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End To Innocence, An: 19. The Hour of Doom
The woman obeys me, he had said, but the warrior does not, and it is the warrior who must.
Why was it so hard?
It had been a mistake, her coming, she knew. She's known it before she'd decided. Even as she'd spoken with Chip, as she'd arranged the end of everything she knew, she'd known she was coming and she'd known it was a bad idea, unwise in the extreme. She could do very little in the upcoming fight except give everyone who loved her one more thing to lose, and when it was over, if they weren't all destroyed, what then? She had nothing to go back to, and wasn't sure whether she had anything to stay for. She had cast herself loose from any mooring, and now she drifted. But even so, she didn't know what else she could have done. Staying behind had seemed as impossible as cutting off her own arm.
And so here she was.
She and Boromir had exchanged few words since she'd joined him at the front of the host. She knew he was angry with her, but she didn't know what to do about it. Instead of trying to force a resolution, she turned his earlier words over in her mind, looking at them from different angles, trying to find how she and they fit together. How she and he fit together. She supposed that she should have never allowed him to think of her as one of his troops, should have pressed the issue, or asked Chip to add her to his command, but she wasn't used to this paradigm, hadn't realized it would be a problem for her to operate alone in this vast number of people who had to function as a whole. She had thought she could be independent of anyone else during the fight, relying on no one and relied on by no one.
But now in the midst of Gondor's armies, she'd begun to see. She'd watched as Boromir's men had drilled their troops, had admired the smooth functioning of this huge machine of war, many units in an intricate dance. She could see as if in the smoke from the campfires the way the units would move with the enemy, the cut and thrust and parry; pairs, trios, and quads of men with their backs to each other and their blades to the foe, one mind, smooth and fluid, moving always with an awareness of the others. They were not in the chaos of battle, no, but she could see, could see how this would fit into that chaos, could see the dance they would make.
And she was the one alone, adrift, without a place in the machinery. She was the stone in the wheels, the dancer with no partner who would trip up the others, throw their rhythm off. It had been a mistake, and yet, here she was. 'No way out but through,' she thought to herself as she spread her cloak over the thin blanket she'd laid on the ground. Then footsteps, light as a cat's, and she looked up.
"Legolas," she said softly. Moonlight lit his skin like clearest alabaster. The last time they'd spoken had been in the gardens of the Houses of Healing.
He smiled. "I had thought this must be you, too slender for a soldier."
"Sit?" she said, gesturing to the blanket, and he joined her on it. "I'm glad to see you," she said. "I've wanted to apologize for what a - for how rude I was to you the last time we talked."
"It is nothing for which you need apologize," he replied.
She nodded, saying,"Yeah, it really is. I'm just - I feel like a bull in a china shop sometimes, just bumbling around knocking shit over. I'm sorry," she said with a rueful smile, and glanced at him. "You've been so nice to me, and I just -"
He raised a finger to his lips, and she quieted. "I understand," he said. "You fear for Boromir - for what must come to pass, now that the king has returned."
She paused, considering whether to question his easy confidence of what 'must' come to pass, and decided against it. "So," she said at last, "you don't hate me for being such a - for being so harsh in the garden?"
"Lady," he said, "I have been alive for quite a long time, as mortals count it. Were I to hate all who had spoken harshly to me, I would have no heart left for friendship."
She breathed a little sigh of relief. "It's just that I know what a good man Boromir is, and I - I'd like y'all to be friends."
"We are, after our fashion," said Legolas. "And I do not think he would be surprised to know I question his wisdom when it comes to Elendil's heir. Nor would I be surprised to learn that he cares naught for what I think on that score," he continued with a smile, "which, I suppose, is as it should be."
She glanced at him and frowned. "How do you figure?" she asked.
"He must decide how to respond to Aragorn's claim, when he makes it," he said, "and while while there is no ill-will between us, I do not believe he trusts the Elves to have Gondor's good at heart."
"Should he?" she asked suddenly. "I mean, is he right to worry? Will Aragorn's loyalties be split when he marries Arwen?"
"You know of Undómiel, then, of our Evenstar?" Legolas asked.
Maggie raised an eyebrow. "Is that the same as Arwen? God, you people and your double handful of names. Yes, Boromir told me about her."
After a moment Legolas shook his head. "I do not believe Aragorn's loyalties will be divided, for the Elves are leaving Middle-earth."
She looked at him. "Leaving?"
He nodded.
"Leaving?" perplexity written across her features. He nodded again. "But," and she looked around, helplessly. "Where will they go? I mean, isn't Middle-earth, like... the world?"
He hesitated, a startled expression on his face, then laughed. "As your world is 'the world'? Nay, child, the world is wide," he said, shaking his head. "The world is wide, and this only a part of it."
She gazed at him, her brow furrowed. "But you're staying, right?" she asked softly.
He looked at her for a long moment, then replied, "I have not planned beyond the coming battle."
She nodded hesitantly, wishing for a better answer.
"Will you fight with Gondor when we reach the Black Gate," he asked, "or with your mercenaries?"
She glanced away, towards the back of the column where the trucks and guns would be if she could have seen them in the darkness. "With Gondor, I think," she said, deciding not to dispute his mischaracterization of them. They weren't mercenaries, they were pragmatists. "Boromir wants - he thinks I'm a loose cannon."
Legolas looked at her quizzically. "I do not know the term."
"Oh - it's, um. It means someone or something that's destructive and gets in the way, or that might cause the wrong kind of trouble." She started to pluck a blade of grass, but thought better of it - it was so sparse here in the waste they were riding into. Instead she picked up a small stone and turned it between her fingers as she spoke. "He thinks I need to be watched so I don't do something stupid."
"Ah," the Elf said, nodding. "I do not deem he thinks you 'stupid'," he said after a moment.
She shrugged. "Maybe not stupid," she said. "He's right, I guess, as much as I hate to admit it. I don't know what I'm doing here - I don't know how to fit into Gondor's army, but he really wants me fitting in somewhere."
"Perhaps you should return and fight with your people, then," said Legolas thoughtfully.
"Maybe," she said. "I'd rather be able to see him, though."
"Well, there is time yet to consider it," he said.
She felt more than saw the slight shift of his weight that meant he was going to stand, and she said suddenly, "Legolas."
He hesitated. "Yes?"
"I - have you seen them together? Aragorn and Boromir?"
"Why, of course," he said, his tone perplexed. "Many times."
"No, no," she said. "I mean since we - since we got back to Minas Tirith. And since we left for Mordor. How are they?"
"They are much as they have ever been," he said. "Boromir is Steward now, that much is different, and he wears the role as one born to it. It is clear he recognizes no final authority above his own. But he takes Aragorn's counsel, treats him as comrade, as friend." He paused, then finished with a small shrug, "They are much as always."
She hesitated, then asked what she'd been unable to bring herself to ask Boromir, not now while things were so strained between them. "What about what the heralds have been saying," she said softly, cautiously. "About how King Elessar is here?"
"A ploy," he replied, "unimportant except in that it may give our enemy pause. Boromir agreed to it for he is pragmatist enough to see the sense in it, and realist enough to know that as regards political reality, it is meaningless."
"You say that without rancour," she remarked. "I'd have thought it'd make you angry."
A slight smile graced his lips. "I am of two minds on the matter," he said. "Until Aragorn's claim is made and accepted, none have authority here above the Steward, and Boromir would be remiss in his duty if he surrendered it too soon." He paused, considering, then went on, "For the sake of my people, and for the sake of Aragorn, I would have Boromir make plain his intent, and no plainer could he make it than to swear fealty on the spot. Yet, for the sake of Gondor, and of Boromir himself, I realize he cannot."
"Do you think he will?" she said. "I mean, accept Aragorn's claim?"
The smile faded. "If Frodo and Sam fail in their task," he replied, "it will not matter."
The night of their fifth day out from the Morgul Vale, Maggie sat wakeful in the dark, waiting for Boromir to return. They still weren't talking much, certainly not about their strained relationship, but each night they had lain together, and she'd found comfort in the fact that as they drifted to sleep, their breath would slow as one, would synchronize, even if their thoughts and words didn't. And each morning she woke to his fingers tracing over her skin, his soft smile. It wasn't an answer to the questions neither was asking, but for now, it was enough.
She heard his footsteps approaching, and as he lowered himself to the blanket beside her, a wolf called in the distance, and the answering groan of something she didn't recognize sounded nearby. She scooted closer to Boromir, who slipped his arm around her shoulders.
She pressed into him. "I wonder if the sun will ever rise again," she said softly. "It feels so dark."
He kissed her hair, stroking her shoulder. "It will come," he replied. Then, in the tone of one reciting, he murmured, almost to himself, "'Sunlight chases shadow, nighttime fades away, both of them together make another day.'"
She raised her eyes to his face, and his gaze was far away. "What's that from?" she asked. "Is there more?"
"Hmm?" He glanced at her and smiled. "Oh, a song for children," he said. "My father... was it my father?" He shook his head, his eyes searching the past. "He taught it to me, or part of it, when I was very small, but - I think I taught part to him, and I know not from whom I learned that second part." He frowned.
"Can you remember it?" she asked, and his expression softened.
"I shall try," he said, and after a moment his low voice slipped through the dark, singing softly...
"Step into the shadow,
step into the sun;
shadows chase the sunlight,
see the evening come.
Sunlight chases shadow,
nighttime fades away;
both of them together
make another day."
He hesitated, searching for the next verse, then with a quick nod of recollection, continued,
"Twilight comes at morning,
twilight comes at eve,
gold and silver holding hands,
in and out they weave."
At the next line, another voice joined in, and though he didn't stop, Boromir looked up to find the singer, and smiled as they finished together,
"Shimmer like a moonbeam,
glisten like the sun,
dark and bright and starlight,
all of them and none."
"Aragorn," he said then. "You know the song?"
"Oh, aye," Aragorn replied, amusement touching his soft voice. "You taught it me."
A startled pause, and Boromir said, "I?"
"One afternoon in the Citadel, when you were very small. But there is another verse, though I have never recalled it entirely. 'The shadow of a raven's wing, the brightness of a blade; dark and light are brothers, woven in a braid.' There is more, I think," he said, "but I am not certain."
"It is lovely," said Boromir, motioning to Aragorn to sit.
