21. Chapter 21
Gandalf lifted up his arms and called once more in a clear voice:
‘Stand, Men of the West! Stand and wait! This is the hour of doom.’
And even as he spoke the earth rocked beneath their feet. Then rising swiftly up, far above the Towers of the Black Gate, high above the mountains, a vast soaring darkness sprang into the sky, flickering with fire. The earth groaned and quaked. The Towers of the Teeth swayed, tottered, and fell down; the mighty rampart crumbled; the Black Gate was hurled in ruin; and from far away, now dim, now growing, now mounting to the clouds, there came a drumming rumble, a roar, a long echoing roll of ruinous noise.
‘The realm of Sauron is ended!’ said Gandalf. ‘The Ring-bearer has fulfilled his Quest.’
From The Return of the King. J. R. R. Tolkien
March 25th 3019
“Watch out, Princess!”
Lothíriel jumped out of the way as a loaded cart rumbled past her, gathering speed and careering down the slope towards the gates. Unable to do more than shout, she watched helplessly as two children dove for safety. Her heart thumping, Lothíriel gasped as they rolled away from the heavy wheels, leaving the set of knucklebones they had been playing with to be crushed to dust. The cart continued unabashed, smashing into the wall to the left of the gate. With splinters of woods flying like darts, it collapsed on its side, spilling heavy bolts of canvas over the cobbles. The two men chasing it stopped and stared, dismay smeared over their red faces – that cart would be going nowhere for a while.
The children ran off, no doubt to recount their narrow escape to others. Shaking her head, Lothíriel continued her journey to the wall, only relieved that no one had been injured. A strange day – she had been restless ever since she had woken, noticing the air humming with something other than just the terror of the citizens.
Of course her father’s involvement in the march to the Black Gates couldn’t be kept a secret. The convalescents arriving on the last ship had brought word of the departure of the armies of the west to Mordor. Soon the whole city had known of the attempt to take war right up to the Dark Tower. And most thought it futile. Tales of the hideous orcs, the Nazgûl and the huge trolls circulated, growing with the telling, no doubt, but it had caused panic. Then the decision Elphir had been agonising over was taken out of his hands when a deputation of elders put forward the wishes of the citizens. They wanted to leave. Migrate north and take a chance on finding a new land. What land? Her brother had argued. No land would be safe if Sauron were victorious. ‘Better than staying here like rats in a trap,’ they said. Lothíriel had sympathy with that view, being incarcerated behind stone walls with the hordes of Mordor braying outside horrified her. Run or fight? Many wanted to run, saying they preferred to take the chance. And others favoured fighting. Now they were going to try doing both!
Studying the maps had led Elphir to believe that going north was useless, and that the only faint chance for survival for more than a few weeks was to cross the Ered Nimrais near its western edge, and settle on the slopes that bordered the uninhabited land of Drúwaith Iaur. Hiding in the mountains gave them some chance of fighting a hit and run defence and no doubt others would join them, both from Edhellond and the villages in Langstrand as they passed through. Another advantage was that they would not have to leave the infirm behind, as those who could not walk or ride the great distance would travel by ship with the bulk of their supplies. With any luck the two different parties would meet up where the mountains sprawled into the sea.
It sounded good, and everyone was happier now a decision had been made. And it kept the citizens busy organising themselves for the long trek. But if they could take ships up there, so could the enemy. And Lothíriel was sure that Elphir had little hope of many lasting until winter, let alone through it. But what else could he do? What could any of them do? But better to hope a few would survive somewhere in a hidden valley, eking out an existence until the world changed, than think the whole of middle-earth given over to darkness.
Lothíriel ran up the steps and along the battlements, stopping a moment when she saw two familiar figures looking out over the wall. Elphir and Sergion were staring east.
“What is it?” she asked, coming up alongside them and following their gaze. High in the eastern sky, streaked across the heavens, was a huge cloud. It was dispersing in front of her eyes but she could swear the wispy tendrils looked like long fingers clutching at something unseen.
“Not sure,” Elphir replied, his brow creasing with concern. “The watchman called us when he first spotted it, but by the time we got here it was breaking up.”
“It’s gone so quiet,” Lothíriel said, moving closer to him. “As if the very air has stilled. Even the gulls have stopped their squawking.” In fact she could hear no birds at all, and at this time of the year the fields and woods usually rang with song. “Something must have happened. But I don’t feel any evil.”
