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Epilogue: All Dreams End



”Riders of Rohan! I was at the market at Cathlond buying food and she told me!”

Radawen looked scared. Her face was pale. Delioron interrupted his work as Radawen stepped down the path sloping down to the balustrade where he was standing with his wheelbarrow.

Delioron set the wheelbarrow to lean against the wall, took the baskets from Radawen’s hands and escorted her inside the house. He put the food baskets on the table. The sun had reddened his face and his eyes did not appear so frozen anymore. He was wearing a white linen shirt. Hard work had calloused his hands.

”Who told you?”

”Gannelbess, the provisioner. She told me that two riders from Rohan had been asking for you in the morning, or someone fitting your description.”

”From Rohan?”

”Yes, by the way they looked and dressed and talked, and by the looks of their fine horses. Why are they here?”

”What else did she say?”

”Nothing. Just that they were asking where you lived.”

”Did she tell them?”

”She lied. Gannelbess does not trust foreigners. She told them she did not know anyone who looked like that.”

”That will not delay them for long”, Delioron said. ”Where did they go?”

”She did not know. They just rode away.”

”They did not go far.”

Radawen clung on to Delioron’s arm. Her face was pale as if she had suddenly fallen ill with something. ”That’s what I was afraid of. I ran like crazy all the way home.”

”Yes.”

Radawen looked at him and saw that the blankness had returned to his eyes, that the arctic gray had not disappeared, merely changed its shape momentarily in her presence.

Radawen had told Idhrenil, the Warden of the Houses of Lore, that she would be back in three months, but it had been a convenient lie. She had never intended to return to Minas Tirith at all. And neither had Delioron. They had both intended to flee their previous lives together for as long as they could. They would have no past, no future, they would not give each other any promises, they would not lie to each other.

There was the nasty sound of a sword being drawn out of its sheath. Radawen turned.

Delioron was holding his one-handed sword in his right hand. He wiped the blade with a cloth dipped in oil and shoved it back in its sheath. He took out the nasty dagger with a blackened blade and cleaned it too before tucking it under his belt.

”Who are they?” Radawen asked.

”I do not know.”

”What can we do?”

”Nothing. Not before they come.”

”Let’s get out of here!”

”There is no running away from them. They will track us down eventually.”

”But this is Gondor. They cannot do this!”

Delioron stared at her. ”They can do whatever they want, unless we are prepared to stop them.”

”What can we do?”

”It did not work out, did it?” Delioron asked.

”Oh, don’t say that. Please don’t!”

”Leave, Radawen! Go back to Minas Tirith! It is me they want, not you. Go as fast…”

”No! You will not drag me into this and then send me packing like some stupid tavern wench. I do not want to be alone. Not now, not ever.”

He looked out of the window. ”I guess we chose the easy way out. Perhaps we should have waited.”

”I love you, Delioron, no matter what happens”, Radawen said. ”No matter what.” Her voice was stubborn but about to break, and they both knew it.

The sun was about to set. Delioron walked over to the big bed in the hall next to a celebratory Gondorian tree tapestry. He did something with the pillows and the blanket, patting and shaping them. Radawen walked closer to see what he had done. From a distance it looked like two people were snuggled there under the blanket, two lovers wrapped around each other in their sleep. The sight broke Radawen’s heart.

Delioron picked up two chairs and carried them behind a huge, square column behind a staircase. He set the backs of the chairs against the pilaster. The pilaster blocked the view to the chairs from the main entrance and the bed. Radawen was about to ask if Delioron was going to bolt the door but closed her mouth as she realized that he wanted them to use the door rather than the windows.

Delioron sat down on the chair closest to the corner of the pilaster, placed the sword between his legs and made a gesture towards the chair next to him. Radawen sat down beside him.

”What now?” she asked.

”Now we wait.”

”How long?”

”As long as we have to.”

”What if they don’t come tonight?”

Delioron was quiet for a moment. ”In that case I will go look for them tomorrow”, he finally said.

