Namárië! Nai hiruvalyë Valimar
Nai elyë hiruva. Namárië!Swiftly Anduin bore away the boats of the Fellowship. They passed like fallen leaves, swept from sight. Galadriel lowered her hand and, as the song ended, she stood gazing out into the wide, grey lands beyond Lorien. Now shadow reaches out over all, and it may be that the only escape to Valinor henceforward will be through death.
Celeborn stepped up beside her, studying her face. He would not intrude on her thoughts, but it was possible he could discern them even thus, though he smiled. "We have drunk the cup of parting," he said, echoing her own words, "And my Lady bids me be not sad." He shook his head, his silver hair glinting like the surface of Anduin. "Even this impossibility I will accomplish for you. If you will do the same for me."
What a fool she had been to speak such words. Returned upon her, she tasted their heaviness. How can I not be sad, when I have given up even the faded remnant of my dreams? So sure I was that I would accomplish everything, yet if I return at all, it will be with nothing. Last and least of all my kin.
"You let the Ring go," Celeborn said, taking her hand, "I wondered if you would find the strength."
"You wondered? You didn't know? She pulled away, feeling ill-used and then angry. "You doubted me?"
He took a step back in mock fear, but there lurked in his eyes a look she had learned to associate with a certain Sindarin harshness in him. A look which would have sat well on the face of Oropher, or Thranduil. She braced herself. She had not married him for his fine manners, but, in part, for exactly this gift of pointing out the bald truth. Not a comfortable gift, but a valuable one.
"Since you exiled yourself for Feanor's gems," he said, "And could not resist Celebrimbor's Ring, though you knew it to be tainted, I had a right to be unsure."
Water murmured against the river bank, chuckling beneath the roots of the alders as Galadriel braided up her hair once more, her thoughts like a shadow over her. In truth, he saw more clearly than she would have liked. He always had. "You had a right to doubt, indeed," she said, "For now that it has gone beyond my reach, I wish I had accepted it. If I had, we would not now be waiting powerless, for the Enemy's wrath to fall on us like the sea."
The swan boat drew level with them, and leaping aboard he offered her his hand to help her in. As usual she disdained the petty courtesy and made her own way, light and quick as any wood elf. It made him laugh. "Nay," he said, "I am glad you did not take it. I should not have liked being wed to Morbereth, Dark Queen of the Earth."
She had turned to the prow, as was her wont when unobserved, but now she turned back, both horrified and amused. Would he never stop renaming her? "Do not jest so! It is in ill taste."
"I do not jest."
In Doriath there had been a softness to his beauty - the sheen of untried youth. That was gone now, and though he did not claim the title, he was kingly, stern and fair as Elwë himself. It was a hurt she would not think on, that he loved the lands of Middle Earth more than he loved her. That whether victory came, or not, these days were the last they would ever spend together. For he would not chose to go to Valinor with her, even were she to lower herself to plead.
If she had kept the Ring, that would have been the first of her choices she would have forced on him. But it would not have been the last.
She shuddered. "What would you have done, if I had taken it?"
His face darkened and he turned away. "Let us not speak of that."
The swan boat nudged the hythe gently, and silently they disembarked. She took his arm and walked by him, the foreknowledge of loss making even this small closeness precious to her. They climbed to the Great Hall, and looked out at the fume and heavy darkness which lay over Dol Guldur. Hidden beneath endless night, in the dark and spider-infested forest of Mirkwood, orcs were breeding, brooded over by the starved and deathless mind of the Nazgul Khamul, and the sleepless Eye of his master, Sauron.
"The shadow has grown," said Celeborn quietly. "We have little time to prepare before war is unleashed on us."
Galadriel's thoughts were with the Ringbearer, and beyond him, in Valinor. "Let us hope Frodo succeeds," she said, "Or before this year is out you, I and all our people will have gone West by the speediest route, and fire consumed every tree. Lorien will have become a place of wraiths and dread, like the Marshes of the Dead in the Land of Shadow."
Celeborn laughed again. "My lady is cheerful this afternoon."
She had drunk the cup of parting and given up, with her ambitions, all hopes founded in Middle Earth. But she smiled at her husband nevertheless. I will do the impossible for you, and grieve not. And I will see that this land, where we have been happy, is preserved. It will be as my farewell gift.
"One of us has to be," she said.
Oswy bent low over Fleetfoot's back, urging him on. The gelding's paces were ragged and his neck lathered. Ahead of Oswy his mother's great stallion still tore up the grass. Leofwyn did not look back, but held tight to five year old Gytha who sat before her, while in her pannier the baby wailed with fear. Behind him, Oshelm and Cyn galloped, turning in their saddles to vainly waste arrows on the vile creatures who followed.
