The White Lady of Rohan
by
Soledad
Disclaimer:
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only the families of Elfhelm and Erkenbrand are mine.
Rating: PG-13 for battle-induced violence.
Author’s
notes:
This chapter shows the solitary
journey of Boromir from Edoras to the ruined city of Tharbad and was mostly
inspired by Michael Martinez’ articles about the Dúnedain kingdoms in
Middle-earth. A ’’history chapter’’, if you like, with very little
action, save the end of it – which is my take on how Boromir had lost his
horse –, and almost no dialogue at all. Basically, it’s simply following
Boromir’s thoughts about the history and the fate of Gondor, while he sees the
proud monuments of Gondor’s powers at its height (like the Hornburg, Orthanc,
etc.).
Many thanks on this place to Rociriel, Mother of all Horsemen (go and read her story), who provided me with the necessary information in equine matters – and with the excellent source below. Roc, this one is for you!
More
about the customs of Rohan can be found at: http://rohan.elendor.net/culture.html,
if anyone is interested.
Also,
my heartfelt thanks to Danielle for beta-reading.
CHAPTER FIVE:
ON A LONELY ROAD
It took him almost two days to
travel from Edoras to the Hornburg. Narothal(1) could have
made it in one, of course, if the need were dire; he was a horse of
Rohan, even if not one of the magnificent mearas, who bore only the King
of the Mark and those of his line. The great steed belonged to the so-called
heavy type, which lacked the speed of the lighter horses used by scouts, but
possessed greater strength instead, and so were the favoured choice for heavy
cavalry units, especially those of the West-mark(2).
The line that Narothal
descended from was carefully bred by the Lord Hengest, Elfhelm’s father, and
Narothal himself had been hand-picked for Boromir personally as a young foal and
trained exclusively for his service, as was the custom of the Horse-lords of the
Mark. Then, a few years ago, when Narothal’s training was complete, Boromir
had been called to Stowburg for the proper bonding ceremony(3), and
from that moment on the horse was his and his alone.
No ordinary horse of the Mark
could have lived in a city of stone like Minas Tirith. Lord Hengest, however,
recognized the need of Rohan’s strongest ally for mounted forces, and bred
these strong and swift, yet cold-blooded war-horses especially for Gondorian
purposes. It made the Gondorrim happy and him a wealthy man, so both parties
were satisfied.
Boromir had learnt to consider
Narothal as a friend rather than a mere horse. The great, silver-coated steed
carried him as easily as if he were a mere child instead of a tall, big-boned
man clad in travelling armour, and had Boromir asked him to make the distance
between Edoras and the Hornburg in one day, Narothal would have done so. But
Boromir saw no reason to over-extend his horse… his cherished friend. Even if
the exact destination of his quest was uncertain, he knew hundreds of leagues
still lay before them. So he took it easy. Despite the urgency in his heart, the
more sober part of his brain knew that a few days' delay were of no
significance.
It was near dusk on the second
day after he had left Edoras, and the tall peaks of Thrihyrne were already dim
against the darkening sky, when he reached Helm’s Deep: a green coomb in the
mountains on the far side of the Westfold Vale, out of which a gorge opened in
the hills, winding inward to the north under the shadow of the Thrihyrne, ever
steeper and narrower, til the crow-haunted cliffs rose like mighty towers on
either side, shutting out the light.
At Helm’s Gate, before the
mouth of the Deep, there was a heel of rock thrust outward by the northern
cliff. There upon its spur stood high walls of ancient stone, and within them
was a lofty tower. (4) Boromir checked his horse and looked up with
awe and longing at the handiwork of his forefathers of old; for this fastness
had been built at the time of the Sea-Kings, when the power and glory of Gondor
was at its height and its influence extended over Dunland and the Enedwaith, as
far as the rivers Gwathló and Glanduin.
At the proof of Gondor’s
long-forgotten glory he was looking indeed, at a glimpse of the greatness of
fallen Westernesse, and the sight filled his heart with sorrow, for he knew that
despite the desperate efforts of his father, Gondor had not the strength to rise
to such heights again. Worse than that: unless a wonder were to happen, or some
forgotten power walk out of ancient legends, Gondor was doomed to fall.
