[AAR] RTW: A Hopeless Task

[Atterdag]

Author: Boosh
Original Thread: FATW: A Hopeless Task

FATW: A Hopeless Task

The Fourth Age: Year 537
(Fictionalized story, uses custom battle)

Many long years after the reign of Elendil, Elessar, in the 537th year of the Fourth Age, long after the fires of Mordor were quenched, and long after the orcs of Mordor were sought out and crushed by the arms of the human alliances, the men of Dunland had re-populated their woodland realm enough to attempt another attack on their old enemy: Rohan.

The outlying villages of the Rohirrim quickly began to fall under the maces of the heaviest Dunnish troops. Their hatred burned and fueled their hearts with rage. Rohan has no time to muster their proud horsemen. Eorled, descendant of Eomer, knows the time has come for him to call for aid. The beacons of old were lit and Gondor answered the call. Messengers of the White City rode to Eorled and the aid was summoned. The Prince Imrahil, named for the Prince of Dol Amroth who triumphed at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, promised his aid to the Rohirrim. While his forces numbered few, he nevertheless set at out with near three hundreds men at his command. The three thousands Gondorian Men-at-Arms and their supporting soldiers marched from Minas Tirith, but they were yet several leagues behind.

Thus it came to be that Imrahil and the Men of Dol Amroth found themselves outnumbered in enemy territory. The riders of Eorled were several leagues from him. His troops, twenty-six Swan-Knights, sixty-two Amrothian Men-at-Arms, and one hundred twenty militia, plodded onward. With them were the three ceremonial units of men given to the Prince's namesake after the battle of the Pelennor: forty-eight of the Steward Guards of Emyn Arnen and two ballistae.

On the fifth day of their march they reached a village that had been re-populated by the people of Dunland. The village's wooden walls were stained with blood, its palisades hastily rebuilt. The stench of death was rampant. After a day's waiting in the forests and seeing massive troop movements, With each passing day more innocents were being killed. Imrahil could let the slaughter go no further.

"Men of Dol Amroth, muster your courage!" he shouted into the arid air, "The time to stem this devilry is at hand! More than six centuries ago our forefathers fought alongside these Rohirrim. Those men watch over us today. Let us not disappoint them! To honor! To glory! Today, this day, the swan shall lift up the horse!"

The Men of Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth


The Rabble of Dunland


It was hopeless from the very start. Only in exercise had the Prince of Dol Amroth led his disciplined men. No battle had come to the Amrothians for more than a century. Nevertheless, Imrahil remembered his upbringing in the halls of his father and the age old tactics that had been taught to him. He brought up his Ballistae, gifts of the King of Gondor, and proceeded to take out the defenses which he knew the Dunns would have prepared.





Then, trusting, once more, in the accuracy of his men, the ballistae targeted the heavy wooden gates. After several blows from the machines, the doors broke open.







The ballistae fired repeated shots until they exausted their ammunition. The power of its blows frightened the men of Dunland, but so few of its bolts actually found their mark that their fear did not take root. They once again took to their positions and held fast. In response, with neither side taking action, Imrahil organized a defensive shield wall around the destroyed gate. The company of Emyn Arnen fired their arrows while the Ballista men, using a hastily constructed ram, broke open another hole in the wall for the Swan knights to charge through.









With the wall destroyed and the line set, Imrahil set his men in motion to counter the forces which so heavily outnumbered him. The Men-at-Arms and White Company pushed forward with Militia supporting them from behind. The Swan Knights of Dol Amroth charged in and flanked the enemy's archers on the hill.







The Amrothian troops charged relentlessly into the fray, swinging their swords and spears ferociously as they had centuries before on the Pelennor. But they had not counted on the missiles raining down upon them from the javelin throwers and archers inside the city. One by one they succumbed to the hailstorm of arrows and spears. But with an almighty charge the Knights of Dol Amroth broke the backs of the onslaught by the gate, clearing the way for the men to reform their lines and march on the main hill.