"And fitting, I think," Aragorn replied as he joined them. "You and Faramir seem very like the raven and the blade to me," and he paused, then smiled and went on, "though I am uncertain which of you is raven, and which the blade."
Boromir laughed. "Your poetic turn of mind, Ranger," he said. "Faramir, I think, would be blade, for the swiftness of his wit."
"Ah, but the raven is a wily bird," said Aragorn with a grin, "like the Ranger your brother is, and your laughter is bright as the sun on steel." He sighed then, and said, "Would that the times we live in inspired more laughter."
"We find it where we may," Boromir replied with a smile. "Perhaps on the morrow we shall find our times changed for the better."
"May it be so," said Aragorn.
Maggie shifted, looking from one to the other. "So," she said after a moment. "You really were here years ago, like Denethor said."
Aragorn nodded. "I was in Minas Tirith before Boromir was born, and for some time after."
"And y'all have talked about it?"
"At length," said Aragorn with a low chuckle.
"Aragorn has explained to me why he chose not to make his lineage known at the time," Boromir said, then looked at Aragorn questioningly. Aragorn nodded, and he went on, "It was as Faramir had supposed - had Thorongil made a claim then, the Council would not have accepted it, and Ecthelion would have been forced either to go against them, and perhaps spark a civil war, or to forswear his oath and lose his honour."
"I would not have risked such," said Aragorn, "though Gondor called to me then as she does now." He leaned back, looking up at the sky. "I have missed this land my whole long life," he murmured, "save for the few years I dwelt here."
For a moment, Maggie thought Boromir was going to speak, but he didn't, and they sat in companionable silence for a time, watching the stars.
Then, "Look, there," said Aragorn, pointing towards a cluster of stars winking on the horizon. "Soronúmë. The Eagle."
"Messengers from Manwë," said Boromir softly. "I thought it was early in the year for the Eagle to rise."
"Where is it?" asked Maggie, looking for the constellation.
"There," and Boromir pointed, "the bright star just above the hill? The Eagle's eye."
"And there," Aragorn continued, his finger tracing a line from one star to the next, "the wings, and the tail."
"Do you see?" Boromir asked, stroking her hair.
"I think so." She sighed, and leaned into him a little, then started as the voice of something large spoke in the distance.
"Creatures of Sauron, I suppose," said Aragorn with a sigh. "The watch will keep them at bay, but they have followed us for two nights now." He stretched then, and rose. "The hour is late," he said, "and I should take my leave. Rest well, both of you."
After he had gone, Boromir turned to Maggie and said, "I have spoken with Chip about where to place you. He would have you return to your people."
"Wait - what?" Frowning, she scooted back to see him better. "What do you mean, you've spoken with Chip?"
Boromir sighed. "He came to me, Maggie, and asked, in effect, what I had done with you." Smiling ruefully, he added, "I think he worries about you, here amongst strangers."
"And he wants me back with them?" She shook her head, still frowning. "I don't understand. Why would Chip care one way or the other?"
"He made mention of your friend Mira," Boromir replied. "It seems she made him promise to see you came to no harm."
"Ah," and Maggie nodded. "That's Mira. But look," she said, the frown returning. "I don't want to be separated from you. Sorry, but if the world is ending, I don't want to be surrounded by people I barely know."
"Nor do I wish to be separated from you," he replied. "But look." He released her and turned, sketching out a map in the dirt beside the blanket. "Two hills are opposite the Gate," he said, "or so our spies have told us. Aragorn shall hold one, with Gandalf and the Dúnedain, and Éomer, Imrahil and I shall hold the other, with the Tower Guard. The outworlders will stand betwixt, for to place their weapons amongst our soldiers would be too dangerous to our own men, but from here they shall able to join either army if their escape is cut off. If you are with them, you shall yet be near me, and you shall be better able to retreat with them if retreat seems the wiser course." She looked at him doubtfully, and he shook his head. "It is for the best, Maggie, do you not see? You have not trained with the troops who will surround you if you stand with Gondor's army. How can you think to fight amongst people whose weapons and tactics are so unknown to you?"
"Same way I did at Helm's Deep," she said, but her tone was that of someone trying to convince herself.
"At Helm's Deep, you had first the dike and then the Deeping Wall between you and the enemy," he said patiently. "Here, there is naught to hold Sauron's forces at bay but the weapons and mettle of our men. At Helm's Deep the enemy broke upon the wall like the tide, but here, they will sweep over us in a flood. It is more different than you can imagine to fight a flood than a breaking tide."
He put his hand to her chin and turned her to face him. "Love," he said softly, "I cannot command you. You have shown me that without I lock you in chains and send you home, you will do as you will do. If I cannot command you, then I cannot have you in my command." He kissed her softly to stay the words that she'd opened her mouth to speak. "And could I command you," he went on when he released her, "I would command you to return to your people, for you understand better how to fight with them. I want you alive," he said firmly, "even more than I want you with me."
She hesitated, then brought her hand to his face, cupping his cheek, and he pressed into her touch. "I love you," she said finally. "And you're right." She sighed, and shook her head. "Boromir, I'm sorry. I just - " but she stopped, then finished, "Just come back to me, okay?"
He pulled her into a firm embrace. "If there is anything that could keep me from you, I have not met it yet."
Maggie stood between Michael and and a lanky woman with the unlikely name of Babe, Cassandra behind them, watching Chip ride forward with the guard. He was uncomfortable on horseback, but it had been decided that he should be present when they challenged Sauron, if only in case they had to change their battle strategy because of some unexpected parley. The heralds' cry was clear, even as far back as they stood, when they challenged the Lord of the Black Land to come out to them, but nothing moved. Long moments passed in silence, but just as the Captains moved to turn back, drums rolled in the mountains and horns rang out, louder than at Helm's Deep, shaking the earth. The Black Gate opened, and Maggie, Michael, Babe, and Cassandra all raised binoculars to their eyes as a small company of black-clad soldiers rode out, something monstrous at its head. Maggie increased the magnification to get a better look, and scowled at what she saw, lowering the binoculars.
"It's like something out of a horror vid," Cassandra muttered, lowering her glass as well. "Is it real?"
"I think it must be," said Michael. "They don't exactly have advanced holo technology in these parts."
Maggie raised the binoculars again, focusing on the faces she knew - Aragorn, Boromir, Chip. The emissary from Sauron laughed, a sound surprisingly human from something that seemed so alien, and then spoke. She couldn't make out his words, but his tone was mocking as he spoke to Aragorn. She watched them watch each other, and though Aragorn neither spoke nor moved, the emissary suddenly drew back, his skeletal mount dancing and rearing up as he jerked at the black reigns. This time she could hear him when he cried out, "I am a herald and ambassador, and may not be assailed!"
Babe snorted. "Puss," she said scornfully. "That guy he was talking to didn't even fuckin' move! What 'assailed'?"
Maggie chuckled. "Indeed. Hard to get good help these days, I guess."
"I dunno," Michael said. "I was with Chip for some of the planning, and Aragorn's got this look he can give you - it's pretty freakish."
Maggie glanced at him. "Freakish how? What happened?"
"Oh, Chip got snarky with him about some stuff - was saying we shouldn't be bothering with this but should see if we could get someone inside to just take Sauron out, and you know how Chip can be when he gets an idea of what he wants to do."
"Quite the alpha male," said Cassandra.
"So I don't even remember what Aragorn said," Michael went on, "but he turned this look on Chip, and you could just see, not only did you not want to fuck with this guy, you seriously understood that whatever he was telling you to do was exactly what you wanted to do."
"Really," said Maggie thoughtfully, turning her gaze back to the allies and the emissary. They watched as the emissary turned to Gandalf, and after a time held out something, they couldn't see what. It had an effect on those who faced the black-clad spokesman, though, and shortly thereafter there were raised voices.
"Come on," said Michael. "Things are getting hot." He turned, gave a quick hand signal and then the squad leaders and their squads were falling into position. Tension sang in the air around her, and she wondered whether it was any different for the troops of Gondor, Dol Amroth, Rohan.
A few minutes later the emissary and his soldiers were racing back towards the gate, and the gate was swinging open wide, releasing a torrent of troops while more spilled down from either side, and more still flowed in from the southeast. A great cry went up on both sides, ally and enemy giving voice, and then Maggie heard the distinctive thrum of the rocket launchers, and where they hit the explosions shook the earth, throwing up plumes of dirt and the bodies of the enemy soldiers. The tide seemed to falter, and then another volley from the rocket launchers threw up another quintet of earthshaking explosions, thickening the air around the enemy with dust and smoke. Maggie searched the field quickly, saw the armies of Middle-earth gathering around the hills of rubble, one with the banner of Gondor, and the other the banners of Rohan and Dol Amroth - Tree and Stars, the White Horse, and the Silver Swan, gleaming in the cold light of the morning. She couldn't see Boromir.
Another volley of rockets tore earth and bodies asunder, and then the enemy forces, as though at some command, surged forward again, though not so eagerly nor with so loud a cry. Chip, on foot now, came pelting back to them as a fourth volley was loosed. When he reached them the machine gunners began to fire, and through the sight of her M16 Maggie saw, again, the faces of the enemy.
The battle was unlike anything she had experienced. The machine gun fire on the walls of Minas Tirith had seemed almost a comforting sound, thick and heavy where she had knelt protected by stone. But here, on the ground, Black Riders circling overhead and raining despair, and the enemy closing; seeing the carnage being wrought by enemy and ally alike, and hearing the clash of steel on steel and the meaty thud of blade and arrow into flesh - the effect was overwhelming, and the rapid-fire weapons only added to her sense of unreality. She had no idea how much time had passed, or how long she had been crouched by this shoulder-high stone at the base of the hill where Aragorn had raised the standard of Gondor. Minutes? Hours? She picked off enemy soldiers one by one with a sense of detached perplexity.
Then behind her she heard the thup of a grenade launcher, saw the missile lob overhead and land at the feet of a mountain troll that stood momentarily devoid of combatants. The explosion tore into the lower half of the creature's body, and its scream sounded like the very voice of the mountains that had been its home, deep and raw and echoing, yanking her back to reality with its agony. It fell, but did not die, and lay shrieking in the mud, huge hands clutching at the place where its legs used to be, and Maggie raised the M16, sighted, and fired three rounds into its head. It jerked and was still, its eyes open and staring at the sky.
