It is a dangerous journey south from Calembel to the banks of Anduin, but not a particularly long one, and Círamath enters Linhir on the seventh day by horse. Save a few encounters with outlying scouts of the Haradrim his journey had not been eventful, and he is unharmed. Though his hair has silvered somewhat since last he ranged far afield his sword-arm has not been slowed, nor idle in the growing darkness in Gondor.
He had taken a more circutous route to approach Dor-en-Ernil from the west rather than the north, thus avoiding the Ringló Vale and its incursion of orcs entirely. It was for this reason that he had only been crossing the wide fields of the Prince’s land on the morning of the tenth. Or rather, what was supposed to be the morning of the tenth.
“Half-past nine. Has to be,” He had muttered, securing Lorndis’s girth strap by feel rather than sight. Indeed it was, though by the deep overcast clouding the sky he might have been excused for thinking it still the midnight hours. Lorndis flicked her ears back in acknowledgement of his words, though like as not incomprehension as well. She wasn’t exactly the most brilliant or noble of steeds.
“Come,” He had said, mounting with what was certainly not a grunt of effort. “Not far to Linhir now, and there we shall hear the news.”
In Linhir they are now, though none of the inhabitants seem to have any more idea than he of the cause behind the darkness. The Dawnless Day they have begun to call it, though it now stretched into the second day and still the sun had not been seen.
News of Pelargir he had stopped also to find, for that was his destination. Foolish, perhaps, but in the midst of the gathering war he cannot help but worry for his sons. Neither of them would stay long on the sidelines, and so he rides now to find the only one he knows the location of. Unless much had gone amiss, the Hithaeglir’s crew should be docked at Pelargir, and Areher with them. Amathan, of course, had gone north months ago, and no word had yet come from him.
News of Pelargir they do not have much of, as it turns out, but news of quite a different sort they have in abundance.
“A host of the dead?” Before him, Linhir’s gate guard nods quite seriously, though a pall of fear lies still on his face. “Aye, and all fled before them. If you come from the Vale, I would ask that you see my commander, Garvir, for I am certain such news would be of use to him.”
Círamath does not come from the Vales, but close enough, and he is curious. He finds Garvir in the north of Linhir, overseeing the recallment of his men from the fields. The tale is true, apparantly, and the commander sends him onward to Ingalad to learn more. His news is not new, for the commander’s brother only recently came from that way. Ingalad fills his ears with tales from every corner of Linhir, some of them far too fantastical to be truth. Lastly he is sent to find an old man of the city named Ioron, who rumour acclaims to know something of the Grey Host that no one else does. Ioron’s neighbor decries him insane when Círamath asks after him, but nonetheless directs him to his home.
Ioron, he is forced to admit, looks quite mad indeed, dancing and hopping about in the open air, illuminated only by the nearvy lamps.
“Ha ha! Welcome, welcome!” Ioron’s face is split by an immesurable grin, and he bounces on his feet as lightly as a man with half his years.
“There is no need to look so crestfallen, my friend!” Ioron throws his arms into the air in celebration, nearly cracking Círamath in the face, “Do not concern yourself with the shadow that covers the sky, for it cannot last forever! The winds of hope are blowing!”
Círamath’s expression falls from concerned to puzzled, and Ioron dances even more vigourously. He leaps in the air, and nearly topples onto his face. Círamath offers him a stabilizing hand, but Ioron merely waves it aside. “No need, friend! The years have dropped away from old Ioron, and I will tell you why, if you will listen!” At last Ioron ceases his odd twirling dance, but his smile only grows.
“Did you see the grey host, friend? Have you heard of their wild ride down from the Vale?” Círamath nods, for he has heard dozens of variations already in the two hours he has been in Linhir.
“Aye, with dread terror they drove away the fighters at the city, both defender and attacker together, and eastward they swept through the river-lands. They passed like wind down the mountains and just as swift, but from afar I saw the man that rode at their head, leading the great host in its charge.” Ioron nearly bursts from his excitement, and Círamath’s puzzlement only grows.
“He bore the very visage of Thorongil, friend! He who swept away the Corsairs like chaff, who burned their great fleet, who saved Gondor from a terrible fate and passed into legend. I see I need not recount all his mighty deeds to you, friend, and you see why we need not fear these dreadful Corsairs that assail us any longer!” Círamath’s brows skyrocket at this proclaimation, and he narrowly refrains from checking Ioron’s head for some injury.
“Are you certain?” he asks, “Thorongil has not been seen in this land for thereabout forty years, and he is like as not dea--”
“You do not understand me, friend! I sailed and fought beside his sword, many years ago, and know his face as well as my son’s! Not soon would I forget that face, bold and stern, and he was indeed as exactly as he was during that great battle. He has returned, and the years have not touched him as they have us both.”--- Círamath winces--- “His strength remains, timeless and unchanging! He will destroy the Corsairs as he did before!”
So animated is Ioron’s face, and the blazing hope in his face so uncharacteristic of the dark day they stood in, that Círamath cannot help but believe his sincerity. After all, he thinks, here is a day without a sun, and a host of the dead rides the lands of the living. They walk in legends, or so it seems, and so why not should Thorongil have returned to beat back Gondor’s foes?
Ioron takes leave of him to spread his joyous news with all of Linhir, little though they listen. Círamath does not return to Ingalad, and within the hour he is set again on the road to Pelargir.