No, not waste. Let us take as many of them as we can, if that's all we do before we die.
They were driven further from the Wolds - the last hill giving way to meadow. A long flat, empty plain in which there was no place to hide, no place even to stand and fight. Looking ahead, Oswy's heart seemed to still, so that he wished he could scream like the baby. On the right hand, Anduin lay, deep and impassible. On the left a wide barrenness rose up to the mountains, where even now the swiftest of the warg-riders were drawing level with Leofwyn's steed. And ahead - golden and drowsy with enchantment, like honey on a fly-trap - stood the first slender trees of the Sorcerous Wood.
"They are falling away!" Cyn shouted suddenly. "The host turns back towards Mirkwood."
"The main host turns away," Oshelm corrected grimly, the mask of his helmet gilded by faint sunlight, "But enough follow for our doom. Be ware!"
Fleetfoot's hooves thundered against turf. The scent of horse-sweat was heavy in the air, but a reek came from the orcs - the stench of old blood and ordure. Leofwyn's horse tossed his head and neighed loud at the smell, and in reply, the Wargs gave tongue, their howling piercing Oswy's chest with a terror he despised in himself. "Where are we going?" he shouted, "There is nowhere to go!"
"Under the trees!"
A black fletched arrow came humming, hornet like, to sting Fleetfoot's flank, leaving a long shallow cut. The horse turned toward the river, and Oswy wrestled his head round once more to face the Golden Wood. Leofwyn said nothing, but, dropping her reins, she unshipped the precious shield she carried and held it over the children, riding like an archer. She had a grim look, but would not waste time arguing.
"Better that we drown," Oswy exclaimed, horrified, "Let us cast ourselves in the river rather. It is less perilous!"
Oshelm drew level with him, the black steed seeming as contemptuous as its rider. "I will forget you said that, my son. At least among the trees there is cover to fight from. Cast off this despair and learn to be a man."
It is not despair, Oswy thought, shamed, Better to die as myself than face whatever dwimmorcraft dwells in there. But he bent lower and whispered to Fleetfoot nevertheless, and, finding fresh strength, the horse leapt forward in a final burst of speed.
Two outriders of the Warg pack changed course as if avoiding the slender silver birches which were the sentries of the Golden Wood. They turned straight into the path of Leofwyn, bounding towards her, their mouths aslaver, coming between her and the twilight beneath the trees. The orc upon the first leered and brought his scimitar down in a blow to her head, fast as a striking snake. But Leofwyn caught the blow on her shield, and drove the iron-shod rim into his face, before wheeling and falling back. Gytha, who had been screaming, ceased suddenly, her eyes wide, as Cyn spurred past Oswy and Oshelm both to cleave the orc in two.
Fell handed! Oswy thought, and for a moment he saw clearly the joy and glory in battle of which the bards sang. But Cyn had forgotten the Orc's steed. The huge wolf lunged forward, taking the throat out of Cyn's horse in one bite. Cyn was tossed hard onto the ground. Dazed, he scrambled to his feet even as the wolf raised its streaming mouth from the blood.
"Daddy!" shouted little Gytha, before Leofwyn put a hand over her mouth, bidding her not distract the warrior with noise. At once all doubt in Oswy's mind was burnt away by rage. He drove Fleetfoot straight at the creature, landing a blow to its neck with his long knife. It turned its teeth on him. He saw death, and froze, thoughtless with shock. Then it fell, Cyn's sword through its side, and the world returned to Oswy in a bewildering rush.
Oshelm was fighting the second, alone. This was no ordinary orc. Taller than Oshelm himself, its brutish form was heavy and its face almost man-like, if men could ever sink so low. Blades rang as it struck out and Oshelm parried, but at the same time the warg it rode growled deep in its throat and jumped, closing its huge maw around Oshelm's leg and dragging him from the saddle.
"Oshelm!" Cyn and Oswy cried together, rushing the creature. There was a blurred moment of confusion, before Oswy found himself looking down at the corpses with blood up to his wrists. Oshelm lay a little apart. He lifted his helmet off with shaking hands just as Oswy dismounted, running to his father's side.
The warg's teeth had severed the great vein in Oshelm's thigh. Oswy lifted his father's head into his lap and watched as the light went out of his eyes. "No." he said.
But Oshelm pressed the hilt of his sword into his son's palm and closed the fingers round it. "You are chief now. I... You did well. Farewell."
