By Christopher Woods
Word Count: 3155
Rating: G
Summary: Dilian would follow Thorongil anywhere, not knowing who he really is.
Dilian often wondered where Gondor would be without Thorongil. He had come in the very nick of time, as it were, just when men like him were most needed. Indeed, there were some who thought that if Ecthelion had not had a son, the people might have taken him and made him king. They had been so long without one that the very idea of a king was practically a myth, something that was learned in the nursery and hardly ever mentioned again. But if there ever truly had been kings, they would have been like Thorongil: strong to fight but eager to make peace, with wisdom, sorrow, and joy all mixed in his eyes. Gondor loved him and cherished him as one of her own, even if no one knew where this wandering warrior had come from.
Ecthelion knew that Mordor would strike Gondor first and hardest because of their ancient enmity. So he gathered to Gondor the brave and the heroes, sending word throughout all of Middle-Earth that Gondor was in need. They had come from all over, bearing all manner of weapons. Some were turned away at once, being only frauds who hoped to gain loot and pleasure from the White City, though there was very little of those left; others were accepted, and were at once set to work defending Ithilien and the coastlands from Mordor and the rebels. Constantly, word would come to the White City of the battles of the previous day and whether it was yet time to retreat into the mountains. Frequently, small bands would come back, and people would rush out of the City and take the wounded to the Houses of Healing, where they would stay for a few weeks and then return to battle. Gondor was caught in constant war, and in such a time Thorongil was a gift out of the West.
Dilian marveled at the endurance of the man, if man he was. Many said that they felt an elven air about him, even though few in Gondor had seen an elf. More compared him to the people of Dol Amroth, whose blood was much closer to the Numenoreans of old, and thus also to the Elves. Dilian was once eating with his friends when one of them brought this up.
“Perhaps the people of the Golden Wood are coming to help us in these dark days!”
“Taldon!” said another. “The times are bad enough without them coming here. Everyone knows that the Golden Wood is full of danger, and the Lady Galadriel a terrible sorceress.”
“Not Thorongil, Nemnor,” Dilian said.
Nemnor started. “Since when did you know Thorongil on such a personal level?” he asked.
Dilian leaned back with his mug of beer and a faraway look in his eye. “I was walking down from the Houses of Healing after visiting Galhon when I heard a song, floating, floating in the breeze. I stopped and listened. Who wouldn’t? It was entrancing, ensnaring, pulling me in. I looked around and saw Thorongil in the gardens, sitting on a bench overhung with ivy, and singing to himself. I stood still, hardly daring to disturb the beauty of the music. Gracefully, slowly, the song ended, and Thorongil looked up and smiled at me. ‘Do you like it?’ he asked. ‘Like it?’ I answered. ‘I’ve never heard anything close to it! What is it?’ He hesitated, and I thought he wouldn’t answer. But finally, just when I had made up my mind to leave, he said, ‘It is a song from the Golden Wood.’ I must admit, Nemnor, that when I heard this, my reaction was the same as yours, and disgust was the first thing that came to my mind. ‘The Golden Wood?’ I managed at last. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been there!’ He smiled again, and I could tell he was not here, but somewhere completely other. ‘I’ve been there only once, but my heart has never left. The Golden Wood is the most beautiful place in all of Middle-Earth, and let none tell you otherwise.’ I wondered at this, and told him that he must have been caught in the Lady’s snares himself, but at once regretted it. His eyes, just recently so full of joy, turned at once to raging fire, and at that moment I felt sorry for all his enemies, even the Orcs. But just as quickly, he was filled with great sadness, and the fire died. ‘If we had time, I would take you there and show you the truth. But there is no time for such things in war.’ I could tell that he earnestly believed what he was saying, and was under no spell of any kind. So I said, ‘My name is Dilian, sir, and I promise you that if I survive to see a more peaceful time, I will visit the Golden Wood.’ He replied, ‘Tell the Lady that Thorongil sent you, and you will be well treated.’ I told him I would and continued on my way, amazed at what had occurred.” Dilian fell silent, and absentmindedly sipped his beer.
