Alas For The Wailing Of The Gulls

Alas For The Wailing Of The Gulls











 

 

Alas For The
Wailing Of The Gulls

 

 

It had been a long, hard ride from Edoras to the black stone of Erech.

 

After the long, dark march through the paths of the dead, the
soul-numbing dread, and the endless ride through the night to Erech, it seemed
to Legolas that it had been days since he had seen daylight.  But after a few hours of fitful rest beneath
the stone, dawn finally came.

 

Legolas awoke, stretching, blinking sleep from his eyes.  He turned at the unexpected sound of a soft
laugh. Beside him, Elrohir was already awake, and he turned to Legolas, placing
one finger against his lips.

 

“Sshh.  Watch this.”

 

Elrohir had a small pile of tiny stones he had gathered from the
surrounding ground, and was carefully throwing them at Elladan, still asleep on
the other side of the campfire, wrapped in his cloak.

 

Legolas watched in fascination. As each stone hit Elladan, he
twitched.  As one hit his face, he raised
one hand, and brushed at the irritation.

 

Elrohir stifled a chuckle, and threw another stone.  Elladan’s hand shot out, caught the missile
in mid air, and threw it back with fine accuracy.  It struck Elrohir squarely on the chest
before he could move.

 

Legolas gave a shout of laughter, quickly stifled as Aragorn turned to
him with a dark look from where he was standing next to the horses.  Elladan sat up in one smooth movement.

 

“Good morning, brother.  I trust
you slept well?”  Elrohir asked
innocently.

 

“Very well, thank you. But it would appear to have been raining.”  Elladan held up a handful of stones picked up
from his cloak.

 

Legolas had learned many, many years before not to come between the
twins when they were in this mood.  While
it was safe enough to impartially encourage them both, any hint of him taking
sides resulted in them forming a united, unbreakable front, in which he usually
came off worst.

 

Instead, he looked around for a distraction, and saw Gimli, still
asleep, wrapped in his elven cloak. 
Walking over to him, Legolas kicked the huddled bundle, then quickly
stepped away.

 

With a snort and a grunt, Gimli sat bolt upright, already brandishing
his axe.  When he saw Legolas, standing a
safe distance away, grinning, he sighed. 


 

“Blasted elf!  I should have known
it was you.  Can’t you let anyone sleep
in peace?”

 

“It is dawn, you sluggard dwarf! 
Time to be up.  We have yet a long
journey ahead of us if we are to arrive in time!”

 

Many of the Dúnedain were awake now, looking tired and drawn - not so
much affected by the long trek of the day before, as by the oppressive presence
of the dead.  The shades of Dunharrow
clustered all around, surrounding the encampment, waiting patiently for the
living to take their rest so they could fulfil their oath.   The antics of the three elves in their midst
lightened the mood of the men, and there were several grins.

 

After a sketchy breakfast, the Grey Company set off again, accompanied
by their shadowy companions.  Aragorn
pushed them hard, allowing only minimal rest for both the men and their horses.

 

They rode on throughout that day, and on into the night, as the sun set
blood red behind them.  After again resting
for a few brief hours, the long ride continued, but dawn never came that
day.  Instead, there was a dim, grey
twilight that reminded Legolas of an eclipse he had once witnessed.  Through all this, Aragorn’s indomitable will
pushed the Rangers on, despite their terrible weariness. 

 

In the unremitting gloom, day merged seamlessly into night, and the
long, unrelenting ride to Pelargir continued, passing in a blur of exhaustion.

 

By the fourth day,  all the
Dúnedain, including Aragorn, were looking grey and drawn, and even Legolas,
Elladan and Elrohir were feeling the strain of the long ride.

At last, four days after leaving Erech, they came near Pelargir.

 

Crossing the fields and plains of Lebennin was almost rest in
itself.  Grasses grew tall there, and
flowers blew gently in the breeze.  Tall
lilies were surrounded by a carpet of tiny golden flowers shaped like bells.

 

On the long ride, they had already come across men from Umbar and Harad,
raiders  and allies of Mordor.  Most of the men had already fled before them,
but some, fierce in their despair, stood their ground to fight.