And if Gondor fell, how could
lesser, weaker peoples hope to survive?
At the Gate he was welcomed by
the sentinels, for Boromir's name was well-known even in the West-mark, and he
was escorted up to the Hornburg where Erkenbrand, master of the Westfold on the
borders of the Mark, now dwelt. To his pleasure, he found Erkenbrand at home,
and they spoke deep into the night, exchanging tidings from the South and the
North.
Having Númenórean blood in
his family (like the royal House) made Erkenbrand tall, dark-haired and
fair-faced, as his daughter, Aud of the deep eyes, was. His other children,
Hereward and Déorwyn, took after their mother, though Hereward, too, had dark
hair. The whole family, including Erkenbrand’s sisters and their husbands and
children, joined them for plenty of food and good ale, and they had heated
discussions about matters in the court of Edoras, the fall of Osgiliath, and the
generally worsening situation along the borders of Mordor.
Among other things – in spite
of his partially Gondorian descent – Erkenbrand felt the need to warn Boromir
about the Elves. There had been incidents, he said, Men of Rohan being
haunted by wraiths in the woods, wraiths that had once been Elves and refused to
go – well, wherever Elves go after having been killed. Some of these dwimmerlaiks
even tried to take over the bodies of living people(5), the Lady Medwyn
(Erkenbrand’s wife) added, and it was widespread opinion in the Mark that they
came out of Dwimordene, the Golden Wood, where the greatest Elven sorceress was
said still to dwell.
Not being superstitious
himself, Boromir only shook his head in mild disbelief and let them carry on,
hoping to have at least a few hours of rest ere sunrise. Unfortunately, the
family of Erkenbrand was in a very talkative mood, not to mention delighted to
have him as their guest, and after the discussion came singing and drinking, so
that when he got up the next morn, he was, in truth, wearier than he had been
the previous evening.
At least Narothal seemed to
have had a restful night and was eager to go on again. Boromir said his
farewells to Erkenbrand’s family and left the Hornburg to return to the
North-South Road.
It took two more days to reach
the Gap of Rohan, some eighty miles from the Hornburg. Narothal galloped easily
among the green hills of his homeland, and the Road was well-kept here, so they
had little hindrance in their headway. Rarely had they met anyone, seeing only
the occasional patrol from afar, and another day and a half later they reached
the Road's closest point to Orthanc.
There Boromir stopped for an
hour or so, in order to think over his plans. If he continued on the Road, it
was about a hundred and fifty miles to Tharbad, once the westernmost haven of
Gondor, where the Road crossed the River Gwathló. That now-ruined city once had
been the farthest haven to which the great sea-ships of Númenor could sail
upriver; an ancient fortress and meeting point between the kingdoms of Arnor and
Gondor – as long as the North-kingdom had existed.
It was said that great floods
had destroyed that once-important haven, and no-one had dwelt among its ruins
since the last inhabitants fled over the Enedwaith to Gondor. Still, it was the
last known place in the North-west, and there was a reasonable chance that he
might find there some lingering people from the fallen North-kingdom who could
tell him the way to Imladris. The people of Arnor had always been on more
friendly terms with the Elves than the Gondorrim had, and Tharbad, even in
ruins, was too important a place to be abandoned completely.
On the other hand, it made him
uneasy not to know what might be stirring behind his back
in Isengard. Yet turning towards Curunír’s fortress to take a look
would mean fifty miles in the wrong direction – at least three days' delay,
there and back. Not to mention the trouble he could get into if the wizard
detected his presence.
Though he had never visited
Orthanc itself, Boromir had several times come as far as Nan Curunír, the
Wizard’s Valley, looking over its depths towards the great ringwall of stone
standing out from the shelter of the mountain-side from which it ran and then
returned to, wrought by the mighty work of the Men of Westernesse, at a time
when Gondor was strong and victorious.
