Cadenza

Set in the same universe as ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Beta by the wonderful Theresa Green – Read all her stories, they are very funny and very good.

Chapter fourteen

In the blackest hour before dawn a demanding wail jerked Gleowyn out of fitful sleep. She blinked open eyelids that felt like fat, gritty fingers, the tingle of her milk answering her baby’s urgent demand.  Gleowyn ignored the acid trickle of yet more tears and scooped Brytta up from his nest beside her. As she arranged him to suckle, her tears seemed to take on a life of their own, mourning Telfaren even as her disembodied self looked out of her eyes and was in control of nothing.

The room was dark and, as Brytta’s wails were muffled into hungry snorts and grunts, Gleowyn could hear the rustling of Arwen’s gown as she sat up from her own bed, pushed against the wall opposite under the open barred window. Arwen had claimed the she needed the glimpse of stars the window offered. Gleowyn had argued, feeling the wash of cold air dropping down through the barred opening but Arwen had only smiled, and claimed elven immunity to cold. This was the royal nursery; precautions for keeping royal toddlers safe had worked well enough to detain two female hostages, and a baby.

There was a brief flurry of sparks and then the Queen lit the stub of the single candle that they had been granted.

The soft golden light seemed to sway as Gleowyn looked at the elf through her veil of misery. She sniffed, and turned away from the Queen, hating her weakness, wishing she could be less of a burden in Arwen’s life.

Arwen reached out a hand and patted Gleowyn’s bowed head, smoothing her hair. The kindness made Gleowyn’s sobs come harder, even as she marvelled at herself for the seemingly limitless font of tears she had discovered in her broken heart.

The hand departed as Arwen poured some water from the tin pitcher into a heavy ceramic mug.

“Drink, Gleowyn. The babe takes much from you, drink.”

Gleowyn took the water, awkward with her left hand with Brytta cradled against her breast, and drank thankfully. Between the tears and Brytta’s demands she felt as dry as a Haradian desert.

“Let me change him this time. Rest, dear heart, it is not so long that I have forgotten how to care for a babe. Please Gleowyn, I would be occupied?”

Gleowyn managed to stem the tide of grief that wrung her heart long enough to smile tremulously up at the kindness offered. They still had a small pile of baby clouts she had been able to snatch up from the drying rack in the kitchen, even as the thrice damned and damnable Frecern had kidnapped them from her home. The nursery had come equipped with several more, along with a changing table and some coverlets that had allowed Gleowyn to make a bed for the babe beside her.

Gleowyn rested her eyes on the elven Queen, loving her in this moment simply for her wonderful calm beauty, along with her ability to turn the most basic of functions into art. The simple room was magnified by her presence into a royal chamber, and Gleowyn felt both soothed and unworthy of being in such company. Brytta, equally entranced, gooed his best gummy grin for the vision attending to him, his merry chirps sounding odd in these grim circumstances.

Arwen picked up Brytta and held him against her shoulder, patting his back to ease up his wind, rocking slightly as if to music she alone could hear. Gleowyn looked on dully, then stirred herself to ready her other breast so Brytta could sooth himself to sleep, suckling the end of his meal. When she looked up again it was to see Arwen stiffen into a pose of intense listening. Her whole being seemed to strain, like a sapling in the wind, towards the barred window above her bed. Even Brytta seemed to pick up her urgency, turning his head in a wobbly arc to see what Arwen was gazing at.

“My Lady?”

Gleowyn swung her legs off her own bed and reached the Queen’s side in one stride. Absently she lifted her son from the Queen’s embrace and installed him onto her own shoulder. She strained to hear what had caught the Queen’s interest and in a moment was rewarded. The distant sounds of battle could be heard, the clamour growing more obvious as the conflict became more widespread. A wild horn blew into the night from close by, answered by a glorious chorus of deeper horns sounded from beyond the walls.

