when the shadow falls | for laurenande
Jun. 1st, 2025 06:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shieldofrohanThey were few enough when they fled, for many remained. Many - not only warriors, but farmers and artisans and fishermen, old men and youths and women - would sooner die on their own ground, standing hopelessly against the oncoming tide, than be cut down as they fled.
Éowyn would sooner have died. It is the final horror, the greatest defeat, that she should leave Edoras in flames and blackened ruin, that she should not stand to the last at the gates, or fall back with Éomer to Helm's Deep, and die at the last still defiant, with sword in hand and courage in her heart, doomed but brave.
She had begged not to be sent. She had fallen to her knees, gripping her brother's hands, and pleaded with him. It had not been graceful, either - not on either of their parts. There had been tears and blows, screaming and recriminations, and she had not been noble in it, she had not been gentle, at the last she had twisted the knife in every way she knew. I am more warrior than you. I am more king than you. Where were you, when the gates fell? Knowing, all the while, that she was being needlessly cruel, that it had not been his fault that he did not reach Edoras until it was too late, that she hurt him only to hurt him. But it had been a desperation beyond naming, beyond any anger or fear she had ever felt, to be sent away now.
And he - her only remaining kinsman, her rightful King, her brother who could face death boldly because he need not face disgrace - had at last wrapped his arms around her, weeping himself, and held her painfully tight, and said only If you are king enough to serve our people, then save our people. And she broke then, and clung to him in turn, and wept until she could weep no more, because he was right.
That was two weeks ago. They have moved more slowly than she would like - more slowly than they can afford. They cannot hope to hide, out on the plains, with handcarts and mules and the remnants of flocks, carrying the sick and the injured and the pregnant and the young. They cannot hope to turn and fight, either; she has armed herself and she knows her worth, but there is less than one full éored spared to ride with the caravan. Less than one hundred fighting men, against all the armies of Isengard.
Not a month ago, she was unblooded, a warrior in her own mind and nowhere else. Now, she has had to prove herself time and again, and there is no joy in knowing that she has done so. There is no glory, she has found at once, in this massacre. She was dragged from the field at Edoras, half-stunned and still trying to stand; she did not call the retreat, but she was pulled into it. And since then, there has been nothing but retreat - retreat from the charnel-house that the city has become, and retreat from Éomer's camp in the Westfold, and retreat and retreat and retreat across the plains and the hills, standing only long enough to win their people time to flee, and then reeling about their horses and turning heel. There is no glory in this fight, and no renown, and every part of her longs to find some solid place to stand, to turn at bay and meet their pursuers, screaming defiance and challenge, standing until the legs are cut out from under her, and fighting until her arms are broken, and holding fast until the last blood leaves her heart.
But she cannot, and it is a worse prison even than the shadowy hall of Meduseld at the end, when she had seen doom coming and could not turn Théoden from it. She could not even die at his side. She is trapped in this endless retreat, watching home disappear into ash behind her, and she cannot disappear with it, because if she fails now, then the last of the Eorlingas will die with the Mark, and it will all be for naught.
They are not only Eorlingas, now. The few hundred who set out sore-footed and weeping from the ruins of Edoras have been winnowed to less than a hundred by the journey, but they have been joined not only by the peasants of the land they pass through, but by those fleeing upriver from Gondor, the few who have evaded the Corsair ships and the Uruk-Hai camps and staggered ashore. From them she has learned, without surprise, of the siege of Minas Tirith, and wonders whether Éomer has seen the beacons, whether the Mark's last stand will be at the Hornburg or at the White City.
It does not matter. She cannot stand with them; and she mourns her brother just the same, whatever field he falls upon. In her mind, she has determined that he is dead already, for if he lives, it will not be for long, and it is better to mourn now than to turn her mind to false and mocking hope. He is dead, as Théodred is dead in the Marshes, as Théoden died at the threshold of the Golden Hall, cut down unceremoniously as he staggered beneath the weight of his sword. As she is dead, for there is no hope of survival. They are all dead; but they are not yet able to rest, and so she drives on this limping, ragged band of those without swords, and wonders when the end will come.
It comes in the night, as she expects. They have reached the river anew, and the rolling plains have given way to unkempt scrubland, then to woods where the horses must slow to a walk. They have made camp in the shelter of an old ruin, some remnant of old Gondor, and she has just laid down her head to rest for the first time in two days when the horns of the rearguard begin to blow.