"Good girl." Babe's voice behind her. "Those things are a bitch to bring down, but I hate to see anything suffer like that."
Maggie turned to her, opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing. After a moment the other woman reached out one hand to brush the wetness that streaked Maggie's face. Maggie didn't know whether it was tears or blood or sweat that she touched, her gaze strange; smelled leather and metal on the whisper of Babe's glove.
Babe paused then, listening to something, and Maggie remembered that just over half of Chip's people had headsets, saw Babe's hidden in the tangles that had escaped her wheat-colored ponytail. "Got it," she said into the throat mic, then turned to Maggie. "Remember, green flare means fall back to the trucks, red means the trucks are a loss, fall back to whichever defender's flag you can get to. I'm heading there -" and she pointed to an outcropping of stone some thirty yards away. "Grace and Adam are there - Adam's hurt, and I'm gonna help Grace get him to the trucks."
"Need me?" Maggie asked.
Babe shook her head. "We can get him. Might give me some covering fire, though."
"Sure thing," Maggie said, and when Babe had reached the outcropping, turned her attention back to the fight around her.
For a moment, it was like watching a movie. Pale sunlight filtered through high clouds and shone dully on the mail and weapons of the combatants. Here, cavalry carved bloody swaths through the advancing line of Southrons; there, orcs fell like a landslide out of the hills onto Gondorian footsoldiers, who rushed to meet it as though by sheer force of will they could hold back the crush. She could see the outline of the dance, saw one soldier fall and another turn to replace him, a third kneeling swiftly at his side, the others blocking them from attack. Then they were hidden from her sight, swallowed by the battle.
To her right she saw the standards of Dol Amroth and Rohan, and was struck by how still they seemed - no wind caught them up, and they hung listless but bright in the grey air. She caught her breath to see Boromir there, the black and silver of his tunic shining like shadow and cold fire, and she wondered suddenly why he fought under the standard of Dol Amroth when, to her left, nearer than she'd realized, was the standard of Gondor, the glittering stars winking from the folds of the black silk. Beneath it on the side of the hill, the silhouette of Aragorn - she knew the flash of that sword, could hear his rage as he cut down an enemy, stepped forward to meet the next.
Suddenly there was shouting, but when Maggie could make out the words they made no sense to her - the eagles were coming? She looked around, looked up, and saw a long line of birds, their wings broad as a jet's, rushing down out of the sky towards the Black Riders who circled overhead. The Riders wheeled away, back towards the gate, but before Maggie could even smile at this turn of events, she heard a scream and the armored body of a Gondorian soldier whose neck had been cut nearly through fell to the ground a few yards in front of her. Unthinking, Maggie raised her gun and fired at the enemy who had struck him, and saw the shocked expression on the man's face - 'a Southron,' she thought to herself, and he clutched at his throat where one of her rounds had struck. There was only blood and meat there now as he fell atop the Gondorian, and she had a sudden recollection of the man she'd killed at the dike at Helm's Deep, the wet sounds he had made as he'd died, sounds that both the Southron and the Gondorian made now. The battle which had seemed so huge only seconds ago now shrank to two men, the only two things in the world, dead and dying in front of her until white sparkled her vision and with a sharp exhalation of breath she rose and started forward, meaning to pull the dead Southron off the Gondorian if she could, though she knew there was nothing she could do for him except keep him from dying with the weight of his enemy's body pressing him to the earth. Then a sudden and terrible jolt staggered her, her rifle clattering to the ground at her feet. Startled, she clutched her right arm, only then seeing the feathered shaft that protruded from her shoulder.
"Oh, goddamn it," she muttered, snatching her hand away from the thing opening her flesh. Then a second jolt and her left leg collapsed beneath her, and she fell hard to the ground, catching herself with her left hand, feeling something crunch in her wrist and opening her palm on a stone. Still cursing, she looped the strap of her rifle around her left arm and scrambled awkwardly backwards towards the rock she'd been crouched beside, adrenaline singing in her veins. Her back to the stone, she tried to bring the rifle up to bear, but it was impossibly awkward with one injured hand, and she couldn't get her right arm under her control.
"Fuck fuck fuck fuck," she muttered, a mantra as she pressed herself into a hollow in the stone. Another string of curses tumbled from her lips as she saw the shaft that had struck her in the meat of her left thigh, and she felt a wave of dizziness wash over her. She couldn't stay here - the battle continued around her, and she knew she wouldn't remain unnoticed for long. She could use her right hand, but her arm was impossibly weak, and she couldn't raise it; her left arm was uninjured, but her left hand hand was hampered by whatever she'd done to her wrist, and she couldn't grip, couldn't hold the rifle. She cast about for an ally, for one of Chip's people who might help her back to the trucks, but saw no one. Still cursing, but soundlessly now, needing her breath, she shifted the rifle into a vertical position, muzzle to the ground, pulled her right foot in close and levered herself to a one-legged crouch, then hooked her left arm over the butt of the rifle. From there she tried to stand, glancing up barely in time to see the dark visage of an Orc surging towards her, spiked blade raised.
Eyes wide, she collapsed to the ground again, avoiding the first stroke and struggling helplessly to grip the heavy gun with her injured left hand, struggling to make her right arm obey. Her back to the stone, she had no place to retreat to, and as the blade descended she kicked out with her uninjured right leg, the edge of the sword cutting into the leather of her boot, stopped by the steel in the front of the sole. With a snarl, the orc wrenched it loose and brought it around in a gleaming arc for her throat, and she knew she was going to die. She wondered whether it would hurt. The arrows hadn't hurt.
But the blade never reached her, a blood-darkened sword clashing against it, parrying the killing blow and delivering one of its own, the creature falling backwards, headless. She looked up to find the face of the one who had saved her, but he was shadowed against the watery brightness of the sky. She felt sick, and stunned, and tried again to find a way to raise the rifle as he turned to battle another Orc. Blood spattered her, and she tugged her left leg up, bracing it against her right and struggling to rest the weapon on her knees but it was too heavy, too awkward, and she could only wait. Her heart pounded, adrenaline still coursing through her, the knife edge of panic bringing everything into crystal focus, and she watched the soldier and his enemy cut and parry, that intricate dance that had seemed so beautiful and now was only ugly fear and death.
The orc fell, twitching, to the ground. The solider hesitated, scanning the field, then turned and crouched beside her. "You left them in - good." Swift, efficient hands probed her wounds, and he said, "Lie quiet. These will not kill you, but if you struggle, you could lose too much blood, and that might."
Distantly she could hear Gandalf crying "Stand, Men of the West! Stand and wait! This is the hour of doom!"
She gasped when he pressed his fingers to the bones in her wrist, and then the ground shook, and stones began to fall from above. Quickly he wrapped his arm around her waist and half dragged her away from the rock; in the distance the Towers of the Teeth groaned.
They watched as these bastions of Sauron's might began to list towards each other, and a great rolling rumble sounded. Dust climbed in the air around the towers, billowing upwards as though clawing towards the teeth that lined their pinnacles, and with a noise like the death of a world, the towers started to fall. Below them, barely visible through the plumes of smoke and dust, orcs and men scrambled to escape their slow and terrible collapse, and the black towers, once solid and heavy as hate, crashed together and fell into rubble.
Around them, the battle which had raged came suddenly to stillness. Looking to the east they saw a huge shadow rising in the sky above where the towers had been, lightning flickering about the crest, and it hung there over them like a shroud of malice. Maggie felt as though it would reach down and crush them in darkness if it could. But a wind rose up, caught the shadow, and in moments had swept it away. As Maggie watched, disbelieving - could a wind simply blow such a thing away? - the creatures of Sauron began fleeing back towards the ruined gate, some throwing themselves on their own weapons, and she found herself curling into the arm of the one who held her, and her gaze fell on the symbol of a white tree on his gauntlets. She raised her face to look at him.
"Thank you," she said. "He had me."
"He did at that," said Aragorn with a smile. "But Boromir would have had words for me had I let you die."
She nodded, feeling dizzy. "So, is it done, then?"
"Aye, it is done," he replied, and his voice sounded like rain after a drought, terrible relief. "It is done."
"That's good," she said, the edges of her vision growing dark. She felt lightheaded. "Is it going to be a big problem if I pass out?"
"Faint? Is it okay if I faint now?"
When he answered, he seemed far away. "It would be better if you did not," he said, leaning her forward, but it was too late, and the world sparkled, then winked out.
When she opened her eyes again, she was being carried, and the pain in her shoulder, her thigh, her hand came rushing towards her. She gave a soft cry, and Aragorn said, "Not far."
She squirmed in his grip, wanting her feet on the ground and feeling suddenly ill. "Down," she murmured. "I'm going to be sick."
He stood her on her feet, all her weight on her right leg, and said, "No, fight it, now. Arm around my shoulders."
Dizzy, she almost fell, bending over and dropping her head forward, swallowing convulsively. After a moment the queasiness retreated.
"Come," he said, helping her upright again. "It is not far."
They reached a spot on the field where others were laid out, wounds being bandaged, and Aragorn passed her into the keeping of a man who wore the symbol of the Houses of Healing, pressing his hand quickly to her cheek and saying, "Do as they tell you; I will get word to Boromir that you are here."
Then he was gone, and the man was helping her to a blanket, lowering her to the ground. "I'm sick," she said, struggling vaguely against him, worried she wouldn't be able to keep from soiling him, and he said something to someone else, then put a warm cup to her lips. "Drink this," he said. "It will settle your stomach, and help the pain."
She drank, the liquid bitter but not unpleasant.
"Better?" he asked when she had finished.
She nodded.
"Lie back," he said. "Someone will see to your wounds, but lie still."
She closed her eyes, and tried not to listen to the sounds of the people around her. She wondered whether any of her own were here. Slowly, after what seemed a long time, she felt a sluggish lethargy begin to take her, the pain in her limbs floating into the distance. She opened her eyes again, saw what seemed a dream, the silvery bright sky, people moving about, none she recognized. She wondered idly whether anything was real, tried experimentally to move her arm, but couldn't tell whether she succeeded. After a while she closed her eyes again, and drifted into darkness.