The enemy, too, ran up to the main hill and reformed. Their last stand would be powerful, it would be forceful. Imrahil had to strike fast. The remaining militia were ordered to break their shield wall and charge the Dunnish men in their retreat. The knights blocked off whatever retreat they could and cut down the fleeing men of Dunland, but there were still many foes in their way. Bodies piled upon the gate to make a mountain of spent flesh.





They fought bravely. Weary and suffering from many wounds, the remaining men hacked away at the spears of the last Dunns, who held fast. Their spears were tearing apart the Amrothian infantry. Seeing his men fall, Imrahil ordered a final charge with his remaining knights into the spear's flank. His charge worked. the spearmen of Dunland shifted positions to counter the new threat. In the charge, Imrahil was thrown of his horse and slain upon a spearpoint, but the swords of the Amrothian infantry finally found their marks. The last charge of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth saved his men. All the remaining fighters of Dunland were rounded up and executed.





Losses were woefully heavy. Of the two hundred and seventy men under Imrahil's command initially, only eighty-five remained, many of whom were badly wounded. The two units of the White Company were all but spent. Only two souls were left from their proud ranks. Many knights had fallen, as had many Men-at-Arms. Under the direction of the officer of the Company, one of the two survivors, the entire village was razed to the ground. So few of the men of Dol Amroth remained that they and the hundred survivors of that village of Rohan ran for the woods and hid there for two weeks. For all of his heroism here, unknowingly having taken on the leaders of Dunland with his force and won, the forces of Prince Imrahil and Dol Amroth would no longer take part in the campaign to free Rohan from the poisons of occupation from Dunland. Over the next weeks hiding in the woods, the wounds of many of the soldiers caused more death. Illness took the men of Dol Amroth. The eighty-five that had survived the battle dwindled to less than thirty. Wearily, they attempted to march the many leagues back to Dol Amroth, several of them passing out along the journey, never to wake again.





Thus passed the line of Dol Amroth and its military prowess. The proud city would not, for many centuries to come, ever rebuild the reputation that it had accumulated in the war of the Ring. The city passed into official Gondorian control. The fall of Dol Amroth and its Prince is now only known through song and poetry. A fitting end for one who so nobly gave his life.

Soon to come, the last battle of Dol Amroth, watch for it on these forums!