On, then; the camp must be broken, the remaining carts taken up and the sleepers roused, and she scrambles for her saddle and her spear as she runs for her horse, calling aloud for haste. They must move, and ahead...
Ahead, the scouts have told her, is the Wood. This they have said in hushed tones, and though she pressed them, she did not need to; she can hear well enough the tone of it, which is the tone with which men speak of the Fangorn, and she can feel the weight of it. There is a strangeness to this place, they say, a silence. She has sent them out to find another way, for even in this extremity, there are things worse than Uruk-Hai, and they take root in such forests. The people of this camp are her responsibility. She will not lead them into greater doom.
And yet, she must. They cannot brave the mountains, and they have no ships to take the river. Perhaps if they had a little more time, if the scouts returned, if there is some preparation that could be made to skirt the ensorceled wood...
But the horns are blowing, and through the trees now she can hear the clash of arms, hear men screaming with unalloyed fear as she has not heard them scream before, and a terrible dread comes upon her, that what follows them is more than mere Orcs. She glances back at the slowly breaking camp, and forward to the terrible, silent wood, and she feels herself caught between fears.
If there is a road for them, it passes through the wood. If it does not, then they are already dead, and dead men need not fear.
She whispers reassurance to her horse, as he shies beneath her, and she looks at the half-dozen Riders who remain beside her. "We must," she says simply, and sets her heels to her steed's flanks, and the moonlight dies around them as she passes into the shadow of the trees.
Éowyn would sooner have died. It is the final horror, the greatest defeat, that she should leave Edoras in flames and blackened ruin, that she should not stand to the last at the gates, or fall back with Éomer to Helm's Deep, and die at the last still defiant, with sword in hand and courage in her heart, doomed but brave.
She had begged not to be sent. She had fallen to her knees, gripping her brother's hands, and pleaded with him. It had not been graceful, either - not on either of their parts. There had been tears and blows, screaming and recriminations, and she had not been noble in it, she had not been gentle, at the last she had twisted the knife in every way she knew. I am more warrior than you. I am more king than you. Where were you, when the gates fell? Knowing, all the while, that she was being needlessly cruel, that it had not been his fault that he did not reach Edoras until it was too late, that she hurt him only to hurt him. But it had been a desperation beyond naming, beyond any anger or fear she had ever felt, to be sent away now.
And he - her only remaining kinsman, her rightful King, her brother who could face death boldly because he need not face disgrace - had at last wrapped his arms around her, weeping himself, and held her painfully tight, and said only If you are king enough to serve our people, then save our people. And she broke then, and clung to him in turn, and wept until she could weep no more, because he was right.
That was two weeks ago. They have moved more slowly than she would like - more slowly than they can afford. They cannot hope to hide, out on the plains, with handcarts and mules and the remnants of flocks, carrying the sick and the injured and the pregnant and the young. They cannot hope to turn and fight, either; she has armed herself and she knows her worth, but there is less than one full éored spared to ride with the caravan. Less than one hundred fighting men, against all the armies of Isengard.
Not a month ago, she was unblooded, a warrior in her own mind and nowhere else. Now, she has had to prove herself time and again, and there is no joy in knowing that she has done so. There is no glory, she has found at once, in this massacre. She was dragged from the field at Edoras, half-stunned and still trying to stand; she did not call the retreat, but she was pulled into it. And since then, there has been nothing but retreat - retreat from the charnel-house that the city has become, and retreat from Éomer's camp in the Westfold, and retreat and retreat and retreat across the plains and the hills, standing only long enough to win their people time to flee, and then reeling about their horses and turning heel. There is no glory in this fight, and no renown, and every part of her longs to find some solid place to stand, to turn at bay and meet their pursuers, screaming defiance and challenge, standing until the legs are cut out from under her, and fighting until her arms are broken, and holding fast until the last blood leaves her heart.
But she cannot, and it is a worse prison even than the shadowy hall of Meduseld at the end, when she had seen doom coming and could not turn Théoden from it. She could not even die at his side. She is trapped in this endless retreat, watching home disappear into ash behind her, and she cannot disappear with it, because if she fails now, then the last of the Eorlingas will die with the Mark, and it will all be for naught.
