The Ring will come to Gondor
by Varda
Chapter Thirty-five: The Sword and the Star
Legolas
lost count of the sunsets but still the grey ship steered into the
West, its crew of Elves, clad in green and blue, singing as they tended
the sails and the oars. They left the lonely wood-elf to himself, for
it was beyond their skill or their inclination to comfort one who
mourned for the world of mortals.
But as day ran into day the Elven mariners altered course to the
South-West. The sun set on the bow, and Legolas had to crane to see the
Eastern horizon at dusk, the Evenstar glowing bright above it. The air
grew warmer; the wind blew gentler and the rough, wintry Northern seas
were left behind. Strange stars glowed above the horizon at night and
the sun rose with an aura of yellow and purple.
Still too grieved to take pleasure in any beauty around him, yet
Legolas noticed that the sea had become shallow; leaning over the
ship’s rail he could see the bottom through crystal-clear opalescent
water. Coral reefs shimmered on a sea-floor of smooth white sand,
crowned with great shocks of purple and green and orange coral, and
many-coloured fish darted among them. Dolphins raced the ship, rising
and falling in graceful leaps, the sun gleaming on their blue-grey
backs. Birds cried above, but not harshly, more like a song, and in the
evening they formed great columns streaming Westward to some unseen
continent beyond the sunset.
At last, one morning when a crescent moon hung in the deep blue sky
holding a single star in the crook of its arm, Legolas saw a string of
lights ahead. The Elven mariners saw it too, and hastened to furl the
sails and run in the oars….
For now the ship seemed to glide forward on its own, although when
Legolas looked down he could see a strong current was drawing it into a
narrow channel formed by two lines of beacons that led to a low black
line on the dark horizon; they had reached land…
As the ship passed close to them, Legolas saw that the beacons were
wrought of some fine silver-grey metal in a shape like a teardrop, and
each enclosed a great crystal lamp. The light showed up the way and
flickered on the faces of the other Elves on the ship, their eyes
shining with joy and anticipation. But Legolas just stared sadly at
them, yearning for what he had left and dreading what lay ahead.
The ship had passed halfway down the channel, and the sky was growing
light, when shouts made Legolas turn and look into the West. There,
just sinking into the sea, was a great form, neither whale nor man nor
monster, but somewhat of all three. Its outline was revealed by the
glint of the beacons on its blue-green scaly back. It raised its arms
as if in farewell to the disappearing stars of night, then bowed its
great horned head and began to sink below the calm surface of the sea.
Down its back was a row of spines, jewelled with sapphires and emeralds
that flashed in the lamplight. It shook back a mane of hair formed of
long kelp-like strands beaded with white sea-shells, then with a noise
like a broaching whale it sank into the depths….
So amazed by the sea creature was Legolas that he gazed at the place where it had disappeared for a long time. Then he cried;
‘Is this not Ulmo himself?’
The mariner Elves laughed and shook their heads. Legolas looked from one to the other and at last one took pity on him and said;
‘Nay, Ulmo is lord of the Waters but he never ventures here, although
all the sea is his own. Nor is it Onen or Osse, but perhaps one of the
Oarni or Falmariní who serve them. For this is a place wherein
dwell many creatures of land and sea who lived since the world was
made…..’
Legolas nodded, but again he felt lonely and bereft; he thought of
Boromir and of the Ring, and wondered had it all been a dream, so far
away did Gondor and their warfare seem. He lifted a hand and pressed it
to his side; he felt a healed wound where Boromir had stabbed him. He
took his hand away and shook his head in wonder and doubt…
The rising sun now showed a long, low continent on the port side of the
ship. A scent, of eucalyptus and lilac, of myrtle and thyme, wafted
across the water and made Legolas yearn to set foot on land. Then,
rounding a low headland, he saw a great lighthouse reared up into the
pale morning sky, and behind it four more. As they put the headland
behind them, Legolas could see others, striding up the hillside, all
made of glistening white stone and bearing a great lighted crystal on
their summits.