It was too bright, and her shoulder and her thigh felt as though they were on fire. Flashes of light illuminated a strange and alien landscape as she tried to open her eyes, and voices ebbed and flowed around her, but in her dream, Boromir held her, singing softly, a song she didn't know. "Whatever the Valar intend me to do, there's naught with the power to keep me from you," he sang, his voice for her alone. "Whatever I grieve for, whatever I rue, there's naught with the power to keep me from you...."
She stirred in her dream, tried to speak, but he didn't see, his eyes closed. "I stand on the line when the shadow creeps in, but I will be with you before day begins," he sang, his voice breaking. "We harry the dark and we weep for our sins, but I will be with you before day begins."
"Boromir," she said, or thought she said, trying to open her eyes.
"She wakes," Boromir said, and she wondered who he was talking to.
A muttered curse in a voice she didn't recognize. "There is no time," the voice said. "Hold her still."
Hands on her, and then a searing pain. She heard a scream, heard her own voice cursing, tried to struggle against the hands that held her, heard Boromir's voice saying urgently, "Be still, Maggie, he has to cut the arrow out," and then she fell back into red darkness.
Her eyes opening, someone helping her to sit. White bandages on her thigh, her hand. She saw whiteness out of the corner of her eye, bandages wrapping her shoulder. The pain was fierce. "Drink," Boromir's voice, his hand holding a cup to her lips. "Come love, it will help you to sleep."
She shook her head, but he was insistent, one hand on her back, the other tipping the liquid into her mouth, and she drank. Again, bitter, but sweet, and strong, like something foul that they had tried to make palatable by mixing in honey, and she thought she smelled chamomile.
"Lie back," he said, and she tried to take his hand in hers.
Her vision was strange, and she could make out only his shadow, blurry, but his scent was his own, and comforted her. "Don't go," she murmured, closing her eyes again.
"I am here," he said softly. "I shall be here when you wake."
She didn't know how much later it was, but thought maybe not too long, for Boromir still held her, and she felt his lips on her forehead. "Maggie," he said softly. "Will you wake now, please? Will you please wake now?"
She felt his hand in hers, and tried to squeeze it, turned her face towards the sound of his voice. Opening her mouth, she said "How long?" but no sound emerged.
He had seen, though, it seemed, for he answered, "Many hours, love," and she could hear joy in his tone. "Many hours, but are you with me now? How do you feel?"
After a moment, she managed to open her eyes, and saw him above her, blurry until she blinked a few times. "Like I've been hit by a truck and haven't slept in two weeks," she answered at last. "Where am I?"
"Near North Ithilien," he replied, "though not far enough from the Morannon for my liking. The battle is long over. Your wounds have been tended, and you were given something to make you sleep, but you have slept somewhat past what I was told you would, and I -" he smiled slightly. "I became concerned."
"How are - did we - are we all right?"
"The day is won," he said. "The Ringbearer succeeded, against all chance, and the day is won."
"Our people," she said, trying to sit up. "How did we fare?"
He pressed her gently back down. "Time enough for that when you feel a bit stronger," he said.
"No, now," she said, as insistently as she could.
He frowned. then replied, "Of the members of our Fellowship who rode with us, all are accounted for and live. Of your people, I have not a count of the wounded, and know not if any were killed. I know that your friend Michael yet lives, and he may be able to tell you more, but not before you have rested."
She nodded, subsiding somewhat. "Do you know if Chip's alive, or Gus?"
"I know not," he replied. "But I would have you rest more, if you can."
"Boromir," she said, "were you singing to me, just then?"
He looked at her quizzically. "Some hours ago, when Aragorn brought me to you."
She smiled. "It was a lovely song. You know more songs than you said."
"All for children," he replied, stroking her hair back from her face. "But rest now."
Frowning then, she said, "Aragorn?" remembering something, but not sure what.
He nodded. "'Twas Aragorn who stopped the blow that would have killed you, though how he got to you in time I know not, for all I saw him do it. I could not reach you, but he was closer." Boromir smiled then and said, "He moves quickly for an old man."
"An old man, eh?" Aragorn knelt beside them then, grinning. "How fares the patient?"
"Obstinate as usual," Boromir replied. "I tell her to rest, and she asks after you."
"A good sign," said Aragorn, and Boromir shot him an annoyed glance. "That she is obstinate, I mean," he said quickly. "I mean that she is herself, no longer in the waking sleep she seemed at first." He turned to Maggie then and said, "But Boromir is right, you should rest. And I expect you to do so."
"There, the healer has spoken," said Boromir as Aragorn departed. "You will do as he says, as all good patients do, if you follow not my commands."
"Boromir," she said softly, and he shook his head, smiling ruefully.
"Hush, love," he said, "I mean no ill."
"But you were right, and I was right," she said, struggling to drag her thoughts out of the mire of sleep. "You were right, but - I'm - I'm - "
"You are weary, Maggie," he said firmly, touching his finger to her lips. "Hush now, and rest."
A/N: Huge thanks to the lovely people who answered my plea for medical information - Lyllyn, Chris, Ithilwen, and lindorien were all wonderfully helpful. To the extent I got it right, it's thanks to them; to the extent I didn't, 'tis all on me. Lines spoken by the Mouth of Sauron and Gandalf are from ROTK: "The Black Gate Opens" and "The Field of Cormallen", respectively.
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Newegg has the Panasonic SC-HC05 iPod Compact Stereo System for $40 - 20% off with coupon code EMCXRXL34 = $32 with free shipping. Features internet radio control and Bluetooth. Normally $50 or more.
$50 Retail:
Part of the center section flips down to reveal a 30 pin dock (I was wondering why this was labeled an "ipod speaker" when it looked like just a bluetooth speaker, so I went to check out the pics on newegg)
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Use our Color Blocks for Melt & Pour to easily tint your soap projects without the worry of specks or having to deal with messy powders. Use these colors in any product that uses M&P soap - like solid sugar scrubs!
To achieve the color concentration in the image above use 4 grams of colorblock in 1 pound of clear M&P soap base.
INCI: Mica, Iron Oxide, Bismuth Chloride, Coconut Oil, Palm Oil, Safflower Oil, Glycerin (kosher, of vegetable origin), Purified Water, Sodium Hydroxide (saponifying agent), Sorbitol (moisturizer), Sorbitan oleate (emulsifier), Soy bean protein (conditioner)
Concentrated Color Block
Watch a quick video on how easy it is to use Color Blocks on the Soap Queen Blog
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Blog Archive
The Lakeside Blog springs forth from the creative mind of Michelle Bruck at the Interlaken Inn, Lakeville, CT. She writes about events, great places to visit and cool things to do – in and around Lakeville & Salisbury Connecticut.
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Yes, it is happening here at the Inn - the second floor bathrooms in our main building are history, gone, out of here! I walked through the "construction zone" today and through the dust you can see the just the basic structure of these bathrooms, anxiously awaiting the new granite-tiled shower units, granite-topped wood vanities, glass mosaic tiled walls - all done in warm beige tones. In two more weeks the renovation will be complete, quickly followed by a newly carpeted second floor hallway. The second floor will be hot, hot, hot! I hope you love the new look as much as I am excited to tell you about it! Oh, and no worries if you have plans to stay with us in the next couple of weeks - all of our outer buildings are all set for your arrival!
Life Discovery Series
Isn't it fun knowing about new things before the rest of the Interlaken world finds out about them? Keep reading to find out just another reason to visit us!
We are introducing the "Life Discovery Series", a 90 minute class to be held Saturdays with a different topic each week to give you the chance to learn something new. Always wanted to try Quilting? Claire can get you started with the basics. Love tea? Learn the difference between black, white and green from one of the Harney family members. Do you wish your dog had better manners? Virginia will give you some obedience techniques. These are just a few examples of the programs we will be hosting in just one month from today! If you plan on visiting the Interlaken for a little overnight getaway, check out the soon-to-be posted "Life Discovery Series" calendar and pick your date accordingly. Friday and Saturday night packages will also be available that will include admission to the class, so be sure to watch our package page for that as well. Our first weekend is February 25th – come join us as Brandon Scimeca teaches you how to cook Vegan!
Have you met Jade yet?
If you have visited us mid-week and have wandered into our Vineyard room to get your day started with our complimentary deluxe continental breakfast, then you have met Jade. Jade is the ever-smiling, ever-friendly young lady visiting us from Brazil that seems to get everyone's day started on the right foot. "Would you like an omelette?" is always Jade's question to you after her cheery "Good Morning!" Fresh eggs, fresh veggies, chopped meat – Jade will make it exactly how you want it. Here are what some Guests are saying about Jade and our mid-week complimentary continental breakfast:
- The Brazilian girl in the dining room was fantastic. So cheerful and kind
- We very much enjoyed our dinner, as well as the breakfast the day we left
- Breakfast was fantastic each morning
- Breakfast server was delightful
- Breakfasts were WONDERFUL – thank you for offering such healthy items and having such attentive wait-staff
- I thoroughly enjoyed the morning breakfast "specials," the homemade doughnuts and the ham nests!
- Good breakfast, too!
- Say hello to Jade, from Brazil. She was so gracious, polite and a pleasure to see each morning when I came to get my morning coffee
Hot off the SPA press!
Here are two new services that the ELLORA Spa & Sanctuary at Interlaken are now offering:
FOR EVERYONE - Harmony Massage. Combines flowing strokes with a concentration on acupressure points following Chinese meridian lines also working in our Swedish Massage..a nice combination of Eastern & Western styles..
FOR MEN - Men's Maintenance Treatment. A facial with exfoliating, steam ,massage, and mask with a scalp massage.
Have you had a service at ELLORA yet? Here's a recent comment from a very happy customer: The masseuse was fantastic, fabulous & truly one of the best we have ever had!!!!!! (I did not add all of those question marks, the Guest wrote them that way!)
Laura, the owner of ELLORA Spa & Sanctuary, is also putting together some special packages for Valentine's Day – check back for updates!
I would never have thought I would be saying that I like this particular scent, but in this particular case I am loving it. The scent is of freshly laid carpet, and the freshly laid carpet is right here in our main lobby, with plans in February to cover the second floor as well. Deep colors of rust and brown compliment the furnishings perfectly!
Come craft with me!
If you are a faithful blog reader then you know you have learned a little bit about me these past, oh my, about 2 1/2 years now? Shall I quiz you now?