“Aragorn.” The Queen’s eyes reflected only the poor light given out by the candle, but at that moment their brilliance could have out-shone the dawn. “He comes, Gleowyn, and all the might of Rohan and Gondor with him if I am not deceived. My dear,” she embraced the girl and her baby both with joy lighting her face, “ we are as good as saved.”

Gleowyn mustered an unconvinced smile for her mentor, and took Brytta to her pallet to nurse again, listening all the while for the sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor beyond their prison. Somehow she doubted either Wulfgarn or Frecern would give up without using their hostages in some foul way. Life, as had been brutally demonstrated to her, was rarely either fair or amenable and she suspected some further rough times ahead.

***

Aragorn sat on his blowing horse and glared at the shadowy city, sitting all serene on its hill. Under the cloak of night all looked to be well, the moon’s light flitting between flying clouds rippled innocent light over the town’s towers and banners. In the dark no sigil could be read, and no lamp or fire broke the seeming peace on the city’s walls.

He believed his eyes no more than the lies of the hill-people. His heart was heavy with Arwen’s peril, and his anger flamed bright enough to shine truth through the very curtain of stone in front of him.

His horse raised his weary head and looked to the south, Aragorn also heard the four-part beat of horsemen approaching across the rolling grassland. The King drew his sword, and the sound of his bodyguard’s weapons unsheathing behind him gave him a grim pleasure.

On Aragorn’s right flank Elladan’s clear voice rang out in challenge. The approaching riders paused to answer, then thundered across the face of the army, still assembling itself behind the King. The voices were unmistakably elven, and Aragorn re-sheathed his sword, and then urged his mount a pace or two forward. He glanced over his shoulder and saw his guard still battle-ready, and nodded at his Captain. Aragorn’s anger and grief did not dispose him to be over-welcoming to these visitors.

The elven King was riding in the front of his own warriors, the great banner of Lasgalen, revealed by the fitful moonlight, snapping in the wind of their riding.  Aragorn was impressed, despite himself; the ancient monarch was coming to face him in person. He felt mildly mollified by the honour.

Thranduil reined up in front of Aragorn, bringing his own brand of elven glory with him, lightening the hearts of all who saw him. Aragorn met his eye, unyielding, waiting for the Elf-Lord to speak. Thranduil paused, until the last of his riders pulled up behind him, and then bowed his head, fractionally, to the man in front of him.

“The eternal perfidy of men has cast me in your power, King of Gondor. I am in default of your earnest charge, to keep the Evenstar in safety until she reached your stone city. This causes anguish in my heart, and throws darkness on my royal honour.” The elf met Aragorn’s frowning gaze with one equally grim. “How may I help you right this wrong?”

Aragorn gave the King one swift nod then sat silently on his horse for a long moment.

“Your strength in arms, my lord?” Aragorn glanced at the twelve silent warriors flanking the king.

Thranduil gestured towards the black forests of Starkhorn. “Three twelves of warriors, two sixes of the court, the same again of servants and my attendants. We are not a war-band, Aragorn.”

“But you would pledge what might you have, in the cause of returning the Queen to our side?” Aragorn was not going to dismiss the chance to utilise thirty-six elven warriors, no matter how reluctantly given.

Thranduil sighed and glanced around the bristling company of men, then back at his own stoic troops. “ I would, even though the thought of spending immortal lives for the payment of mortal debt causes us great anguish. I would pledge my guards to your cause, King of Men.” The Elf-King’s glance was sharp, “Spend my troops wisely, Aragorn. There will be an accounting.”

Aragorn bowed his own head then, in assent and in acknowledgement of the gift of trust the Elf-King was placing in his hands. “Would you join our war-council then, noble King of the Greenwood? We will arrange our assault in this very hour, and your wise counsel will be welcomed. I do not plan to let the sun set again with Edoras occupied, or my love and the better part of me, held in peril of her life. Come,” he dismounted and waited by the elf’s stirrup, “let us plan our assault.”

