Chapter 38

Grasping For A Hold

June 22

Runda Garrison, Southern Gondor

Aragorn left the tent and walked for a dozen yards before speaking. When at last he did, he didn't bother to look behind him — he already knew Legolas would be there. "I ought to send the whole lot of them to bed."

"Bartho's not too badly off."

"Bartho's been the only genuinely healthy one in command for almost a month. He hasn't eaten or slept nearly enough and it's beginning to take its toll, pillar of strength though he be. Faramir is mostly recovered from that assassination attempt, but as usual he pressed himself too much too quickly. I will bet you half the treasury his father never granted him more than two days sick leave in his entire life; he's adapted to insanity. Likewise for Erynbenn — he should not have ridden to Minas Tirith like that, even if he was healing up well. Beregond's fresh wounds are warring with old injuries from the Battle at the Black Gate to see which set can knock him off his feet first, and all the lieutenants have gone on half rations to leave more food for the wounded. It's a house of cards, my friend. There is nothing any of them could have done to prevent it, yet it's frustrating. Even knowing what they need, I can't grant it — the longer we wait means the longer Mavranor has to solidify her position."

"I must say, Strider, you get all the interesting dilemmas," Legolas smiled wryly.

"Please tell me you have more to offer than jests about my penchant for trouble," Aragorn pleaded, only half humorously.

They had reached a stand of trees within the camp and Aragorn leaned against one while Legolas gazed up at the spring-minted leaves above them. "Which of the aforementioned military men are you actually willing to let fight?" the elf asked.

"Bartho, if he gets at least one night's sleep. Faramir, if he uses his bow rather than his sword, gets some sleep first, and allows me to check those stab wounds of his. I've received word that Eomer sent us more food through Kopairin, and once all the lieutenants are fed they should do fine. Unfortunately Erynbenn must go straight back to bed if he doesn't want to have a complete relapse, or lose the use of his legs. I would say the same for Beregond, though we'll probably have to tie him down to keep him away from Faramir. I will of course be leading the battle, and I'd like to put Bartho in charge of his own company, since they are familiar with his ways, but that leaves Eression's company and the extra recruits we brought from Minas Tirith without a captain, and they're too inexperienced to do well under a mere lieutenant."

"Do you think they'd follow an elf?"

Aragorn was taken aback. Whatever he had expected Legolas to offer, it hadn't been that. "It would be unusual, but if you would be willing…"

"Whether or not you're willing is the issue at hand — I don't know whether the laws of Gondor allow for promoting elves to captaincies. However I'm fairly familiar with leading warriors in this sort of terrain."

"As king I can assign commissions within very wide bounds. You being the son of Thranduil might normally be a problem, but between the unusual Foreign Enlistment laws Ecthelion set up around the time I first came to Gondor, and the fact that you have been living in Ithilien for some years now, everything should hold up to scrutiny if anyone cared to scrutinize. I'm afraid that for you the situation is not the most favorable, since you won't have time to train with them, but I know your own skills and in that regard it's a better solution than I could have hoped for."

"Excellent. Saving the formalities for later, what is our strategy?"

"Line up in front of the gorges, march through them when the horn sounds, come out the other side fighting, and do our best to beat the enemy back before they slaughter us."

"If you're joking, Strider, I'm not laughing."

"I'm not laughing either, nor am I joking. I had planned on sending a few companies of men on a more circuitous route that should have helped them avoid the gorges all together, but recent scouting repots say that Mavranor has moved the bulk of her troops up in those areas, making such an attack impossible. We're too evenly matched. However, since she has that death-trap of an earth maze between us and her, she hasn't troubled herself with much in the way of defenses at the center."

"Except of course for the afore-mentioned death-trap of an earth maze."