 

Ahead, in the grey light before dawn, the land fell away to the estuary
of the Anduin, and the air was scented with the sharp tang of salt. 

 

Legolas nudged Arod to a halt, and drew a deep breath of the cold,
sea-tainted breeze.  Above them, a high,
keening cry sounded.  Legolas tensed at
the sound of the shrill wail.  It seemed
to delve deep into his soul, cutting him loose from the tranquillity and peace
he had always felt beneath his beloved trees.

 

Although it was a sound he had never heard before, still he knew
instinctively what it was, and Galadriel’s warning abruptly came back to
him.  It was too late, now, to heed the
words, too late to rue the path that had led him here.  Transfixed by the cry, he gazed upwards at
the fleeting white shapes wheeling overhead, his heart soaring to join them.

 

He did not hear Gimli shouting at him, did not feel the dwarf prodding
him in the back, and kicking futilely at Arod. 
And he did not see the Haradrim warrior riding straight at them, spear
raised.

 

Something, some grain of awareness, wrenched his attention back to the
battle, and he suddenly saw the spear, only a handspan away, aimed straight at
his face.  He jerked backwards, the point
of the spear missing him by a fraction of an inch, and the shaft smashed
against the side of his head.

 

Still disorientated, Legolas tumbled from Arod’s back and hit the ground
hard.  Arod shot forward in fright, with
Gimli clutching desperately at his mane. 
He twisted round precariously, trying to see what had become of his
friend, and saw Legolas on the ground, with several of the Corsairs and
Haradrim converging on him.  Blasted elf!
 If he got himself killed ...

 

Gimli hauled on Arod’s mane.  “Stop,
you stupid horse, STOP!!  Arod, turn
around, we have to go back!” he bellowed.

 

He never know whether it was his words, his frantic tugging, or the fact
that Arod realised he was missing a rider, but eventually the horse slowed,
turned, then raced back the way they had come.

 

To his immense relief, he saw Legolas on his feet, but the relief was
tempered by dismay as he saw the elf surrounded by several mounted
fighters.  He was armed with just his
long knife, the bow lying several yards away on the grass, out of reach.  He was at an obvious disadvantage, vastly
outnumbered, and Gimli’s concern was compounded by
the fact that he knew Legolas could never bring himself to harm any of the
horses in order to bring their riders down. 
And yet ...

 

Gimli watched in disbelief as Legolas’ knife flashed out, slicing at the
belly of the nearest horse, then another, and another.  His stifled oath changed to a shout of
laughter, as with  startled cries the
riders slid from the backs of their horses, one ending up beneath the hooves of
his steed.  The saddles thudded to the
ground on top of the riders, the girth straps cleanly cut through.  Unencumbered, uninjured, the horses ran on
across the plains.

 

By the time Gimli reached Legolas, four of the raiders were dead.  A fifth fell as he watched.  Gimli swung his axe at another, taking the
head off a seventh rider on the backswing, and the last two spurred their
horses away, fleeing the unequal battle.

 

Gimli gripped Arod’s mane with one hand, and with his eyes tightly
closed, leaned over as far as he dared, the other hand extended.

 

“Legolas!  Here!”  he yelled.

 

Legolas turned, snatched up his bow, and grabbed Gimli’s wrist.  He jumped, twisting in mid-air, and settled
into his usual place on Arod’s back in front of Gimli.

 

“Are you all right?  What
happened?”  Gimli shouted.  He was worried, wondering what had caused his
friend to be so distracted it had nearly resulted in his death.

 

Legolas turned.  There was a small
cut above one eyebrow, and a trickle of blood ran down his face.  He looked, and sounded, shaken. 

 

“I am fine.  Thank you for coming
back.  It was ...”  he trailed off, shaking his head.  “I do not know.”

 

The remnants of the raiders had fled, fleeing to the haven of their
ships at Pelargir.  Aragorn’s company
pursued them, but when they reached the ends of the plains of Lebennin, they
halted for a brief rest.  Theirs had been
a long, hard ride, and the battle to come, to seize the ships and sail up the
Anduin, would be the hardest yet.