The ship at last entered a harbour, made of the same white stone. There
were long quays, crowded with Elven craft, and a large number of Elves
stood on a green sward, as if to welcome them. There were flowers
strewn on the tide and the sound of singing drifted across the water to
Legolas….
‘You have counted the nights and numbered the days
The Earth you have travelled, the green mossy ways
Raindrops and snowfalls, and winter and spring
To a heart tired of travelling all joy let us bring.
In Middle Earth the Elves were not born to stay
Sons and daughters of stars will vanish away.
From the hardships of mortals we call you to rest
Peace after warfare in the Land of the West..
Legolas stood in the bow of the ship and his heart ached; the song, made for him, touched him not at all, except to grieve him…
Then the ship nudged the quay and ropes drew it fast and a silver
bridge was lowered onto the deck. The other elves walked off, and were
embraced by many of the crowd standing on the land. But when Legolas
descended the walkway they gazed at him questioningly. He for his part
swept their faces with his eyes, and realised he was looking for
someone. Several figures pushed through to the front, and Legolas
recognised his brothers in arms, the ones who had been slain in the
Battle where the men of Gondor had found him left for dead. They
surrounded him, all clad in grey-silver and green robes. They saluted
him and smiled. But Legolas looked around still, and then, like a stone
falling into a still pool, came the knowledge of who it was he was
searching for.
‘Airdeall!’ he thought in anguish.
The days passed slowly in the land of the West. It was warm, but the
sun did not burn, and at night a soft rain scented the woods and
sloping meadows behind the port. At dawn a silver mist clung to the
ships in the harbour, making them appear like ghost ships.
Legolas endured the days, for all the beauty of the place. On the fifth
day a tall, silver-haired Elf clad in a long dark blue robe and bearing
a white staff approached him and by a nod of his head bade Legolas to
follow him.
They ascended the headland to the foot of the tallest lighthouse. They
could see the ocean for many miles around, and the fair land behind
them. The morning sun brought the scent of warmed myrtle and thyme. The
Elf, turning to Legolas, said in a quiet but stern voice;
‘Your life is tied to the world of men, Legolas. You must cut the
bonds, or forever wander the realm of those who are neither living nor
dead’
Legolas bowed his head. He sighed and answered;
‘I can’t go back, but I can’t go forward. My heart is given to men, and
to a woman of mortal race. I cannot be happy anywhere else…’
‘You are an Elf; you do not belong with men. You are beyond such
passions, all that is for mortals…’ replied the Elf bleakly. He looked
closely at Legolas and said, shaking his head;
‘Do you not understand, you cannot break the golden cord; it is not in
your power. Your life will continue, in those elves who carry it on.
You have no choice in this…’
‘I do not want to leave Middle Earth..’ said Legolas.
The magus-Elf smiled wryly and said;
‘They mortally wounded you, these friends among men. Why do you seek to return to them?’
Legolas did not reply. The magus went on;
‘You were destroyed; they will burn your body, or bury it, according to their barbaric rites. You must forget them…’
‘They have my heart’ answered Legolas ‘The rest is of no importance to me….’
The tall blue-clad Elf gestured to the fragrant grasslands and the wide sweep of dark blue sea, patched with creamy wave-crests.
‘Why would you leave all this?’ he asked in puzzlement. ‘What do men have?’
‘They are free’ replied Legolas.
Pippin twisted his hands in their bonds. Although the Rangers had
knotted the cords loosely, so he could free himself quickly if
necessary, still he felt bound and helpless, all the more vulnerable
for being an object of astonishment during the long walk from the
lowest level of Minas Tirith to the highest, the very gate of the
Citadel itself…
The townspeople came running to look at him, and their faces were
hostile; pointing and whispering, and as they turned a corner of the
third level of the city, someone threw a stone.