Elphir put his arm around her shoulder. “We will just have to be prepared…”
The shout from the watchtower drew their eyes away from the sky and to the sea. A mile out they saw a huge crest racing towards the shore. Immediately the great bell started tolling out a warning. Lothíriel looked west along the long beach to where a group of fishermen had already started running, leaving their nets in the surf. Unable to do anything, she watched the churning water chase them up towards the pinewoods, but the slope of the sand swallowed most of the force and only foam swirled around their feet as they hugged the trees. Relieved, she dropped her eyes to the harbour below the city, seeing the masts of the ships still rocking from side to side where the water had surged over the breakwater.
“Great Ulmo,” Elphir breathed. “What caused that?”
“It has to be connected to that cloud.” Sergion said. “But whether it bodes good or ill I guess we will have to wait to find out.”
The strange cloud had nearly disappeared and the sea was flat calm again. The clanging of the bell ceased, leaving just an echo in an otherwise silent landscape. It seemed as if everything had stopped. No one spoke, they just waited. And then, clear and shrill, its sweet song piercing the air, a skylark rose up from the home paddock. Hovering right in front of them, it sang out its praise of life. A thrush called from the bushes hedging the road, and the thin piping of the oystercatchers could be heard as a small flock wheeled along the shoreline. Gradually the normal sounds of spring were returning.
Elphir sighed. “Whatever it was, it is gone. I must get back to work. There are so many preparations to make that my head is spinning. And as I make them, I am hoping every moment that we do not have to go.”
“You regret agreeing to this flight?” Sergion asked.
“I don’t think it matters. If the Dark Lord triumphs, staying or going will make no difference.” His face twisted into a sardonic grimace. “But it is giving everyone hope, and who am I to deny them that.”
Sergion went to leave with him, but half turned when he realised Lothíriel was not following. “Are you coming down?”
“No, I will stay here for a while. I have a few hours off duty.” Once they had gone Lothíriel walked along to one of the seats built into a niche in the inner wall, sat down in the corner leaning her head against the cold stone and closed her eyes. Sleep had been very scarce lately and the sun was warm on her face…
Clang! Clang! Clang! Lothíriel jumped up, disorientated for a moment by the noise, and being so suddenly woken. The bell! They were ringing the bell again! How long had she been asleep? Sweet Elbereth! The sun was already westering. Fully awake now, but with stiff muscles groaning a protest, she ran to the parapet. Just along from her two guards had bows in their hands.
“What is it?” she called, seeing nothing to shoot at.
“Something huge in the sky,” one answered her.
“It’s an eagle,” someone else shouted. “A great eagle!”
Lothíriel looked up, unable to believe what she was seeing. The eagle was still a distance away but it must be huge, surely a bird from legend. She flew to the nearest guard, grasping his arm desperately. “Put the bow down! History tells us Eagles have always been the friends of men. Put it down!” He lowered his bow reluctantly, and so did the man next to him. At that moment Elphir appeared, panting.
“An Eagle, Elphir. Tell them not to shoot.”
Elphir stared at the gigantic bird, which hovered way above them, and then at Lothíriel.
“It must be a friend, Elphir.”
Nodding, he gave the order for all bows to be put down and immediately the Eagle swooped towards them. At it neared, its yellow beak opened and those on the wall stood mesmerized as it started speaking in the language of Gondor.
Sing now, ye people of Belfalas
for the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,
and the Dark Tower is thrown down.
Sing and rejoice, ye people of Dol Amroth
for your struggle hath not been in vain,
and the Black Gate is broken,
and your Prince hath passed through,
and he is victorious.
Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West,
for your King shall come again,
and he shall dwell in Gondor
all the days of your life.
And the Tree that was withered shall be renewed,
and he shall plant it in the high places,
and all his realm shall be blessed.
Sing all ye people!
The Field of Cormallen – where the host was now encamped was near to Henneth Annûn, and the stream that flowed from its falls could be heard in the night as it rushed down through its rocky gate, and passed through the flowery meads into the tides of Anduin by the Isle of Cair Andros. And all made ready for the return to Minas Tirith. The weary rested and the hurt were healed. For some had laboured and fought much with the remnants of the Easterlings and Southrons, until all were subdued. And, latest of all, those returned who had passed into Mordor and destroyed the fortresses in the north of the land.
