Thalion Faer, Doltha Hún

We stood on the shores of the Anduin River as the Corsairs of Umbar floated closer and closer. Aragorn had come to an agreement with the King of the Dead, and so the four of us stood tall with the knowledge that these men posed no real threat to us. Aragorn called out across the water to them, drawing attention to us for the first time.

“You may go no further!” He said as all heads turned to face us. “You will not enter Gondor.”

“Who are you to deny us passage?” One of the men demanded.

“Legolas, fire a warning shot past the bosun’s ear.” Aragorn commanded.

“Mind your aim!” Gimli said quietly as Legolas drew back his bow. From the corner of my eye I saw Gimli tap the bottom of Legolas’ bow with his axe, the movement causing the arrow to fly astray—right into the heart of one of the men.

“Oh!” Gimli cried out in mock surprise, and despite the situation I bit back a smile. “Well, we warned you. Prepare to be boarded.”

At this, the men all laughed in a riotous gesture.

“By you and whose army?”

“This one.” Aragorn said quietly, and from all around us the world became a tint of green as the Army of the Dead flooded past us. They flew over the water and took over each ship, screams filling the air as every last man was slaughtered and thrown overboard. I tried not to think about the fact that there would no doubt have been soldiers upon those ships who were not wholly evil, who did not deserve such a swift and cruel death. But this was war, and if one stopped to mourn every single innocent death then the world would never move forward.

~”~”~”~”~”~”~”~”~

It was strange, being on the course to war once more. All I had ever wanted was to go back home, to return to my life of peasantry in what was once the greatest city in all middle earth. But those days were gone, the dreams stolen away like wisps of clouds on a windy day; pushed on to some unknown location.

The Corsairs of Umbar were a wholly unpleasant place to be. The men who had inhabited it had no desire to keep things habitable nor welcoming, a foul stench rising from the very planks on which we stood. I had never been on such a vessel before, nor had I ever seen one save in sketches and paintings. Reading about them is all well and good until you find yourself stuck on one for nearly a day. Below deck there were sleeping quarters: rows and rows of hammock-like structures strung up between the beams. They mingled with the animals that would have been slaughtered as meat, most of them sickly by now so near the end of the journey.

It was nerve-wracking, knowing we were being followed by the army of the dead. They had no need of sleep or rest or food or drink; they could not feel pain nor could they die. For centuries they’d remained in this world, bound by Isildur’s curse for their treachery. But now it was time for debts to be repaid and for promises to be kept. Here, at the end of all things, even the bitterest of enemies could draw swords together.

The night air was cool against my skin, gently pushing back stray hairs from my face as I looked out from the bow of the ship. I had ventured deeper into the realm of the Veelathan than ever before, its wonders and complexities unfolding from every edge of my mind the longer I remained. In submerging myself, I was shown the form of the world as it was remembered by my ancestors: naught more than a tree. One staggering tree that reached from the beginning to the end of all things. The roots, running deep into my memory, were the stable fixtures of the past: reliable. The flowing trunk of the present which all eyes could see: reassuring. And the infinite number of branches that bloomed and broke and grew and ended, these top-most tendrils that only some need witness: raw.

I knew very well that it would be a simple task to simply look into the future of everyone, to see where this war would take us: but I heeded Elrond’s words. What he had done, what he had given to me was not meant to be a toy. To see all moments in all the world had to be treated as delicately as the mind truly was. I feared if I ventured too deeply, I would not find a way back out. But I chose certain moments, a certain future to read. Lord Elrond had given me a purpose, and this was what I believed it to be.

His foot falls echoed up the stairs and to my side. For a while we just stood there, silently watching the unfolding landscape before us. The moon was high in the sky, casting a glow onto the water and a peacefulness that made it hard to fathom a war would be starting soon. A war to mark the end of an age, the end of an era, the end of an evil. Part of me only wished to remain here, where the water was kind and the grass was green and there was no blood and only life: but of course, it would fade. It would end as the fires of Mordor spread and it would be erased, replaced with ash and death. I turned to Aragorn, sighing quietly and trailing my fingers along the hilt of the legendary sword: the blade that cut the ring. His eyes were waiting for mine when I looked up at him.

“Are you ready for what is to come?” I asked quietly taking his hand in both of mine. I brushed my fingers along the ring of Barahir he bore on his hand, the heirloom passed along the line of Kings of Arnor. A sigh escaped him. “You know of what I speak.”

“Lord Denethor’s line has tended the realm for many a century.”

“But he is not King.” I argued gently. “My Lord,”

“Vanya.” He turned away slightly but I placed my hands on his cheeks and begged him to listen.

“Aragorn.” My hands dropped to rest on his chest. “Do you not remember Gandalf’s words in Moria? All we have to decide is what to do with the time given to us. This age is ending, and Gondor has remained kingless for too long. You are heir to the throne, and you alone.”

“I do not want the throne.”

“And what of Frodo? Do you think he wished to be the ring bearer? A hobbit from the depths of the shire now walks with the fate of middle earth into the lands of Mordor, not because he wishes it to be so but because it is his destiny.”

“We are not the same.” He said wearily, taking my hands in his. “He has a path; he knows what he must do.”

“But my lord you are the same, whether you may see it or not. Frodo accepted his fate long ago. I know what it is that worries you, I can feel the fear in your heart, but if you could only see what I’ve seen! The realm of Gondor, restored to its beauty, Minas Tirith a shining beacon of the world. The lands of Mordor reclaimed for Gondor, the free people no longer threatened by evil! The people of Gondor may be united as a people but they are nothing without a King.”

