Sword and Arrow

Chapter 57

They had drawn the small cots in their tent together and layered their blankets on top of each other against the biting cold of the night. Aragorn slept with his arm around Beruthiel, a furrow in his brow.

A flash of light.

A pendant shattering on the stone floor.

Aragorn sat up in a shock, his short knife unsheathed. Beruthiel's head lay on his stomach, his arm still around her shoulder.

Nothing in the tent but young moonlight.

Aragorn breathed deeply, his knife hand lowering. Then it snapped back up as something rustled outside the tent-

Just a guard. A young soldier poked his head in through the tent flaps, seeing Aragorn awake. "Sir?" he said carefully. "King Théoden awaits you, my lord."

Aragorn sheathed his knife, carefully lowering Beruthiel's head and shoulders to the cot and folding the blanket over her shoulders. He bent over her, kissing her forehead, then left on silent feet.

The guard led him to the King's tent. When Aragorn entered, Théoden stood beside a cloaked figure that sat in a chair. The king nodded when he saw Aragorn, saying, "I take my leave," and stepping out of the tent.

Aragorn was confused by all of this as he went closer to the figure. Who in the world could this be? Why would someone be coming with a covered face to speak to him? Was this a trap?

The cloaked figure stood and approached Aragorn, lifting their hood and revealing an all-too-familiar face. Aragorn immediately bowed, not sure how formal their relationship had become after their spat back in Rivendell. "My lord Elrond."

"I come on behalf of one I love," Elrond said bluntly. His eyes tracked down to the Evenstar pendant that rested against his collarbones, visible through his open shift front. "Arwen is dying. She will not long survive the evil that now spreads from Mordor. The light of the Evenstar is failing. As Sauron's power grows, her strength wanes." He sighed heavily, looking off at the ground. "Arwen's fate is now tied to the fate of the Ring. The shadow is upon us, Aragorn. The end has come."

Elrond trailed off, breathing heavily. He had lived through numerous disasters, countless wars and massacres, so many ends of the world. Would this be the last one he would live to see?

"It will not be our end, but his," Aragorn insisted. But you are Hope, Aragorn!

"You ride to war," Elrond denied with a shake of his head. "But not to victory." He turned and looked to a map on the wall of the tent. "Sauron's armies march on Minas Tirith, you know, but in secret he sends another force, which will attack from the river. A fleet of corsair ships sail from the south. They'll be in the city in two days." The elf-lord shook his head again. "You're outnumbered, Aragorn. You need more men."

"There are none," Aragorn said, dumbfounded. He didn't doubt Elrond's information sources about the second attack by Sauron, but what was he implying now?

"There are those who dwell in the mountain," Elrond said quietly.

Dark is the path appointed to thee, the Dead watch the road that leads to the Sea.

"Murderers, traitors!" Aragorn said vehemently. Elrond spoke of the legends of the Oathbreakers trapped by Isildur under Dwimorberg. "You would call on them to fight? They believe in nothing, they answer to no one."

"They will answer to the king of Gondor," Lord Elrond said firmly. From the depths of his cloak, he took a long, wrapped package, unfolding the thick cloth to reveal a sword.

The sword.

"Anduril, the Flame of the West." He sounded reverent, as if even this ancient elf acknowledged its immense heritage. "Forged from the shards of Narsil."