PROLOGUE TO THE SECOND PART OF THIS AAR-
The Fourth Age: Year 537
One week after the death of Prince Imrahil
The spirit of Dol Amroth lay bitterly broken at the foot of the forests bordering Dunland. Of a party originally numbering two hundred and seventy men, scarce few still remained. With them were one hundred and twenty men, women, and children of Rohan that had not yet been put to the sword by their Dunnish captors. Deep within the forests they sat, their camp barely fortified. A lone watchman patrolled the outskirts every hour, though his wounds from the previous week’s battle had grown infected and he limped horribly. The night was cold, very cold.
A woman of Rohan walked about the small camp with her child, singing the lullabies of old. She stopped next to a large tree. "Rest here, child, mama will be back in a moment." She said.
She walked twenty paces, past the men in tattered blue tunics and punctured chain mail, past the mountain of bloodstained cloth and furs that they had been using as clothing for the past week. A man slumped, his back against an enormous ash tree. A helmet, battered and dented from battle, lay at his side. He slouched there, shivering, though he had a bloodstained white cape covering him for a blanket.
"Captain Eärendil, are you awake?" she said, sitting down next to him.
"I wish I were not." He said groggily. "Is that you, Beáwyn?"
"Yes."
"You should take rest."
"I cannot, my lord. My boy is restless."
The Captain looked up at Beáwyn. "I still find myself amazed that you and your boy survived the purges. You are young. But if both you and the boy cannot sleep, why not attend to the wounded?"
"My lord," Beáwyn began, "We cannot stay here! The men of Dunland will soon find us, and if your situation was dire before the battle—"
"We have barely the strength to stand," The Captain of the White Company said, "We have already journeyed twelve leagues from the village. To go any further tonight, or even over the next few days, would be akin to murdering the whole party."
Beáwyn leaned over the wounded Captain and stared into his dark eyes. "We have your horses, my lord. Let me ride out to the king, let me lead him to our rescue."
"You are the bravest woman I know, Beáwyn, perhaps braver than many men in this party, but deprive our knights of even a single horse and we lose the capability to fight effectively. I fear we will soon need them."
Captain Eärendil hooked his arms around Beáwyn and she helped him stand. Using his chipped sword as a cane, he walked with her for a few minutes, getting what exercise he could out of his sorely wounded leg.
Suddenly, from out in the distance, there was a sharp cry of "Mama!"
Beáwyn turned and saw her boy running to her with a speed she had only seen before in the horses of her family.
"Mama!" he cried again, "There are men with fires! Five men on horses with torches passing closely by!"
He jumped into her arms and Beáwyn held him tight. “We have to move, now!”
She helped Captain Eärendil lean up against one of the massive trees. "Stay with the Captain," she said to her son.
"You two men," she called to two Amrothian soldiers who were only lightly wounded. "take your bows and quivers and follow me." They stood at once and followed her. They walked for an hour, possibly two, but finally came to a clearing where five voices were conversing rapidly in the Dunnish tongue.
"The main body of the army will be here by morning." Said one voice. "We just have to keep a watch on them." The air was quickly cut with the sound of Beáwyn's rushing arrows. All five Dunns collapsed on the ground, their torches fell to the wet earth with a soft thunk and went out.
When Beáwyn arrived with the two Amrothian soldiers back at the camp, she hastily roused everyone she could. The men of Dol Amroth put on their armor and buckled their swords to their belts.
"My lady," said Captain Eärendil, "Amongst that pile of tatters there are still good leather jerkins and caps. Have your people put them on, and have each one of them also grab a spear and shield. I now grow fearful of the coming daylight."
Then, mounting his horse with the rest of the Swan knights, He set off to the front of the camp to ready the rest of the men. The refugees of Rohan took Beáwyn's words of advice and grabbed what armor and clothing they could, bloodstained and slashed as it was, and readied themselves for war.
"Madam?" An Amrothian soldier said to Beáwyn mournfully, "If you would accept it, I have for you some armor."
The Amrothian soldier let fall a blue and steel bundle from his arms. Propped alongside a tree also lay gauntlets, an Amrothian kite-shield, a helm, greaves, and a beautiful long-sword. A man in a white tunic lay, unnaturally, next to the equipment. He was dead.
"So dire the situation has become that we must shame the deceased and wear their armor to battle?" Beáwyn said. She looked over at the Rohirrim refugees, scrounging about the mountain of bloody clothes embroidered with the white tree of Gondor.
"Dire indeed, my lady." Said the knight of Dol-Amroth. "But my friend no longer needs it, and you do."
As the Knight of Dol-Amroth helped Beáwyn put on the armor, she recalled the words of an elf that had once passed through her village, before her marriage, before this war. A prince of elves on his way to the undying lands had rode before her house and spoken to her father.
"Another Shieldmaiden of Rohan, I see here." He had said, "Teach her to use a sword, and she may prove an equal of the Lady of Ithilien herself."

Chapter 2:
The Fourth Age: Year 537
The Hills of Dunland
King of the Mark, Eorled, sat upon his saddle in abject despair. His guard rode through the ashen village of Calennon. Bodies littered the ground, with mountains of charred flesh piled at both the gates and town square. The stench was unbearable.

Dismounting, Eorled made his way to the large rock pillar at the center of the square. Beneath the many hundreds of bodies lay the remanants of a banner of Dunland. Letting out a scream of frustration, the King snapped the thick wooden pole on his leg. The pain caused him to collapse, kneeling amongst the bodies and burnt straw. But there, beneath his knees, a sword lay with a handle unlike any Dunnish or Rohirric pattern he had ever seen. He followed the handle down to the hand that grasped it. A gauntlet of silver, stained with crimson, clutched the sword.

