A Timeless Terror
A Note to the Constant Reader:
A private Tower Guard mission.
Coincides with Chains of the Past
Gandalf passed now into the wide land beyond the Rammas Echor.
So the men of Gondor called the out-wall that they had built with great labour,
after Ithilien fell under the shadow of their Enemy. For ten leagues or
more it ran from the mountains' feet and so back again,
enclosing in its fence the fields of the Pelennor.
- Tolkien, from The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King - Minas Tirith
Many tall men heavily cloaked stood beside him (Gandalf)
and behind them in the mist lomed a wall of stone.
- Tolkien, from The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King - Minas Tirith
"We wish for no strangers in the land at this time,
unless they be mighty men of arms in whose faith and help we can trust."
- Ingold, from The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King - Minas Tirith
"To be only a man of arms of the Guard of the Tower of Gondor is held worthy in the City,
and such men have honour in the land. / The Lord does not permit those who wear the
black and silver to leave their post for any cause, save at his own command."
- Beregond, from The Lord of the Rings:
The Return of the King: Minas Tirith and The Siege of Gondor
But in the front towards Mordor where the first bitter assault would come there
stood the sons of Elrond on the left with the Dúnedain about them, and on the
right the Prince Imrahil with the men of Dol Amroth tall and fair,
and picked men of the Tower of Guard.
- Tolkien, from The Lord of the Rings:
The Return of the King: The Black Gate Opens
Not one living foe was left within the circuit of the Rammas. All were slain save those who
fled to die, or to drown in the red foam of the River. Few ever came eastward to Morgul or Mordor.
- Tolkien, from The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King: The Battle of the Pelennor Fields
"Until much had been done by the restored King...Ithilien... its (Gondor's) most
eastward outpost....clearing it of outlaws and orc-remnants, not to speak of
the dreadful vale of Minas Ithil (Morgul).... It was made clear that there
was much fighting in the earlier years of Aragorn's reign..."
- Tolkien, from Letter 224
"This is the storehouse and buttery of my
company of the Guard," said Beregond. "Greetings, Targon!"
- from The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King - Minas Tirith
The people of Hador were yellow-haired and blue-eyed, for the most part...
tall and mostly fair-haired people of the House of Hador...
- Tolkien, from The Lost Road and Other Writings and The Peoples of Middle-earth
Lomardhon, a tall blonde Gondorian with a world-weary mien, emerged from a narrow gate of Rammas Echor. The beat of hammers no longer sounded on the marches nor did the clink of trowels and the creak of masonry wheels. The wall was breached far and wide during the War of the Ring but now it was wholly reconstructed by stone-cutters of Lord Vorn of Belfalas and Lord Gimli of Aglarond. Lomardhon was a survivor of Ingold's remnant, a sentinel leader at one of the rebuilt forts. The bastions of Rammas Echor, named in honor of Grey Company companions of King Elessar fallen in the embattled townlands, were rebuilt with the lustrous Orthanc-stone. Black and shining as jet like the Othram city wall of Minas Tirith, the rebuilt towers of marvellous thickness soared to a great height, hard and dark and smooth unconquerable now by steel or fire.
Lomardhon was promoted to lieutenant following the conflict for his heroism in the Pelennor Fields and in the Battle of the Morannon. The veteran spearmen led many younger soldiers now, both men and women by edict of the King and Queen; considering how many male warriors were lost in the invasion of Gondor and on the beleauered hills of Mordor, they needed maidens to take up arms like the fair and valiant shieldmaidens of the Eorlingas in antiquity. Few of the Tower Guards he served with, beloved friends, had lived to resume their watch at home yet he took heart! Lomardhon knew that when his duty ended, he would have trained a new generation of sentries to protect the wall of the fertile pastures beneath the unfurled standards of the White Tree.
Lomardhon heard singing from the thoroughfare running swiftly down from the rebuilt towers facing the Causeway leading to Osgiliath's ruins. Travelling the great road leading toward Othram was Beren Camlost. The storied Tower Guard lieutenant was named for the courageous nineteeth Steward of Gondor whose namesake had been the romantic hero of the First Age. Beren was a lighthearted Gondorian adventurer who hailed from Larktown in the Pelennor Fields. He was a mighty man of valor famed for his rugged handsomeness and derring-do.
