Echoes from the past, reflections of yesterday by Idnarrac Serdna

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Echoes from the past, reflections of yesterday

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Olórin awoke breathing heavily, still immersed in the nightmare he had been living in for several hours. He was quite disoriented at the moment, and he battled hard against the images in his mind to finally realize where he was.

The white walls in the chamber gave away the location. He was in Minas Tirith. Peregrin Took was lying in a bed beside him. –Fool of a Took!—he told to himself, as he had told Pippin several times before. He should not have arrived to Minas Tirith so early, not without news of Aragorn or Frodo.

Frodo, the Ring. And while thinking of the Ring, the images of the nightmare from which he had just woken up returned to his mind, creating an avalanche of emotions and memories even he was not aware he was capable of having.

Morgoth had long been vanished from the circles of this world, but the evil he had scattered throughout Arda had not left with him. As he rose from his bed and walked towards the balcony, he observed Orodruin right in front of him, the sky around it red from the fire, and black from the smoke. His mind traveled to a time so long before, and he saw the outline of Thangorodrim against the northern sky of Beleriand. It was as if that menace had never disappeared. He was a Maia of Manwë Súlimo, a dear one, we must say, and as such, he had been aware of the never-ending battle the Valar had sustained against Morgoth and his host. Perhaps he could not fully comprehend it, for he was just a Maia, much humbler than The King of Arda, the closest Ainu to Eru. Still, in Valinor, he had lived the deceptions of Morgoth, the killing of the Trees, the wars against the Children of Ilúvatar, and the tragedies and curses Melkor had lain over Túrin and many others whose lives were ruined by his evil. Then the Valar returned to Beleriand, they collapsed the Fortress of Angband and the land beneath it, and they ended Morgoth’s reign of terror. Or so they had thought.

Many escaped, among whom Sauron stood the tallest, and his power was ever growing. He almost single handedly brought down the Kingdom of Númenor, and he corrupted Middle Earth and tied his fate to the One Ring. And it was all going to end within a few days. Unfortunately, he did not know what the outcome of the war would be. With Théoden of Rohan and Aragorn nowhere near to be heard of, Gondor would not stand long against the fist of Mordor. It seemed to him as if Grond itself would start pounding against the gates of Minas Tirith.

The fume of Mount Doom became denser and began reaching even further into the skies. At this point, he realized he was the only hope that was left for Middle Earth. But it should not have come to this point. He knew he was the Enemy of Sauron. He was as mighty as the latter was by nature, but displaying all his power was not his purpose in Middle Earth. He had come more than two thousand years before, along with the rest of the Istari to be guides to both the elder and younger Children of Ilúvatar, not as wielders of might and salvation. However, there was not more time left, Saruman and Radagast had been lost, and the Blue Wizards were unaccounted for. And above all, he knew the Valar had made their last ride to Middle Earth. Their direct assistance was not to be expected.

He would have to be very careful, as to not exceed his mandate once he was in battle. Nonetheless, he thought, it seemed as if the Valar had foreseen this turn of events. Yes, the heart of the Valar was not a distant memory anymore. He had seen them after the battle in Khazad-dûm, after the fall through water and fire, and once the battle with the Balrog at Zirak-zigil had come to an end. He had spoken to Manwë, though he could not remember his words, so far from the West and so near the Enemy. But he could remember his intentions; he would not leave Men and Elves to their sole strengths against the power of Sauron. Olórin had returned by the will of Manwë, not as the Grey Pilgrim, but as the White Rider. –I am Saruman, at least what Saruman should have been—he told Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas back in Fangorn. He knew well what that meant, but could he live up to what was expected of him in this world and outside its circles?

The second hour was announced in Minas Tirith, and someone knocked on the door. Gandalf opened, heard the message and closed behind him. He communicated Denethor’s bidding to Peregrin and escorted him before the Steward of Gondor.