Cyn stood nearby, holding the reins of the riderless horses. His gaze was as empty as Oswy's. But Leofwyn, who had not dismounted, said "There will be time to mourn when the children are safe. You are chief now, Oswy. What do we do?"
He looked out on the orc force. Even now the two slower wargs were approaching and there were perhaps a score of the great man-like orcs behind them, running as fast as trotting horses. The rider of the closest warg unshipped a bow. Not even the black arrowhead gleamed in the sun. Oswy was afraid of the sorceries of the Golden Wood, but to stay was to die, and he was lord now, responsible for these lives.
He picked up his father's helmet and vaulted into the saddle. "Into the trees!"
Arrows followed Oswy as he galloped into the wood. The silver birches, which had been at first slender and widely spaced, grew together, hindering their flight. Now beech and ash began to appear, their boles like the grey pillars of an empty hall. Stands of chestnut looked strange to Oswy's plains-trained eye, as though the branches had been cut and cut again, until a once-single tree had become a nest of small shoots, perfect to snare the feet of horses.
Distances closed up, and the light dimmed to green. As they slowed, an unearthly silence fell about them. The very trees seemed watchful, thoughtful with some deep pondering beyond the thoughts of men. Behind him Cyn cried out, a harsh sound, suddenly muffled, and birds burst in answer into the sky.
On the borders, a wolf howled, its call breaking off into whining, and Oswy heard the harsh laughter of orcs. They were following.
A dread fell on him. Light shone in little golden flecks over his head, dancing in the new green leaves of spring, but shadow was all around him, and the sense of being watched was heavy on him. The grip of his father's sword felt slippery in his wet hands, and the helmet too large, and of a sudden all he desired was to weep. Why was his father not here? He would know what to do, and Oswy did not.
"Cyn?" he reined in, waiting for the young warrior to come beside him. When it did not happen he turned back, and saw his father's man slumped in the saddle, a black arrow lodged between his shoulders. He must have been hit in the last moment the enemy had them in sight. "Cyn?" Oswy rode back and touched the warrior's arm. Blearily, Cyn raised his head, trying to focus on Oswy's face.
"Not as bad... not... "
"Leofwyn!" Oswy called, but she was already there. She looked narrowly at the wound, laid a hand on Cyn's forehead and his throat.
"If we find somewhere safe, and if the arrow comes out clean, and soon, he may live."
Leaves rustled. The air tasted full of new growth and, as Oswy wondered what to do, the petals of white flowers fell softly about him from the hoar heads of a stand of ancient cherry trees. It felt as if the whole wood was mocking him.
"We'll climb up." he said, dismounting, "Sending the horses on. Perhaps they will follow them. But even if they don't, they can only climb one or two at a time, and you and I can take them together. Nor can the wargs reach us."
"That's well," she said, unbuckling the baby's closed basket from her saddle and handing it to him, "Into the cherries then. The scent of blossom may prevent them from smelling us."
Gytha had already scrambled down, her round face taut with held in tears, her lips pressed firmly together, silent in the face of her father's new battle. She reached up for a handhold, small hand closing on a broken branch, and "Daro!" called a voice at Oswy's shoulder, where he had known they were alone.
Gytha gave a startled cry. She fell to the ground and curled into a ball there, covering her hands with her face. Oswy spun, and saw, just beyond the reach of a sword, the moving light glimmer on an arrowhead like polished silver, aimed at the centre of his eye.
Behind the arrow the archer was little more than guessed shapes in shadow; tall, slender, hooded, and still. Even half glimpsed there was something uncanny about him - a presence, a press of will against Oswy's mind, a suggestion that the trees themselves leaned over to hearken as he spoke.
"Do off your weapons." The voice was musical but chill, ageless with arrogance, and laden with an accent Oswy could barely understand. He spoke slowly, as if unfamiliar with Westron, and that was good, for Oswy's knowledge of the language was also slight.
"I do not..." Anger woke in Oswy's heart. He was lord now - albeit lord of a sacked village, leader of children - but his father had given him this sword with his last strength and he was loath to easily part with it.
"Oswy, please!" Leofwyn knelt over Cyn protectively, and looked up with resignation. Mindful of her son's dignity she spoke in Rohirric so that the creature who watched their quarrel could at least not understand the words. "He could slay you where you stand. For your bondsman's sake do not anger him."
"He is but one!"
"And that is enough."
Oswy held her gaze for a while, wondering at how small a step it was to go from mother to councillor, but he could not endure the steady regard long. She was right. Sighing, he put the sword and his long knife down on the grass in front of the creature's feet.