He had been renowned for his feats as a Southern Ranger before the War of the Ring. Beren's exploits with his Northern Dúnedain kin and King Elessar before his fateful journey with the Grey Company had been circlating for months since his return to Gondor from oversea. These harrowing tales engendered praise from idealistic lads and fair belles of Gondor alike. The gossip of Beren's skin-changer lineage was true and cemented his repute as a living legend in the country.
Over ringmail black as jet Beren wore a sable surcoat. The fabric was embroidered with a white tree blossoming beneath a silver crown amid a field of pointed stars. This was the livery of the heirs of Elendil, and none wore it now in all Gondor save the Citadel Guards; the Rangers were attired similiarly sans the crown.
A faint smile broadened as the lyrics of the merry tune became clearer as Beren advanced, leading his Bree mare Brenna to the nearest fort. Ladies and gentlemen of the Tower Guard, many of them no older than thirty summers, joined Beren in chorus.
And don't spend your time lookin' around
For something you want that can't be found
When you find out you can live without it
And go along not thinkin' about it
I'll tell you something true
The bare necessities of life will come to you
Look for the bare necessities
The simple bare necessities
Forget about your worries and your strife
I mean the bare necessities
Old Kementári's recipes
That brings the bare necessities of life
A wan smile flickered across Lomardhon 's stoic face. The catchy song was an endearing household treasure, made popular by
The Forest Foundling. The musical peformed at the Minas Tirith Playhouse near the White Tree Theater was written by Bree novelist Miranda Peppermint; it was adapted for stage in the Reunited Kingdom by Vincent Flutterby of Archet in recent years.
The Forest Foundling concerned the amusing misadventures of a Harad orphan raised by a lazy bear and a noble panther. The final act concluded with a dire escape from an ambitious orangutan and a tense battle with a cunning tiger that devoured the child's parents in the sorrowful, tear-jerking prelude.
He allowed a few guards to leave their post to speak with Beren only because he was leading Brenna by her rein rather than mounted on her saddle; across her back were two bound Haradrim, both injured. South of Emyn Arnen, Gondor's garden of Ithilien had become the sanctuary of outlaws and Orcs who fled the last engagement of the War. Some Easterlings had hidden themselves in Minas Morgul and Mordor; others were now encroaching on Gondor's eastern marches and committing atrocities which continued to critically hinder the peacetalks between Aragorn and the Harad lords, making peace harder to achieve.
"First catch of the day, Bear?" asked chuckling Lomardhon. His colleague in the First Company had a penchant for inviting trouble or trouble seeking him. He commanded the subordinate Tower Guards to remove the Haradrim prisoners off Brenna and to incarcerate them in one of the small holding cells in the fort; there they would remain until transferred to the Minas Tirith Gaol for interrogation.
Beren told Lomardhon about what happened at Chrysanthemum's arboretum which, of course, led to Beren boasting about securing a blind date for his son Mourgan Alarion.
"That gardener woman is a fetching lady," approved Lomardhon, gripping Beren's hand as he pulled Beren alarmingly close. "My daughter remains unwed which we've previously discussed..."
"Sorry, mate!" Beren spluttered. "S-pur of the m-moment d-decision, y-you kn-know?" he stuttered, wilting under his glowering friend's icy gaze. They were both strong men who triumphed over the Dominion of Sauron however, Udûn had no fury than a battle-hardened father who knew how to kill a man with his bare hands two dozen ways. Beren wanted to gallop Brenna to Dale, Hildorien possibly.
"You know, it would be embarrassing for your boy to outmatch you in matters of love..."
Beren grimaced. "A couple women are interested in me," Beren delicately broached. "They just haven't made up their minds yet."
"All the more reason," counselled Lomardhon, holding Beren's shoulders, "why you should find a good earthy woman who wants to settle down with you."
"Gelrhevia yells at me all the time."
"
Everyone yells at you all the time." Lomardhon tilted his head thoughtfully. "Have you noticed she gives you things that no one else receives?"
