Sword and Arrow

Chapter 50

The ride back to Edoras was quiet. The rest of the King's army - along with the common folk that had sought refuge in Helm's Deep - had gone directly back to the capital. Only those that had gone to Isengard - the King and his nephew, what remained of the Fellowship, Lord Erkenbrand, and a small guard - now rode through the dry fields up to the hill of Edoras.

"Tell me, really," Beruthiel said to Aragorn. Aragorn had ridden by the King's side for most of their journey, but now they had fallen to the back with Legolas and Gimli. "Are you angry at me?"

Aragorn glanced back at her. "Angry?"

"I know you said that you weren't angry because everything ended up fine." The words came out in a rush, reins tangled in her hands. "But you've barely talked to me, and I still think that you're angry that I- that I disobeyed you."

He sighed. "I'm not angry at you, love. I just want you to be safe."

"I disobeyed you."

"It wasn't an order."

Beruthiel sighed. "I'm sorry for yelling at you."

Aragorn smiled. "I think I deserved that." And he did.

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Despite the countless lives that had been lost, the celebration back at Edoras was a merry one, for the Rohirrim had survived a perilous attack and defeated it to its roots. Barrels of ale were brought up from the cellars and platters and platters of food were cooked - Beruthiel could not figure out how the Rohirrim women could cook such excellent food so fast.

Théoden stood on the dais where his throne sat. No longer was the great hall of Meduseld dark and grim as it had been when the company first arrived there. Now, torches flickered in every sconce, throwing merry orange light throughout the large room. Éowyn slowly made her way through the tables and tables of soldiers and peasants, bearing a silver cup.

Théoden raised the cup and Éowyn stepped to the side. Immediately, the hall quieted and one could have heard a pin drop. Aragorn led the other men in standing, Beruthiel and Legolas on either side of him.

Théoden surveyed the crowd, then spoke. "Tonight we remember those who gave their blood to defend this country. Hail the victorious dead!"

"Hail!" spoke the crowd as one.

Aragorn paused for a moment before he drank from his mug, remembering silver hair under the moon, blood covering ornate armor. Remembering the small fraction of the Elvish army that had left Helm's Deep, refusing Théoden's invitation back to Edoras. It had been a sore loss of lives for the Rohirrim, yes, but it had been a massacre for the Elven folk who had marched so far to help them.

And the celebrations began. The barrels of ale were tapped, food was carried out, and the strains of songs began on fiddles. Surrounded by a crowd of Rohirrim, Éomer handed Legolas and Gimli each a mug of ale. "No pauses, no spills," he said, eying the elf and the dwarf.

"And no regurgitation," Gimli said with a laugh.

Legolas nodded, considering the mug in his hand. Somehow, he had found the time to change into an elegant silver tunic that he had somehow carried all the way from Lorien. Insufferable elves, Gimli had said to him. "So it's a drinking game."

"Aye, last one standing wins," Gimli said. He laughed again, already peering into the depths of his mug.

"What shall we drink to?" one of the men surrounding them asked.

"Let's drink to victory!" was suggested, and shouts of "to victory!" echoed before they emptied their mugs.

Legolas frowned, looking into the brown liquid. He didn't have a particular taste for human ale - he preferred his elvish wine, or at least the beer that the men of Lake-town made. He sniffed the contents of his mug, then took a delicate sip. Gimli was already downing his mug.