***

At the turning of the night all was quiet under the strict curfew imposed on the city. Throndar left the back door of Gleowyn’s devastated home and slipped into the welcoming shadows of the service-alley that led to Master-Smith Bardor’s workshops. Bardor had been helping to shelter and supply Throndar, and the three elves, ever since Throndar had made his presence cautiously known three days ago. The smith’s public behaviour was held in hostage by Frecern’s capture of his daughter and grandson, but he was a man of standing,  respected by many of Elfwine’s loyal citizens. He had been able to shelter and bring a healer to Telfaren, and had introduced Throndar to those loyal citizens willing to organise resistance to the upstart Withergield clan.

Tonight they planned to free the hostages. Elfwine and the King of Gondor would only be a day or so away, and none of those loyal to the crown wanted their captives killed out of desperation when the wrath of the combined forces fell onto the arrogant heads of the usurpers.

Master-Smith Bardor had spent the day-lit part of the last few days toadying to the upstarts, flattering them with his attention and seemingly bringing most of the first families of Edoras around to his own expressed view, ‘That of course Wulfgarn had a perfect right to Meduseld’s throne’.

The night belonged to the resistance. Thanks to Bardor’s flattery and to Minuial’s night-time reconnaissance, the small band of men now gathered in Bardor’s yard, had a good idea in which wing of the rambling palace the hostages were being held.

After scouting with the elves for the last three days Throndar was ashamed of the positive racket the group of men made as they waited in putative silence for his arrival.

“They are not soldiers,” he muttered darkly to himself, and parenthetically to the March warden, who was no doubt attempting to damp down her mirth at this fumbling attempt at stealth from a group of men who, only last week, were in more danger of injuring themselves by tripping over their long robes rather than by bearing arms.

Minuial appeared at his shoulder, silently, her expression more grim than mirthful. “These are our support?” Her disgust was palpable.

“ ’Tis their city, my lady.” Throndar stepped out of the shadows and approached the group.  “They want to help.”

Throndar was sure he heard a snort from either the march warden or one of her companions. A swift ripple of Sindarin passed between the three, and Throndar felt his ears burn, both embarrassed and rather annoyed at the elves derision. Not for the first time in this week he swallowed his irritation, and strode forward to shake Bardor’s hand.

“Is all set, as we planned, Master-Smith?”

The smith glanced at Throndar’s silent, aloof companions, then back at Aragorn’s Captain. “Aye, the ale was well received by the guards, and Wulfgarn received the  gift of wine with his usual grace.” The smith grimaced. “He knocked the top off the bottle and swilled it in front of me.” The smith turned and spat on the ground. “Pig.”

“And Frecern?”

“The snake was not in the audience chamber. We must hope one of the other dozen bottles found its way to him. He is but one man, no matter how great his treachery.”

“ Come.” Throndar turned, gathering up the loose band of men with his eye, using skills practised in Aragorn’s service his whole life. “The plan is simple, we all know our parts.” He rested his gaze for a significant moment on the elves; would he could predict what they might take it in their heads to do! “ Go now to the posts we have planned, and good fortune rest on our work this night. May our loved ones be freed with the dawn.” Throndar waited out the grim cheer the men raised for him then barked, “ and be silent! The health of our captives rests on your ability to use stealth!”

Cowed and solemn, the men filed out into the night. Throndar did not even have to turn his head to know that the elves would have melted into the night like so much deadly mist. Sighing again, he pulled a frayed rope out of his pocked and held out his wrists to the smith. “As the lamb to lure the wolf, I will be bait as we planned, Bardor.”

The Smith shook his head and bent to his task with a heavy heart. “I wish we had different parts in this play, Captain. My heart forebodes me.”

“More likely it’s your dinner complaining of the company you keep at board.” The old soldier eyed the old smith and they shared a rueful grin. “Lead on, mighty hunter, our prey awaits.”

TBC (soon I promise)

Please review, I will hoard it and admire it and even reply.

Rose Sared