From The Return of the King. J. R. R. Tolkien
6th April 3019
The quill scratched, and he had made a blot. Not his best effort. Éomer leant back into a chair that would have graced Meduseld, let alone a tented pavilion after a great battle. But feeling increasing discomfort he rubbed his shoulder, at the same time reaching out for his goblet of rich wine. The pain of the simple action made him wince.
Imrahil, sitting across the carved table, noticed straight away. “Éomer, when are you going to get that shoulder attended to? You are even having difficulty writing that letter.”
Difficulty finding what to say in the letter. How could he put down all that had happened on a piece of parchment? He wanted Éowyn here, the sooner the better. “The healers are all busy,” he answered his friend. “Too busy to bother about a minor injury like this. It’s just a strained muscle.”
Imrahil pursed his lips, frowning thoughtfully. “Strained muscles don’t cause that amount of pain. Why don’t you ask Aragorn to give you his opinion?”
Éomer shook his head, irritably giving up on the letter. “He is still taken up with Frodo and Sam. He says they are near waking, and he is hoping we can hold the honour ceremony for them in a couple of days. I have no intention of pulling him away from their bedside and being responsible for postponing that event.”
Imrahil looked about to argue, but gave up and sipped at his wine. “Are you writing to Éowyn?”
“Yes. I am surprised she did not come on one of the first boats. Master Raglan said she is well recovered and only stays in the houses for convenience.”
“The ships were loaded with all the tents and medical supplies. I expect she thought it better to wait. Amroth is coming tomorrow; he can be released, now that Faramir has taken up his duties. Perhaps she is waiting for an escort and will come with him.”
The Prince didn’t know Éowyn. If she had wanted to come, she would have jumped on any boat regardless of how crowded or unsuitable it was. Conscious of Imrahil’s eyes on him, he picked up the quill again and started to write, but pain shot from his shoulder down towards his wrist. Flinching, he drew in breath sharply.
The Prince stood up. “That’s it, Éomer. I am sending for a healer.” He put his goblet down heavily on the table and went straight to the entrance, pulling back the flap. Éomer made no attempt to stop him. A quick word with the guard outside and he returned. “A little wager,” he said, cocking one eyebrow. “That receiving the message that the King of Rohan has a minor injury, Master Raglan will be here himself in just a few minutes.”
Éomer opened his mouth to protest, but Imrahil cut him off. “I don’t think you quite realise what your change of station means, my friend. Nor in what high regard the people of Gondor hold the Rohirrim, and you and your sister in particular.”
Sure enough, with Imrahil smirking behind his goblet, Master Raglan was shown in moments later.
“My lord,” he said nodding his head in a quick bow. “If I had known you had received an injury I would have attended you when we first arrived.” Everything about the little man was quick; already he was opening his satchel and starting to lay out his instruments on a linen cloth. His lips moved silently, as if he was going through a mental list checking he had everything.
Éomer stared at the array of knives and spatulas being laid out on the table. “I have no real injury,” he put in hastily. “Just a muscle strain.”
“Oh, I see.” Bright eyes ran swiftly over him making their assessment and coming to a rapid conclusion. “Your sword arm, no doubt, my lord. Always a danger spot with warriors.”
Éomer had a hard job not to laugh. The way the man’s head bobbed about reminded him of a pecking hen searching for worms. But he had seen the wonders the healer had achieved with his wounded Riders, so he swallowed his mirth and said politely. “You are right, Master Raglan. My right shoulder is very painful, and I am finding even using the quill hurts.”
Raglan’s bushy eyebrows drew together at that. “Is this the first time it has bothered you?”
Fingers were already feeling around his shoulder. “No, to be honest it niggles away after most of my sword fights. But I slipped and fell to the ground in the last battle and had to hold up the whole weight of a huge orc on the end of my sword. The stinking sod would have flattened me otherwise.”
“Ah… much as I suspected. Please remove your shirt, my lord. I need to palpate the tendons.”
The poking and prodding lasted for some time. Éomer gritted his teeth, and avoided Imrahil’s eyes when Raglan lifted his arm to rotate his shoulder. The little healer tut-tutted when it didn’t go anywhere near its full range of expected movement.