My favorite drink? My favorite hobby? My favorite color? My favorite food?
I know many of you who do read my blog, but for those of you I don't know I would love to meet you! So, I have been toying with the idea of hosting a crafting weekend here at Interlaken! It can benefit both of us: you could get you away from it all doing your favorite hobby while I get the chance to meet and thank my faithful blog followers! Now, my favorite hobby is scrapbooking, but that doesn't mean you have to scrapbook to be a part of my crafting weekend – eight foot tables will be provided so you can do your favorite thing. You can knit, quilt, stamp, paint, cross stitch, sew – the choice is yours. I will provide my favorite food and drink of course, so if you don't know what they are already you'll find out then! Like I said, I am just toying with this idea and haven't even put a package together yet, but would absolutely love to know if any of you would be interested, so feel free to email me at email@example.com. I would plan this fun event in the colder months (late 2012, early 2013) because (if you read then you know) I love to be outdoors when the weather is warm! I hope to hear from you soon!
Skiing - finally!
It took a while to get the white stuff around here, but the mountains are all now all set and so are we with our new ski packages we are offering for 2012!
Ski & Stay - nearby! This overnight package with Mohawk Mountain includes ALL of the essentials for a ski getaway at a great rate.
Interlaken Inn is located just 15 minutes from Mohawk Mountain, and offers 85 gorgeous guestrooms and Townhouses. On-site Morgan's Restaurant (with lounge & fireplace!) and Ellora Spa, plus game room and more.
This package is available any day!
Package includes:
- Overnight accommodations at Interlaken Inn,
- Two All-Mountain lift tickets at Mohawk Mountain
- Ski rental packages for two people (either ski or snowboard)
- Group lessons (if needed or wanted!)
- Two vouchers valid for either lunch or dinner at Mohawk's base lodge or Pine Lodge (when open)
Ski & Stay at Butternut Package
About Buternut Basin - Quality snow coverage with miles of brilliant corduroy are why you come to Ski Butternut. They take pride in delivering just that and a quality experience day in and day out. The Mountain features: 22 DOWNHILL SKI TRAILS, 110 SKIABLE ACRES spread across a mountain that encompasses more than 430 acres. 10 SKI LIFTS (3 Quads, 1 Triple, 1 Double, 4 Carpets and a Poma), 350 member Instructional & Coaching staff - Many certified Professionals, 100% Snowmaking coverage, their own Ski & Snowboard Shop plus an 8-Lane TUBING CENTER. Come and experience BIG mountain skiing!
Package includes:
- Overnight deluxe accommodations at Interlaken Inn,
- Two full area lift tickets at Butternut Basin in nearby Great Barrington,
- Continental Breakfast for Two,
- 25% discount voucher for dinner at Morgan's Restaurant (valid for two people).
*You must stay any night from Sunday through Thursday night, and ski any day Monday through Friday.
Both packages are excellent values for all of you ski lovers! Both mountains are within 30 minutes of Interlaken and provide many different levels of skiing as well as different options. For example, Mohawk (who is celebrating their 65th season of SNOW MUCH FUN) offers night skiing while Butternut offers snow tubing. Check out their websites to find out which mountain is best for you and your family! Pick a package and hit the slopes!
Take a chance on us
You want to stay close to home, but escape for a weekend of romance. You want a distraction free location in the country. You want friendly and attentive staff to take care of your needs. You want an exceptional spa service. You want an amazing dinner you know your wife is going to love. Try Interlaken. Book one of our packages – like the Spa Retreat Package – and you will not be disappointed.
Join our Club!
Raise your hand if you love to eat great food. (Yup, my arm is up)
Raise your hand if you love to eat great food at a discounted price? (Yup, my arm is still up)
Raise your hand if you love to eat great food at a discounted price without any strings attached? (Arm is up higher this time!)
Let me introduce the new Morgan's Dining Club program!
Morgan's Dining Club offers an exceptional dining experience and exclusive discounts for club members. Club members enjoy:
- 25% Discount on dining in Morgan's
- Specal birthday and anniversary celebrations
- For group dining discounts for 10 or more people - please inquire!
- Complimentary upgrades on overnight stays and Getaway Packages.
You don't have to do much to be a club member. Just visit our website or stop in our restaurant to fill out a few things about your self and that's it – you are a club member and can start saving 25% on your entire Morgan's restaurant check for you and another Guest. And have you read the rave reviews about our restaurant Morgan's? Click here!
Package perfect!
To all those Guests that celebrated the arrival of the New Year with us, keep us in mind for the next celebration at the Interlaken – Valentine's Day! This celebration will be on a much smaller level than the big production of New Year's, but a celebration of LOVE nonetheless. Our Valentine's Day package is being offered Saturday, February 11th and includes the following:
A red rose for her, a cozy and romantic night away, plus a fabulous dinner and dancing to a three-piece band in our restaurant! Enjoy a special romantic getaway package for Valentine's Day, Saturday February 11th, 2012.
Package includes:
- Complete three-course dinner for 2
- Glass of house wine or cocktail for each of you
- A red rose for her
- Overnight accommodations for 2
- Breakfast for 2
Complete Valentine's Day Package is $259 per couple (total package is $317.98 per couple including tax and service charge). Please reserve a seating time in the restaurant! The trio will be playing from 6 - 9:00 pm.
Call us if you'd like to upgrade your guestroom (additional charge applies):
- $75 per night for Main Building King, Sunnyside King or Countryside King accommodations
- $150 per night for Townhouse Suites
- $175 per night for the Townhouse and Woodside Suites with Jacuzzis
Book early to reserve the most popular requested King bedded accommodations!
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Designed by Kassia Meador, this long jane is as stylish as it is functional. The jane is made from 100% Fiber Lite neoprene for ultimate stretch and comfort. Sealed seams (glued and blind stitched) keep the cold water from trickling into your suit. A Velcro and snap closure at the shoulder for convenience.
1yr warranty.


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Running an XPS15, 525m with Optimus on the latest R310 drivers with Bumblebee, no issues at all, runs perfectly fine.
That's what I would have preferred the Linux Foundation would have gone after but locking down a system is not illegal. Should it be? Probably. Is it though? Nope.In which case, there should be legal action...
Running an XPS15, 525m with Optimus on the latest R310 drivers with Bumblebee, no issues at all, runs perfectly fine.
Why do people care about what X/Y/Z company does? If it sucks don't use it!. The proprietary model sucks - the fact that you're using free software proves that you think it sucks too. If you're not a zealot then you must use it on technical merit - this proves that the free development model is better ( to you at least ) and this in turn makes you as big a zealot as me.
If you're not a zealot however you're just another pathetic consumer who is trolling phoronix looking for a typing fight in defence of your twisted views.... nobody cares!
your comment puts you in the consumer camp - but i suppose thats just how you (t)roll
I do use Apple stuff when it does the job that I need it to do, same with my using of linux, windows, bsd. If it doesn't work to my needs I don't use that technology for that task. Simple as that. I really could care less about the politics of any of them.really if the licence means nothing to you go use apple stuff
there is no shame in being a consumer - not everyone has an imagination!
just remember - you are using more computing power than sent man to the moon connected to the largest most complex network ever devised and you use it to do what? play cards on facebook? playing peekaboo on call of modern battlefield 4 ? run phoronix benchmarks ?


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Copyright ©2008-2013 Appigo, Inc. All rights reserved. Appigo, AccuFuel, and Todo are registered trademarks of Appigo, Inc. App names and app logos created by Appigo are trademarks of Appigo, Inc. Apple, the Apple logo, iPod, iTunes, Mac, and the Mac logo are trademarks of Apple Inc., registered in the U.S. and other countries. iPhone and iPad are trademarks of Apple Inc. App Store is a service mark of Apple Inc. GTD and Getting Things Done are registered trademarks of David Allen & Co. Appigo is not affilated or endorsed by David Allen & Co.


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Find the best Pressure Washing Equipment in South West as recommended by local South West people in thebestof South West's Pressure Washing Equipment directory.
Bristol, Gloucestershire
Best at hire is your online hire marketplace where you can hire anything online. We have a wide range of UK DIY tools and equipment available to hire from floor sanders to diggers and portable toilets. We cover the entire UK with UK wide delivery and collection available on most items. Browse our website today, compare prices and enquire direct.
Simon H said
I cannot believe the great value and massive range of products/services available to hire. Was absolutely astonished. Would recommend to anyone looking to hire a campervan for their holidays.


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. . . fast forward to now and ATi still lags quite a ways behind nVidia in the linux drivers usability department.
Phoronix is sort of a tabloid for linux enthusiasts. I have to give Michael props this time though, it seems he was actually right about Steam.
Just found this job opportunity on Valve's website:
Lead engineer and architect on ... (the) digital distribution platform called "Steam"Sorry if this was mentioned somewhere beforePort Windows-based games to the Linux platform.
Official word from steam on Linux Platform Support:
Lol, so here's the REAL official Valve statement, saying they have "no plans", while there's active Linux client development? Those two are completely opposing statements.There are no plans to create a native Linux Steam Client at this time.
Here Mike, let me fix that for you:
"Officially Valve States No Plans, But Contradictorily Hosts Linux Client Binaries"
Wherein you mention Valve's statement, along with the evidence of the Linux client, then ask why and give your speculations.
So why would they be hiding it? Companies are very good at making it known when they're doing something which can get them positive attention, they're very good at creating hype, and they are also very good at covering up mistakes, as companies usually have no honor. So why would they "leak" Linux Steam client binaries, be secretive about it but allow it to be known? The only reasons I can think of are:
- they don't feel the timing is right due to the Mac client hype
- they don't really care all that much about Linux
- they just forgot to update that page
- they're trying to use it to threaten Apple, Microsoft, or other companies to get better deals without directly attacking, just using fear to get better pricing on certain things


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Latest update : 2011-05-11
Syrian authorities try to control the Internet
Syrian authorities try to control the Internet to help silence the opposition movement. In the US, campaigning intensifies for the release of a soldier held captive by the Taliban. And the Wall Street Journal launches its own version of Wikileaks.
Syrian authorities try to control the Internet
A giant picture of President Bashar al-Assad torn up as crowds cheer on: this amateur footage appears to have been filmed on Saturday in Hama in central Syria. It is being broadcast on social networks where cyber activists have mobilized to share their accounts of the protest movement currently rocking the country.
