The Ring will come to Gondor
by Varda
Chapter Twenty-one: Home Before Dark
‘Lady Éowyn, wake up! Your brother and Prince Théodred are preparing to ride out of Edoras. My lady, wake up!’
Éowyn came awake with a start; her dreams, never peaceful, were
rudely put to flight as she sat up and looked quickly around her
chamber, one hand reaching instinctively for her sword Stormsinger,
concealed under the bearskin that covered her bed. A faint grey light
was creeping through her shuttered casement, but the room was dimly lit
by a tiny oil lamp that she kept burning all night. Once, she had woken
to find Grima Wormtongue standing beside her bed, gazing at her with
his strange red eyes. Before she could cry out he had disappeared. Not
sure if he had been a dream or not, Éowyn had ever since kept
light constantly in her chamber at night….
But now her lady in waiting, Mira, was bending over her, shaking her awake.
‘What are you saying?’ Éowyn demanded, trying to rub the sleep from her eyes. ‘who is going away?’
‘Your brother, Éomer, my lady. And your cousin Théodred.
They are armed and mounted and ready to depart. They are riding to
war….’
‘To war?’ shouted Éowyn, throwing back the coverlets and sliding out of bed.
‘But they have only just come back!’ she exclaimed, more to herself than to Mira. ‘How could they leave so soon….?’
Not pausing to comb her long fair hair or even wash, Éowyn
pulled a plain grey woollen gown over her head and threw a red shawl
round her shoulders and ran from her room. Mira, already warmly clad in
a heavy black cloak, followed her.
They hurried from the royal apartments, past the silent guards and
through the gallery that ran the length of the Golden Hall. Gathering
up their skirts they descended the stone steps before the great doors
and finally came to the wide space where in times gone by it was
customary for the Rohirrim to muster before their king on the eve of
battle.
But there was no sign of King Théoden, who had long since lost any interest in his warriors or their battles.
It was the grey hour before dawn, and very cold. The morning star shone
in the deep blue sky, with a lesser star beside it like some faithful
attendant. A white frost lay on the thatched roofs of Edoras and
sparkled on the spear tips and brass shield bosses of a great armed
band of Riders mounted and ready to depart. The horses stamped and blew
white steam into the icy morning air. Torches flared and glinted on
armour and helmets….
‘Éomer!’ shouted Éowyn, darting across the trampled
ground to where her brother sat on his great warhorse Liath, giving
commands to the men around him. At his side, on his black steed
Dúch, was Théodred. When he saw his sister running
towards him through the armed throng, her feet bare on the
frost-hardened mud, Éomer at once dismounted and went to meet
her….
‘Éowyn, Éowyn!’ he said ‘Why are you here? You should be abed, not out barefoot in the morning cold!’
The Riders moved their horses out of Éowyn’s way, and
Théodred dismounted. Mira stood at a distance. But still the
host could hear what Éowyn had to say….
‘What do you mean by this, brother?’ she demanded, shrill in her desperation.
‘Why are you leaving so soon? Wormtongue is away, I thought you could stay in Meduseld a few days more at least….’
‘So did I, sister…’ replied Éomer sadly ‘But riders came in late
last night bringing tidings that the Ford of Isen has been taken by
orcs. We cannot leave the passage to the Gap of Rohan in the hands of
the enemy. We must ride at once to clear them from the river…’
Éowyn stood gazing at her brother, and the starlight gleamed on
the tears in her eyes. She looked from him to Théodred who
murmured;
‘Your brother is right, Éowyn. We must ride to the Ford at once…’
‘Orcs take a river bank and at once you rush off to war.’ said Éowyn bitterly.
‘Where will you rush to when your king is wholly overthrown by this
creature Wormtongue? What kingdom will there be to defend then? You
will fight in vain…’
Turning Éowyn went to run back to the Hall, but Éomer
caught up with her and put a gentle restraining hand on her shoulder.
‘Nay, Éowyn, sister. Do not give us this angry farewell! We must
go; the Fords must be taken back from our foes. And we must go now, for
if Wormtongue returns he will wheedle the king into forbidding us to
fight, and we will be held here in Edoras against our will while the
orcs ravage the Westfold….’
