Part 2

Chapter 13:

The one who simply deserves a nap

            "What the hell are you doing, Aragorn?" I question the intended king, watching as he lays splayed on the Rohan plains with his ear pressed to the ground.  I hold a great belief that he is attempting to perceive the pounding footsteps of the Uruk-Hai, miles away.  But if this is the given case, I could've easily told him of their location, having great senses with oh-so little going on.  All I can hear is the distant footsteps of said enemies as well as the huffing breath of my cousin-in-law, Gimli.  Seriously though, he sounds like he's dying.

"Their pace has quickened!" Aragorn exclaims, peeking his head up to look at our gathered forms.  I can only expect that we look far from decent, hair every-which-way with the wild winds of the Rohirrim, eyes bloodshot from the lack of sleep of three nights, and dirt and blood coating our every inch of skin.  "They must have caught our scent. Hurry!"  At that, the Ranger of great training, as seen in his running ability, takes off, once again in our pursuit of Saruman's forces.

"Come on, Gimli!" Legolas chimes from his perfect state, nature having no hold on the elemental aspect of his kin.  Little look is exchanged between the elf and dwarf before the Mirkwood prince takes off on Aragorn's heels with Boromir right behind.

"Three days' and nights' pursuit.  No food.  No rest.  And no sign of our quarry but what bare rock can tell," Gimli complains, wincing in his steps with a renewed fervor.  The dwarf's exhaustion is understandable given his relatively short legs and pure-dwarven blood.  Aragorn has surely taken on greater physical tasks, Legolas has no clue to the feeling of exhaustion, and the Phoenicians have continued energy with the blood in our veins.  Looks like Gimli got the short side of the stick this time.

"It could be worse...we could be Merry and Pippin," Ruelin replies with saddened eyes before I pull her hand and we run off in a sprint.  Frerin lugs Gimli behind us, carrying half his body weight as we traverse the rocky plains of Rohan.  Aragorn stays in the continued lead, paying no mind to our following forms.  Strangely enough, it is Legolas and Boromir who continue to check on our status behind them, the former watching Ruelin and Gimli while Boromir continuously checks upon me.

On a sudden whim, though intentional placing, Aragorn stops in his footfalls, tipping over to grab the Lothlorien leaf brooch from the ground.  As Celeborn once said, these cloaks and pendants are gifted to very few, and thus, Merry and Pippin have been this way.  It is an awakening and hopeful sight to such a dark time, and I am ever glad for it.  But all the while, I practically trip over Ruelin's form as we come to a stop.

"Not idly do the leaves of Lórien fall," the Dunedain remarks, twisting the brooch between his fingers, setting of a glistening light as the midday sun hits the antiquity.  He tucks it into one of his coat pockets, a promise that we will find the two hobbits of the Shire, sooner rather than later, hopefully.

"Poetic," Frerin muses, smirk catching the sparks of the brooch.  I roll my eyes at his words, though I am surprised to see Boromir doing the same.  What happened to the man of seriousness and nonchalance?  He has seemingly become a greater person since becoming a Phoenician, withholding his greater attributes while losing those of a communal pain.  One aspect that we all continue to have, which could be positive or negative upon personal introspection, is a dark sassiness.  I'm grateful for the change in the man of Gondor, but his new sarcasm is throwing me through a loop.

"They may yet be alive," Legolas remarks, looking up to Aragorn with a massive grin.  It is a look that I soon mirror, feeling more hopeful than in all the weeks previous.  And though we aren't any closer to destroying the Ring, a hope festers in our heart, deriving from a small and potential victory in finding our two company members.

"Less than a day ahead of us. Come!" Aragorn proclaims, running off with a renewed spirit that I cannot help but gape at.  How is it that a simple man is able to run so far and for so long?  Though there is a better question: is he on some diet that I should be aware of?

"Come, Gimli! We are gaining on them!" Boromir exclaims in a cheeriness unlike his own self, prompting the other three Phoenicians, including myself, to gape in confusion.  But all the while, Gimli continues tripping and falling over rocks, and I cannot hold back a small giggle.  It is far too funny to ignore.