"The Man's sword also."
Feeling utterly humiliated, Oswy tugged Cyn's blade from its scabbard and placed it with the rest. When he had done so, the archer stepped forward, pinning the weapons under one lightly shod foot. Sunlight filtered through the boughs of the ancient cherries and there was silence for a second, and then a clamour, very close, of orc voices, yelling in agony and fury. Slipping into dreams, Cyn cried out in answer, something of the pain in those screams calling to him. Already his brow was damp with sweat and his face sunken.
The creature - elf, it must be, Oswy thought - did not stir at the sounds. The stillness in it was like that of the trees. With another Man, even an enemy, Oswy would have begged for help, asked for succour for his wounded. But tales spoke chillingly of the mercy of the Golden Wood. Few were allowed in, and fewer returned, and of those none were unscathed; wrought strange by whatever power dwelt within. There was nothing the elves might bestow that it was good for a mortal man to receive.
But Gytha did not remember the tales. With a child's desperation and innocence she ran up to the elf and took two handfuls of his cloak, looking up beseechingly. "Please help us! Please help my daddy!"
The elf's aim had not once wavered from Oswy's face, but now the hooded head tilted, as if listening, and then he took the arrow from the string and replaced it in its quiver. He slung the bow on his back and crouched down, face to face with the little girl. "Boe adar lin dartha i Hîr a Hîril beth," (1) he said, and taking down his hood he showed a face fairer than that of mortal man, with long dark hair and eyes like starlit steel, "Be boe ammen." (2) But he smiled at the child as if she was a rare flower.
His expression was distantly kind as he turned back to Oswy. "I am Erethôn, march-warden of Lorien. You will come with me."
"And if I chose not to?" At the high-handed treatment, Oswy's anger flared again and he clenched his fists, thinking that perhaps he could yet fight the creature hand to hand. It was tall, but did not look sturdy. In the corner of his eye, he was aware of a change in the texture of the light - a swift falling of shadows too patterned to be the movement of leaves, and when next he looked three other elves stood in a circle around their small group, bows drawn.
"That choice is not yours," said Erethôn coldly, "The orcs who pursued you have been slain. Yet I deem you to have news the Lord and Lady must hear. Therefore you will come." He picked up Oswy's weapons and passed them to one of his silent companions. Then he whistled and all three horses trotted up to him as if they had been raised by him from foals.
"Come, Oswy," Leofwyn's voice broke into his feeling of betrayal and doom, "What cannot be cured must be endured. Help me set Cyn on Sceadu."
It was, by the angle of the sun, but an hour after noon, when Oswy looked back in the direction of the free fields of Rohan once more, and with a heavy heart bid them farewell. He did not imagine that he would ever see them again; not at least as a free man, in possession of his own spirit. He wondered once more whether it might not have been better had they thrown themselves into Anduin and so met a clean death, but for Cyn's sake, and for the sake of his daughter, he did not now try to attack the elf who lead them, knowing that while death might release him, it would leave the children all the more unprotected.
Even discounting their strange guide the path was disquieting. Oswy was used to the open plains, to sky overhead and views for miles. Here among the trees he felt hemmed in. There could be enemies on every side, waiting in ambush, and he could not see them. Ever and anon he would turn, expecting to see his father walking behind him, and the stab of realisation did not grow less each time.
The air was still, yet sometimes a breeze would come like a sinuous brook through the quiet, and bring the smell of flowers unknown to Man. Then the canopies of the trees would toss with a noise like the sea, and light would whirl dizzying over his head, and he felt more removed from the world at every step, haunted by the sweetness of days and places he had never seen; ages long ago gone to dust.
As their journey progressed the feeling waxed. The ache of grief was not forgotten, but it was hallowed and made splendid, as - in the hands of a great bard - even lamentation becomes a matter of glory. All things now seemed touched with awe and fear, and Oswy began to percieve each raindrop on the end of a twig as a diamond and each blade of grass as a new creation, each shade of green a new colour, each shape a thing of wonder. There was a power in all things, resting over the whole land like the golden light in Autumn just before a storm, and under that power all things were revealed as stainless and full of wonder. He caught himself wondering if perhaps this holyness which rested over all, was not infact the truth. The truth that underlay all. A truth that sometimes Men were simply too busy to notice.
The ground fell away into a thickly wooded combe, like a vast bowl. At its lip they paused, and Oswy looked out, seeing, far off, a mighty hill crowned with towering trees, silver barked, bannered and garlended with blossom radient as the sun. It was from them that the unearthly scent flowed, and at the sight of them he felt freed of something, as though the burden of sorrow and responsibility he had been carrying had been eased by other hands than his.