They are not only Eorlingas, now. The few hundred who set out sore-footed and weeping from the ruins of Edoras have been winnowed to less than a hundred by the journey, but they have been joined not only by the peasants of the land they pass through, but by those fleeing upriver from Gondor, the few who have evaded the Corsair ships and the Uruk-Hai camps and staggered ashore. From them she has learned, without surprise, of the siege of Minas Tirith, and wonders whether Éomer has seen the beacons, whether the Mark's last stand will be at the Hornburg or at the White City.
It does not matter. She cannot stand with them; and she mourns her brother just the same, whatever field he falls upon. In her mind, she has determined that he is dead already, for if he lives, it will not be for long, and it is better to mourn now than to turn her mind to false and mocking hope. He is dead, as Théodred is dead in the Marshes, as Théoden died at the threshold of the Golden Hall, cut down unceremoniously as he staggered beneath the weight of his sword. As she is dead, for there is no hope of survival. They are all dead; but they are not yet able to rest, and so she drives on this limping, ragged band of those without swords, and wonders when the end will come.
It comes in the night, as she expects. They have reached the river anew, and the rolling plains have given way to unkempt scrubland, then to woods where the horses must slow to a walk. They have made camp in the shelter of an old ruin, some remnant of old Gondor, and she has just laid down her head to rest for the first time in two days when the horns of the rearguard begin to blow.
On, then; the camp must be broken, the remaining carts taken up and the sleepers roused, and she scrambles for her saddle and her spear as she runs for her horse, calling aloud for haste. They must move, and ahead...
Ahead, the scouts have told her, is the Wood. This they have said in hushed tones, and though she pressed them, she did not need to; she can hear well enough the tone of it, which is the tone with which men speak of the Fangorn, and she can feel the weight of it. There is a strangeness to this place, they say, a silence. She has sent them out to find another way, for even in this extremity, there are things worse than Uruk-Hai, and they take root in such forests. The people of this camp are her responsibility. She will not lead them into greater doom.
And yet, she must. They cannot brave the mountains, and they have no ships to take the river. Perhaps if they had a little more time, if the scouts returned, if there is some preparation that could be made to skirt the ensorceled wood...
But the horns are blowing, and through the trees now she can hear the clash of arms, hear men screaming with unalloyed fear as she has not heard them scream before, and a terrible dread comes upon her, that what follows them is more than mere Orcs. She glances back at the slowly breaking camp, and forward to the terrible, silent wood, and she feels herself caught between fears.
If there is a road for them, it passes through the wood. If it does not, then they are already dead, and dead men need not fear.
She whispers reassurance to her horse, as he shies beneath her, and she looks at the half-dozen Riders who remain beside her. "We must," she says simply, and sets her heels to her steed's flanks, and the moonlight dies around them as she passes into the shadow of the trees.
I hope this will do!
Date: 2025-06-29 02:14 am (UTC)Galadriel withdraws only so far as to be out of easy earshot, both for practicality and because she cannot guarantee that her weariness will not show ere they begin their travels. At a distance, even one as short as a stone's throw, the way she leans and holds on to the arm of her granson is well disguised.
The elves speak at length for the better part of an hour before the conversation abruptly ends. The wardens are dismissed and carry their orders to the others as they depart. The other wardens, few as they are, linger a short while yet. They remain nearby, attention turned south, but their true purpose is to pen in any men who may be inclined to wander before they depart.
Galadriel, for her part, spends the remaining time in thought, watching the distant trees with an absent gaze. Her grandsons hover, occasionally speaking to one another in quick, clipped Sindarin, but they do not disturb her uncanny stillness. The time spent in silence is a balm for her, but the hour of their departure approaches quickly.
The caravan collect themselves from their impromptu camp, gathering their belongings for the journey. They are weary, all, and bolstering them all for the journey takes time. When they are nearly readied, the last of the wardens withdraw to their proper posts and, all at once, the caravan is accompanied by only three elves. The twins drop back, assuming the duties of the departed wardens, and Galadriel settles on the remaining mount and waits, just a short walk north. It is not long before the riders join her and the caravan, at their lead, moves out.
The road to Caras Galadhon is, by design and through great effort, extremely well hidden. It is a single path that cuts through the forest, easily missed along the borderlands, but difficult to lose once it has been found. It is not terribly wide, but a few may ride side by side if they are mindful. The ground is not hard packed but merely cleared of underbrush, of root and rock, and open to the sun. It is firmer than moss and loam, but not so much that it will survive these travelers unmarred.