"I am wasted on cross-country!  We dwarves are natural sprinters!  Very dangerous over short distances!" Gimli quips, prompting a snort on Frerin's part.  Of course, this is all rubbish to the ears of fellow Ereborians.  Seeing as I grew up as a dwarf, and as a princess over them, I can tell you that dwarves have the potential to be great runners.  Sure, their thick upper thighs were made for sprinting, but that does not mean they cannot hustle in times of panic.  I once saw Kili run from Dale to Erebor when the chipmunks got loose...he made it in three minutes flat, a remarkable feat.

"Hey! Don't speak for the all of us!  I am just fine.  It is you who is keeled over, Gimli son of Gloin," I respond, sending him a small glare as I run away in search of the others.  And though I fail to check on the dwarf, I take reassurance that he is still with us as I can hear his huffing from three miles away.

We move over rolling hills as the minutes pass away, redundant and exhausting to the last corner of my heart.  I am not so much tired as I am bored, seeing as Rohan's landscape is a simple repetition of its previous self.  After some time, we come upon a hill of larger size, prompting louder complaints by my cousin-in-law.

"Rohan. Home of the horse-lords. There is something strange at work here. Some evil gives speed to these creatures, sets its will against us," Aragorn identifies for those blind to this world (Gimli).  At the same time, my eyes catch upon the elf who charges up an outlook to look upon the horizon.  It would be a beautiful sight if not for the deep heat of day.  But all the same, I take peace in our momentary pause.  "Legolas, what do your Elf eyes see?"

"They're taking the hobbits to Isengard!" Legolas exclaims loudly from his place atop the slope.  I have no clue as to why he is yelling, for the remainder of us are merely feet away.  But before I can go to condemning him, Ruelin does just that.

            "Good grief!  Are you trying to deafen us, or is it that you want the Uruk Hai to hear us?!  Gimli, I think the Shrub's gone deaf!" Ruelin exclaims, using her nickname for the elf.  It takes all I have not to laugh at her words, seeing as they resemble my mother's to the last letter.  Sometimes, on days like today, I find myself thinking them to be the same person.

            "You're just as loud as I am," Legolas responds as we stare upon the two with raised eyebrows.  They now stand just a foot away from each other, bordering the line of impropriety.  Even though they deny it on a daily basis, the two of them obviously share an attraction for one another. 

            "And you're just as annoying," Ruelin replies easily, and without regard towards the notion that she just called herself irritating.  I swear, sometimes, that the entirety of the Durin line is lacking in a filter, my mother included.  Indeed, I think Tauriel and Typhon II are the only ones capable of propriety.  Is this really my family?

            "Touche," Legolas concludes after a short silence.  If not obvious before, this elf and dwarf are meant to be, equally as annoying and agreeing in large part.  I can only smile and chuckle at the scene, watching as their stare down continues on for a good length of time.

"Saruman," Aragorn recognizes with a good minute of thought.  He shakes his head warily, moving into his pack where his waterskin awaits his lips.  Gimli collapses to the ground near my feet, prompting me to step over him as I grab my waterskin from Frerin.  But before I can do just this, I am yanked by my shoulder, towards an anxious Boromir as he pulls us behind a relatively large boulder.  All I can hear from behind me is Frerin and Gimli's wrestling and the latter's complaining of "torn shins" as if that's an injury.

"Why'd you save me?" the man of Gondor asks, looking intently into my eyes as the background drones into nothingness.  This is the first one-on-one conversation that we've had since Lothlorien and his night of faithlessness.  So much has changed since then, both good and bad, as I saved his life, the trio left, and Merry and Pippin were taken.  So much has changed between me and Boromir...

"You didn't deserve death," I respond to him, grabbing his hand from where it rests against his side and tracing the lines that divide his palm.  "You know what Galadriel told me in Lothlorien? 'Do not fear the repercussions of previous fate, but take action in what your heart says.  Save what is loved, and fight for those who cannot... 'I couldn't let Faramir live brotherless, Denethor heartless, and the Fellowship, minus one.  But more than anything else, I did it for myself.  I would've missed you dearly.  We might not have gotten off on the best foot--"

"That's an understatement," Boromir remarks through his laughter that seems far from happy.  If anything, he seems apologetic in his expression, possibly deriving from our past.  But he should not hold full blame, as I am as much responsible for the hatred as he is.  Sure, Boromir was irritable and proud to no end, but I let it affect me.