Éowyn listened, a single cold tear trickling down her cheek. At length she spoke;
‘What about Gondor? Denethor will expect you to return and give him my answer.’
At this Théodred broke in;
‘When we return, Éowyn my beloved cousin, I myself will bear
your answer back to this Boromir…’ he smiled at her. ‘…so be of good
heart, and give us a farewell worthy of a shieldmaiden and princess of
Rohan…and of Gondor…’
Éowyn became aware that all the men were listening, and waiting.
She hastily rubbed her tears away and straightened up. She embraced
Éomer and then Théodred and said in a loud voice.
‘Farewell, Riders of Rohan! Victory to your spears and speed to your horses, and safe homecoming with trophies of many foes!
The warriors raised their spears and beat them against their wooden shields and shouted back;
‘Victory to Rohan and the House of Eorl! Honour and praise to The White Lady!’
Éomer and Théodred mounted their horses quickly and
Éowyn stood back as they wheeled and rode out of the enclosure
towards the gate of Edoras. Torches set along the wooden walls burned
low in the dawn and braziers set against the cold were already turning
to grey as the sound of the horses’ hooves rose to a thunder on the
iron-hard ground then died away as the last man rode out under the
banner of the White Horse.
When they were gone, Éowyn let her tears fall. Mira stepped up to stand beside her.
‘They will be back soon, my lady…’ she said soothingly.
‘No, Mira’ replied Éowyn in a low voice. ‘Some dark fortune lies
on our house. They will not ride back together as they rode out this
dawn….’
When the black-clad Palace Guard seized Faramir there was confusion in
the great square of Minas Tirith, in front of the very statue of
Isildur. Pippin thought he was going to be knocked down and trampled,
until one of the Rangers moved to stand between him and the arguing
soldiers.
When some of the ruffians who were taking Faramir away made to take
hold of him, another Ranger blocked their way, and then a cloak was
thrown over Pippin so he could not see. He was about to cry out and try
to get free when a voice whispered in his ear;
‘Be quiet, Halfling. We will take you to safety…’
Pippin felt himself bundled up and carried through the crowd. The
shouting gradually grew less and at last he was put down and the cloak
whisked away from over his curly head…
Pippin found himself in a quiet side street away from the crowded
square. It was narrow and led upward at a steep angle. Along it were
several inns, but they were closed and boarded up, their signs cracked
and faded, creaking as they swung in the warm breeze from the plain.
Pippin looked up; two Rangers stood beside him, tall, stern-faced men
in long green cloaks. They had their hands on the hilts of their swords
as they glanced cautiously about. One said to Pippin;
‘Pardon us, Halfling, but we had to bear you to safety any way we could…’
Pippin shook his head as if to say there was no need for an apology.
But just as he went to ask where Faramir had been taken to, the other
Ranger said in a low voice;
‘We can’t stay here, someone might see us. There are spies everywhere….’
The first Ranger nodded and they turned and led Pippin to the door of one of the inns.
This inn, although closed, was not boarded up. No drift of leaves and
debris had collected in the doorway. When one of the Rangers knocked on
the oaken door with his sword hilt it was opened at once, and the two
men, stooping to avoid the low lintel, went in, and Pippin followed.
After the bright morning sun it took the hobbit a few moments to see
clearly in the half-darkness. It was the common room of an inn,
spacious but empty. The tables and settles and stools were ranged about
neatly, but there were no customers sitting hunched over a morning ale.
The room was dark but despite the stone flags on the ground it was
warmed by a fire burning merrily in the great wide hearth at the end.
Pippin’s nose twitched eagerly at the smell of freshly baked bread from
the kitchens beyond. One of the Rangers smiled and said;
‘You must be hungry, little one. Let us find you some food….’
Pippin was mightily relieved to learn that his well-meaning abductors recognised the importance of breakfast, but first he said;
‘My lords, I thank you, for I am indeed very hungry. But first….could
you tell me who you are, and why you have brought me here?’
