Dusk and Dawn: 1. Dusk and Dawn

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1. Dusk and Dawn

Dusk descended. There was movement, yet, on the battlefield, but it was ordered and slow, and the sounds were not so shrill and terrible as they had been short hours before. Soldiers plodded to and fro, gathering weapons, massing the bodies for burning and watching the smoke spiral high over the darkening plain. The surgeons in their red tunics had fanned out amongst the fallen, eyes agleam by the light of their lanterns, searching, pausing, moving on. Near the centre of the field one grey-cloaked figure stood still, and stared not at the broken body on the ground, but at the sky.

Quiet footsteps sounded on the damp earth behind the cloaked soldier, and she stretched her hand back without turning. The Chieftain approached and clasped her hand, and then she did look down, and the lump at the back of her throat tightened. "My dear," Aragorn whispered, and she knew not whether he spoke to her or to the dead man.

After a silence, one of them said, "Did you see him fall?"


"Nor I."

"But I felt it."

Aragorn sank to the ground and reached out with his free hand, hovering helplessly over the bloody jerkin and the shattered collarbone beneath before brushing gently across the cold forehead. She abruptly dropped beside him, bumping him slightly, and he shifted reflexively to brace her. She wound up leaning against him, and, confronted with the unexpected warmth of his shoulder, began to cry.

Aragorn did not try to speak again, but his thoughts spiraled back as they would, through years and years of stealth and skirmish, desperation, calculation and stubborn hope that marked the lives of those who fought in his name. Through all his memories of his home in the North, and the men and women whom he loved, two faces stood out: two captains, two tireless administrators, two fast friends.

As through a window, Aragorn watched himself step into a dim circle of firelight nigh seventy years past, disturbing the watch of a shy sixteen-year-old recruit on the Rhudaur circuit. The boy had been startled, then embarrassed by Aragorn's Elf-silent approach, and it had taken weeks of good-natured teasing by another young ranger before he had opened to Aragorn's chagrined overtures of friendship. The other, a lanky, long-faced girl of eighteen, had no such inhibitions. "My name is Gudrun daughter of Garil, Carthil's son," she told him, "and your lineage is obvious to anyone with two good eyes. You had better learn to slouch a little."

The woman in his arms -- the same woman, now grizzled and scarred, who had stood at his back, sword drawn, unnumbered times, and stood without him and held the line when he was far away, and fallen in love with the shy sixteen-year-old and married him -- shifted and wiped her eyes with her cloak, which was not her cloak, Aragorn now saw. They stood up together, slowly, and pulled apart, Gudrun settling one hand on her pommel, as always, and the other across her body.

Or not quite across.

"Gudrun?" She turned, and the Chieftain's sharp eyes flicked again to the hand that rested low on her abdomen, before coming back to her face. Gudrun smiled. Not the familiar wolf-grin of old, but a small, bittersweet turn of the lips; an answer to the question.

"Truly? After all these years?" He breathed heavily as she nodded. "Gudrun, you rode to battle!"

"I know. We left the Shire unguarded. But he told me I had to come with him -- be with him -- this time."

"He knew."

"He knew he rode to his death. He did not know that I carried life."

Aragorn shook his head, but a smile seemed to be brimming up inside him, past the grief, past the weariness that clung to him like chainmail. "My dear," he said, and this time the words were all for her. Beyond the gloom the sun sank down, and intuitively both glanced west. "I must go back," he said, apology in his voice. "This night will be a long one, and after that..." He sighed.

Gudrun actually laughed aloud. "Do you doubt, my lord?" Something like a sparkle appeared in her eyes. "Halbarad knew the answer when he fell."

Aragorn clasped her shoulder, and leaned in to kiss her brow. "Aurë entulava!*," he said to her, smiling now in his turn. They turned to the man on the ground and saluted him, then turned again toward the city and began to walk. "I do believe it."


*"And each time that he slew Húrin cried: 'Aurë entulava! Day shall come again!'" -- "Of the Fifth Battle"; The Silmarillion

This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.

Story Information

Author: Stultiloquentia

Status: General

Completion: Complete

Era: 3rd Age - Ring War

Genre: General

Rating: General

Last Updated: 06/30/03

Original Post: 12/24/02

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