He remembered the great
watchtower of Orthanc, that seemed to have grown from the very bones of the
Earth in the ancient torment of the hills; four mighty piers of many sided stone
welded into one, black and gleaming hard, opening near the summit into gaping
horns, their pinnacles sharp as arrow-points, keen-edged as knives.
A strong place and wonderful
was Isengard, indeed, and long it had been beautiful – while great Lords,
wardens of Gondor upon the West, had dwelt within its walls. But now it was lost
to Gondor, and instead of guarding the borders, had become a threat that Théoden
son of Thengel, King of the Mark, was unable – or unwilling – to see, for
his trusted counsellor had made him deaf and blind to the peril.
Boromir hesitated, weighing all
arguments for and against a brief (and hopefully undetected) visit to Isengard,
but finally suspicion and the urgency of his errand defeated his curiosity. He
got back in the saddle and continued on the Road northwards.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
A hundred and fifty miles. Four
days, riding with moderate speed from sunrise to sunset on the gradually
hardening terrain, surrounded by loneliness, pausing only at the occasional inn.
Having left Dunland safely behind, Boromir began to slip into a more thoughtful
mood, for there was no need to remain on high alert any more. And his journey
surely gave him enough food for thought.
Never had he been this far from
his own land – and yet, in the time of the greatest Sea-Kings, the power of
Gondor had extended over these now mostly uninhabited lands. Having seen the
great works of his forefathers – not only the magnificent towers of the
Hornburg and Orthanc, but also the abandoned ruins of smaller fortresses and
watchposts that now served mainly as inns and resting places for tired
travellers – made it painfully obvious how deeply Gondor had fallen from its
erstwhile glory.
These old fortresses had stood
here ere the fall of Númenor. Pelargir, the royal haven of the South was not
the only Númenórean stronghold. In truth, not even the first one. That would
have been Vinyamar, called Lond Daer Ened in later times, built by the great
Sea-King of old Númenórë, Aldarion himself. And Tharbad, abandoned since the
Great Flood more than a hundred years ago, was a third one.
Boromir thought back to the
early years of his childhood when Faramir had been little more than a baby; the
soft, lilting voice of his mother, Finduilas of Dol Amroth, telling him of the
war between the Elves and Sauron, when the Númenóreans had built small
garrisons along the River Gwathló to watch over the waterways; when the relief
fleet of Westernesse had sailed up the Gwathló to Tharbad to help the Elves of
Lindon, and the two forces kept the Dark Lord from crossing the river. Now he
could see with his own eyes what had become of these forts, and the sight was
not promising.
It was said in Gondor that
after the arrival of Elendil and the last fugitives from Númenor Tharbad became
the chief port of the North; for whatever reason, Lond Daer Ened seemed to have
been abandoned. In truth, very little of Arnor’s history was known in Gondor
now; a fact that Boromir now regretted, for it made his quest the more
difficult, though he had paid little enough attention to the affairs of the
Norh-kingdom during the lessons of his youth.
His father always spoke of
Arnor with dismay, calling it a land of decadence that had ended in the
squabbles of three princes who could not live in peace together. How enraged the
Lord Steward had been when Faramir dared to point out that Tarannon Falastur,
first of the glorious Sea-Kings of Gondor – the one who had conquered the
coastal regions as far as the Gwathló, pacifying Enedwaith in the process –
might not have been entirely innocent in the sundering of the North-kingdom.
After all, the two younger princes had served under Tarannon in
Gondor’s fleet, and took part in his campaign to conquer Enedwaith(6).
Denethor took the comment of
his younger son not kindly; yet it remained a fact, that although Tharbad was Armor’s
chief port, it was Gondor that maintained a garrison of soldiers there
during the reign of Tarannon Falastur, and that the strife he may have supported
among the sons of Eärendur brought forth the end of the High Kingship and the
final rift between the Dúnedain realms. Arnor broke apart and two-thirds of its
earlier lands were lost to Elendil’s heirs, the once great realm shrinking to
the small kingdom of Arthedain.