The hearts of Men grew ever more restless and clouded with the passing of the hours, for the Shadow of Mordor now laid upon the lands. Above all them, it was dark in the Lord of Gondor’s heart, deceived by the Stone into which he never was meant to look. The Palantír of Minas Anor, heirloom of the High King, brought with him from Númenor, and once a symbol of power and control, had now driven him to despair and to commit crimes against his kindred. He realized his fault as the remnant of the force he had sent to Osgiliath returned in full retreat, pursued by the Winged Black Riders. Between the arms of the Prince of Dol Amroth lied wounded Faramir, his son. Deep was Denethor’s sorrow, so he retired to his thoughts. The wall was breached; the city under siege, and the Guardian of the Throne was practically no more.

 

Three times the Nazgûl screamed. Three times Grond pounded on the Gates which were soon broken, a clear passage for the Fallen King of Men.

Soldiers and citizens alike rushed away from the terrible vision, everyone cowered and dared not stand in the way of the Monarch of Angmar. All but Olórin. As he saw the Witch King was going to come in through the fallen gate, he raced towards him, prepared to use the power he had been given, knowing only he could contain the other’s might.

You cannot pass! – He stated with an even greater resolution than the time in which he had defied Balin’s Bane in the Mines of Moria. He was now decided to guard this entrance as fiercely as the creature Carcharoth had protected Angband’s gate.

For a moment they looked at each other, and then Gandalf had yet another vision from the West. Could it… could it really be? A deep, high note resounded in the air. Another one followed, and then a next one. The sound of the horn was even stronger in his ears than it was in the Gondorians’. This was not an ordinary horn, it was Valaróma, that of Oromë, breaking through the air of Middle Earth. And so it occurred to Mithrandir: Oromë, the Hunter, rode with Théoden King. For in sake of his beloved Middle Earth he had chosen to come and help, and there could not be a better way than on a horse, amongst the finest riders that ever walked on Arda. Once, he had ridden Nahar, and hunted in these soils, long before Gondor, and long before Sauron discovered the lands. He would certainly not let Endor perish under a second Dark Lord, who was nothing but a serf and shadow of the first one, in his eyes and the eyes of the rest of the Valar. Tulkas and he had led the charge against Thangorodrim. One of the mightiest soldiers of Aman was now battling on their side. Olórin was now sure Oromë had echoed Rohan’s horn to let both Sauron and himself know the Valar were here, and they were on the Younger Ones’ side.

The Witch King was gone after the Rohirrim, and little was known of the events that would take place in the following moments, but Olórin knew it was time. For a moment he even seemed to transcend the fragile Gandalf body he had been given to live in Middle Earth. He was an Ainu, he had participated in the Great Music, he saw Middle Earth come to exist, and he was now decided not to let it be deprived of whatever Eru had designed for it. He now knew Oromë was battling not far away, and that reassured him enormously.

The Orcs of Mordor were slain by the mighty prowess of Olórin, now in full splendor. His spirit was lifted, even as his body began to feel wary, his arm suddenly aching with wounds from the past. He was the White Wizard, all right; yet he was Mithrandir still; friend of the Elves, a sage amongst men, a warrior from the past. And his muscles remembered Erebor, the day the Oakenshield was broken and the Ironfoot stepped over the Orcs. And it hurt a little more. But the power of his will and divine nature were not the only ones accompanying him that day. Glamdring woke up and her steel remembered the strength of Turgon, Lord of Gondolin, and her last master. She remembered Nirnaeth Arnoediad and she felt pain that compelled her to slash faster, and to be lighter to her wielder’s arm. She remembered saluting Húrin of the House of Hador, as he and his brother diverted Morgoth’s army, thus preserving the Eldar’s ability to fight the enemy. She then gathered more strength still, for she was moved with the memories of Húrin, nearly crazed by the distorted vision of Morgoth. Even Turgon would not blame him, after what he had lived, but fate wanted him to bring destruction to the Noldor. And she cried silently. None of this Gandalf ever knew, for even though he was a Maia, some secrets forever lie only in steel and wood.

Not everyone bode as well, for not everyone wielded an Iron of Gondolin or the strength of Ilúvatar in their spirits.