"What is it?" he said to himself, "What do I feel?"
Erethôn smiled again his small smile. His slender hand reached up to steady Cyn in the saddle. "You feel the power of the Lady of the Wood," he said.
And Oswy cursed. He had not, after all, reached some understanding of the nature of purity. He had merely been ensorcelled by the temptress in the centre of the web. Deeply ashamed, he bit his cheek until the blood ran, determined not to be so weak again.
At the bottom of the combe the travellers came suddenly out of the trees. Here was a broad meadow of green grasses, scattered with purple and white flowers. A golden afternoon lay upon it, and the air was full of the eagerness of springtime. It was yet some way to the paved road which encircled the great hill. As they drew near, Oswy saw that the hill was surrounded by a defensive wall of earth - it too sprinkled over with blooms - and the gate, which faced them, was tall and strong.
Erethôn knocked. The gate opened silently and closed silently after them.
Up the hill they climbed, along grassy paths and white stairs of paved stone. There were many folk about; tall, graceful elves with hair like shadow, or - rarely - a radiance of gold. Some regarded them solemnly, and some laughed like giddy youths and ran away. Many songs were on the air, and voices spoke above Oswy in the branches of the trees. Gytha took his hand, but her eyes were bright. Cyn seemed to revive a little and sat straighter in the saddle.
"Do they fly from tree to tree like birds?" Leofwyn asked, astonished, as curious faces looked down on her from the boughs.
"We walk, lady," said Erethôn, and his smile broadened, "We are light and the mellyrn are strong. But ai! To have wings. What joy that would be!" And he too burst into song. At the strange words and merry tune Oswy's mind filled with visions of clouds - the splash and spatter of diving into a sunlit cloud, and he found it hard not to smile himself, so strong was the delight.
On the crown of the hill there lay a green lawn. A fountain played there, all fire and crystal in the afternoon sunlight. With a pitcher of silver, a maiden was drawing water from the stream, her long braids of black hair swinging free.
"Here you must leave your injured fellow," Erethôn said, and waving a hand he summoned the maiden to him. They spoke a while, her face clouding at his words, then she sped away, swiftly as a startled deer, and he went to lift Cyn down.
"What are you going to do with him?" Oswy moved to his bondsman's side, forestalling the elf. He had been lulled by all this beauty, but now his suspicions awoke again.
"He cannot climb the mallorn," said Erethôn, his good humour disappearing. He nodded at the mightiest of trees, whose canopy shaded them all, and Oswy noticed for the first time the ladder that wound about it. Flimsy, it looked to him, and untrustworthy, like the whole land. If he bent his neck back he saw platforms in the branches on either side, or about the trunk, and, above them all, light and airy though it was, what was unmistakably a King's Hall, unbelievably high.
Dread smote him. Edoras was high enough, but it was at least built on solid stone. In the winds this place must move, must sway underfoot like the deck of a great ship. "I have to go up there?"
"You must, and he cannot. I have sent to the healers. They will attend him while the Lord and Lady question you. I think he cannot afford to await judgement. Come now." He took Cyn by the arm and waist and lifted the heavy man out of the saddle as lightly as if he were a stripling, laying him down on the grass on his stomach.
"How much do your healers know about Men?" Leofwyn asked, bluntly. Cyn had not cried out during the move, but his eyes were pinched shut and he was plainly still conscious. Little Gytha fled to his side and crouched there, telling him of what she had seen today, both her hands wrapped around one of his clenched fists.
"That I know not," Erethôn said, "We have not had many dealings with folk of other kinds, but there may be some among them who remember Men from the Last Alliance, or the War of Wrath."
"Then I will stay with him," she said, "For I am a healer among my own people, and however much your leeches know, I may be able to instruct them."
The elf frowned, his steel-grey eyes doubtful.
"I would not have him suffer and perhaps die among uncaring strangers," she said, a request in her face that softened her proud words.
"Very well," Erethôn sighed, "Yet I would rather that you, as the leader of your people, spoke for all. You risk much by entrusting the task to a child."
Oswy's fingers remembered the press of his father's hand, bequeathing him both sword and people at once, and anger boiled up in him at the creature's words. "Leofwyn is my councillor and my mother," he said, "But I am the Lord of this remnant. I am thirteen years old, and, by the reckoning of the Rohirrim, no longer a child. You would do well to remember that."
A look a little like contempt curled the elf's mouth, but he bowed, "My apologies, Hir-chên.(3) Then it is well. You must come, she may stay."