"You have me there, Lom, but she's fifteen years my junior. There's plenty of Tower Guards her age who'd like to court her-"
"None are prominent officers," insisted Lomardhon. "You are a wealthy farmer of
lebethron, timber prized by our finest carpenters. You own a mine on Mel Lóna and you have a lucrative partnership with Lady Eressild's family in Lebennin-"
"I must begin my shift, Lom," interrupted Beren, already collecting his saddlebags. "Have an ostler tend to Brenna, please."
"Being a guardian of Rammas Echor is an honored priviledge but a dangerous position and I'm getting older, Beren," Lomardhon spoke to the Lieutenant's back as the Ranger hastened up the stairway. "I want my lass safe and sound with a man I can trust."
Beren paused midway, his scruffy face unseen. "She deserves a better man, doesn't matter if he's twenty-one or pushing forty."
"You are lonely."
"I am waiting."
"Until you're old and grey, faithful to one woman you will outlive you and the other who can't marry a man of humble origins." Beren stood with a rigid stance. "Do you like to forget you're the son of common parents?" accused Lomardhon scathingly now, irritated to the point of anger. He drifted toward the base of the steps, looking up at Beren. "There's no shame in being a plain man of arms like your father or the scholarly woman your sage mother is."
The vexed lieutenant stared down, unruly brown hair stirring in the breeze redolent of Ithilien terebinth. His cheerful countenance faded, repossesed by smoldering indignation. Beren fled Lomardhon's deluge of accusations, entering the fort, and made a beeline for his office. Hattie the Patterdale, the exuberant policehound he shared with Unalmis, crowded his ankles. Beren believed she would have been content frolicking amongst the wildflowers and persuing groundhogs outside but Hattie was happy anywhere and ventured into the tower with her master. Despite Beren's persistent pleas to calm down and warning he'd hurt her swinging tail, the stubborn terrier with the black glossy fur weaved about his legs in jolly carelessness.
Beren strode through the pleasantly cool winter sunlight flooding the passage. He was eager to begin his paperwork for once and decide what mission he could soon undertake; like his friend Narradir, Beren disdained rifling through runéd parchment. Beren was not illiterate but he perferred action than sitting for hours. He needed some kind of distraction.
Standing in the threshold of his office, Beren felt a sinking suspicion something was awry when he saw Gelrhevia. The Tower Guard secretary sat at his imposing ormolu-mounted desk of Harad mahogany. It was one piece in a set comprising chairs and an oval table, all of identical wood and gilt bronze. The willowy redhead in her twenties wore a scarlet damask kirtle with a underbust corset of gold brocade. Her thick auburn hair, distinguished by loose crown braiding, tumbled in bright cascades to her hips. Beren was awed speechless. Mortals with ginger locks were rarely seen in Middle-earth, descended from the humans of the Third House known for their radiant hair. Gelrhevia's unique comeliness wrought a spell of silence upon him, broken only by the severe contemptible look she regarded him with.
She clutched fistfuls of reports; more were scattered about the room. Beren wondered why until he noticed her gifts, lacquered boxes, were uncovered. She arranged his dispatches neatly in the gleaming containers inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Each iconic top featured a hand-painted scene of Gondor alluding to the place the reports originated like Minas Tirith, Ithilien, or the fiefdoms.
"You left them all on this damned desk," she stated, twining skeins of vibrant hair around a finger. Beren was taken aback, none too sure if it was the sweet lass cursing which surprised him or the discomforting knowledge he slighted her. Beren hadn't intended to upset Gelrhevia and, honest to himself, Beren had forgotten he left the parchment records in disarray. He avoiding her blue-grey eyes riveted on him. "Worse-" Gelrhevia flourished her hand, indicating the window "- you left that fleeging thing open when you went home a couple nights ago. Can you guess what happened? Tell me you're smart enough to deduce
that at least."
Beren said nothing, attempting to restrain his rising anger.
"All the reports I organized for you were swept across the damn room," said Gelrhevia, seething. She scooped up Hattie when the Patterdale hurried over to lick the flustered secretary. "I am still recovering them
all . Only Manwë knows how many have been whisked over Anórien, Ithilien, or the Pelennor perhaps even further," said Gelrhevia while she petted the terrier. "Now I must arrange them because it's my job, a task I accomplished
days ago. How in bloody Mordor am I supposed to get other things I need to finish done while I play catchup now because of your negligence? I told you to take which investigations you want and put the rest back so I can give them to other Tower Guards. Why didn't you think about that before you left this office?"