“Help me!” King Eorled called to his men. Two dismounted and rushed to the King’s side. Together, the three of them pulled out the body. The sword, frozen to its owners arm and hand in death, were still raised triumphantly.

“My King,” said one Guard, “This man still wears his armor. The rest of them all only have their tunics, some nothing at all.”

Eorled pulled the white-winged helm off of the dead man. “It is Imrahil,” He said solemnly, “So these are the men of Dol-Amroth.”

“Prince Imrahil?” repeated the guardsman, “but where are the rest of his men?”

“That I do not know.”

The majestic figure of Imrahil lay at their feet, and they could do nothing but stare. Here lay the last of a triumphant line, proud warriors all. They had fought with unwavering loyalty.

“The King of Gondor will not take this news well.” Said the King. “Bring his body to Edoras. He died defending my people. It is fitting that he should be buried among them.”

“My Lord!” cried a voice from outside the city walls, “A rider approaches!”
Eorled mounted his horse and galloped down the hill out of the ruined gates. Indeed, a rider approached from a great distance at full speed. A beautiful white beast, this horse was, carrying upon it a figure clad in blue with a winged helm. The two ran with such a speed that when they reached the King, they overshot his position and had to swirl around, the horse rearing majestically in the air…

“King Eorled!” saluted the figure on the horse in a strong, but affectionate voice. “I come to you asking for your aid!”

“You bear a tunic of Dol-Amroth.” Said the King, still bewildered at this character’s sudden appearance. “Take off thy helm, that I might see thee better.” This knight of Amroth did as the king bidded, but as the battle helmet came loose, long, straw-blonde hair flowed out from beneath it.

The King stood, looking at a woman, mounted majestically on a white steed in the rich and beautiful armor of a Dol-Amrothian Man-at-Arms. A beautiful sword hung at her waist and the kite shield of Amroth was slung around her back. She looked, in every way, like a soldier… save for her kind face and panicked eyes. A rush of whispers went through the king’s men. The King himself was silent.

“My King, our people need you!” cried the woman in Amrothian armor.
“Our people?” said Eorled, “How many more Rohirrim are with the Amrothians?”

“I do not know, my Lord.” said the woman. “A hundred, maybe more?”

“A hundred—“ began the King, but the woman cut him off.

“A Dunnish army has surrounded us! Our party is not more one hundred and fifty strong yet their numbers reach into the thousands!”

“Where? Where are they?” The King demanded.

“Not twelve leagues from here, my Lord! My horse and I made it here in three hours at full gallop.”

“Who leads them?”

“Captain Eärendil, a guard of the White Company,” she began, “but he is greviously wounded, my Lord, he will not last long.”

Eorled instantly brought his men to action.

“What is your name, my lady?” He asked her.

“Beáwyn, Theodrym’s daughter. I was raised here in Calennon.”

“Then, Beáwyn, take my Captains with you. The Amrothian men need no longer stand alone!” Mounting his horse, he began a full gallop through the ranks of his men.

“Bowmen of the Mark, hear me! Swift sons of Rohan, the time has come to avenge these fell deeds of Dunland! Follow the lady to glory and battle!”

The King turned toward Beáwyn. “Let us hope your charge is not in vain. Our horse bowmen are swift. You will reach the battle first. I will be an hour behind you. Hold the lines with these men and reinforce the lines of Dol Amroth until I get there.”

“Yes, my Lord,” she said. Then, with a deep breath, Beáwyn reared the brilliantly white steed on its hind legs and shouted, “To our brothers in arms!”

One hundred and twenty horses answered with their galloping hoofbeats. With an almighty blast of the horns of the Rohirrim, Beáwyn and the bowmen of the mark rushed to their compatriot’s aid.

3 hours later

“Where is Beáwyn?” muttered Captain Eärendil from his battle lines, “She swore not to leave the lines.”

“Forget her for now, Captain,” said a knight next to him.”