Taldon looked delighted. “That was one of the most beautiful stories I’ve ever heard,” he murmured.
“And that’s all it was,” said Nemnor, “A story. You were probably dreaming, Dilian. Think no more of it.”
And now Dilian was thinking about that chance meeting again, as he stood on the wall, looking east. He had found himself here more often of late. Most people in the city would never want to look east, avoiding it as often as possible. But Dilian knew that even if people wanted to avoid it, they couldn’t do so anymore. And Dilian found this place on the wall, the third in, perfect for thinking. The first thought that came to his mind was what Middle-Earth would be like if Gondor fell. Music was first thing he knew would be lost, the beautiful music that Thorongil had been singing. Not just that song, but all songs like it; not just the songs that were beautifully sad, but the jolly songs, the drinking songs—all songs. Perhaps the best way of defying Mordor was to sing. And this song would also give him something to fight for.
“Do you know anything of sailing?”
Dilian suddenly turned to find Thorongil standing behind him. He seemed more ordinary now that he was talking to him personally, but Dilian still felt awe for the mighty warrior. But he drew himself up with pride and answered the question. “I was born on the banks of the Anduin, near Pelargir,” he said. “I practically spent my whole life on the river, until I came here.”
Thorongil nodded. “Good. I will need you to be ready to travel to Pelargir in the morning.”
Without waiting for an answer, he left Dilian on the wall and hurried back down to the streets. Dilian hurried down the other way, to the barracks he was staying in. Hardly pausing to nod at Nemnor and Taldon, he burst into his room and began polishing his armor. Taldon came in the open door with a slip of paper in his hand.
“Dilian,” he said, handing the paper over, “Some man gave this to me, told me to give it you as soon as possible.”
Dilian took the paper and read it: We travel light. “Well, then,” he said, “I won’t need this.” Tossing away the breastplate he was working on, he began sharpening his sword.
“What’s all the excitement?” Nemnor came in behind Taldon.
“I’ve been recruited on a special mission by Thorongil himself, something to do with sailing, don’t ask me what.” Dilian continued sharpening his sword, not even looking up at Nemnor for a second.
“You’re not the only one,” Nemnor said. “There are quite a few others who have said the same. People from the coastlands, mainly. I wonder what’s going on.”
“All I can say is, it’s unlikely you’ll find out any time soon. Now, I would like to be alone.”
Nemnor and Taldon left, and Dilian paused for a moment. He had no idea when he would learn the purpose of this sudden mission. But he could guess, and he guessed it had something to do with the Corsairs. They had been growing bolder lately, and were ravaging whatever coastland villages were insufficiently defended. Were they planning an attack on Pelargir, and now they were being sent to help defend it? But why did he ask if Dilian knew how to sail? Surely Gondor wasn’t assembling a fleet of its own to challenge the Corsairs! That would be ridiculous! Yes, it would help, but only for a little while, before the Corsairs came down on the tiny fleet in full force. But maybe, if a man such as Thorongil commanded it… No, not even Thorongil could do such wonders. He may be a fine warrior, but there were things even beyond a fine warrior. Things that were utterly impossible.
Dilian arrived at the Great Gate to find a small troop of horsemen waiting, Thorongil at its head. “Here I am, sir,” Dilian said. “I take it we are riding to Pelargir?”
“Quite so,” Thorongil answered. “Your horse is over there. We have no time to waste.”
“Yes, sir.” Dilian looked over at the horse Thorongil had pointed out. It looked terribly large, and Dilian was amazed that all the other men around him managed to stay on their horses; he was amazed that they had gotten on their horses in the first place! But he had his orders. Resolutely, he marched up to the horse and tried to pull himself onto the horse as one would pull oneself over a cliff-edge. One of the other horsemen burst out laughing.