At that time, Boromir shared
his father’s opinion about Arnor, but the unusual amount of time he had to
think about the fate of his people now began to make him uncertain. Gondor
remained united, that much was true. But had not the realm of Anárion also been
shaken by the Kinstrife and other horrible, often needless wars that bled it to
near-destruction? Were the fates of the two kingdoms truly that
different, or had Gondor simply had better luck?
Boromir shook his head
defiantly, as if trying to keep these treacherous thoughts away. Whatever
mistakes the Kings of Gondor might have made in the far past, they had paid the
price for it. And after they had perished, the Ruling Stewards, his own sires of
old, had taken the fate of the South-kingdom into their strong and reliable
hands; and they had ruled well. While the wide lands of Arnor became little more
than a wilderness, without rules and without a ruler, Gondor remained a stalwart
tower, holding the re-awakened Enemy at bay, suffering heavy losses and
protecting those who could not protect themselves.
One day, Boromir
thought, I shall be the one to hold the sceptre of the Stewards and to lead
Gondor’s armies against the Darkness. If we can hold on any longer. If the
riddle that sent me out on this errand is not, in truth, foretelling the doom of
all of us.
Yet to learn the meaning of those veiled words, he still had a long way to go. So he lightly squeezed Narothal’s sides with his thighs and rode on swiftly towards the north.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Fifty more miles. More or less.
Boromir had lost count of how many days he had spent in the saddle riding at a
steady pace towards Tharbad, once the greatest haven of Eriador. He could not be
sure of the length of the North-South Road that was already behind them, either.
The passing days had become one blurred, grey vision with short breaks at
nighttime, for he preferred not to travel in the deepest dark. Still, he guessed
that there were probably one or two more more days til Tharbad. According to the
old maps in his father’s library, the town lay at the crossing of the river
and the Road, so there was no way he could miss its remains.
Darkness was falling once
again, and Boromir considered leaving the Road and looking for a proper resting
place soon, though his weary bones and painfully knotted muscles screamed at the
thought of lying on the cold, hard forest floor once again, with gnarled
tree-roots poking into his back. But there was no way he could change the land
around him; so he dismounted, suppressing a groan as he hit the ground, and soon
he detected a narrow path, hardly visible under the fallen leaves, that led away
from the Road.
Less than forty feet away, he
found a cleaning among the huge, wide-branched oaks which flung gnarled arms,
intertwined like a protective canopy, high over his head. Every single bone in
his stiff body ached from utter weariness, and Narothal was in only slightly
better shape. Boromir took care of the faithful beast, then lay down, wrapped in
his cloak, and stared up at the swiftly darkening sky: too tired to make a fire,
too tired to eat (which might have been considered fortunate, for his supplies
were already running low), too tired even to sleep.
So he lay there in silence,
listening to the night noises of the woods – not that there was much to listen
to, for the forest was strangely quiet – trying to think of the stars that
would be shining above the white city of Ecthelion, far, far away from here, in
the South.
Yet all he could remember was
fire and darkness. An angry red wheel of fire that had haunted his dreams ever
since the last battle for the ruined bridge of Osgiliath, where – for the
first time in his short, harsh life – he had been utterly beaten by an enemy
so much stronger and evil beyond imagination.
And the dark wings of the
Nameless Fear that swept up to the skies above the battlefield, clouding the
hearts of his best men with mindless, black horror. The cold, terrible touch of
the same horror upon his own heart, pierced by the long, otherworldly shriek of
the Winged Beast ere it struck down at them like the iron scythe of Death.
He shuddered, the cold fear
that sat bone-deep in his whole body – and even more so in his heart –
tightening its icy grip once again. ’Twas not something he was used to. He had
seen Death too often to be still afraid of it. He could not allow himself
to be frozen by fear. He was a warrior, the High Warden of the White Tower,
leader of the brave soldiers of Gondor. He had to be strong – for his land and
for his men. And for his own father who tolerated no weakness. Not of body, nor
of heart.
Strong… he hated being
strong. He hated being the one all others depended on, leaned on. Once, just
once he wanted desperately to let everything that was expected of him go, to
lean back into comforting arms and let himself fall into thoughtless bliss.