The regime would like to deprive the opposition of this communication medium. But the authorities are not satisfied with simply censoring the web or cutting access to it. They are taking a leaf out of the protesters book and are going online to express their version of events. On Facebook, the Damascus News Network, which presents itself as a citizen journalist network, hails the army's intervention in Baniyas, saying it led to the arrests of terrorists in this hotbed of opposition rallies.
And cyber activists meanwhile are accusing the government of hacking in to the famous social network. According to this web user, the government swapped the Facebook security certificate with a fake one, allowing the authorities to steal passwords and obtain access to users' personal information.
And videos have been uploaded onto YouTube to discredit protesters and foreign media. These images are said to show the authorities seizing drugs which were allegedly distributed to citizens by journalists from Al-Jazeera, the bags are branded with the Al-Jazeera logo.
And the authorities have also set up robot accounts on Twitter, aimed at drowning out information shared by opposition members with links to pictures of Syrian landscapes.
Online mobilization to free Bowe Bergdahl
This poignant message was uploaded onto YouTube on Friday by Robert Bergdahl, the father of Bowe Bergdahl, an American soldier captured by the Taliban in Afghanistan in June 2009. He appeals to the Pakistani authorities to do everything they can to find his son who is thought to be held in tribal areas in the country, near to the Afghan border. The video has prompted a revival of online campaigning for his release.
And over the past few days message of support have poured onto this Facebook page, set up for the soldier. Close to 17 500 users have expressed their solidarity with Bowe via this group, and are encouraging his family to continue campaigning and not give up the fight.
And American veterans have also decided to join the battle for Bowe Bergdahl's release. On this forum, they say that with the death of Bin Laden, his life is now more in danger than ever before, and they are asking fellow citizens to send letters to their elected representatives urging them to take immediate action both for Bowe and all the other American prisoners of war held across the world.
And the prisoner's support network gets rare pieces of news about him from the web. Since his capture in 2009, the Taliban have released several videos featuring the soldier, like these ones, online. He appears weak, but the footage does give his family hope that he is still alive.
Wall Street Journal launches Wikileaks clone
The Wall Street Journal has released a Wikileaks clone on its web site called "Safe House". It is aimed at whistleblowing web users who want to anonymously upload sensitive documents. The system claims to be anonymous yet has already received criticism from experts who feel the terms of service do not guarantee contributors absolute confidentiality.
Google Business Photos
After taking and then publishing online, photos of roads and shop windows from all over the world with Google Maps, the American giant is now scheduling photo shoots inside shops, restaurants and other businesses that wish to take part, with Google Business Photos. On the Mountain View Company's blog, it says the new tool aims to showcase businesses to the rest of world, so they attract new customers and stand out from the competition.
Video of the day
In this video, Tim Knoll, a BMX champion from America, gives an amazing showcase of his sport. Each move is as original as the next and illustrates the talent and technique of this extreme athlete…


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15. Brave
We were all waiting, but no one knew for how long, or even what for. When people spoke, it was as if another language was hiding behind their words, one that no one could speak openly, a language of possibilities and death. And some people only wanted to speak, regardless of how many languages there truly were. I missed Beren and Laeron but I was trying not to think on them too much.
I had only seen the man from Rohan once or twice before he tilted his head towards me and said "I need to tell you something." His right leg had had to be taken off above the knee and now it was healing well, the bandages tied neatly at the place where his thigh ended.
"Yes. I need to tell you something." He had a lean, sun-tanned face and wide-set eyes, and he looked as though he could have been seventeen years old.
"All right." I did not know him and I was uneasy around him. I looked at him again and he could have been forty. I sat on the empty bed next to his. "How is your leg?" I asked mechanically.
"It hurts," he said, but there was no self-pity in his voice. I nodded. "And the part that's not there. That hurts the most."
"That's not uncommon."
"But I don't mind it."
"Because that way, sometimes I can trick myself into believing that everything is all right."
"Listen," he said.
He came from a tiny village in the Westfold (so small you might not even name it as a village, a Minas Tirith girl like you, he said), all who lived there knit tautly together by marriage or blood, by gossip and history. And it had been one of the first villages to fall to the Uruk raids. He was in his older brother's house, and he could not remember exactly—but there was the smell of smoke, the screams of women or horses, or both. There was no time for a plan of escape or of battle; there was no warning at all.
The brother was outside, but the brother's wife was inside with him and with their baby girl. And there was the noise and the smoke and someone had come rushing in, and then someone was thrusting the baby into his arms and shoving them both into the small cellar of the house. There was a terrible moment of quiet, and then a moment of begging and pleading, and then of screaming.
He huddled behind an old rotting barrel holding the child tightly, and he tried not to listen. He was afraid that her cries would give both of them away and so he tried to quiet her. In his mind he sent up a million exhortations to the spirits that the Rohirrim swear by, which seemed to be like the Valar but in different cloaks. And mostly he kept himself from listening and thinking and weeping by making silent extravagant promises to his brother-daughter (Is that your word, "niece"? he asked me. I don't like that. It's too short and there's no tale-telling to it, not like our words). He promised her that he would be her father from now on, that he would take her far away and that somehow she would never be unhappy. That somewhere he would find a plump, good-natured woman to cook for them both and to sing her songs. That she would have a soft bed to sleep in, and buttermilk and cream and sweet things every day. That he would always keep her out of the cold and the rain. He tried to quiet her and he rocked her and he made these promises so he would not hear the ways in which his brother and his brother's wife, and his mother and father and grandfather and sisters and their husbands and children all died.
He did not know how long it had been before it was quiet again. And even then he did not trust the quiet, and so he waited and waited until he could no longer bear it. Cradling the child in one arm he stood up, knees and back aching, and pushed up the cellar door. Where his brother's house had once stood there were only ashes and fragments, an overturned cooking pot and other things that he told himself were only different types of ashes. Where his village had once been there were only ruins and smoke. He walked very slowly and hoped that it was a dream. He called the names of the members of his family, and the names of his friends, and the names of everyone who had lived there, but no one answered him.
It was only then, he told me, so sick and half-crazed that I was, that I noticed that the child had not stirred in my arms. In the dark of the cellar I hadn't known it, but I was so desperate to quiet her to save us both that I had smothered her.
He dug a shallow grave with his hands, kneeling on the burnt ground, the ashes tearing his fingernails. He covered the girl with her swaddling-blanket and laid her in and then covered her up with the earth. He lay down on the ground and stared up at the sky, waiting either for the Uruks to return and put him to rest with his village, or for death to come and take him on its own. His mouth was dry and his lungs burned and he did not weep. He did not know how long he had lain there before a group of Riders, out on patrol and alarmed by the rising smoke, came to the place. They lifted him up and fed him and took him away, and soon he became one of their numbers; he could see nothing else that he could do.
"Now you," he said. "You talk."
"No," I said.
"Tell me something."
"All right," he said, and he rolled over so that his back was facing me.
I had nightmares, but in that I was hardly alone. A few of the women would take turns saying theirs out loud when there was a cluster of the girls gathered at their mending or their scrubbing, and some of the men would say theirs when they were huddled with their friends over a flask; perhaps so that the dreams would be spread thin among all of us and lose their power, so that we could all see how easily they might be pierced with a needle or smeared with a washrag in the light of day. There was sometimes a twisted easiness about the whole process, I thought, as if they were someone's aunts or older brothers telling us frightening tales for the good fun of it. A lark for a summer's night.
I did not share mine, of course. I probably could not have even if I had wanted to, because I would wake only in a dry panic, remembering only a dropping sensation, the flash of a dark wing or piece of cloth. And then the images would come back to me piecemeal throughout the day, at the sight of a pile of bloodied bandages, perhaps, the noise of a door creaking on its hinges. I won't tell you any of the dreams; they're not worth my time now, and certainly not worth yours.
I became short-tempered and nervous; many of the others began to avoid speaking with me. For several days, when I did not have any work to do, I would sit in the corners of rooms with my knees drawn up to my chest. Because of the dreams and my own hungry, gnawing fears, it was sometimes the closest to sleep that I could come.
"Little mouse," Ioreth once clucked, smiling over me with her warm wrinkled hand resting on top of my head. "Hiding away. Are you worried, poor dear?"
I nodded.
"Try and rest your mind a bit, then. Everything will be all a-right in the end, you'll see. I've seen many a thing you've not, I'll wager my purse and all my best herbs, so you should listen to me. You'll be with your mother and the boys and that young man of yours again soon enough, soon enough." Light chuck under my chin. "Little mouse," she repeated, and the hem of her skirts whispered against the floor as she walked away.
Lady Éowyn had been moved to the Warden's own rooms, which faced to the East. Every time I saw her she was staring out of the windows, arms folded across her chest. So absorbed was she with this watch-keeping that sometimes, after I came in with her meal, she would forget to dismiss me. On these occasions, instead of slipping quietly from the room, I would simply stand by the door and watch her as she gazed at the dim horizon, and I would wonder what she might have been thinking about. When she chanced to turn around and see me, there was neither anger nor surprise on her face, though she could have claimed a right to both. She would simply tilt her head to motion me out.
A few times she spoke, though her words seemed to be more for herself than for me. One day she might have murmured something like, "Two days since he rode hence." She was still facing the window.
"'He', my lady?"
She looked over her shoulder to consider me with a glance, much as one might briefly consider a housecat, and then stared out again. "The Lord Aragorn," she said. And Beren, I thought. And Laeron. And all the men.
There was a loveliness and a completeness to her sadness that I supposed at the time was the sole provenance of daughters of kings. I was only small and pale and anxious and useless, tripping over my own words; little mouse, indeed. I cleared my throat.
"My lady?"
"What was it like? When the Lord Aragorn came to the Houses and…"
"Healed me?"
I nodded. "Yes. And the Lord Faramir, and Master Meriadoc." It was much too forward, almost insolent of me, really, but I was beyond caring anymore.
She shrugged. "He summoned me," she said. "He called for me and I went to him."