“Look there! There are banners appearing over the hilltop!” clamored one of the men of Rohan. The refugees were dressed in the tattered and ripped leather jerkins of the Gondorian militia that had fallen during the attack on Calennon. It was odd to see them now, with the white tree on their shields and tunics.



“Dunland,” stated Eärendil. “They have come to finish us.” His leg throbbed with pain in the saddle, but he held his stance as if nothing hurt him. Any sign of giving into the pain and his men might follow his lead, and where would that lead them? If they became disorderly, disorganized, they were sure to perish.



“She’s out there, somewhere,” thought the Captain, “she went to find Eorled and his riders.” He felt, instinctively, that he was right, but in his head he only could see her skewered on a Dunnish pike, like Prince Imrahil. The image could not be shaken from his mind.

“Arrows!” cried one of the Men-at-Arms, and the entire party raised their shields to the sky as wooden shafts flitted past the sun. A Swan Knight of Amroth fell off his horse, dead.

“Belfalas!” cried Eärendil, “take his place!” A Man-at-Arms ran swiftly to the horse and jumped into the saddle. Several more volleys of arrows reached the lines of Amroth. The lines of Dol-Amroth began to shrivel under the fire. The cries of already wounded men getting hit sickened their hearts. And now, the heavy stomping of the Dunnish troops plodded forward toward them.

But just then, from over a hillock to the south, a deep resonating horn blast filled the air! The sound itself seemed to reinforce the troops of Dol-Amroth and their Rohan refugees. From over the hill a gigantic dust cloud rose into the air, and at the center of the mass of green capes and mottled horses, a deep-blue clad figure charged forward with astounding speed.

“Beáwyn!” shouted the Captain! Voices clamored from the Amrothian lines, cheers and whoops of joy escaped their mouths.
“From across the hills a stern female voice yelled, “Fell these beasts of men!”


The Dunnish cavalry, which had been charging the men of Dol-Amroth, halted their charge not fifty feet from their lines and swung around. Javelins at the ready, they charged toward these new invaders. The axe-men would deal with that rabble of torn blue and black uniforms!




But the men of Rohan were better riders, more calm in the saddle and solid upon their horses. The fight at a distance was nothing more than a slaughter as the hundred and twenty bowmen of the mark loosed their arrows and eliminated a majority of the Dunnish cavalry in one volley. The remaining riders of Dunland were slashed to pieces in a follow-up charge.


“Ride around them!” their captains yelled, “Run circles about their heads and make pincushions of them with your arrows!”



Beáwyn charged toward the men of Dol-Amroth. Her tireless horse, glad to be amongst its fellows again, brought her side by side with Eärendil, who smiled through his pain.

“You said you were short on riders, my lord.” She smirked at him. I have brought you a hundred more!”

“And not a moment too soon!” replied the Captain. He shouted to the army before him. “Come, my friends! Let us make our guests feel welcome! For Gondor and Rohan!”

The Swan knights and Beáwyn leapt over the Amrothian infantry, clearing their heads by mere inches, and began a swift downhill charge into the lines of Dunnish axemen!



Following their lead, the Men-at-Arms and Refugees ran down the hill, their swords and spears extended for their clash with the enemy.



But the men of Dunland had long endured the charges of the Rohirrim, and this time they would not be thrust down so easily. From within the lines of axe-men a line of pikes bristled through the front lines. It happened so quickly that the men of Dol-Amroth barely had time to jump clear of them into the infantry, but Beáwyn’s horse, being too close to avoid them, ran straight through into the Pike. Her steed let out a harsh cry of pain as Beáwyn flew through the air, headfirst into the ranks of Dunnish axe-men. Seeing this, Eärendil felt a horrible chill run down his spine. He and the Swan knights who survived the jump clove their way through the human sea of Dunnish soldiers until they reached their fallen heroine. Her fall had thrown the enemies around her to the ground, many were knocked unconscious. Eärendil, seeing her still, feared her for dead, but at last she stirred, stood up, and plunged her sword, in the nick of time, into the chest of a Dunnish spearman. Seeing their lady warrior alive gave the men of Dol-Amroth a drive which they had not known before. Scores of Dunnish men fell as the swords of Amrothian Men-at-Arms clove through their lines. An entire unit of Dunland’s army had been hacked to pieces.