But not even that comfort would
be granted him. Even his bed, cold and empty as it had been before, would become
a place of service and duty. He was the Heir of Gondor. He was expected to wed
and have heirs of his own. He understood this, and apparently so did Éowyn of
Rohan. They would fulfill their duty toward their peoples. Whether it made
either of them happy, no-one would ask.
The restless bouncing of
Narothal jerked him out of his dark thoughts. The horse pinned back his ears,
his nostrils flared, his breath came in angry snorts. Boromir knew these signals
all too well. They were not signs of fear, but of readiness. Narothal was
preparing for a fight.
The harsh voices and guttural
laughter he heard coming from the Road just a little later left no doubt what
sort of company he was about to meet. No-one could spend his whole life in the
Watchtower of Númenor without knowing the rough voices of Orcs, among other
fell creatures of the Enemy. It surprised Boromir, however, and filled his heart
with great unease that the foul beasts had found their way around Gondor, this
deep into the Western Lands. Might it be that the riddle in his and Faramir’s
dream heralded the ultimate fall of Elves and Men in their long fight against
the Darkness?
Well, not tonight, not here,
and certainly not as long as he still could wield a sword!
He swung into the saddle with
renewed eagerness and nudged Narothal towards the Road carefully. The great
war-horse eased down the narrow path, but at the last few feet Boromir checked
him to keep them in the relative safety of the wood. He wished he had a bow,
even though he could never match Faramir’s skill with that weapon; alas, he
had not thought that one might be needed and was armed with a sword and a shield
only.
The Orcs approached swiftly.
Based on the many voices, he had had the bad luck to run into a whole scouting
party. Peering out through the tree-branches, he saw at least a dozen. Most of
them – like the two who came a good length before the others – were small,
long-armed and crook-legged; very ordinary Orcs from either Mordor or the
northern mountains. Their noses nearly touched the ground as they sniffed for
any possible danger – or for some prey. Boromir did not doubt that they would
smell him and Narothal any moment now. Orc-scouts had better noses than hunting
wolves.
Yet ’twas not the scouts that
made him worry. There also marched different goblin-soldiers in the middle of
the group, mayhap four or five of them. They were of greater stature – bigger
than grown Men, in fact – swart, slant-eyed, with thick legs and large, clawed
hands. They were armed with short broad-bladed swords, not the curved scimitars
Boromir was used to seeing Orcs wield, but at least they had no bows, either –
that would have decided the outcome of the fight very early on, indeed. Upon
their shields they bore not the Great Eye of Mordor but a small white hand in
the midst of a black field, and on the front of their iron helms was set an
S-rune wrought of some white metal.
There was no need for much
consideration of what that might mean. After the dire tidings he had
heard in Rohan, Boromir had little doubt whom these huge Orc-men served,
although the identity of their overlord was the smallest of his concerns at the
moment. He could not hope that the band would miss him – there was simply no
way to fool an orc-scout’s nose. So, his only chance was to take them by
surprise – to attack them ere they became aware of his presence, and slay as
many of them as he might.
Being mounted was an advantage
against the ordinary, smaller Orcs, even though Narothal had not the usual
protective armour he would have on a battlefield. They were on a long journey,
after all. But he was a well-trained war-horse, capable of protecting his own
belly with vicious kicking or biting if he had to, without throwing his rider
from the saddle.
Those big, black monsters, on
the other hand…
But Boromir had truly no other
choice. He drew his sword, and with a sharp battle cry of ’’Gondor!’’
made Narothal leap into the midst of the fell creatures, trying to slay the big
goblin-soldiers first.
The moment of surprise served
him well, at first. The Orcs had not counted on being attacked on the Road, and
did not realize right away that their attacker was one lone Man. Carried on by
the momentum of his own ferocious attack, Boromir had slain three of the big
Orcs, while Narothal, with a burning hatred only a mount born and trained in
Rohan was capable of when facing the enemy, trampled down several of the smaller
ones.