One morning, Lady Éowyn and Lord Faramir could be seen strolling together in the gardens, speaking in low voices; and then the same the next day and the next, his dark head bent towards her fair one. Lord Faramir had been a quiet presence in the wards for the past several days, visiting with those of his rangers who lay wounded and conferring with the occasional councillor in his rooms. He must have known about Lord Denethor and the fire by that point—surely someone must have told him, unless a lie had been fashioned about his falling on the walls. But it was impossible to tell what he thought of it all, at least just by glimpsing him; he looked weary and careworn, of course, but then again, most us of did. I thought of Lord Denethor, whose wife had died many years before I was born—to me he had always been the widowed Steward—and I thought of Boromir, of whom none had heard. And now here was the last son, drifting through the gardens like the last lingering trace of that line.
"They look lovely together, don't they?" Elloth said of him and of Éowyn. We were at the edge of the southwest gardens and she was bracing herself against the trunk of a slender sapling. "Suppose they're falling in love? That would be nice." Keeping her grip, she leaned out and spun slowly around the tree in a dramatic fashion. She was loyal to me in her way; I suspected she would never have avoided me no matter how ill-tempered I became.
"I doubt it," I said flatly. "Though I suppose the match would be good for Rohan."
"Jealous, are you? He is quite handsome after all, and—"
"It's not that."
"Then what?"
"People can't—when things are like this, they can't fall in love. That only happens in those silly stories and songs."
"Hm." Elloth had taken off her cap and was adjusting her hair with one hand. "Suit yourself, I suppose. I always hoped to marry someone wonderful," she added.
"Really? I always hoped for someone dreadful."
She reached out and hit me with her cap. "You know what I mean."
"Of course," I said, and then I walked away.
Those last days were stagnant and slow and they ran into one another like raindrops on a window pane. My fingernails grew brittle, and it seemed to me that my bruises refused to heal properly—if anything they seemed even darker and uglier than before. There was still the ache in my ribs and my back, and my insides were still sore, as if my body had turned traitor on me.
"Eat," Fíriel said. At least once a day she would come to me with something in her hand, brown bread and some cheese wrapped in a cloth; some preserved fruit or dried meat. I would oblige her with a small bite or two before my stomach would turn and I could no longer swallow.
"It all tastes the same," I said to her.
"That doesn't mean you can't eat it," she replied.
"I'm not hungry."
She drew in a breath, pausing before she next spoke. "Try to eat something, anyway. Don't let it kill you like this."
"Don't let him kill you."
"It won't matter who kills me in the end, anyway, will it? I'll be dead all the same."
She tucked the bread back into the cloth and knotted it up, pressing it into my hand. Her palm lingered against mine. "What can I do to help you? What can I say?" So, this is it, I thought. I did not want to have this conversation at all.
"You can't work like this. You're a strong girl but you can't work like this."
I was quiet.
"Ask the Warden to take you off the rotations." I persisted in my silence and then she said, "If you don't, I will."
"What would your mother want for you?"
"Don't talk about my mother."
"Very well, then. There is only so much I can do for you, though."
"You've done enough. You don't need to do anything else."
"Valacar told me—"
"I hate him."
"I don't care—" she began, and there was an edge to her voice that I had never heard before. Then she shook her head and rubbed a hand over her eyes. "He said that you were in a very bad way, and I have to agree with him."
"It won't matter if I'm taken off the rotation."
"You could get some rest."
"I can't sleep, anyway."
"What do you want?"
"I don't know. I want things to be as they were before."
"As do we all."
"You have no idea."
Her mouth tightened. "More than you think," she replied. "Will you come to see the Warden with me?"
I shook my head. "You're not my mother, Fíriel."
"Clearly I'm not. But you need to trust me. You wouldn't do this to one of your patients. You'd not starve her or deprive her."
"It's not starving myself if I'm simply not hungry."
"That isn't the point! We could talk round in circles all day like this, and it wouldn't change a thing."
"I shouldn't be one of your problems."
"That's not the point, either. You're not a problem to me; I only want you to ask the Warden to take you off of the rotations. You've no need to tell him about what happened. Just say you're ill from working so hard. Say you've lost your appetite and you sleep poorly. It's all the truth; he'll understand."
"But isn't that the same for everyone, Fíriel? No one is eating as well as they should; no one is getting enough sleep."
"You know it's different for you." She paused and considered me. It had always been rather difficult to tell exactly what she was thinking, and now trying to do so would have been as fruitful as attempting to discern the thoughts of a stone wall. "And I don't think you know what's best for you, anymore," she said quietly.
"How can you say that?"
"If you don't speak to the Warden before tomorrow, I will." And then she was gone. I was still holding the cloth with the food she had given to me; I handed it to the first soldier I passed in the corridor and walked off before he could say a word. The truth was, I didn't want to speak to anyone, anymore. If I could have melted into the stone walls and disappeared, I probably would have.
During the first days after the evacuations, I had sometimes made a game of trying to imagine what my family doing, far away with the other refugees. My hands would be sticky with blood, and my eyes would be watering and my feet and wrists sore; but I would think of my brother and my cousin bickering over something silly and stomping away from each other, only to skulk back together an hour later. I would think of my mother humming absentmindedly to herself as she went through her belongings, or introducing herself to strangers and asking them interested questions, and I would feel better, because I could tell myself that they were the same through everything, after all of this.
It seemed strange that after all these years they should finally have a life apart from me and I from them; it seemed almost funny that they were somewhere else, spinning out a separate existence in which I had no part. But somehow, I could no longer think of them. I tried to imagine these small episodes, and my mind only became blank. Nor could I imagine the men who had marched away with the armies; they were simply gone, and anyway it mattered little. Had I been a superstitious girl, I might have taken this to mean beyond doubt that they were dead; but I was not. I only knew that something inside me had been cut away, that I was left with myself and nothing more.
Sometimes I was alarmed by every noise and movement around me, as if I were wearing my nerves on the outside of my skin. But sometimes I was only dimly aware of things, just as I thought only of that emptiness when I tried to imagine my mother and the boys. Everything was a vague grey haze, and voices were muffled, as if I were observing everything through a skein of linen bandages. I stopped speaking unless directly addressed, and sometimes not even then.
"You," someone said to me in the wards. "You, again." I turned around and it was the Rider who had told me the story.
"Will you tell me something?"
"Why aren't you afraid?"
"What makes you think I'm not?"
"I don't know. You don't look it. You look as if you don't care."
"I do."
"Are you brave?"
"You sound very sure."
"I'm just as afraid as everyone else. Probably more," I said sharply.
"But how do you know you're not brave?"
"Why do you care?"
He shrugged. "I'm tired of talking about the weather, I suppose. That's all anyone wants to talk to me about. And the lower circles, and how they're all crumbling to bits. It's not safe to be down there, I suppose."
"It's because they don't want to talk about the things that might happen."
"What do you think will happen?"
"I don't know."
"What did they tell you? There must be something. Some sort of plan."
"No. I don't know." Then I remembered the grey-haired captain, and I reached into my kit bag and drew out the knife he had given me. "They wanted to arm us all," I said, holding out the dagger in its sheath. "All of us, even the women."
The Rohan soldier took it from me and hefted it in its palm, as if testing the truth of my story. Up until now his face had been as blank as I guessed that mine had been, but now his mouth tightened just a little.
"Very little good it would do me, against—against them. That's what I tried to tell him, at least. The captain, that is, the captain who told me to keep it. But he wouldn't take it back."
The soldier held the knife out to me, handle facing me so that I could take it again. He was looking at me with something very much like pity.
"But it's not meant for them, you see," he said. "It's for you."
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.


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News/Special Offers
About ECM
July 26 , 2013
Reviews of the Week
The Guardian on the box set
Selected Signs
Music selected for the exhibition ECM A Cultural Archaeology at Haus der Kunst Munich
No prizes for guessing that a six-disc box-set in which Steve Reich, Jan Garbarek, CPE Bach, Norma Winstone, Arvo Pärt and dozens of others rub shoulders is an ECM production. This seven-hour compilation was made for a major Munich exhibition entitled ECM - A Cultural Archaeology, emphasising ECM music's links with other arts. So there are big roles for Georgian film-composer Andrey Dergachev's fusions of electronics, speech and whirring machinery, Greek theatre and film scorer Eleni Karaindrou's romantic orchestral pieces (with Garbarek's sax and Kim Kashkashian's viola among the solo instruments), and many other absorbing crossovers. But at least 30% of the set has clear jazz roots - from clarinetist Jimmy Giuffre's cool-bop Jesus Maria from 1961 with Paul Bley on piano, to John Surman and Barre Phillips' ferocious, synth-thundering Mountainscapes V from 1976, or the Old and New Dreams band's blues-steeped rendition of Lonely Woman. Five stars for mostly reissued music might seem generous, but the way this set has been assembled creates transporting new narratives - or meditations - from sequences that were never meant to coexist.
John Fordham, The Guardian
More US reactions to the recording of Morton Feldman's
Violin and Orchestra
by Carolin Widmann and the hr-Sinfonieorchester directed by Emilio Pomàrico
Morton Feldmans 1979 Violin and Orchestra this being the only major-label performance I know of engages on a couple of counts. Feldmans fans (oneself as an exemplar in dayglo) will recognize its composer near to instantly by way of the musics structure and sound. And they will also remark, again near to instantly, how differently the concerto unfolds as compared with Feldmans later largely chamber works.
The music opens with a thick-textured, short-lived squabble from which the violin emerges, muted to the very end, in a Feldmanesque chain of self-contained events. Differences with his later music have largely to do with dynamics and orchestral effects. The scoring includes (I take this from the annotator): quadruple and triple winds and brass, four percussionists, two harps, two pianos and a corresponding body of strings, which Feldman deploys sparingly. The musics timbral variety and assaultive fortes set the concerto well apart from the lucidity and calm of the long-duration music Feldman wrote to the time of his death in 1987. [...]
The fortes of an earlier work, Piano and Orchestra of 1975, put Violin and Orchestras extroversions in diminished context. The more mature his music, the more given over to subtler strategies. And yet, for those of us under Mortys spell, Violin and Orchestra, with the most excellent Carolin Widmann, violin, Emilio Pomàrico conducting the Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra provides a precious connection to the masterworks to follow.