"Exactly; don't think Faramir and I haven't been over this. While you were checking the injured for me, we spent the night turning the map a thousand ways from center trying to come up with a method of attack that wasn't just a complicated form of suicide." Aragorn exhaled roughly. "Moving now is a necessity; that is certain. Faramir had several good ideas for traveling unnoticed, and I'm very familiar with this kind of fighting — more than I ever was at that charging-across-the-battle-field style. We keep the Ithilien rangers in front, alert for trouble. We know what sorts of traps she laid, even if we can't determine their exact locations; that should help us find them along the way. The rest of the soldiers we bring along behind, following along the ridge tops as well as the ravine bottom so we don't get ambushed. I can show you what maps we have… Ultimately, it will work."

"But…?" Legolas asked, seeing right through to his inner misgivings.

"But it will be costly." His eyes narrowed as a gust of wind pushed strands of hair into his face. "Very costly."

Legolas nodded slowly. "Don't stop hoping yet, Aragorn."

"Hoping?"

"For a victory you can actually celebrate."

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June 23

The battle lines, Southern Gondor

Faramir fastened his bracers snugly. There were still twinges of pain from his healing knife wounds, but nothing he couldn't ignore. He stepped out of his tent, the pre-dawn gray sky stretching pale above him. The surrounding camp was a mass of controlled activity as men grimly slid into chain mail, checked weapons, packed supplies, and talked in low voices among themselves. The arrival of Aragorn had boosted their confidence considerably, but everyone knew — many from personal experience — that traversing the gorges would not be an easy task.

Though Faramir had been instructed to run as little as possible, to stay towards the back of his company, and to rely on his bow rather than his sword, he had still brought his sword along. It's weight was comforting against his side.

Bartho was stalking back and forth amidst the companies under his command, double and triple checking the equipment the men were carrying, making sure the various captains understood their orders; warning each by name that the coming battle would be deadly. They all took the advice with a smile and a nod, at ease with his mood. One thing that had to be said for General Bartho: the men he trained fought with single-minded determination and never balked, no matter how horrific the battle. Faramir always wondered privately if it was all a matter of comparisons; since Bartho had already predicted death and misery, there was little left to actually surprise them on the field.

Erynbenn was out of bed against orders, making sure the supplies were distributed. He would be staying with the garrison, keeping off his feet and making sure the men were kept on alert in case of a sneak attack by Mavranor in Aragorn's absence.

Beregond had been carefully drugged with some of Aragorn's mysterious and potent tea, a necessary precaution since the guardsman had been absolutely determined to follow Faramir into battle. As much as Faramir knew he would miss having the man to cover his back, he was relieved. Beregond was recovering slowly enough and he didn't want to risk losing a good friend.

Anto, Erynbenn's lieutenant, was assembling the reinforcements into ranks, looking nervous. Small wonder, Faramir thought humorously. Aragorn's decision to appoint Legolas to a temporary captaincy had been met by mingled awe and suspicion on the part of the soldiers. From off to the left, Legolas and the king exited one of the guard houses attached to the garrison wall, splitting off so that when Legolas reached the new recruits, he was alone.

It was with keen interest that Faramir leaned against a hitching post to watch the proceedings. He had himself harbored certain presumptions about elves once. Presumptions that had been completely obliterated the first time Aragorn had introduced him to the Prince of Mirkwood. While the persona Legolas was exuding here was quite different from the easy friendship of that first meeting, it was the sort of firm authority that gave reassurance rather than apprehension. With Aragorn having removed himself before the proceedings even began, the elf was left with a free hand to establish the kind of authority he was going to need in the coming battle.

Seeing that things seemed well in hand, Faramir set off after Aragorn and caught up with the king outside the makeshift picket-line that had been staked out for the animals. When in doubt, Faramir thought wryly to himself, go where the horses are.

"Faramir," Aragorn said without turning round, "is there no alternative to this?"