Straight through the trees, the distance from the city to the border would take a horse-bound rider two hours. On an elk, as she had traveled last night, that path is far easier to traverse; with great haste it took her less than a quarter of the time another rider would require. On this route, which does not cut through trees and down steep embankments, it will take far longer. They should reach the city as night falls.
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Date: 2025-06-30 12:50 am (UTC)As such, all the able-bodied travellers are soon dispatched up and down the caravan, to walk as close as they can and keep the children from wandering away - or, it is very quickly apparent, from approaching the Elves, who they seem to view with unalloyed fascination. It does not help, either, that while all the caravan are exhausted, the children seem to have recovered their energy faster than their guardians, as children often do. They outpace the adults, only to be corralled back into the safety of the caravan or collapse, screaming and whining, as their energy ebbs again.
In other words, a slow journey is made slower still, and wonder alone cannot sustain a good mood. There is less of despair, but more of irritation and exhaustion, in the whole gathered crowd by the time the afternoon comes.
Éowyn rides at the head of the group, and tries not to feel that she is shirking her duty by not looking back. She stays in the saddle, and largely alert, and she does not slump under the pain in her head and the weariness on her shoulders. That is, she must admit, as much as she can ask of herself. Her sword rides at her hip again, and she wonders what its old bearer would think, to see her now. Would he be proud? She would like to believe it. She would like to believe that, somewhere in Mandos' halls, the King is himself again, and knows that she has not given in, and understands that she has taken up the burden he let fall. She would like to believe, after the night before, that even he would not doubt her ability as a warrior now.
She still has so many questions, but for the most part, she rides in silence. The questions which seemed so urgent that morning have lost some of their rawness. The important thing is this: that she stays in the saddle, and the Elf-Lady who leads them continues to lead them, and neither of them falter under the weariness they feel. If Galadriel approaches her, she will answer. If not, it is easier by far to just keep her eyes on the ground ahead, watching for any hazards her horse may not have seen, and to move forward.
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Date: 2025-06-30 01:36 am (UTC)For all the irritation and exhaustion of the caravan, for how clearly the miles before compound with those they walk now, the hushed chatter of the refugees and the noissome nature of children colors the air. The children, curious and darting, energetic and wailing in turn, bring a vibrance to this land, one that has been absent for many years. Galadriel, despite all the weariness that weighs on her, takes great and unexpected comfort in the disturbance they cause. Though the ride wears on the mortals around her, it kindles her brighter, restoring forgotten corners of her soul.
The afternoon does not see them as far along as she had expected, but it does bring them to a break in the trees. There are many scattered meadows and patches of light along the periphery of the wood, but there are few so close to the heart of it. This one is a remnant of the past, left over from centuries ago when men still traded here, before darkness crept back into the world.
It is broad enough to provide for the entire caravan, but only just. It will serve as a place to rest, if the lady who leads them orders it. At the edge of the clearing, where the road dips down with the slope of the land and vanishes once more into the trees, the view of the distance is extraordinary. The far borders of Lothlórien stretch out like a great patch of golden wildflowers at the foot of the mountain. In the center, not far off, the greatest of the mallorn separate from the canopy. They rise towering and golden and peace settles over Galadriel.
While no banners catch in the afternoon breeze and there are no towers of stone gleaming in the sun, the sight of the city is a comfort. Unmarked though it is, their destination is laid clearly before them.
"There," Galadriel says and slows her mount to pull alongside the ailing Éowyn. It is a quiet interjection, meant for Éowyn alone, as the shape of the city comes into view.
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Date: 2025-07-03 10:30 pm (UTC)There is no city, and yet she sees the city at once; and the thought comes to her, strange in its certainty, that this is what the cities of Men have striven towards. That the carved pillars and vaulted eaves of Meduseld were only ever an attempt to recapture the twist of living wood; that the hill upon which Edoras stood was only a mockery of the way the high trees stand above the landscape of the forest; that there is no city, and yet this is the thing that cities dream of, in their being.
(Elven-magics and a concussion combine into strange flights of fancy, as it turns out.)
"It is beautiful," she says, and means it. "This is your city?"