Unfortunately, the moon chose
that very moment to peek out from behind the clouds, and its dim light was
enough for one of the big Orcs to get a better grip on the whole mess.
’’Búshdug!’’ he roared
to his fellow goblin, using some mutilated form of Westron as was customary
among Orcs of different tribes. ’’He alone! C’m’ere from behind!
Skratrak, ya little rat, go for horse!(7)’’
The small, sleek Orc-scout
scowled. ’’’Tis no horse, ’tis dragon. Me not risking me skull.’’
’’Yer skull be cloven in
two if you not do what I say!’’ spat the big Orc in fury. ’’I am Kushúr
the Cleaver. I leading ya, now that filthy tarkil's(8) killed
Glazklâsh!’’
’’The Ripper got
ripped,’’ another of the smaller Orcs began to giggle insanely. ’’Not
the great warrior he fancied ’imself!’’
This appeared to make Kushúr
completely mad. With a loud snarl, he leapt at the smaller Orc and cleaved its
skull neatly in two, giving Boromir a golden opportunity to get rid of two more
enraged beasts of the same sort. But then some well-placed commands in the Black
Speech snapped the rest of the swearing and scowling ragtag band out of their
rage, making them understand at last that before all else, they had to kill
their lone attacker.
And so they closed up from all
sides at the same time. Narothal reared up on his hindquarters, spinning around
like a whirlwind and breaking Orc-skulls with his flailing hooves, neighing
fiercely at each hit. For a moment Boromir needed all his considerable
battle-skills just to remain in the saddle and protect himself with his shield,
slashing blindly around with his sword, in hope that at least some of his blows
would hit something.
Then something hit Narothal in
the side with brutal force. The horse staggered, his forefeet landing on the
ground with a bone-jarring thud, so hard that Boromir was flung out of the
saddle. And then Narothal bolted, kicking and neighing in pain, running away
with all the speed he could still muster, into the darkness of the Road.
Boromir did not try to call him
back. If Narothal fled in the midst of an ongoing fight, that could only mean
that he had received a grave injury; one painful enough for his survival
instinct to win over his training. Whether the wound was bad enough to kill the
horse, Boromir could only guess. Either way, he was on his own now.
Hastily, he scrambled to his
feet, backing towards the nearest tree in the – most likely vain – hope of
finding at least some protection for his back. He slew two more of the smaller
Orcs, yet ere he could reach the trees, he found himself trapped between the
last two big, black monsters.
A hideous grin gave him a
perfect, albeit unwanted, view of a ragged row of broken, yellow fangs. Then
rotten Orc-breath hit his face, at the very same moment as something blunt and
heavy hit his head with shattering force.
And then darkness came.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
End notes:
(1)
Means Firefoot. Originally the earliest name for Shadowfax, according to
’’The Return of the Shadow’’. (BTW, at one point of the story
development the horse was even called Aragorn! Think about it…)
(2)
See: http://rohan.elendor.net/culture/types.html
(3)
See: http://rohan.elendor.net/culture/ceremonies.html
(4)
The Two Towers, p. 163
(5)
A theory of Michael Martinez – actually an attempt to explain the mistrust of
the Rohirrim against Elves. We don’t need to buy it, of course. After all, we
are dealing with Rohirric superstitions here.<g>
(6)
A possibility, not a fact. See: ’’Razing Arnor: How real were the Dúnedain
conspiracies?’’, by Michael Martinez.
(7)
All Orc-names were created with the help of the hilarious name-generating
online-engine at:
http://www.barrowdowns.com/midleearthname.asp
I simply typed in the names of different people I know and the engine came up
with the most incredible Orkish (or Elven or Dwarvish or Hobbitish) names. To
unveil two rather unusual Mary-Sues to you: both Kushúr the Cleaver and
Skratrak the Sleek are actually me (different forms of my name). But no, they
are neither perfect, nor beautiful. Plus, they are male Orcs. So, they might not
be Mary Sues at all. <g>
(8)
Earlier expression for ’’Dúnadan’’. Boromir was one – a southern one,
but a Dúnadan nevertheless. And Orcs knew their enemies very well.