“You have damaged the tendons that hold the joint in place. If left, your shoulder might seize completely and would then take months to heal. Very painful. I will make up a tisane that will help to relax the muscles around the joint and so take the pressure off, but you will need daily treatment for a while. The tendons and muscles need to be stretched and softened with deep massage, helped by warming unguents.” Already collecting his gear together, he thought for a moment. “I will send one of my assistants to do this for you. She is not a qualified healer, but I have found her to be particularly skilled with these sorts of injuries. From what I can gather her mother was one of the gifted ones. Mistress Guleth learnt from her as a child and makes her own salves and ointments from the mountain herbs.”
By the time Ragan had finished this speech his satchel had been packed and swung over his shoulder. Another bow and he was out through the flap.
“He knows what he is doing,” Imrahil apologised for his hasty exit.
“Oh, I know that. And he has many to see. He is just so different from the Warden. Who is so slow and pondering, I wonder anything gets done.”
“You are right there,” Imrahil laughed. “But he has a wealth of knowledge and they make a good team.” His mouth quirked. “Now we will have to wait and see who he is sending to attend to you. I didn’t realise some of the women had come here to help.”
“Yes, I saw a couple yesterday. Mind you, you can hardly tell they are women in those grey sacks they wear.” He pulled a face; not surprisingly, the lack of women had been well discussed amongst his men. “Not that it matters as they are all ancient, about fifty years old each one.”
“I do not consider fifty to be ancient,” Imrahil retorted. Causing Éomer to grin openly. “And not all healers are fifty. Not in Dol Amroth, anyway.”
Éomer suddenly remembered something Amrothos had said about his sister working with the healers back in Dol Amroth, but before he could quiz the Prince a guard poked his head through the partially open flap. “Lady here to see you, lord. Said Master Raglan sent her.”
That was quick. Good job he hadn’t bothered to put his shirt back on. Éomer put down his goblet and stood up just as a slim, grey-clad form slipped through the tent flap. He stared, belatedly remembering to close his mouth. She had on the grey dress of a healer, but somehow it fitted a lot better than most he had seen, he could even see a swelling where her breasts should be. She didn’t wear the full coif and veil, only a grey triangular piece of material covered her light brown hair. With smooth, fair skin with just a few freckles, she was definitely not anywhere near fifty.
Dropping her eyes under the scrutiny of two men, the woman bowed. “I am Guleth, lord,” she said in Éomer’s general direction. “Master Raglan asked me to tend to your shoulder.”
Her voice was soft and cultured, but with a lilt that gave away its country origins. In one hand she held a bag, woven in an intricate pattern in blues and reds which reminded Éomer of the designs he had had seen on the Wild-man, Ghân-buri-Ghân. Her fingers fiddled nervously with the handle.
Before Éomer could say anything to ease her obvious discomfort, Imrahil coughed. “Well, I will leave you to it, Éomer. I am sure you are in good hands and look forward to seeing an improvement.” Imrahil drained his goblet and made for the doorway; but catching hold of the flap he stopped, turned, and gave Éomer a broad wink over the top of the woman’s head.
Éomer opened his mouth to say he didn’t want to be left alone with an attractive young woman, but Imrahil had gone. So sputtering on the words he managed to get out. “What do you wish me to do, Mistress Guleth?”
She inclined her head, but this time looked straight back up into his face, although her hazel eyes were guarded. “If you just sit in the chair, lord. I can examine your shoulder and start the treatment.”
Definitely more confidence in her voice, and she let go of the bag and put it on the table. So he nodded and sat down with his back towards her, trying to gather up all his self control. Great Béma! He had not been expecting this. How the hell was he going to cope when she started running her hands over his body?
“The King of Rohan? You wish me to treat the King of Rohan?”
“Yes, that’s what I said. You must know who he is.”
Oh, she knew. What woman wouldn’t? Her first sighting of the King of Rohan had been of him rushing through the hall to find his sister, a mixture of joy and concern on his face. Even with his hair matted in clumps and covered in warrior’s dirt, he had gained her attention. Later, clean and with his long, tawny mane shining, she had watched him for a moment from behind a pillar as he took the hand of a frightened soldier, speaking words of reassurance and care. Only by remembering such a magnificent man could lonely nights be filled with satisfying dreams.
