soft rendition of a lament to Undomiel, made popular by Legolas Greenleaf during his last visit to Isildur's capitol.
As Rabryn's tune wraps its beauty about its listener, Geollyn stares out into the dark. Gossip has always had an unsettling effect upon his thoughts and this time is no different. He tries to focus on his watch, but all the tales of his youth concerning the Prince's hunt for a bride dance merrily in his brain.
Was it his own mother, or perhaps his grandfather, who had told him them about how ladies of noble birth from all over Gondor had swarmed to the court of Emyn Arnen in hopes of attracting the Steward's eye, about how each one was held up to the populace's light and deemed worthy or unworthy by shopkeepers and housewives across Ithilien? Geollyn cannot remember for sure, yet he does remember the punch line of the story, about how the Prince would meet prospective bride and show no interest at all. As each candidate was denied, a silent cheer or groan came up from the denizens of Ithilien, depending on how much money had been placed on "he will" or "he will not."
The ending of the story Geollyn would be hard pressed to forget. It was after the Fortress of the Star's foundation had been restored when the Prince quietly wooed and wed a woman from his own capitol: a raven-haired beauty possessed of charm and sensibility, well-liked by all. He could not have made a better choice in the eyes of his subjects and the news of their betrothal along with his choice in a wife raised the Prince even higher in esteem with all of Ithilien; a thing hardly possible. To the kingdom's joy, all worries about succession were put to rest for an heir was produced within a year, then a sibling to that and then another; all boys, all healthy and possessed of the dark hair and even temperament of their parents, according to those who knew the gossip, including Geollyn's mother. Now grown to men, the Princes of Ithilien were well-known to the guard of Osgiliath, for each had spent his time serving in Isildur's capitol at their father's insistence. Geollyn's father had served with the elder, Algund, and the middle son, Androg, and the youngest, Aglar, were ranking officers stationed at the garrison. All the Prince's sons were solid leaders of men, able to give orders and inspire loyalty as it was said their father did when he was a Captain: with humility, skill and grace.
From the western path, the corpsman's sharp ears hear the sound of hooves approaching. "Rider approaching," he calls softly.
Rabryn stops his singing. "It's late for a rider," he muses out loud. "No further dispatches have come from the garrison, have they?"
"Not that I know of. The sergeant would have told us."
"Very well."
The sound of hooves grows louder. Both men reach down and grasp their bows. Geollyn notes the men in the far towers do the same. All those who stand guard have mastered the first lesson taught by the wilderness: the unknown does not always wear a friendly face.
Let them come, Geollyn thinks. All who watch this bridge stand ready.
Through the gloom, the horse and rider come out of the shadows of the wood. Even in the dim light, the beast looks to be a fine one, although it looks as if its legs are covered in muck. The man who sits upon it is dressed in the garb of a soldier, his head lowered towards the beast's neck, face obscured in shadow.
"Odd," Rabryn murmurs. "I would think him dead, but his weapon is raised."
Geollyn has already sighted the raised spear carried upright in the rider's weapon hand. In this time of peace, rare is the traveler that rides with arms at the ready. Still, Geollyn knows there is nothing to fear; the rider is under the watch of four expert bowmen.
No one of the corpsmen make a move for all eyes are fixed upon the rider. Only night noises and the sound of the Anduin, running dark and deep beneath the bridge can be heard in the clearing.
"Why does he not cross the bridge?" Rabryn whispers.
Geollyn shakes his head. His friend has stolen the question from his very mind. The rider should cross and be on his way. Instead, he remains, silent, poised on the edge of the bridge as if carved in stone.
Perhaps it is a trick of the light, but it seems to Geollyn as if the weapon shines with a pale blue glow bright enough to show the detail of the Rider's helm. The corpsman notes the nose-guard on the helmet is too long and the helm has no wings.
He's from Rohan, he thinks. Odd indeed; there should have been a dispatch.
Out of nowhere, a light breeze picks up and blows through the clearing. Stirred by its chilled fingers, the branches creak and sway in the surrounding forest. It swirls through the towers causing the hairs prickle upon the back of Geollyn's neck. He cocks his head and listens for he is certain the strange wind carries the sound of a thousand galloping horses. Out of time and memory, his grandfather's voice sounds in his mind as if the old man was standing next to him once more and not in the grave these past ten years.
And the dead repaid their debt to Gondor in full; they swarmed the ships and the enemy ran mad with fright before their silent legions.
Beside him, Rabryn's face has turned ashen. "The dead have come to claim Ithilien," he murmurs, staring down at the still figure at the far edge of the bridge.
Geollyn's heart leaps in his chest at his friend's words. The wind gusts past him and once again he is certain he can hear horses on approach.
"Go tell the Sergeant," he says quietly. "I'll call a warning."