"Anyway," I emphasize, stopping my brushing fingers to enclose his hand in my own, "our beginning was bitter and prejudiced.  But as journeys go, I've found an entertaining and understanding companion in you.  I couldn't miss out on future memories spent in your company."

"Well, I am grateful and I will take great joy in this second chance...here with you," Boromir remarks, pausing before adding in the last part.  I furrow my eyebrows at him in confusion, as his intentions are not fully clear in his reference to being "here with me."  Men are confusing.

            We run off soon after that, being payed no mind as we return to the others.  A quick command on part of Aragorn clears the area, Gimli and Frerin removed from their wrestling arena.  I run beside Ruelin, Boromir ahead of me, as we continue our lengthy journey across Rohan.  My lips buzz out a small tune with each huffing breath, sounding much like "Misty Mountains." If anyone notices, they don't say anything.

"Keep breathing! That's the key! Breathe! Ho!" Gimli chants from behind us, doing the exact opposite thing that he refers to.  Indeed, speaking is not breathing, as this will only cause further exhaustion. 

"You're a piece of work," Frerin responds to Gimli.  I nod in recognition of these words, seeing as Gimli is the definition of "piece of work."  He is far too stubborn and melodramatic to be considered normal, nonetheless heroic.  Gimli is simply Gimli and we love him for that, despite our every thought.

"They've run as if the very whips of their masters were behind them," Legolas remarks, complaining for the first time in his life.  I would never have expected the elf prince to speak in such a way, but running can do that to the best of us.

"Keep up, Gramps!" Ruelin exclaims from behind me, seeing as Boromir has fallen to the back of the grouping, minus Gimli.  Originally, I thought that the man of Gondor was having a hard time keeping up, but now that I've been watching him, he seems to want to protect the Fellowship from the back of the group.  I'm not going to be the one to stop him, though Ruelin might.

"I just fought for my life, lost the battle, had three arrows impale me, and rose from the dead as a new race...I deserve a nap!" Boromir responds in a tone of slight joy.  A smirk soon appears on his face at those words, and though I despise admitting it, this is a good look on him.  With his cheeks rosy from the run, skin glowing in his new blood, and smirk upon his pale lips, he may just look better than ever before.  Then again, that could just be my exhaustion talking.

"I agree with Gondor," Frerin chimes in with a smirk to match the man's.  The two males look at each other in what seems to be respect.  I am unaware of how to receive this, as a new partner in crime for Frerin would bode unwell for me, though I am sure that the two would get along just fine.  And thus, I am simply confused.

            Running through the night isn't all that bad, seeing as the stars bask the plains in a white light, not cold, but clean.  And these stars are a sight to see, far better than cloud-watching, as I connect the dots for hours on end.  Then, there are ungraceful people like Gimli, who cannot look up without the potential to trip in flaw.  It's funny for us, and not so much for the dwarf.

By dawn's arrival on the next day, my eyes ache in the exhaustion of sleep's repeated postponement.  The Seven Hunters, the remaining Fellowship, chase the moon across the horizon, only stopping as the sun breaks upon the day.  And just to reaffirm our feelings of foreboding, the sun rises with a red hue of symbolic meaning.

"I'm finally burning off that last Azrilmanan feast," Ruelin quips, patting her flat stomach as if she's ever been slightly plump.  I scoff at that, shaking my head, at the ridiculous notion that she is throwing out.  But all the same, I feel healthier than ever before with sweat running down my face, muscles aching across my figure, and blood trickling into my eye from a cut on my forehead.  Please note the sarcasm.

"A red sun rises. Blood has been spilled this night," Legolas remarks in reference to my previous sight.  I expect he is referring to blood other than my own, seeing as it is only a small stream that derived from Frerin's antics.  My brother thought it'd be funny to throw one of Legolas' arrows at my face in the midnight hour.  "You didn't see that coming?" he questioned before running off with a cheeky smirk on his face.

By the time of mid-morning's arrival, we are close to the heart of Rohan, and with it, civilization.  I run beside Boromir who, on more than one occasion, has to wipe the blood away from my eyes when I am blinded.  It slows us down, but I am thankful for his help.