 

Most of the Dúnedain took the opportunity to sleep for a couple of
hours.  Others were content to rest by
the campfires.  When he would have
followed suit, Legolas found himself the subject of the scrutiny of four hard
stares.  He swallowed uncomfortably, his
gaze moving from Aragorn to Gimli, Elladan to Elrohir.

 

“What happened to you?”  Elladan
asked flatly.

 

Legolas shifted uneasily.  It was
difficult to prevaricate when he did not know for certain himself what had
happened.  “I – I am not sure.”

 

“Not sure?”  Gimli echoed in
disbelief.  “You were so distracted that
you never saw that Haradrim raider until it was almost too late!  You fell off Arod!”

 

Legolas swallowed, glancing again at his four interrogators.  “I – heard something.  A shrill cry, like nothing I have ever heard
before.  It seemed – ”
he sighed.  “It seemed to cut me in two.”

 

“ ‘Beware of the sea.’  Those were Galadriel’s words.  That was the message she sent to you, wasn’t
it?”  asked Aragorn.

 

“Yes ... I thought she foretold my death.  I heard the gulls ...”  Legolas shivered.

 

Aragorn stared at him.  “You
thought she foretold your death?  Then
why did you follow?  You could have
stayed in Edoras or Dunharrow
with Éowyn and her people, to aid them!”

 

Legolas seemed surprised by the question.  “I do not fear the dead.”  He repeated his own words.  “Nor do I fear my own death.  If it is foretold, then so be it.  But this – it is not what I thought she
foretold.”

 

“The sea-longing.”  said Elrohir
softly.  “ It lies deep in the hearts of
all our kindred.  It is perilous to
stir.”

 

“Sea longing?  What is that?”  Gimli asked.

 

Legolas was silent.  It was not
something he wanted to discuss, not until he had had the chance to think about
it himself.

 

“It is the desire, long buried in all the elves, to sail over the sea to
the Undying Lands, to Valinor and Eldamar. 
None can long withstand its call once it is awakened,” Elrohir
explained.

 

“But what does it mean?” demanded Gimli.

 

Legolas sighed.  “It means I shall
find no peace in Middle Earth any more, not unless I pass over the sea.  But I have no wish to leave!  I do not want
to leave the forests of Lasgalen, the trees of beech, or elm, or oak.  Alas for the wailing of the gulls!”

 

“Then you will always be torn, never truly happy or content,” said
Elladan sadly.  “I know.  I have seen it enough in our kindred.”

 

Legolas left them abruptly, walking off into the night.  The inner turmoil he felt was unfamiliar,
already he could feel something tugging at his heart.  When he had first heard the message from
Galadriel, the words had seemed dark, and he thought she had spoken openly of
his death.  Nonetheless, he had never
questioned Aragorn’s decision to follow this route, even knowing it would lead
to the sea, and the fulfilling of her prophecy.

 

He had never even considered this alternative interpretation, but now
that Elrohir had spoken of it, he knew, beyond doubt, the truth of
it.  It was scarcely comforting.  Death in battle could come at any time; he knew
that, he was a warrior and accustomed to the thought – but  this torment was something new.

 

Far behind him, he could hear Aragorn calling to the Grey Company.  It was time to ride on, down to the Great
River, and the Pelargir estuary.  He
returned to their encampment, collected Arod, and mounted, waiting for Gimli to
join him.  Ahead of them lay high, sandy
dunes.  Beyond that lay the river, the
ships of the Corsairs, yet another battle to gain control of the fleet, and a
long voyage up the river to Minas Tirith, with no certain victory when they
arrived.

 

From the top of the dunes Legolas could see the wide black waters of the
Anduin, so wide it could be the sea already. 
Far below were immense mud flats, and a multitude of seabirds on the
shore.  Overhead were more gulls,
wheeling and soaring in the dull grey light. 


 

With a sudden laugh, he nudged
Arod
down the dunes in a shower of sand.  He
flung out his arms, looking up at the birds, his spirit flying high with
them.  It was dawn, he could smell the
sea, and the cry of the gulls filled his ears.

 

 

 

The End