It was another battle of uncountable tears, as the shadows of Nirnaeth Arnoediad seemed to set upon the Fields of Pelennor, almost turned to Anfauglith. Glory was attained by some, above all them Dernhelm of Rohan, and the House of Brandybuck. But it was not enough. Sauron had still many battalions waiting for his orders, as the steps of the Mûmak of the Far Southern Harad pounded on the ground. The silhouettes of the beasts and their terrible masters approached. They were men, and nonetheless they were destroying the people of their race, echoing the traitors that once fought alongside Glaurung, the Worm, decimating the battlefront of the Sons of Fëanor.

The Pelennor Fields were now almost lost. Théoden King was now united with Eorl the Young and Helm Hammerhand, to whom he resembled the most in the valor with which he led the Rohirrim right until his end, and for being the last of a glorious sovereign line. He would now be resting with Thengel, his sire, and his beloved son, Théodred. The Gondorians and the Rohirrim were depleted; Minas Tirith was ready to fall.

Then the foul stench from the air was gone. From Cair Andros to Pelargir, a Western breeze was felt, the Fields of Pelennor being where it was felt the most. Joyous occasion this was for Middle Earth, for that wind had not honored Arda with Its visit for more than an age. It was the Wind that brought Elendil to these shores, keeping The Faithful Flame alive. It was the Wind that lifted Eärendil to the heavens beyond the skies. It was that Wind. And even though everyone had felt it, Olórin rejoiced. –The Wind has changed.—

The Corsairs of Umbar are upon us! The Corsairs! — The yelling could not be contained in the old Minas Anor. This was to be the end after all, or so most of Gondor thought. Yet, neither the people’s warnings nor the horn’s cries would reach afar, because the Wind appeared to mute them to the ears and hearts of men. The Wind wanted not the alarm to be listened. It was then when the flagship arrived to Harlond, and a Black and Silver standard was raised to the air. The White Tree of Gondor, the Centurial Crown of Elendil and the Seven Argental Stars that glistened accordingly to the facture of their maker, The Evenstar, were now waving atop of the mast. A tear ran over Olórin’s face. The Valar had not forgotten after all, it was not Oromë fighting on his own. The offspring of Telperion was now up on the air. Elessar would turn around the tide of the battle. So it was that Manwë had finally revealed himself, his hand present in the battle, taking care of the Children of Ilúvatar, as if they were his own. He had not only brought aid with his Wind, but he had brought the Son of the Edain, the Descendant of the Eldar. A hero in his own right, he had the valor of the heroes of forgotten days running through his veins and imprinted on his face. Olórin learned the full extent of the designs of The Lord of the West, when Aragorn, son of Arathorn, jumped down the ship and revealed himself in his full grown glory. He was an image to be seen, a collection of heroes from the past. His countenance that of The Mormegil, grave and resolved; his courage that of Beren, who went deep inside the Morgoth’s home. His attires, Elven-woven, proclaimed the majesty inherited from regal forefathers of days that were long gone. Then he raised Andúril. The Flame of West it was called. What fine name for such blade! It was terrible fire for enemy ranks; it was a beacon of light for all those friendly to her cause. In her steel lived the legend of the past and guidance for the future. She was born in Atalantë, Kingdom of Noble Men; she had survived the wrath of Ossë, after the mad war Ar-Pharazon waged. She had been the symbol ruling Gondor and Arnor. She had nearly been the bane of The Lord of Rings. She broke with The Enemy’s hand and she had rested and waited for that day for an entire Age. So Andúril caught a beam of the sun and she was seen in every corner of Pelennor. The soldiers’ hearts were filled with new courage and warmth. It was now time to save the White City.

The battle was hard. The people of Harad and Khand were fierce and would not give in even in the sight of the greatest of men. The fighting lasted until dusk, when the strength and lives of the Host of Mordor were all but non existent. Minas Tirith had been saved, temporarily, at the least.