The men of Dunland broke into a retreat and fell back to form a second line.

“Rohirrim!” cried Beáwyn, “Rally to me!” Arrows from the mounted Bowmen of Rohan shot past her and flailed her hair high as they followed along their path, finding their marks with a loud thwack!


The Rohirrim found themselves in deep trouble. Their positions had been flanked, and although they tried to hold their own, they broke their shield wall and began fighting one on one. They were suffering horrible casualties. Beáwyn, seeing this, charged the Men-at-Arms in their direction. As they were running, more horns blew. The heavy riders of Eorled had arrived! Seeing their advantage lost, the Dunnish soldiers drew their spears into schiltrom formations. They were easily destroyed by the mounted Bowmen and combined charges of Eorled’s men.



Dunland’s troops were utterly crushed. No man was left alive, though the refugees of Rohan had themselves taken many casualties. Captain Eärendil and King Eorled personally met on the battlefield. They raised their arms in triumph.




The men of Dol-Amroth who had survived were personally guided by a gilded Rohirric caravan back to Edoras until the armies of Minas Tirith reached them.

Meanwhile, two unmarried men of renown, the King Eorled and Captain Eärendil, looked toward the woman whose determination and sturdy bones won them their victory, and in her they saw one thing—the wife that they long desired.


Chapter 3:
The Fourth Age: Year 537
Edoras, five days after the recovery of the men of Amroth and their Rohirrim refugees.

A picture of the Lady Beáwyn in her armor without the Tunic of Dol-Amroth


Beáwyn sat outside the Golden hall of Edoras. The city stretched before her, down the great hill and to the wooden gates and beyond. It felt awkward to her, to be in the clothes of a Lady of Rohan. The white velvet and linen, patterned and woven with golden thread, though it suited her well, felt uncomfortable. The armor that she had worn to battle not five days before stood at attention next to the throne. She had seen the guard of the King’s house delicately place the finely pounded steel in perfect order. Special wooden stands were made to keep the armor in an upright position. The helm stood tallest, positioned as if it were a head at direct attention. Underneath it, in perfect proportion to Beáwyn herself, came the thick breastplate, chain-link mail, and blue tunic emblazoned with a swan. The kite-shield of Dol-Amroth leaned upright against a stand while the long-sword she had used to hew down many a Dunnish axeman was cleansed, standing, and shimmering in the light of the Golden Hall. She did not like it. It was as if a ghost sat in Meduseld, watching her from within the armor.



Weary from waiting, exhausted from days of nothingness, Beáwyn fell asleep upon the steps of the hall itself. The wind of Edoras and the world disappeared beneath her. Her dress billowed as if she were floating. She felt as if she were immersed in water, but felt nothing pressing against her. For a long time she seemed to hang there, floating within space and nothingness, until her feet hit something solid. The world was vividly blue. She had touched down upon a cobblestone road. Slowly, Beáwyn walked forward. Landscape began to materialize, a rock-face and cliff billowed before her, her sight undulating back and forth as an ocean might have. Slowly, a pale, transparent figure made its way around a bend in the rock face. There, upon the road, Beáwyn stopped. Here was, in his pale form, the shape of her husband striding towards her.

“Beáwyn,” he called, “My lady…” but just as he reached out to grab her hand, shaking as it was in shock, the world suddenly reappeared. Her eyes opened and the light of the sun blinded her. Desperately, she screwed her eyes shut, trying as hard as she could to find the figure of her husband.

“I’m here!” she called out, “where are you?” but the blue world nor the pale silhouette of her husband did not return. Strong hands were shaking her, voices were calling to her, but Beáwyn took no notice. She would not open her eyes, she could not. “Don’t leave me again!” she cried. But it was too late. The pale figure was gone.