As Rabryn quietly heads down the ladder towards the Sergeant's station, Geollyn's voice neither hesitates nor quavers, but splits the night with its resolve. "State your title and business in Ithilien!" he cries.
As if listening to a far-away summons, the rider raises his head. The light, whether from the moon or the spear, grows brighter, illuminating the soldier's features. What is revealed is the visage of one long dead, with fever-glitter in the eyes, desperation in the set of jaw.
The young guard gasps out loud at the sight, watches in horror-tinged fascination as the pale light from moon or spear, it is hard to tell from which, grows stronger. The details of the rider's uniform, the creased leather of the saddle, the plaited hair thrown forward upon the shoulder shining white like the far distant moon come clear as if the light of day shone down upon the outpost bridge.
From the opposite tower, Geollyn sees Deonyc step forward. "State your business and pass," he cries.
From below, a strong voice rings out letting Geollyn know Rabryn has been successful and the Sergeant of the outpost has arrived. "Stand firm, men," the Sergeant calls. The command carries easily to all his men.
The wind has brought clouds with it. One scuds over the moon, pitching the clearing into momentary darkness. There is a clatter and a scuffle of hooves. The hair on the back of Geollyn's neck stands up at the noise. A moment later, the cloud has blown on its way and once more moonlight floods the bridge.
Geollyn's eyes widen in surprise. The traveler no longer sits in the saddle but instead hangs half off the beast, lying still as the grave. The spear is no longer carried upright, but instead lies upon the ground at the horse's feet.
In an instant, the two guards in the far tower are heading towards the ladders that lead from their posts to the ground. The horse stamps at their approach.
From below, the Sergeant's voice is heard again. "Stand fast, lads," he calls quietly. "Geollyn, come down. Rabryn, take your post.
Geollyn speeds to the ladder and a moment later is on the ground. His friends give him a grin as he passes him on his way up. "Better you than me," he says under his breath.
The Sergeant turns Geollyn's way. "Use caution on the approach," he says. "No sudden moves. That horse if from Rohan if I am not mistaken; it will be protective of its rider."
The Sergeant and Geollyn start across the bridge. Through a series of quick hand signals, the officer has Deonyc and Owen move towards the horses' flanks to better block the animal should it try to bolt.
"Geollyn, you will tend to the rider," the Sergeant murmurs. "I will handle the horse."
"Yes sir," Geollyn says, his heart in his throat. It is a simple operation, he has done harder and more dangerous, but for some reason, the idea of touching the rider fills him with fear. Still, he sets his mind to the task and goes steadily forward.
As the come nearer, Geollyn thinks that even covered in mud, the horse is the finest he has ever seen. It gazes at the approaching men with wary eyes, clearly intelligent.
"It's all right," the Sergeant soothes. "We have come to help."
Geollyn is surprised when the horse snorts in response. The Sergeant smiles at animal. "Corpsman," he orders, "free the rider from his tack."
Geollyn starts forward but stops when, to his amazement, the horse lowers itself to its knees, using great care not to dislodge its rider. Slowly the ancient soldier slides from his mount's neck, then slumps gently to the ground next to his weapon.
"Rohan," Geollyn hears the Sergeant murmur. "You, my beauty, are from Rohan."
As the Sergeant continues to making soothing noises in the horse's direction, Geollyn bends down towards the prostate figure and extends a hand in front of the rider's nose. Air blows warm onto his palm. "He lives, sir," he says.
The Sergeant turns his head back towards where Rabryn watches. "Clear a space in the guard shelter," he calls softly. "We'll tend to him there.
Carefully, Geollyn untangles the rider from stirrup and rein. When he is finished, he gathers the traveler into his arms. Then, and only then, does the horse slowly stand back up.
The Sergeant comes over to where Geollyn stands. "Do you need help, son?" he asks.
"No sir, he's a light as a feather," Geollyn says. "I feared him dead." The rider's head lolls upon his arm and the dim light shows not a corpse, but instead a fine countenance, marked with the deep creases of age.
The Sergeant leans in to examine the soldier's features closer, then starts. "There is no sign of beard, the skin too fine and smooth," he mutters, his eyes widening in surprise. "This is no man, corpsman. This is a woman you bear."
Geollyn looks down and sees his commanding officer speaks truth. As if she had overheard the words, the woman in his arms stirs. A low moan escapes her and her hands open and shut in desperation or pain, Geollyn does not know.
"Return to your posts," the Sergeant tells Deonyc and Owec. "I will tend this one." He turns and looks down once more into the woman's face. "You are no spirit, but flesh and blood, lady," he says softly. "I know not who you are or what your business is, but by the Valar, before this night has passed, I will. Come, Geollyn. Bring her."
The Sergeant turns on his heel and leads the way towards the guard shelter. He clucks to the horse and as obedient as a dog, it follows behind as Geollyn carries the unconscious Queen of Gondor back towards the world of the living.
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Thus leads the path from the Wild.
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