“Here,” said a jolly voice behind Dilian. “Let me help you. I’ll hold my hands together, and you step on that so you can swing a leg over the saddle.”
Dilian turned to see a tall man dismount and come over to him. He looked as though he was from Dol Amroth – a bright voice and sea-grey eyes. “Thank you,” Dilian said. “I’m afraid I haven’t really spent much time around horses. Thorongil was looking for sailors.”
“Yes, but in my opinion far too few people of this city spend time around horses. We should learn a lesson from our friends to the North: namely, that these are noble beasts. Anyway, here you are.” The friendly stranger knelt down in the street and held his cupped hands for Dilian. “Just step right here, and once you get in the saddle, put your feet in the stirrups there.” Dilian hesitated for a moment. “Hurry up now, it looks like almost everyone’s here.”
Dilian glanced quickly around to make sure no one was looking, and hoisted himself up. It was still a bit of a struggle, but definitely more successful this time.
“Thank you,” Dilian started, then paused.
“Lothdan,” said the stranger, “Lothdan is my name.”
“Thank you, Lothdan. I am Dilian.”
“Very glad to meet you, and I dearly hope you don’t die on this little trip.” Lothdan treated the subject with what Dilian thought was undue levity.
“I was rather hoping that myself,” Dilian said grimly.
“By the way, any idea why we’re going to Pelargir? I thought the Enemy was all set on taking Osgiliath.”
“I haven’t the faintest,” Dilian said, still not entirely recovered from his humiliating experience.
“Well, I guess we’ll find out soon enough. It looks like Thorongil is about to say something.”
Dilian glanced up and saw Thorongil turn his horse around. He wondered if he would be capable of doing that, and leaned over to Lothdan. “How do you make this thing move?” he said.
“Nudge its sides with your heels. Nudge harder if you want to go faster.”
“I think just a little nudge will be fine, thanks.”
“And her name is Vaile, for future reference.”
“Thank you.”
“And if you want to turn, pull on the reins here in the direction you want to go.”
“Thank you.”
While this hurried conversation was still going on, Thorongil had given the order to move, and Dilian was able to put his lesson to use right away. Lothdan kindly stayed close, always eager to help, but his presence and his constant happiness annoyed Dilian. He wanted the stranger to leave him alone, but he knew that that was synonymous to leaving him behind. In the end, he had no choice but to put up with the cheerful man of Dol Amroth.
The ride to Pelargir was quite uneventful in itself. Dilian soon found himself pointing out certain places to Lothdan, and enjoying the man’s company more than he expected. It was almost as though Lothdan’s constant jollity was infectious, and Dilian had caught it. Riding was not as bad as Dilian had expected, and he managed to stay with the company. And yet, Dilian feared that they would find Pelargir under siege from the sea. He was relieved to find it was not.
Thorongil allowed a short rest in Pelargir, then ordered the small company he brought from Minas Tirith to commandeer a few small sailing vessels the next day. Several other ships had likewise been crewed by companies from various other cities in Gondor, and it seemed that Thorongil was in charge of the whole fleet. When the fleet was ready, Thorongil stood up in his flagship, from which flew the banner of the Stewards, and addressed the crews.
“Soldiers of Gondor! I have gathered you here to make an attack on the Corsairs. They think that they control the entire ocean, but we still have ships and courage, and that is all we need. We will sail to their haven in Umbar, and we will set fire to their ships, that they will no longer harass our people like this! The wind is fair; let us depart!”
Dilian joined the fleet in a hearty cheer, then unfurled the sails to catch the eastern wind. As the fleet slid down the Anduin toward the sea, Dilian looked around and counted the ships – twenty, maybe a few more. None of them were larger than fifteen meters. Was Thorongil insane? How had Ecthelion allowed this suicide mission? But they were on the move now, and all Dilian could do was hope that this was well thought out.