The morning after, the war council was solemn and grave. Times were dire, yet Olórin found the time to think of the stories of the Wars of the Silmarilli, and thought to himself that Middle Earth was finally once more in presence of heroes worthy of the help of The Valar. The Dúnadan of the North, Imrahil of Dol Amroth, Éomer Lord of Horses… their presence echoed that of Hador and the Lords Dor-Lómin, their determination was that of Beren Erchamion; their will to embrace their dooms that of Túor, son of Húor. But that is solely to name the people of their race, for in stature none of them paled neither next to Turgon of Gondolin, nor Thingol Greycloak, nor any son of Finwë who ever walked on Arda.

Beholding the true greatness of Men, the way Eru had probably planned before time and before Arda, made what he needed to say all the more difficult to state. He had spent the night seeking counsel in his heart, plunging deep into the timeless wisdom that had been instilled in his spirit from the time he was no more than a thought of Ilúvatar. He was aware of the one and only path that lay before the Captains of the West, and still his love for them made him hesitate a little more. In his mind’s eye he saw once more and heard the lays of the past: valiant heroes, Kings of Elves perishing to the hands of the Dark Lords. And he recalled the lament of the House of Fingolfin when their father, in a moment of blind sorrow, sought the Morgoth inciting him to combat before the very Gates of Angband. An epic stand he made, but the might of Grond broke his body, and the hopes of many.

And he remembered Felagund, as the Lay of Leithian sang, battling Sauron to death in the isle of Tol Sirion. Noble was his task, for he defended the Son of Barahir, and the love that Mandos blessed. Nonetheless, his death was felt in Nargothrond, and no king after him could equal the greatness of Finrod, elder son of Finarfin.

He hesitated one last time. He knew well what coming within the grasp of the Black Hand would bring to the Armies of the West, for the songs of the past do not lie; and courage and hope are not always enough.

Still, the War of the Ring was no longer a matter to be decided by Men, Elves or even a Maia. The doom of Middle Earth now rested upon the shoulders of two hobbits, somewhere in the desolation of Mordor. And it was then that he gathered the resolution to speak.

And everyone agreed. The Armies of the West would go to the Morannon and the Bearer of the Star of the North would have his time to emulate the actions of rulers of the past. Olórin had been clear, it was desperate and mostly hopeless for them, but it was the only manner to provide Frodo the necessary time to complete his quest to the heart of Orodruin.

The West would battle Mordor in Dagorlad once more, in the Land of the Shadow, to the shade of the Black Gate. Olórin remembered the countless and fruitless sieges to Thangorodrim; but Mordor was not Angband, and Sauron was not Melkor.

 

Let the Lord of the Dark Land come forth! Let justice be done upon him! — As he had foreseen, Gandalf could see Fingolfin in Aragorn. He almost expected The Dark Lord to succumb to the taunts and descend from his tower, as it had happened ages before. But no dark figures crossed the gates, only the Herald of Sauron dared look to the Heir of Isildur’s face, not without his concealed share of fear, we must say. He was indeed the Mouth of Sauron, for he was ill-spoken and his words were full of falsehood and brought everyone despair; everyone but the Elf-Stone and the Ainu from Aman, both of whom gathered all the strength within themselves and encouraged their ranks to stand firm to the imminent charge.

Hence it was that Morannon opened and the Armies of Mordor marched to meet the Armies of the West, in their last stand for Middle Earth. Too few they were, though none of them ever despaired once the swords were drawn and the arrows dimmed the light of the day. The numbers of Mordor were beginning to be felt, but the Hand of Manwë was yet to be shown again, The Windlord and his Eagles came soaring through the air.

Gwaihir led the attack, aware that this was the time to remember the deeds of the Eagles from the past. He knew that there once was a mighty Lord of the Eagles who had guarded the Valley of Tumladen and had aided the heroes from the Houses of Elves and Men alike. But the feat that had gained Thorondor the highest esteem of the Valar was the part that he played in the War of Wrath, upon the end of Beleriand.

