Sword and Arrow

Chapter 56

White flowers crushed under horses' hooves, melancholy knights in shining armor with heads bowed. It was a parade of death that slowly made its way down Minas Tirith's widest thoroughfare as townspeople gathered around. Each and every soldier in the procession went to his death.

"Faramir!" A white shape pushed its way through the crowd, and then the white cloaked figure of Gandalf stood before Faramir's steed. "Faramir! Your father's will has turned to madness. Do not throw your life away so rashly."

Faramir did not stop his horse. "Where does my allegiance lie if not here?" He stared straight ahead, his father's head still echoing through his head. Yes, I wish that. "This is the city of the Men of Numenor. I will gladly give my life to defend her beauty, her memory... her wisdom."

"Your father loves you, Faramir. He will remember it before the end."

Everyone told him that, but Faramir was finding it more and more difficult to believe. His father had told him that he wished he was dead, his father had sent him off to death. His father did not love him.

As the line of cavalry exited the gates of Minas Tirith, they formed a wide band, riding across the Field of Pelennor to charge into Osgiliath. One last sacrifice, even if in vain.

Faramir rose in his stirrups, his lance held high as orcs flowed from the port of Osgiliath to meet them. A line of Gondorian cavalry with banners flying high and spears held forward greeted them, a line of grim soldiers in grim armor, ready for their death.

Archers rose up in the walls, crossbows held at the ready. And then arrows flew, and soldier after soldier dropped from his horse.

Bells tolled in the courtyard of Minas Tirith.

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"Grimbold, how many?" Théoden asked as he rode into the camp in Dunharrow.

"I bring five hundred men from the Westfold, my lord," the liege lord answered.

"We had three hundred more from Fenmarch," Gamling added, riding up beside the king's party.

"Where are the riders from Snowbourn?" Théoden asked, surveying the sprawling camp.

"None have come, my lord," Gamling answered. Wonderful.

"Six thousand spears," Théoden said later, surveying his army from the high point where his own tent was set up. "Less than half of what I'd hoped for."

Aragorn shook his head beside him. "Six thousand will not be enough to break the lines of Mordor."

"More will come," Théoden affirmed with hope. But would they? Who would ride to certain death under a king that had not served them until lately, under a forgotten heir from the north?

"Every hour hastens Gondor's defeat," Aragorn said. "We have till dawn... then we must ride."

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"The horses are restless, the men are quiet," Legolas said as they paced through Théoden's camp.

"They grow nervous in the shadow of the mountain," Éomer said, jerking his head to the mountain looming over them.

Beruthiel could see why; the mountain reared its head like a dark giant set on terrorizing the world of men, casting its long shadow over the fields below. It made her nervous too; it looked like a tomb more than a mountain. What countless bones were laid below its dark stone?

"That road there," Gimli said, gesturing to a road that all avoided. Those that had to cross it crossed quickly, not once looking down the road to where it led.

"It is the road to the Dimholt," Legolas answered. "The door under the mountain."

"None who venture there ever return," Éomer said with a violent shake of his head that sent his golden locks flying. "That mountain is evil."

If it was so evil, then why did Beruthiel find herself drawn to it? A sense of dread emanated from it, a sense of inevitable dread that made her feel like her path lay through the dark mountain.

"Come on," Gimli said after a moment of uncomfortable silence. "Let's find some food."

They left the road that led under the mountain, but Beruthiel couldn't help uneasily looking back over her shoulder with worry.

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"There," Éowyn said with a laugh, placing a helm on Merry's small head. "A true esquire of Rohan!"

"I'm ready!" Merry said with a grin, drawing his short sword from its sheath. He wore a small breastplate of leather - where Éowyn had found it, he had no idea. Éowyn leapt back at the blade's sudden movement, startled. "Sorry," he apologized, looking down at the length of steel. "It isn't that dangerous. It isn't even sharp."

"Well, that's no good," Éowyn said, hands clasped. "You won't kill many orcs with a blunt blade. Come, to the smithy!"

Merry led the way out of the tent, swinging the sword in test swings. Éowyn followed, laughing as she wiped her hands on the front of her dress.

"You should not encourage him," Éomer said darkly. He and Gamling sat at the nearest fire, finishing off the night's meal.

"And you should not doubt him," Éowyn answered. She stepped forward, shaking her head. "Why should Merry be left behind? He has as much cause to go to war as you! Why can he not fight for those he loves?" As always, her voice faltered on the last word.

Éomer stood slowly, turning to face his sister. "You know as little of war as that hobbit," he said. "When the fear takes him, when the blood and the screams and the horror of battle take hold, do you think he would stand and fight?" He slowly shook his head. "He would flee, and he would be right to do so. War is the province of men, Éowyn."

Éowyn hated the way he emphasized men, even though she knew that he was trying to protect her, knew that he believed in her. She was trying to suppress her tears as he strode away into the night with Gamling.

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hello sleep deprivation my old friend