The Steward looked thoughtfully at his king. Old lessons in Denethor's reedy voice penetrated the back of his mind — 'A leader must never ask questions. You are omnipotent, my sons. You have no fear, no doubts, and you need no councils.' He'd never truly believed that assertion; while Aragorn would never ask such questions of the men for fear of demoralizing them, Faramir was glad his liege was willing to trust him enough to request such an opinion. Even if deep down the king had already prepared himself for the inevitable answer.

"No, Aragorn, there isn't," he responded quietly.

"I didn't think so." Aragorn straightened, withdrawing a thin strip of leather from his belt pouch and expertly tying back the upper half of his shoulder-length hair where it wouldn't hinder him. "Assemble the men. I want to speak to them before we leave."

"As you wish, my lor—" Faramir stopped, surprised, as a the sound of a horse whinnying loudly echoed from the northern edge of the camp. The animal was charging towards them, its feet clawing up great clods of turf as its rider leaned into the gallop, clearing a last cooking fire at a leap before coming to a shivering halt in front of Faramir and Aragorn.

The rider dismounted immediately, his feet fumbling a little as he tried to cope with suddenly unmoving ground. He leaned forward for a moment, clutching his knees as he caught his breath, and the motion gave Faramir a good look at his gray head. What in Middle Earth was an old man doing riding the legs off his horse into a military camp like that? And why had that jump looked familiar?

Then the man straightened, Faramir saw his face, and some of the answers came. It was Duurben. He looked exhausted, but somehow not so old as Faramir remembered him looking when last the Steward had spoken with him; which would have been the meeting they'd had after Duurben had discovered his nephew's treachery. This was more the way Faramir remembered him from their briefly shared campaigning days in Ithilien.

Now the guardsman unhooked a pouch from beneath the shelter of the saddle bags and handed it to Aragorn with a bow. "My lord, I bring you a message from Queen Arwen and Lady Tindu."

Aragorn looked surprised. "What is it?" he asked.

Breathlessly, Duurben explained, and as he spoke, Aragorn unrolled the parchment from the pouch. Maps. Duurben had brought them maps — beautiful in detail and design. Along the edges were the same strange numbers and symbols from the battle plans King Eomer had sent.

Inside Faramir, hope rekindled.

"Aragorn," he murmured, as the king stared in open amazement at the documents, "I think this is an alternative."

"It is indeed," Aragorn nodded, casting a glance back towards where Legolas was standing. Somehow, as if sensing his friend's elation, the elf had paused and was looking questioningly back at them. "One might even say it was worth celebrating. Faramir, get Legolas and assemble the captains and lieutenants. There are a few alterations that need to be made to our battle plan." The king started off at a fast walk, his long legs making swift work of the distance back towards the garrison. "Duurben," he called back over his shoulder, "come."

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Aragorn took the stolen battle plans from their calfskin pouch and laid them flat on the large table in the center of the empty war room. Beside them he laid down the maps Duurben had given him. His eyes traced along the carefully mapped turns and intersections of the ravines, noting likely places where erosion had probably occurred since Tindu's last update to the information, as signified by the dates in the corner. Even with probable changes, it was far more exact than he could have hoped for, and as his calloused fingers swiftly matched the coordinates from the plans to their appropriate locations on the map, he felt his heart lift for the first time in days.

He exhaled deeply, resting his forehead on the back of his knuckles for a moment. It was beyond all his prayers and the relief was almost leaving him shaking, a reaction he staved off for the present. The battle would still be a difficult one.

"What is it?" Duurben asked anxiously, and Aragorn realized his posture had been misinterpreted as defeat.

Looking up, he smiled. "It is a good day to be alive, Duurben. Thank you."

The captain looked relieved. "You are welcome." He hesitated. "Though I don't see how I can accept thanks for the down payment of a debt…"

Aragorn was unable to keep from scowling at the man. Down payment of a debt? Heavens, but this soldier could irritate him. "There is no debt, you stubborn fool of a Gondorian. I have already told you that. For one who has always been such a sharp observer, you seem to have forgotten rather easily."