“Isildur’s blood does not make me fit to be King.”

“You are not wrong.” I nodded, staring up at him. “But when the city cheers for you, calling out ‘Long live the King! Telcontar! Elessar!’ it will not be because of your blood. It will be because even a child can tell good from evil; your strength, your kindness, and honour, it will become their strength, kindness, and honour.”

“Vanya…”

“Elessar, lasto beth nin. You worry that you will make the wrong decisions, but they are already made! You will live and die as King. The path is before your feet, the stones have already been laid. You worry for things that have already been seen, have already happened.”

“Not all things that are seen must come true.” He said sternly. I opened my mouth to argue but hesitated, understanding he was not referring to his imminent ruling, but my imminent death. With a heavy sigh I lowered my eyes.

“You are the King that Gondor needs, and the one it deserves. You will see it, before the end.”

I slipped from his grasp, hesitating for a moment before leaving him to contemplate all I’d said. The cleanest place on the ship were the captain’s quarters, and it was here that I planned to find Legolas and Gimli. From far away I could hear the dwarf’s rumbling snoring, an out of place yet wholly comforting sound. Quietly I entered the room, Legolas turning from his spot at the window to give me a small smile. Gimli was sprawled out on the fancy bed, a bottle of brandy in one hand and a nearly-finished lamb’s leg in the other.

On a bench near the window my pack awaited. I took my time rifling through all of my belongings, these lightweight possessions—few of which had actually remained for any great amount of time. Some ripped and stained maps of Arnor, the Misty Mountains, and the northern realms of Gondor, along with my father’s flint and steel to make fires and a small book of edible plants and other medicinal uses. These things alone had remained unchanged. I had a small pouch that I could fasten under my cloak, and it was into this I tried to fit all the things I could not go without. These small memoirs of a life once lived. The necklace from Boromir. My father’s knife. A small sketch of my mother. They hung against chest along with the four full vials. I took the last one and pulled the smallest of visions I had. It was of Frodo, just a moment. He was in the shire, back in his little hobbit hole in the ground with flowers in the window and a creaky picket fence. What mattered was that, scars and all, he was alive. He does destroy the ring somehow and he goes home.

“You will not see very many Uruks with your hair in your face.” Legolas teased, sitting down beside me. I gave him a weak smile and looked out the window at Aragorn, my heart growing heavy at the notion that we had, essentially, argued. I did not wish for him to be angry, but he needed to hear what I said. Legolas took the brush from the top of my pack—now full of things I intended on leaving behind—and began to pull it through my hair.
He twisted back the pieces at the front, lacing them into the rest of my hair so they would stay in their place no matter how much I moved around. Gimli’s snoring slowly subsided into gentle breathing the deeper he went into sleep, and I envied him. My heart was straining too much, thinking of everyone I cared about.

Sam and Frodo, off saving all of middle earth somewhere in the darkest corners of Mordor. Two little hobbits against all the wrath of Mordor and Sauron himself. Merry hidden with Èowyn on the march to the fields of Pelennor—that much I had seen—and Pippin at the forefront of battle with Gandalf, and somewhere Faramir. My heart ached for them all, but there was only one thing in the whole world that would bring us all together again: the defeat of Sauron.

“Do you ever wonder what our lives would be if neither of us had left home?” I asked quietly as he finished the last knot, shifting me so that I could face him. He gave me a smile, the kind he did when he believed something I said to be amusing.

“Our paths would not have crossed…We would likely be home-bound and deprived of the richness of the world or married off to our respective spouses. You never would have learned of your gift.”

“Enough.” I chided lightly, understanding his point. It was the very same I had tried to make to Aragorn: the notion of destiny. Every move made, although a choice, is not a predetermined choice but a foreseen one. Everything has meaning. Everything has a purpose in the world: from the smallest of insects to the greatest of Kings. We were all intertwining lifelines, in the end.

I lay my hand on his shoulder before rising and crossing over to Gimli. From his hands I removed the bottle and bone, leaving them on the floor and easing his helmet off his head, laying it next to him on the bed. With a last nod to Legolas I left the room. Outside I could see the first shades of orange sneaking into the sky on the horizon. The sun remained hidden, but it did not need to rise for me to know its colour would be a burning red: the colour of bloodshed.

This war would be unlike any fight I had ever been in. This was not Arnor where I could escape a mob of half-wit goblins. This was not Moria where a Balrog would scare off our enemies. It was unlike even the battle of Helm’s Deep: for I would have no fortress to take cover in, no stone wall to retreat behind. It would be only us, the army of the dead, and every force Sauron decided to send onto Pelennor.

The biggest comfort was, in the end, the army of the dead. They would be an unstoppable force on the battlefield, a foe that not even Sauron could conjure for himself. They had proved that when they over took these ships. But even with such raw power on our side, I wished only to get to Minas Tirith before too many lives were lost.

I found Aragorn in the same place at the front of the ship and I went to him, hesitantly at first. He turned to face me and I stopped in front of him. He took my hands in his and lay his forehead against mine, breathing quietly. We were both of us anxious to go home. Desperate to save and to salvage. Always needing to do everything possible to keep all that we held dearly safe.

The biggest war of the age, and we were to show up late.