At his words a man came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on an
apron. He was tall and broad and dressed as an innkeeper but bore
himself like a soldier, apart from a slight limp. He had a round red
face and keen grey eyes. He looked from one of the Rangers to the other
then before they could speak he said;
‘Pardon, little master. We in Gondor are a courteous folk but we have
forgotten our courtesy and much besides in this war, and with the harsh
new laws and the changes in our Steward….’
He stopped himself, shook his head then went on;
‘These men are Rangers of Ithilien, this one is called Ainligh…’
He indicated the man who had picked Pippin up. He had a sallow face
with long black hair and deep-set grey eyes. He moved like a hunting
wolf and spoke little and rarely smiled...
‘..his name means Guide in your tongue, for he knows the vales of Ithilien as well as you would know your own Shire…'
‘And I bear an ancient Gondorian name..’ interrupted the other man with a smile.
‘.. but among Rangers, and among my friends, I am called Caol, the Thin Man…’
Pippin smiled, for the name was well given; Caol was tall and
lathe-thin, with the hunched shoulders of one who has to stoop to enter
every door. He had cropped sandy hair and a long, solemn face. Then the
innkeeper said;
‘And I am now no more than a fat old tavern landlord’. But then he winked and added;
‘But once I was a Ranger of Gondor. I am Cruach, Steel-fist..’
Pippin drew himself up to his full height and said;
‘I am Peregrine Took, son of Paladin, of The Shire, at your service and that of your families. But to MY friends, I am Pippin…’
He bowed, and the men bowed solemnly in reply. Then Pippin said;
‘I am humbly thankful to you for rescuing me. But before breakfast, I
beg you to tell me, where have they taken Captain Faramir?’
There was an awkward silence and the men glanced at each other.
‘To the Citadel’ said Cruach. ‘After that, we know no more than you do
yourself, Pippin of the Shire. But his father’s displeasure lies
heavily upon Faramir…’
The man stopped, as if unwilling to say more. Pippin said;
‘I want to go to the Citadel too…’
The men straightened up, startled. Ainligh said;
‘That would not be a wise thing to do, Master Halfling. They are
seeking for you through the streets. The Lord Steward Denethor thinks
you are a spy. If you go to the Citadel, I deem your stay would be but
short and not too pleasant…’
‘But you don’t understand…’ said Pippin, growing desperate ‘..I want to
find my cousin, Meriadoc. He was taken to the Citadel and I have not
seen him since. I want to find Merry..’
There was a silence. The three men stared at the hobbit, who looked from one to the other. He said again;
‘I want to find Merry….’
At last Ainligh stepped forward and kneeling down to bring himself
level with the tiny hobbit he placed a hand on his shoulder and said;
‘Do not look for your cousin, Peregrine, in the Citadel or anywhere else. You will not find him…’
‘Why?’ demanded Pippin. Ainligh looked down for a moment, then sighed and said;
‘He was taken to the Citadel, as you know. Never in Minas Tirith was
torture of our prisoners seen before, but much has changed in our city
since Boromir came back. On the orders of Denethor….your cousin was
tortured….’
Pippin’s heart seemed to have stopped. He wanted to speak but could not. Ainligh went on;
‘He was tortured with fire for a long time, to tell what he knew, or
even what he did not know. It was more than he could bear. Pippin, your
cousin Meriadoc is no more.’
‘What?’ said Pippin, unable to grasp the meaning of Ainligh’s words.
‘Merry is dead’ the Ranger said gently.
Returning to Buckland, between Rushy and the river, Merry ran ahead.
‘Hurry up, or we won’t before home before dark!’ he shouted at Pippin.
The Brandywine glinted in the distance, catching the last light of the
setting sun. Pippin did not know the Marish as well as he knew
Tookland, and he did not want to be left behind.
‘Merry! Wait for me!’
But the older hobbit had plunged into the long grass of an overgrown meadow beside the road.
‘Just follow me, Pip! I know the way…’
Pippin ran after him, but he had lost sight of his cousin. At the end
of the meadow was a great stand of thistledown, taller than Pippin’s
head. The dry stalks whispered as he pushed through them and the
thistledowns were shaken off into the evening breeze. They floated
high, at first like snowflakes, then drifted to the ground and lay
shining in the long grass, like stars.