Now she was here, standing in front of him. Her eyes had landed on his chest just before she cast them down, and already the sight of the brushing of gold that softened hard muscle had her fingers clutching the handles of her bag with anxiety. She was going to treat this great warrior, knead her hands into his kingly flesh. The thought both exited and scared her - the practised detachment, necessary for one so young dealing with rough soldiers, already splitting into shards that spiked her resolve.
Guleth took out a small stone bottle and removed the cork, tipping a tiny amount on the ends of her fingers. “Just a plain oil, my lord,” she said in response to his sideways look. “It will allow my fingers to slide over your skin and move the muscles underneath.”
He shivered at her first touch, although her hands were warm. As she pushed aside the mass of soft hair his fingers clenched his knees, and he drew in a deep breath. Willing himself to relax, she guessed. Her thumb dug in, and keeping the pressure she followed the line of his shoulder blade from its base to apex. The big muscle over the bone was hard and rigid; she needed to soften it before she could attack the sinews that held his shoulder together. Her strong fingers bevelled deep into the smooth flesh and a quiet growl emitted from his throat, quickly changed to a question. “Master Raglan said you learnt from your mother?”
Her hands didn’t stop when she answered him, kneading the solid tissue in small circular motions. He needed to talk: it would keep his mind off what her hands were doing. She had such clever hands. But he was a king, and she did not want to cause him embarrassment. “My mother was a wise-woman, she took her healing all along the high slopes of Lamedon. My father tended his vines, and my mother delivered babies, set broken limbs and cured the ague. As soon as I could ride a pony I went with her. I learnt much, but will never have her skill, whatever they teach me in the City.”
“But you came to learn?”
No, she came to get away. Took the opportunity when Faeldor begged her. Wanted to leave behind the smell of the must and see more than squat, stone villages that hugged the upland pastures. Even if it meant marrying a man she didn’t love and discovered she barely liked. “My husband wanted to be a soldier. He came to join Gondor’s army, and I came with him.”
“Oh, is he here?”
“He was killed on the Pelennor.”
“I am sorry.”
She knew he was, his voice rang with caring. And she had seen him on his daily rounds of the camp with his two companions – the beefy one with the smiling eyes and witty turn of phrase, and the tall, handsome one with the good manners. These Lords of Rohan had checked on every injured man, their faces hardening when morning brought one less to count.
“Will you stay to work in the Healing Houses, or go home?”
Her fingers stopped for a moment, the question disturbing her. She gained time by pushing his unruly hair back over his left shoulder.
“Sorry, it’s in the way. It’s a nuisance most of the time, but bathing in the river each day makes it worse. I will tie it in future.”
He didn’t need to apologise, most of the hair she had to deal with was smelly, black and greasy. She started again, pushing her hand under his arm to feel the big sinews. The king shuffled in his seat, trying to get himself comfortable, or cover up what was making him uncomfortable. So she started talking once more to distract him. “My mother is old; she would like me back to carry on her work. But trailing between the villages can be lonely, and even on horseback not pleasant in the winter.”
The Horselord grinned at that, glancing back over his shoulder towards her. “But better than walking.”
“Yes, although the pony is ancient and our horses very wide.”
“Horses? You said your father grows grapes?” He said surprised.
“My brother now. He has a good vinery. Regular orders go to the city, which is why we have carthorses. Not that one though,” she indicated the half full goblet. “Ours is a lighter vintage. If you see a barrel marked with the name Two Rivers, then that is our wine. The vineyard lies in a valley between the Ringló and the Ciril.”
“It sounds a big enterprise. Is there need for your mother to still pursue her healing?”
“No. And most payments to her are in kind. But she is gifted, and stopping her doing the work would be like cutting off her right hand. My father understood that and always respected her calling.”
“Hmm…” He thought for a moment. “What about you? Is your calling so strong?”
A simple question, with a difficult answer. Again her fingers stopped. “I don’t know. Life would be easier if it wasn’t.”
The King of Rohan said nothing to that. Maybe he understood that duty sometimes pushed other hopes aside.
“Have you finished?”
She jumped, her thoughts distant. “No, not yet. I have just loosened the muscles and freed the sinews. Now I have to put on a healing ointment.”
She went to her bag, conscious of his eyes on her. It would have been better had she not been so vain and worn shapeless garb like the other women. But they were old, and she still had the longings of her youth to contend with. It had been pure vanity that made her throw off her top tunic when called to tend the King of Rohan.