After that they fell silent. They waited for a long time. Night fell outside the house. Delioron had shut down all lights and candles in the house like he always did when they went to bed. The only light came from the moon and the stars through the colored glass windows.

Two hours after midnight they heard rustling from the doorway, the noise of someone trying to pick the lock of the door. Radawen breathed in fiercely but closed her mouth with her right hand. She felt nauseous and cold.

She realized that this was how Delioron must feel all the time, especially at nights when the dreams took a hold of him. When he slept he was naked and too weak to fight the shades in his nightmares.

There was the familiar creaking sound of the front door opening on its rusty hinges. Someone whispered something loudly in Rohanese.

Delioron turned to look at Radawen. She knew as well as he did what was about to happen. Radawen stared at him. For a moment they could only gaze at each other quietly, wanting to say something true to each other, something that would wipe all this away and make the assassins in the hallway disappear. Delioron clenched his fist around the hilt of his sword.

The two assassins from Rohan snuck in the hall towards the bed. One of them carried a sword, the other one had an axe. They raised their weapons and struck them down at the bulging humps beneath the blanket.

Delioron was already on his way through the floor, his bare feet running soundlessly across the cold marble floor. The men did not hear him coming, they did not see him in the dark. The blade of the sword flung through the air and sliced through the midriff of the man with an axe. He slumped down and blood sprayed on the floor, on their clothes, on the bed.

Delioron leaped forward towards the swordsman who had barely managed to grasp what was happening. He managed to parry a couple of Delioron’s blows, but the attack had forced him in defensive with its suddenness and fierceness. The assassin knew how to use a sword, but he was not good enough. A clever feint by Delioron distracted the assassin and before he knew it, the blade of the sword had sunk deep into his chest.

Radawen let out a stifled moan, half-scream, half-sob. Delioron stood and looked at the two thugs. One was shorter and darker and clearly dead. The other one, the blond one, yet lived.

He moaned. His abdomen was ripped open.

Delioron grabbed at his cloak and searched through his clothes. He found a leather pouch, opened it and looked inside. It was filled with Gondorian coin. It did not mean anything. Gondorian currency was widely used in Rohan.

He tossed the pouch aside. As Radawen rushed to the scene the dying man started to talk laboriously. Radawen felt sick in her stomach and turned to throw up, turning her back to the bloody corpses.

Delioron leaned forward to hear what the dying man was saying. Then he stood up and raised the sword in his hand. His face was without expression.

”Delioron!” Radawen cried out.

”Gríma”, he said quietly. ”A Rohanese name. It does not mean anything to me.”

He looked at Radawen but could not say her name, not in a moment like this. Then he chopped the dying man’s head clean off.

”No, Delioron!” Radawen cried out. ”No, no!”

But he did not say anything. He felt the weight of the sword in his hand. The weight of the sword chained him down.

They buried the bodies in Delioron’s garden. It was so terrible an ordeal that they could not talk afterwards.

They sat by the fire that was burning in the big fireplace in the great hall, feeling cold, worlds apart from each other.

”We have to head back to Minas Tirith tomorrow”, Delioron said.

”Yes”, Radawen said tonelessly. She stared into the fire and saw the corpses in her mind. She saw Delioron raising his sword and chopping off a dying man’s head. She saw the orc on top of Amon Hen, blocking her way to the stairs, holding an ugly, nasty dagger in its hand.

”Parthadan can keep us safe. He will not do it for free. He will want something in return from me.”

”Yes”, Radawen said tonelessly.

”Now you saw what it’s like”, he said.

”I can…” But then she could not go on. She started to sob. He did not do anything to comfort her.

”Help me, Delioron!”

He touched her then.

”I am so cold”, Radawen said. ”Why do I feel so cold?”

Yes, cold, he thought. After a while that is all you can feel.

”I don’t want to leave you”, Radawen sobbed against his chest. ”I love you, I love you, but I am so scared.”

Cold, ice, darkness, separation, emptiness. And it will never ever end. This it what it feels like to be a wraith.

”I love you”, Radawen said.

”Radawen”, he replied.

But it was not enough. Not anymore.