"Take Gytha?" Leofwyn whispered, "She should be spared watching me remove the arrow."
Oswy leaned close and said in the thickest dialect of Wold-rohirric he could muster "She has a chance yet of eluding the gaze of the Sorceress of the Wood. If you are all down here, then perhaps only I will be affected."
"Oh, my son," Leofwyn said, regretfully, "I wish I had never told you those tales. Oshelm was right; they take away your courage. What have we found here, except courtesy and aid? And the tales are old. Who knows how they may have changed in the telling." She rose and stood before him, and the lines around her eyes quirked a little in a smothered smile. "You are too stubborn and too proud to be ensorcelled by any witch, Oswy. Go now, and be our lord in truth. The valour of Bema go with you."
His heart was strengthened by her faith in him. He held out a hand to Gytha. "Come on little one. Let the leeches see to your daddy. He will be well. Why don't you come with me, and we'll go and see the White Lady of the Elves."
It was a weary climb, and the sun was dipping towards the Western edge of the world before Oswy stepped out into the Hall of the elves. He was briefly very glad of the green and silver walls which enclosed the oval chamber, before they billowed and he saw they were mere curtains and light screens. On one side they had been drawn back, and there was naught but air between himself and the setting sun. The sky seemed so close he might reach up and snag a handful of early stars. Indeed it looked as if someone had already done so, and then scattered them. Lamps of gold and silver were kindling among the treetops below. The wind was fresh, with a hint of snow off the mountains that mingled with the lively smell of the mallorn's yellow blooms. It smelled like adventure, and dangers borne with laughter. Oswy - who had feared for his spirit - was reassured by it. It seemed too bracing for enchantment.
He took firm hold of Gytha's sleeve to prevent her running to the edge, and made his way at Erethôn's command, through the crowd of other petitioners. Elves stepped aside for them, their frowns turning to wistful pleasure as they looked on Gytha. Oswy held her tighter and breathed in, straightening his back, determined that whatever happened next, he would honour his father by it.
Set against the bole of the tree - like a high-seat pillar - there were two slight chairs of ash wood. One was empty. In the other there sat not a Lady, but a great Lord. He was clad all in grey, as simply as his woodland archers, but unlike all the dark folk Oswy had yet seen, his long hair was silver as water in sunlight, bright and strange. He handed back a tally to his scribe, with some words of business, and then turned to look on Oswy. Oswy's breath failed as the grave and beautiful face lifted to study him. He saw...he did not know what he saw; the slow-growing life of a tree that had outlived mountains; a shadowed power and quietness that made the other elves look like children. A thousand ages of growth and thought, memory and tragedy, all sharply present and focused on him.
He had thought to find one kind of magic. He had found another. He did not know whether to be relieved or afraid.
"Lord Celeborn," Erethôn began, "This boy claims to be the leader of the refugees out of Rohan whom we rescued from orcs on the Southern border. His name is Oswy."
Awe could not prevent Oswy from bridling at that. Evidently Erethôn had yet to be convinced of Oswy's lordship, and it would not help Oswy's case to be caught gawping like a country boy at his first sight of the Golden Hall of Meduseld. He narrowed his eyes and stood tall. "I am Oswy, son of Oshelm, of the Wolds of Rohan. I and my folk entered your realm against our will, for we were outnumbered and pursued by orcs. My father, Oshelm, died nobly on your borders, defending us from the foe, and my bondsman, Cyn, was sorely wounded. I have with me also my mother, Leofwyn, my baby brother Scild, and the girl, Gytha, who is Cyn's child. No trespass was intended. We simply had no-where else to go."
The Lord Celeborn smiled slightly, "Waes thu hal, Oswy Oshelming," he said in flawless rohirric, "And be comforted. You stand accused of nothing worse than being in need. We do not grudge you that."
Then he spoke at some length to Erethôn and to another elf, whom Oswy thought might have been among the unspeaking elves who first captured him. Both bowed and left, though the silent one put down a bundle wrapped in green cloth before he departed.
"I have given orders that your father's body be carried to Caras Galadhon, so it may be accorded whatever honours your people find fit," the Lord said, turning his attention once more to Oswy, "And your wounded companion is even now being tended." He looked at Gytha, who had begun to yawn and rub a small, bloodstained hand across her eyes. That sweetening of expression Oswy had seen in all the elves when they looked on her was even more pronounced in him. "Let the child be taken to her father, that she may see him before she rests."