It was well aimed and struck Pippin a glancing blow on the cheekbone.
Ailnigh, walking with Caor in front of the hobbit, turned round quickly
and shouted at the assailant who disappeared into the crowd. He looked
at Pippin, who could feel blood trickle down his cheek. The Ranger’s
face was full of concern, but Pippin was supposed to be his prisoner,
so the hobbit just murmured in a low voice;
‘It’s all right, it’s just a scratch….let’s go on, they are all looking at us….’
Pippin was right. A silent, morose crowd, dangerously close to a mob,
had swiftly gathered round them. Ailnigh and Caol pushed through them
and the procession of Rangers and their captive continued up to the
Citadel.
Pippin’s heart thumped in his chest; all around was danger. The hostile
people, the dangerous militia…as they traversed a walkway that ran
along the battlements the hobbit had a sudden view over the city, lying
in a cold mizzle of rain, its wet roofs falling away to the dark green
plain.
‘Oh I wish Merry was here!’ he thought to himself, even though he had
no desire to see his cousin in the same dangerous situation. But half
of Pippin’s heart would always be where Merry was, living or dead.
Fervently, desperately, Pippin wished to believe that Merry was alive;
and that he could find him, or die trying to….
He was roused from his thoughts by the sound of running feet; mailed
feet… he looked up and saw they had come to the last gate, the gate of
the highest level of Minas Tirith, the Citadel.
A great fortified gateway reared up into the rain, its rough-hewn stone
dark and wet. Behind it, rising up into the grey sky, the gleaming
white tower of Ecthelion, of pearl and silver…
The heavy, iron-bound doors were shut and barred, but a postern was
kept open, and before it stood a sentry in the arms of Gondor, a fine
hauberk of chainmail and a surcoat of black velvet stitched with the
silver tree and stars.
The man was a captain of Gondor of long and honourable service; he knew
the Rangers Ailnigh and Caol and looked from one of them to the other
and then at the hobbit in astonishment. Caol said;
‘There is a bounty on the head of this prisoner; the halfling sought by
Boromir the Steward. We have come to claim that guerdon…’
The man shot a reproachful look at Caol, as if to say;
’So you are a traitor too?’ but before he could speak a loud crash
shook the gate and the bar was thrown back and the heavy wooden doors
hauled open. Pippin looked up and his heart turned cold; a body of
militiamen, at least four score, all the same ruffians who had tried to
capture him in the square that morning, were ranged inside the gate.
They were ready for trouble, their swords drawn, their faces grim and
dangerous.
‘If there’s a fight, you will be the first to die….’ The Ranger had
said to Pippin, and now it was coming true; he was tied and helpless,
right in front of his foes…he thought of Aragorn, but he knew even
Strider wanted above all to avoid fighting and killing in the Citadel….
Aragorn had brought up the rear of the group of Rangers, his hood
pulled down over his face, hoping to pass as one of them. So much
attention was drawn to Pippin that few looked twice at him, or at the
group of Rangers walking closely together right in front of him; just
as well, as they were blocking any prying gaze that might fall on
Gimli, stealing along hidden by his tall companions….
There had been much discussion of how best to conceal the dwarf on
their walk to the Citadel. One Ranger suggested he hide under their
cloaks. Gimli grunted dissent;
‘If you were all maidens fair I might cling to your skirts, but as it
is….pray, let me just walk in your midst, and hope no-one is taller
enough to see over you….’
The Rangers smiled and shrugged and Gimli positioned himself among
them. Hemmed in by tall cloaked Rangers he looked up at Aragorn and
said in a forlorn voice;
‘Aragorn, for my sake, don’t tell the Elf….’
Now, sensing danger, Aragorn moved quietly and swiftly through the
Rangers to stand behind Pippin, just as the commander of the militia
pushed the sentry out of the way and strode up to Ailnigh and Caol…
‘What is the meaning of this?’ he barked at them.