In reference to civilization, the pounding of many of hooves radiates in a sign of either help or destruction.  And though I'm overly curious as to who the riders are, and if they are the Rohirrim, I am hastily pulled behind a boulder where Boromir and Frerin try to hold me to them and I push them away.  Peeking my head from behind the granite place marker, I notice the flags of Rohan's men flying above the galloping mares of great and large beauty.  Aragorn seems to take notice of their identity at the same time, prompting us to rise to our feet and look fully upon their great number.

"Riders of Rohan, what news from the Mark?" Aragorn questions, prompting the attention of the hundreds.  A quick signal on part of the assumed commander and they are riding straight for us with no look to be slowing down.  And though I'm tempted to hide and run, I do neither, rising my chin in the air.

"I don't believe that was the smartest move," I address Aragorn, becoming dizzy as the horses gallop around us in smaller circles.  Even more terrifying, however, is their pointing of spears at our faces, my hand moving to clench onto the nearest person's hand, seemingly Boromir's by the rough feeling.

"What business does an Elf, two men, and four Dwarves have in the Riddermark? Speak quickly!" the commander demands, his face hidden behind the warrior's helmet of Rohan.  And though it doesn't reveal a good view of the man, his long hair, as well as many other's, reveals the fact that we have another princess on our hands.  Sure, it's one thing to have shoulder-length locks as a man, but chest-length is too much.  Indeed, I made my father cut his not too long ago.

"Give me your name, Horsemaster, and I shall give you mine," I respond sassily, having a sudden dislike of the horse commander.  In response, the man dismounts his mare, handing his weapon to a fellow rider.  I feel a hand clasp onto my shoulder, prompting Aragorn to give me a look of disappointment.  People often forget that I am both Phoenician and Dwarven by blood; of course I'm going to have my stubborn moments...I am the daughter of Thorin Oakenshield, after all.

"I would cut off your head, Dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground," the man threatens with no so much as a weapon, but his army and his words.  But before I can make to retaliating, Boromir does just that.  Drawing his sword and placing it on the man's neck before I can even blink.  A fierce look of protection radiates in his eye, much like my father when my mother faces harm.

"You would die before your stroke fell!" Boromir retaliates, prompting the spears to prod closer to us.  In response, Aragorn moves his hand from my shoulder to force Gondor's sword downwards.  He is our leader after all, and has the skills necessary to create peace.

"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. This is Gimli, son of Glóin and Legolas of the Woodland realm. He is Boromir, son of Denethor.  And they are Sidel and Frerin Oakenshield and Ruelin Durin of Erebor.  We are friends of Rohan and of Théoden, your king," Aragorn introduces in a miraculous single breath, probably saving us from my own words of anger.

"Théoden no longer recognizes friend from foe. Not even his own kin," Frerin remarks, causing me to whip around to send him a questioning look.  Pyrhhin is supposed to be the one of prophetic tendencies, not my overly-observant brother.  But all the same, Eomer looks surprised at Frerin, but continues forth in removing his helmet and having the spears withdrawn from our faces.

"Saruman has poisoned the mind of the king and claimed lordship over these lands.  My company are those loyal to Rohan.  And for that, we are banished.  The White Wizard is cunning.  He walks here and there, they say, as an old man, hooded and cloaked.  And everywhere his spies slip past our nets," The man informs us, moving closer to our gathered attention as the horses move in their anxiety.  As I've come to realize, the animals of Middle Earth are prone to great feelings of foreboding, bearing signs of uneasiness in the wake of the war to come.  They are to be trusted, and their agitation is illuminating to the true squalor of Rohan's present.

"We are not spies. We track a party of Uruk-hai westward across the plain. They've taken two of our friends captive," Boromir reasons, acting as if he didn't just point a sword at the man's throat.  I look to him with a great deal of respect, deriving not simply from love, but admiration of his characteristics.  He has the capacity to be a great leader.

"The Uruks are destroyed. We slaughtered them during the night," Eomer remarks, prompting all the blood to drain from my face.  The others seem to be in the same state of shock, grasping to each other in renewed fear of the times.  I hold Boromir's hand tightly in my own, a sign of friendship and comfort, but nothing more.

"But there were two hobbits. Did you see two hobbits with them?" Gimli asks in a last effort to reinstate our hope.  I look to the man with pleading eyes, as if he can change the past with a simple word.  But humanity does not work in this way, just as the elves,