This order was not so much to Oswy's mind. He liked not to think of the little girl being escorted alone among these uncanny people. But his mistrust was eased by the way Gytha gratefully laid her head on the shoulder of the lady who came for her. Despite her first sight of orcs, a day of peril, and her father's wound, the little girl seemed happy here. He chose to take it as a good omen.
"I have sent Erethôn," the Lord continued, "To the remains of your settlement. There may yet be some others of your folk who survived."
The words brought back to Oswy the bright and hopeful morning in which he had awoken, and crawling out of his tent had seen on the horizon a line of black so dense and thick he could scarcely believe it was made up of living things. He heard again the screams as the torrent of orcs crashed over them all. "Lord, it was an army. I know not how we got out. But there will be no one else left."
Celeborn rose and walked to the edge of the flet. He balanced there and looked out into the sunset like one who wishes to burn away dark memories. "I have known the destruction of many cities. There is always something to salvage - a babe under an upturned basket, toddlers hidden in a haybarn, children fled to the woods, who perish later, abandoned to starvation. I will not let that happen to the kinsmen of my guest."
Oswy felt as if the tree beneath him had swayed and tipped him from his feet. What was this kindness? What had happened to the inhuman sorceries of the Golden Wood? "I do not understand," he said, "Why are you doing this?"
The elvish Lord gave him a look of puzzlement "How could I not?"
Returning, he threw himself down in his seat, and leaned forward, dark eyes intent. "Now tell me of this army of orcs. Can you give me an estimate of their number and kinds? Were they bound into Rohan, or towards Dol Guldur?"
"They were bound for Mirkwood," Oswy began. He spoke slowly as his thoughts righted themselves. Is there no Sorceress then? Is Leofwyn correct, and all the tales false? It was strangely reassuring to be standing like a proper leader of men in the middle of a council of war. "My estimate will be wild, but there were at least five thousand. I think many more - at least half of which were great, tall, man-like orcs. There seemed at least a thousand warg-riders, and wagons behind them. All of this in the daytime, when we thought we were safe."
Three tall elves had stepped forward when Oswy began to speak. They were clad in silver mail, and long white cloaks hung from their shoulders. Their hands rested on axes almost as tall as they. Celeborn looked up at each in turn. "You hear? Saruman has lent aid to his new Master, beyond the strength he has sent against Rohan. It will take them the night to reach Dol Guldur. Once there they must be mustered into companies under Khâmul's command. But it will be done swiftly ere the new orcs begin fighting the old. We can expect the first attack in little over two days."
Again, the chamber seemed to sway in Oswy's eyes and he gasped. "Saruman has sent forces against Rohan? I must go back. I must go home!"
"You cannot."
Whether the Lord read Oswy's confused feelings of vindication and betrayal on his face, or by somehow seeing into his heart, he did not know. But he had not finished reeling from the thought that he was forbidden ever to return to the world of Men - that the tales were true in that at least - before Lord Celeborn had frowned in irritation and elaborated. "You cannot go home," he said, "Because by the time your wounded man is healed, this country will be under siege. Like it or not, Oswy Oshelming, you will have to remain my guest until the paths of the world lie open once more. Or until defeat draws us down into death together."
Blood welled and stained the cloth between Leofwyn's fingers. She pressed down hard to stanch the flow, and one of the maidens at her side took hold of her hands and pulled them away. "Let the wound bleed a little, that it may be cleansed from orc filth."
They had removed Cyn to a white pavilion a short distance from the spring. He had been given a draught of skullcap and vervain, and slept - a limp weight beneath the healer's hands. Leofwyn removed the arrow under the watchful gaze of a slender lady named Aelinoth. It was one of the hardest things she had ever done. The arrowhead had lodged in Cyn's spine, and her hands had tried to tremble as she dug out the point, not knowing what worse damage she was inflicting on him.
Even now they shook, and she was ashamed of her weakness, but she needed to tend the wounded man - to take the next necessary action, to keep thought away for yet another moment, so that she need not remember that she had not had time even to say farewell to her husband. "It will weaken him too greatly," she said, proud of her steady voice.
Aelinoth returned, bearing a basin of steaming water in which many herbs floated. She bathed the wound with a healer's dispassionate tenderness and smiled. Her eyes were dark as dawn, and as full of mysteries. "Less so than the fever which will come if the foulness is not washed out," she said, "Have you not dealt with orc-arrows before?"
"I have not," Leofwyn admitted. Feeling alone and rather insignificant amongst these fair, capable people, she stared at the fresh green grass that carpeted the healer's tent.