Duurben met his gaze evenly. Thankfully, he did not have the whipped look of a man in despair of redemption, but the expression of grim duty was almost as bad. "I failed you, my lord. I know you have forgiven me, and I am more glad than I can say. Your… your friendship means a great deal to me; I would hate above all to lose it. But forgiveness aside—"

"No," Aragorn cut him off, "forgiveness not aside! You are as bad as Faramir."

"My lord—"

Aragorn wasn't finished. "I regret deeply that I was unable to stay as Thorongil forever, to live in Gondor, be your captain, and follow with pride the career you ought to have had; I know full well that too much exposure to Lord Denethor would be enough to curdle milk still inside the cow. And it has curdled you, that you cannot deny. Duty, duty, still more duty…"

"My lord—"

"Duty is a fine and noble thing in its place, but duty cannot demand what is truly beyond the strength of a man to give, and neither shall I. What flaws there were in your judgment were forgiven—"

"My lord—"

"—and that means obliterated from my very thoughts. And this debt you insist on carrying — this perceived debt is nothing more than a willful refusal to accept a gift freely offered for the sake of earning back what can only be given."

"My lo—"

"You know better than that, Duurben," Aragorn snapped. "If you cannot lay aside this ridiculous load—"

"My l—!"

"—I will have absolutely no choice but to pitch you headfirst into the Anduin out of sheer frustration, and I know you can't swi—"

"ARAGORN!"

The king stopped short, staring at the captain in wonderment. Duurben seemed badly shocked as well, for his face had turned gray. Never had he referred to Aragorn in that fashion, and certainly never in that tone.

"Finally," Aragorn breathed. "It only took you, what? Sixty-two years? Yes, I am Aragorn. On the field your captain, in the throne room your king, but before all of that and through all that: your friend. And if I cannot order you to leave the past where it belongs…" he trailed off, searching Duurben's face. "Please."

The captain's eyes were faintly glassy. It was clear that whatever argument he had been trying to pose was long forgotten. Just as clear as it was that the king had finally won. "Very well," he whispered.

"Very well…?" Aragorn prompted.

"Aragorn," the captain finished, and smiled a little. "You are right. I accept the gift."

Feeling his shoulders relax, Aragorn stepped around to Duurben's side of the table. Resting his hands on the other man's shoulders, he met his eyes. "Thank you."

Duurben snorted softly. "Don't thank me yet. You realize that my record is no longer so good; I'm bound to make an infinite number of further mistakes."

Aragorn laughed gently, turning to go back to his seat behind the table. "I am well acquainted with the different kinds of mistakes men can make; I have made most of them. And I knew about your fallibility long before I asked you to be the captain of my guard. After all, you were the one who informed me in all seriousness that you had deduced that I was a native to Southern Gondor masquerading as a foreigner to make my life more interesting."

In spite of all the years that had passed since then, Duurben's ears still turned pink, "I said no such thing—!"

"You said I was an Ithilien ranger."

"I was correct! You were a ranger. The evidence I gathered, the conclusion I drew, were all completely accurate." He paused as Aragorn threw him his best skeptical stare. "My geography was admittedly off."

"By about a thousand miles, give or take…"

"Fine," Duurben huffed, smiling a little in spite of himself. "You will recall I had to wait until after the battle of Peleanor to find out the truth."

"Believe me, my friend, I wanted to tell you. I was extremely impressed at how close you'd come on your own — you must agree, I've never underestimated your observation skills since then. I almost said something at the last, when it was clear the time had come for 'Thorongil' to leave, but…"

"No, I was jesting," Duurben shook his head. "That would have been the worst thing you could have done. The Valar only know how many times I was furious enough with Denethor to throw such information in his face, just to see if he'd die instantly of heart palpitations, and then where would we be?"

The dry bit of sarcasm struck Aragorn in a very humorous light. It was to the unexpectedly comforting sight of their king laughing that the rest of the captains arrived to discuss new plans.