The tiny fleet was engulfed in darkness when Dilian saw firelight glimmer on the horizon. A command was whispered into the night, and the oars were muffled. In the gloom, Dilian could barely see archers wrap rags around their arrow-tips and soak them in oil. Battle was about to be joined.
Dilian waited, crouched low in the ship. Ever so carefully, he dipped his oar in and out of the water, silently, softly, slowly. He wanted to loosen his sword, but knew he must keep the rhythm of the oars. He couldn’t tell if the fires were getting any closer. He had to trust in the judgement of Thorongil.
A shout rudely broke the dark silence, causing Dilian to jump and inadvertently splash his oar. Light shone from a hundred fires as the archers drew their bows and fired at the enemy. The sudden flares lit the dreamlike scene, and Dilian saw ships—mountains, rather!—surrounding him on all sides, and peering down at him were dark faces, whose expressions couldn’t be seen against the sky. Dilian’s boat bumped against the larger Corsair ship, and he jumped up and grabbed a rope hanging over the side, desperately hoping that the southerners wouldn’t see him and cut the rope. He pulled himself over the rail, and found a hundred men rushing at him from all sides. Dilian froze.
“Túrë! Túrë! Arwen ta túrë!”
“The Swan and Dol Amroth!”
Dilian saw Lothdan dash past him and hurl himself into the enemies, as farther down along the vast deck, Thorongil did the same. All hesitancy was lost, and Dilian joined the battle as the scant Gondorian force swarmed the stronger Corsair fleet. He crossed swords with one pirate, the straight weapon of Pelargir crashing against the bent steel of the south. Looking into the Corsair’s eyes, he saw a mixture of surprise, hatred and fear. But there was no time to think of it, no time at all. Dilian turned his sword quickly and slashed; the pirate cried out and staggered back, falling on the deck. Dilian leaped forward, parrying and thrusting, felling one pirate after another. Always in his mind, he saw his home on the banks of the Anduin, and promised himself that he would never let these pirates see that land.
Not far, he saw Thorongil jump forward with a torch in his hand, and throw it down into a hatch. Immediately, fire blossomed from the heart of the ship, and the sudden light made Dilian blink as he fought to see. A figure rushed at Thorongil, and Dilian saw the two shapes struggle in front of the blaze. Thorongil pushed the pirate back and drew his sword, getting ready for another attack. Without wasting any time, the pirate captain surged up again, only to find that Thorongil was thoroughly prepared. A proper duel began, and the pirate was forced back against the railing of the deck. He became desperate, and it looked for a moment as though Thorongil might be pushed back from his advantage. Dilian rushed forward, wanting to help. The swords of the combatants locked. Thrusting his sword into a pirate who had stepped in his way, Dilian charged. Thorongil bashed his head against the pirate captain, who tumbled over the rail and into the sea. Dilian stopped himself. Around them, the whole Corsair fleet was burning, while Umbar began to rally itself together for a counter-attack.
“Back to the ships! Fall back!”
Dilian and Thorongil ran to the opposite side of the deck, avoiding leaping flames, falling timbers, and wild pirates. All around them, others of the Gondorian raiding party also lowered themselves over the sides and into their own ships. Dilian seized his oar, and the small fleet sailed back north, having defeated their larger adversary. The southern threat was eliminated, for a time.
Nemnor entered Dilian’s room to find his friend packing again. It had only been a few days since the raid, but Dilian was already preparing for another adventure.
“Leaving again?”
“Yes. I have leave for a few weeks, and I plan to use them as advised by a friend.” Dilian hoisted his pack. “Goodbye, Nemnor. I’m not sure if I’ll return, but if I do, I will be a better man for this journey.”
Nemnor was too stunned to say anything, simply stepped aside to let Dilian pass.
At the Great Gate, Dilian found Taldon waiting with a pack of his own. They greeted each other, left the White City, and turned north to the Golden Wood.