Instead of shaking her, the strong pair of hands had now lifted her. Finally, when all sense of motion stopped and she could no longer feel the heat of the sun on her face, she opened her eyes. The eyes of Eorled, King of the Mark, stared into her own. She pulled her eyes away from him.

“A true Lady of Rohan, you are, that you would hold onto such a love.” He said. Beáwyn knew not why he said it, nor how the King had guessed what she had seen. She looked down and put her hands in her lap, but Eorled took her hands in his. “The men here tell me you are not yet twenty years old.”

“No, my Lord,” she said, finally discovering the courage to speak, “I am not.”

“Then tell me,” the King asked, “How is it you already have a child?”
“He is not mine, by birth.” Said Beáwyn. “Farlas is my sister’s son. She died of fever, her husband too. So Farlas came to my husband and I two Spring seasons ago.”

“He is a good child?” the King asked.

“He is a handful, my Lord, but he’s good, yes.” Beáwyn softly laughed through her tears, “He likes to imagine himself a Rider of the Mark.”

A burning image came to Beáwyn’s eyes. An image of flame, fire, and destroyed homes. Blood, slicing swords and clubs, the bells of death rang all around. She had taken Farlas and run for her life. Men were running. Children screamed on the dirt paths for their parents. All the while boiling blood spat in every direction. And then Beáwyn passed what had been her home, burning, the thatched roof writhing in flame. Her eyes met a man’s standing outside, a man with blonde hair like a majestic lion’s mane. Two men in ragged furs pushed him inside and threw a cart across the door, securing it. They cackled insanely and tossed in torches and burning logs, but Beáwyn only heard the scream from inside— a bloodcurdling scream of pain. She froze in her spot while this man melted in his own skin. The men turned around and noticed her standing there. Before she knew it, she was running with Farlas in her arms toward the broken, burning gates of her village, toward a banner of blue in the distance with a white swan emblazoned upon it. It was only when she reached their lines, several hundred yards away from the village, that she realized her husband was roasting alive in their home. She had never screamed that loudly in her life before then, and she would never do so again. She fought desperately to run back as a man clad in a blue tunic with a silvery stain near the right shoulder and heavy chain mail emblazoned with a Swan grabbed her and held her fast. Finally, after the man wrestled her to the ground, she had passed out, Farlas still clutched in her arms, unconscious from the smoke.

Beáwyn’s mind fell back into place. The King of the Mark looked at her, almost like the way her husband had when they were first introduced not seven years beforehand.

“My Lady Beáwyn,” Eorled said, as if he had been repeating himself many times, “You are welcome to stay in the Golden Hall. In fact, I would rather prefer it if you did so.” His words were hopeful, filled with that hope of the young. The King himself was not yet even thirty and still unmarried. But for Beáwyn it was too painful to look into his eyes, as he attempted to do with her. She tugged her hands out of his and buried them in her face.

“I could not, my Lord,” she choked out through her tears. But as she looked up, instead of the face of the King, who was now standing and offering to carry her to a room in the hall, Beáwyn found herself staring into the blank and empty helmet of the armor she had worn, the armor that now guarded the throne. The arms of the chain mail wrapped around and the gauntlets came to rest on the sword. Following the line of the right arm up to the shoulder of the tunic, Beáwyn saw herself gazing at the same silvery stain that had been on the uniform of the man who held her back while her husband burned alive. Not knowing what else to do, she ran out of the hall and down to her God-son, who was running in the fields outside the walls of Edoras, amongst the mounds of old, stopping every once in a while to read the inscriptions on the doors to each of the tombs of the Kings of Old. Together, Beáwyn and Farlas, stopped near a fresh mound of earth which had recently been sealed. The inscription on the door, not yet filled in with gold, read:

Imrahil, son of Aefthalas, Prince of Dol-Amroth and Lord Protector of Rohan.