‘This halfling is wanted by Lord Boromir! Give him up to us at once, Rangers!’
Pippin looked up at the commander in surprise; he was young, not much
older than Merry, had he been a hobbit and gone by the age-reckoning of
the Shire. He wore a red sash over his black tunic, to signify he was
captain of the militia. He was young but tall, almost as tall as
Aragorn, with long, black curly hair and a fair but pale and angry
face. His dark grey eyes burned as he looked from Pippin to the Rangers
and he did not speak, he shouted….
This was Tachrán. His name meant homeless, for he was an orphan
whose only family had been the cadets of the Citadel guard. Anxious to
serve his city but too young for inductment into the Guards he had been
only too eager to join the new militia raised by Denethor, and had
quickly been promoted for his zeal….now he took a few steps towards
Pippin, his drawn sword in his hand, and reached out as if to seize the
hobbit.
‘Not so hot!’ said Caol, stepping in front of him. ‘We found him, we
have the right to bring him to the Steward. The reward is ours!’
‘Reward!’ said Tachrán in astonishment. ‘The Rangers of Ithilien
are all proscribed, under banishment along with their traitor of a
lord, Faramir. You dare to claim reward? What reward awaits you and all
the Rangers but the gallows….?’
‘Careful how you threaten a Ranger…boy’ said Caol in a soft voice, but his eyes had a dangerous gleam….
‘If anyone deserves a hanging here, it is your rabble of wolfsbanes….’
And he nodded at the militia.
Tachrán stared at the Ranger, his face even paler. Then, in a
sudden movement, he shot out a hand to seize Pippin, crying;
‘He’ll win you no guerdon with his throat cut….’
The Captain was very fast, and the Rangers were taken off guard. Before
they recovered, Tachrán had grabbed Pippin and hauled him off
his feet and laid the cold edge of his sword against the hobbit’s
throat.
The Rangers scrambled back in horror, but before they could speak or
draw their own swords, Aragorn appeared at Tachrán’s side, his
hand on the captain’s sword hand, his own hunting knife at the young
man’s throat.
‘Let the halfling go…’ he said calmly to him. Tachrán swallowed
hard, but did not let Pippin go nor take the sword away from his throat.
‘You are a brave man, Captain, and well able to command ….’said
Aragorn. ‘But this is an empty trial of strength. Let the halfling go,
and the Steward will be grateful and you will be rewarded….’
‘I care nothing for reward!’ Tachrán spat the words in contempt.
‘Well, then, avoid punishment’ retorted Aragorn. ‘Boromir wants the
halfling alive, not with his throat cut. Displeasing the Steward is a
high price to pay to make a Ranger lose face….’
The cold steel of the blade tingled against Pippin’s skin. With his
head pulled back he could not see Aragorn or even the Captain, but only
the sky. He noticed the rain had stopped; the clouds were breaking up
and a patch of watery blue sky had appeared. Better to die here than go
home without Merry anyway….
‘What glory is there in killing a halfling?’ asked Aragorn in a
soothing voice. ‘a bound and helpless prisoner half your size? For
shame, captain….’
Pippin felt the man’s grip relax but he did not let go nor lower his
sword. Tachrán turned to look at Aragorn, his grey eyes dark and
questioning. His gaze fell on Aragorn’s tunic and cloak, ragged and
weatherworn but not the garb of a Ranger. He saw too the great silver
ring of Barahir that Aragorn wore, its two dragon-heads entwining and
its green stone glowing in the watery light of the winter afternoon.
‘You are no Ranger….’ He exclaimed.
‘You are a spy…!.’
And he dragged the blade across Pippin’s throat, just as Aragorn
brought his own sword down on his arm. The hobbit fell forward on his
face and Aragorn lifted his sword to strike again. He had wanted above
all to avoid bloodshed and the killing of his own people. But it was
not to be…
‘If I have to take this city by the sword, then by the sword it will be taken!’