“Bema! That stinks!” He wrinkled his nose in total disgust.
“And it is very potent. The spiceberry produces oil that must only be used in small quantities. It is mixed with a strong smelling laurel. I am sorry to say that although the healing properties combine well, the odours do not.”
A shudder ran though him as she smoothed the dark ointment onto his shoulder. “Well, I would be glad to smell something pleasant for a change. I have had the stench of battle in my nostrils for far too long, and when I walked in the woods yesterday the ramsons overpowered everything else.”
He liked to walk in the woods. It didn’t surprise her: there was more to this warrior king than most would ever find out. She hesitated, undecided for a moment, but the harlots would be arriving soon, and she did not want his clean, warm flesh to be sullied by their dirt. And some opportunities only came once in a lifetime. The decision made, she deliberately ran dancing fingers across his back. Taut muscle quivered under her touch, and his whole body stiffened. “Your shoulder will need plenty of manipulation before it heals. If you wish it, lord, I will return tonight when my duty is finished. I can bring something sweeter that will please you more.” Had he caught her meaning? The words hung between them. Then he expelled a long breath, before saying softly.
“I will tell the guards to expect you.”
The horror of the past weeks had some recompense in the comradeship Éomer had enjoyed in this place. Every evening they gathered to swap tales around the camp-fire and tonight had been no different with a lively debate taking place between Éothain and Erchirion on the very different battle techniques of Dol Amroth and the Mark. Neither saw the other’s point but for once Éomer was content to listen, and so was Imrahil. But when the two quietened down, the Prince threw another log on the fire looking set for a late session. Éomer thought he’d better move and stood up stretching, draining his goblet.
Imrahil looked up in surprise. “Are you off early tonight, Éomer?”
He didn’t want to raise any suspicions, but the truth was always best so he said as naturally as he could. “I am due another treatment to my shoulder.”
Black eyebrows flew skyward. “Now?”
“Morning and evening,” he replied. . That should cover it in case he got lucky and there were repetitions.
“Ahh…I see.” Imrahil regarded him speculatively with an expression on his face that told Éomer the Prince saw just about everything.
He got back to his tent, marvelling as he had done more than once since coming here how the Gondorians could organise so much luxury in so short a time. Richly woven rugs clothed the ground, the table could have sat eight and what would have been a simple cot in the Riddermark here was a carved wooden bed. Someone had lit the torches and they flickered shadows on the canvas. He blew one out, wondering if he ought to go through with this, but before he could even start to weigh up the possible consequences the flap was pushed aside.
This time a cloak hid the healer’s garb, and besides her bag she carried a small metal can hanging on a leather strap. It looked to be made of copper and glowed in the torchlight. “I have brought the tisane ordered by Master Raglan. You must drink it whilst it is still warm, lord.”
She put it down on the table and took a goblet, pouring out a good measure. Éomer walked behind her to the flap. He closed it up, tying the laces tight. His guards would know what that meant, but hopefully would keep the knowledge to themselves.
Her eyes flicked to the closed flap and back to him without comment. “How is your shoulder feeling, lord,” she asked passing him the goblet.
“Better, much better.” He sipped at the warm liquid, looking over the rim into her face. Her hazel eyes sparked gold in the half-light. The tisane had a faintly spicy taste and he could feel the heat of it going all the way down to his stomach. She watched him for a moment, a little smile on her face, before unfastening her cloak and putting it over the back of the chair.
“Finish the drink, lord and then I will ease your shoulder.”
But the goblet landed with a thump on the table, drops of the dark liquid splashing onto the wood. “Later.”
She smelt so good. After all the death, the filth and the carnage, holding a soft woman’s body against him was the healing he wanted. The healing he needed.
To be continued.
List of Original Characters mentioned or appearing in this chapter:
Sergion - Friend of Prince Imrahil’s. Was a Commander of Swan Knights but now the Captain of Lothíriel’s Guard. Injured when an attempt was made to kidnap Lothíriel. Charged with the defence of Dol Amroth during the Ring-war.
Master Raglan - Assistant warden of the Healing Houses in Minas Tirith. In charge of the healers sent to Cormallen.
Mistress Guleth - An aide in the Healing Houses. Originally from Lamedon
Faeldor - Guleth’s husband – killed on the Pelennor
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