"I had a lot on my mind then and anxious thoughts continue to linger," Beren admitted, soft-spoken and even-keeled despite the gimlet stare of green flinty eyes, "like choosing who to save or if I'm capable of it." Beren snatched a couple reports off the floor. "Do I look for the late Lord Hirluin's small boy, the heir of the fiefdom lost in the wooded hills of Pinnath Gelin, whom the knights can't find? What about Half-Orcs of Saruman who have scaled the White Mountains and come down to harass Angbor's dalefolk?" He tossed the reports on his desk and ordered Gelrhevia to give him the ones she held. "Which of the murders in Minas Tirith would you me to solve first?" Beren demanded, raising aloft a wad of parchment reports. "Maybe one of many disapperances?" He shook the other bundled collection of reports. "Lord Garafgûr of Belfalas still mourns the loss of Neurelpina, his singing angel, who vanished from the Minas Tirith Playhouse. Perhaps she's latest target of its elusive Phantom."
A shroud of thick awkward stillness smothered Beren and Gelrhevia until he spoke, noting that she was sitting in his seat. "I'll file these myself," Beren assured Gelrhevia in a lighter voice, feeling exhausted by another sudden souring turn of his day. He spoke over her, affirming the fact she had already done this before and that the secretary had other duties to fulfil for him. "If it's not too much of a bother, visit the storehouse where Targon is serving today. Tell him we require bread and butter, cheese and apples with flagons of ale for any clients requesting audience with me through you." Gelrhevia let Hattie down so she could gnaw some pheasant bones in one corner of the room. At a loss for words, Gelrhevia curtsied and breezed past him to reach the door but paused when Beren's large hand took tender hold of a bell sleeve. "I'm sorry I disrespected you," he apologized. "This will not happen again. I will consider your feelings in the days to come no matter how stressed I am." She gave him a heartening smile which put him at ease and left his office, closing the door.
Beren slumped against the Crown-and-Stars carven back of his upholstered chair, sorting the documents in order. At some point, needing small comfort, he reflected on memories of his friends and family pictured on his desk and the office walls. One of his many hobbies included charcoal art. His sketches, elaborately framed, were prominently alligned on his desk. Aileen on the homestead porch of their
lebethron farm. Ursula nursing her
Tubeng cider in the Four Winds tavern of Osdolen. Helchon encamped at Amon Sûl and Isys astride a destrier with her jousting lance. Hatholdir, now bearded, leaving a Mole mine in the White Mountains with a pick-axe slung over one shoulder. Aileen hiking near an Ithilien waterfall. Nariel with Tharmáras and their children on a sea-cliff on Tol Vinyamar. His younger sister, Bridget, aiming at a wild boar with her bow. Their mother examing a scroll in the Hall of Books and their father leading a Lebinnin cattledrive. Nelladel rolling dough, looking pretty with a spot of flour on her cheek. Morana seated on a gondola on the eve of a canal boatride. Between a vase of sparkling elven-glass housing his
mithril guard helm were two paintings: One of Beren with Aigronding and Edan, Tharmáras and Ann near Bree-hill's newly erected clocktower in the spring of TA 3021; the second, Beren holding Airien from behind on the bridge of Linaymaril with her fiery hair blown astir.
Hattie's incessant prodding of Arnorian armor on display interrupted the reveries of Beren. "Don't try it!" he yelled at the curious Patterdale. "You'll make a mess, girl." She did indeed. Once the dog noticed the suit swaying, Hattie charged. The baying terrier retreated in fervid urgency when the armor toppled. Hattie sought refuge underneath Beren's chair and groaned when she heard the clangorous fall. Hattie whined until realized she was safe then darted toward the knightless armor, barking at the suit in uproarious displeasure.
Beren sighed, arising. Just starting to assemble the jumble of loosened pieces into standing form, Beren heard Gelrhevia asking if she could admit a couple villagers from Tumladen inside his office.