Back then the Wind had also blown from West to East, the power of Aman announced by the waters of Ulmo and the notes of Valaróma. Frightened, Bauglir unleashed his creatures from the deep chasms of Angband, his winged dragons spitting fire, in an attempt to make The Valar retreat. But then arrived Thorondor and his kin, to the service of Manwë, and they engaged the dragons in battle. It was the Lord of the Eagles along with the Morning Star and his ship Vingilot, who succeeded in slaying the mightiest of the worms, and the inert carcass of Ancalagon they let be destroyed in the sharp rocks of Thangorodrim.

So Gwaihir charged with his past upon himself, trying to write his name in the future Songs of Arda. The Eagles clashed against the fell beasts, and the scene over Thangorodrim seemed to repeat itself. The fight did not last long, as the remaining Nazgûl shrieked in pain, followed by a swift return to Orodruin which would soon come to an end.

Olórin alone knew what those shrieks had meant and he stood upon a mound, so he could be heard. He exalted the Armies of the West to keep their arms and wait, for the mission of the Ring Bearer he knew had been completed, and the power of Barad-dûr had come to an end. His wise words were proven when the ground began to fracture. But it was not the Valar’s will that this should do any harm to the Captains of the West or those faithful to them. So they were isolated in a rocky isle of light, while they saw the frightened lines of Mordor disband and get lost in Ered Lithuin.

The War of the Ring had ended, but as he saw Mount Doom collapsing, Olórin knew he had one last thing to accomplish in that battlefield.

Gwaihir descended to a low rock, beside Gandalf, who was now waiting. – You have carried me before— Mithrandir said. – I implore your help now, near the end.—

We have served you many times over many years, oh! Great vassal of Manwë! It has been His will that we aid you yet again.— So Olórin rode the King of the Eagles, one last ride, one last charge bound to Orodruin.

 

Honours had been paid to the Nine-Fingered and his companion at the Fields of Cormallen. And great were their deeds, for not even the descendants of the Evening Star, Elves or Men, could accomplish such task in times that were long past, and now vindicated.

In the past days, Aragorn had shed whatever left there was in him of the ranger persona behind which he so long concealed himself in the old Kingdom of Arnor. He had indeed embraced kingship, and his regal posture and prudent command reminisced those of the Kings of Númennórë, before Annatar corrupted their hearts.

In the Houses of Healing he earned the Gondorians’ allegiance, and what was rightfully his by kin, was then also his by the support of his subjects.

The day for the ceremony arrived, and before the Gates of Minas Anor, the Fields of Pelennor stretched, full of subjects and friends. Elessar Telcontar, as hence he would be named in the Stories of Arda, repeated the words Elendil pronounced upon landing on Lindon. Then Faramir, Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, brought forth an ornamented chest containing the crown of Eärnur. Elessar opened the chest, took the crown in his hands, and unexpectedly turned to Frodo. He wanted the hobbit to give it to Mithrandir, who would in turn bestow upon him his rank, returning to him what had long been lost by his lineage. Olórin was filled with bliss. He turned to the crowd and presented them their King, a King like those from past ages of the world.

He smiled, for he knew that with the weakness of Isildur he would not reign, but with the brightness that Eärendil bore he would lead the way of his people.

Olórin had heard the echoes from the past in the deafening thunder of the war. He had seen the reflections of yesterday in the landscape of today. He had witnessed the Ages of Arda. He was now witnessing the Dawn of the Age of Men. His task in Middle Earth had been fulfilled.

 

The Ship became within sight of the shore. The blue water and the white sand beyond glistened with the morning light, as they gave place to seemingly endless and eternal green plains which went all the way up to a White City compared to which Minas Tirith paled. Olórin now shone more brightly than he ever had, and was still keeping his physical form perhaps just to remain recognizable to two of the passengers on board.

Wake up my hobbits. — He murmured gently to their ears. Bilbo and Frodo woke up. They looked ahead. Bilbo could just watch. Frodo looked to Gandalf in awe, just seeking for confirmation. –Behold Valinor. — He said. The White Lady just whispered: “Home.”