Mike Silverton, La Folia
Its almost impossible to speak of musical progress in a piece like this; instead you drift from one set of sounds to another. Most of these are very soft, but they lodge themselves in an attentive listeners mind and substitute for memorable tnes or vivid clashes betwee the two forces. They are, if you will, the payoff for the listening expereince, which is why Feldmans music infuriates on casual listening but rewards a patient, trancelike absorption. The excellent performers here offer the chance for exactly that. Widmann, Pomàrico, and the Frankfurt Orchestra creep quietly yet precisely through the minefield that is Feldmans score. The result is remarkable for anyone willing to abandon him or herself into it.
David Feininger, Boston Sunday Globe
An Italian reaction to the music of Dobrinka Tabakova as recorded on
String Paths
Un viso da attrice, uno sguardo che cattura la scena, una musica che è qui e altrove. Dobrinka Tabakova nasce in Bulgaria nel 1980, studia alla Royal Academy of Music e si diploma in composizione al Kings College di Londra. Pubblica questanno, per la Ecm, String Paths: una raccolta di brani dal forte carattere e sapientemente costruiti quasi fossero porte scorrevoli tra lEuropa dellEst e lOvest nei quali il mestiere del compositore contemporaneo (non tradire se stesso ma neppure il pubblico) si fa trasparente e sensuale. Erede della grande lezione del Novecento, la Tabakova esplora nuove strade senza rinunciare alla melodia più golosa e vivace. Con spirito innovativo, e curiosità quasi archeologica, nella Suite in Old Style ispirata da Philippe Rameau.
Davide Lelmini, Varese News
by the Craig Taborn Trio is reviewed in British magazine Jazz Journal
Yes, yes and thrice yes. Thats one for each member of this trio and also three times for how emphatically this release will make my end of year list. For anyone who thinks justifiably in this reviewers opinion that the piano/bass/drums trio has reached saturation point in recorded terms this set is a reminder of how vital it can be. Throughout his career Taborns avoided the obvious.Comparing his work on this set with his playing in Farmers by Nature, a trio consisting of himself and Cleaver with bassist William Parker, reveals a multi-faceted musician. [...] This is not however the kind of set to appeal to those who take pleasure only in the reiteration of past glories, for the music has a contemporary air even while its an outcome of a rich heritage.
Nic Jones, Jazz Journal
US magazine Jazziz on Charles Lloyd and Jason Moran's duo recording
Hagar's Song
Saxophonist Charles Lloyd and pianist Jason Moran are generations apart in age but musically they might as well be brothers. You can hear each musician sparking the others creativity throughout this elegant duo session. All you need to know about the rapport between Lloyd and Moran can be found on their luminous rendition of the Beach Boys classic God Only Knows. Moran takes startling harmonic turns, his phrases floating out of time as Lloyd teases the melody it sounds like a version of the song youd hear in a dream. Then Moran suddenly settles in to a steady rhythm that echoes the original as Lloyd takes the familiar tune straight on. Its a perfomance that yields as much surprise as it does grace. That sense of each musician being willing to follow the other to unsuspected territory permeates the entire session. [...] Moran has been a member of Lloyds quartet since 2008. Regarded as one of the best modern pianists, Moran has the entire history of jazz at his fingertips. He sounds as natural playing stride phrases on a surprisingly jaunty version of Mood Indigo as he does playing rambling, dissonant figures on Lloyds Pictogram. Its hard to think of a lovelier musical dialogue than the one between Lloyd and Moran.
John Frederick Moore, Jazziz
German magazine Fono Forum on Lucian Ban and Mat Maneri's
Transylvanian Concert
Der aus Rumänien stammende Pianist Lucian Ban und der Bratscher Mat Maneri sind klassisch geschult, aber in improvisierter Musik unterwegs. Bei einem Konzert in Bans Heimatregion, deren Volksmusik Béla Bartók einst sammelte und erforschte, betören sie mit Kammermusik zwischen Komposition (zumeist von Ban) und Improvisation, die sich aus all diesen Quellen speist. Von besonderem Reiz: Maneris Version des Spirituals Nobody Knows The Trouble I've Seen' für Viola solo.
Berthold Klostermann, Fono Forum
A US reviewer on
Into the Woodwork
by the Steve Swallow Quintet
Steve Swallow has been making jazz fans sit up and take notice of the bass since 1960, the year he first met Carla Bley. Bley, as jazz fans know, is an esteemed keyboardist who has recorded with Swallow since 1978. You can hear the benefits of their long association on Into the Woodwork, a 12-song set of Swallow compositions that features Bley on organ, Chris Cheek on tenor sax, Steve Cardenas on guitar and Jorge Rossy on drums. All the players shine here on songs that feature some fine post-bop grooves and evoke pathos, and even some humor. Theres a little experimentation going on, but with a bassist like Swallow at the helm, the ensemble never loses its groove. From his days with the legendary horn player Eric Dolphy right down to this current recording, Swallow continues to command the kind of attention often denied to those unsung heroes of the rhythm section.
Jaime O'Neill, News And Review
Gary Peacock and Marilyn Crispell's duo recording
enchants a German reviewer
Welch zarte Melodie ('Waltz After David M'), gefolgt von einer markanteren, die sich aus einer mehrfachen Sequenz zusammensetzt (Lullaby'), sowie einer kleinen folkartigen (The Lea'). Diese Stücke stehen im Zentrum des Albums, an exponierter Stelle also, eingerahmt von abstrakteren Kompositionen, improvisierten Dialogen und je einer Solo-Piece für Klavier bzw. für Bass. Marilyn Crispell und Gary Peacock haben, jeder für sich, von expressivem Free Play zu verhalten lyrischen Ausdrucksformen des Improvisierens gefunden.
Berthold Klostermann, Fono Forum
US online magazine Jazzpolice on Chris Potter's
The Sirens
Saxophonist Chris Potter has a thick resume dating back to his first gig in 1989 with Red Rodney, including his selection as the youngest winner of the Danish Jazzpar Prize, releasing 19 albums as leader, and playing with such stars as Herbie Hancock, Pat Metheny, Jim Hall, Paul Motian, Ray Brown, John Scofield, Dave Douglas, Steve Swallow, Jason Moran, Steely Dan and the Mingus Big Band. He's led his own ensembles including the electrifying Underground and was a member of Dave Holland's famed Quintet and Big Band. Sirens is Potter's first effort as leader for ECM, and he spared nothing in securing sympathetic cohorts-Craig Taborn (piano), David Virelles (prepared piano, celeste and harmonium), Larry Grenadier (bass) and Eric Harland (drums).
The Sirens is an unusual project for Potter, a wordless song cycle inspired by Homer's The Odyssey. I came up with all the music in about two weeks, writing with a theme in mind, Potter explains. I'd re-read The Odyssey after many years and was inspired to write music with that epic, mythic mood in mind. The Odyssey is all about the big themes set in bold relief - romantic adventure and a return to home, temptation and identity, life and death things we all deal with today. The stories are ancient, but human emotions never change. All but one of the stories is from Potter; the final track is a free improvisation credited to the two pianists, Taborn and Virelles. [...]
There's plenty of fire to propel The Sirens, but here we are surrounded more by elegant tapestries and shifting textures than by hard edges. Hopefully, there will be more stories coming Potter and this exquisite collaboration.
Andrea Canter, Jazzpolice
England's Financial Times on Terje Rypdal's
Melodic Warrior
Theres nothing understated to guitarist Terje rypdals orchestral collaboration with the Hilliard Ensemble, recorded in concert in 2003, with the Bruckner Orchester Linz. Rypdals guitar takes the lead role as a mythological Native-American warrior flitting shadow-like through the landscape, the Hilliards provide narrative and the orchestra delivers thunder and calm. Rypdals writing, like his playing, is heavily referenced, but the ambitious piece hangs together well and the voices are lovely.
Mike Hobart, Financial Times
US jazz magazine Jazziz on
by the Tomasz Stanko New York Quartet
Trumpeter Tomasz Stanko splits his time between musical worlds. As one of Polands premier instrumentalists, hes led bands featuring some of the best improvisers in Europe. He also lives in New York City for part of the year, where hes built ensembles from the deep pool of talent available on this side of the pond. This two-disc offering captures this geographic duality its the leaders first recording with one his NYC bands, while simultaneously drawing inspiration in title and substance from the Polish poet Wislawa Szymborska.
Stanko remains a consistent if idiosyncratic musician. Hes said that he never stops playing the same song, and his sound is built upon a tableau of dark hues and cutting trumpet vocalisations. Here, those smoky sighs and trembling wails pierce his warm ballads and bop-noir themes as clearly as ever. But its the rhythm section that frames the music anew. The distinctive voices of pianist David Virelles, bassist Thomas Morgan and drummer Gerald Cleaver combine to create a reactive, stormy atmosphere for improvising.
Warren Allen, Jazziz
An Australian voice on
City Of Broken Dreams
by the Giovanni Guidi Trio
Some people still refer to Euro jazz with a sneer, the term infected with connotations of music that is insufficiently African-American. Of course, the argument is absurd; for 50 years jazz has been a language rather than a style, and surely the broader the use of that language, the better.
Enter a brave new voice on piano: young Italian Giovanni Guidi, a protege of brilliant trumpeter Enrico Rava. He has penned 12 pieces for which the word compositions seems too hard-edged. They are more like aural dreams enacted by his piano, Thomas Morgan's bass and the drums of Portugal's Joao Lobo. Guidi is a minimalist who likes merely to sketch his pieces at the piano and leave much of the colouring to Morgan. The bassist's extensive work with the late Paul Motian bequeathed him an almost unparalleled instinct for leaving space. This ability to phrase unexpectedly but tellingly is ideal for Guidi's material, and the sheer sonic mass of his bass grounds the fragility and flitting figures of the songs. Lobo, meanwhile, does not so much colour as shade, his sparse drumming forms the shadows behind Morgan's monstrous notes and Guidi's more delicate ones. One of Guidi's melodies, Leonie, borders on being too sweet, but even this is saved by Morgan's idiosyncratic placement of notes. A couple of pieces are sinewy and the rest more wistful, with four (including the title track) so beautiful they almost hurt.
John Shand, The Sydney Morning Herald


text: For the record, I have a reasonably good dedicated sound card and some reasonably good speakers. I like the sound they make together. I noticed the difference from my onboard sound and my previous speakers. However, I spend (too many) hours per day listening to (losslessly compressed) music and playing games, so it makes enough of a difference to me to be worth the extra money.