"Nor have I dealt with Men before," Aelinoth offered gently. Reaching out, the elf-lady touched Leofwyn's sleeve in a brief gesture of comfort. Leofwyn saw that the hands of woman and elf were alike stained with the badge of a shared craft; the blood of the man they worked to heal. "So I will heed your wisdom," Aelinoth said, "And bind the wound sooner than I would with our own folk."
"That is well," looking up, Leofwyn found herself almost undone by the look of kindness on the elf-woman's face. I am among friends she thought briefly, and at the illusion of safety, a great cry of grief threatened to break free from her. But she would not let it. Despite her reassurances to Oswy, she was not yet sure if she could afford to be weak in front of these people. "I would have him clean and bound before his daughter returns. Let the child see him resting well and she will sleep the better herself."
With astonishing strength for one so lithe, the maiden lifted Cyn's shoulders. Leofwyn took a clean cloth and pressed it once more to Cyn's back while Aelinoth swiftly, deftly bandaged the wound. Then between them they laid the unconscious man down on a mattress stuffed with yarrow and green plants, where his every movement would crush the herbs against him, and brighten the air with their scent.
There was no more to do. Whether he lived or died was no longer in her hands. Standing up, a great emptiness of purpose came over her, and she knew not whether she wanted to weep, or to sleep like Cyn and not to wake until the world was made new. But such luxuries were not permitted to mothers like herself. She still had the babe to clean and feed. Looking about her for the baby's basket, she shook her hands, and the red blood dripped onto the green grass, the colours glowing together, like embers in the growing dark.
Baby Scild had not cried this long time. Leofwyn turned from one worry to the next - surely he should be bawling by now? And where was the basket? Fear pierced her like an arrow, ebbed when she saw it, and rose to panic when she looked inside and found it empty. All the tales about the Golden Wood swarmed about her head - was it not well known that the elves stole human babes for some vile purpose of their own? Now the looks of enchantment she had seen on their faces as they gazed on Gytha took on a more sinister cast. "Aelinoth," she demanded, voice tight in her throat, "Where is my child?"
"Rian took him," Aelinoth said, her brow creased, "To play in the fountain. You were busy. He needed distraction. Was this not right?"
"You took a ten month old to play in a fountain?!"
"Rian is with him," Aelinoth repeated, softly, and her eyes held no understanding of why Leofwyn was suddenly so furious. It was as well the border guard had taken their weapons, Leofwyn thought, her hands clenching, or more blood than Cyn's would be shed here tonight. But then the elf-woman's face eased, and she smiled over Leofwyn's shoulder. "See, they return."
It was a beautiful picture. Rian was one of the few fair-haired elves, and her loose locks were the same pale wheat as Scild's baby curls. He lay smiling in her arms, playing with the trailing silver-embroidered cuff which wrapped around him. She smiled too, a look of such tenderness it made Leofwyn's blood boil. Sprinting the short distance between them, Leofwyn reached out for her child, and Rian recoiled, clear eyes narrowing. "You are all blood."
"Give me my baby."
"Should you not wash first?" Leofwyn was beyond reckoning what anxiety passed over the elf's face, beyond weighing up whether she was trapped in some tragic tale, or just confronted with an over helpful maid who knew nothing of humans. She might have come to blows, but that a voice, deep and musical spoke behind her:
"Rian, would you play with a bear cub in front of its den? Give the child back to his mother."
"Lady Galadriel!" Rian's eyes widened, and gently, but promptly, she handed Scild back to Leofwyn, who held him close, her racing heart slowing as she felt the warm curve of his cheek against hers.
One moment, she gave herself to recover, and then she turned to face her rescuer; Galadriel, the Sorceress of the Wood.
Tales had not exaggerated the beauty of the Lady Galadriel. But it seemed to Leofwyn that it was a beauty like that of the mountains or the sky. An innocent beauty. If it smote the hearts of men it would do so as dawn over the trees, as a fair sunrise over a free land. Unattainable, unless a man might possess the light itself. Her golden hair, shining as it was, was simply braided, and her white dress was modest, without ornament but for a girdle wrought of silver leaves. Her gaze was heavy on Leofwyn's face, the gaze not of a witch, but of a Queen, patient and kind.
"Welcome, Leofwyn daughter of Leofgar," she said, and smiled gently. "And forgive Rian her concern for your son. The love of children is strong with us, yet year by year we have fewer to care for. If we are over eager to tend yours it is because we remember our own, grown and gone these several thousand years. It will not happen again, unless by your word."
"I thank you," Leofwyn said, relief and too much loss stopping her mouth. She did not want to feel sympathy, or to see before her the darkness of an unending life barren as the rocks. She had problems enough of her own. Feeling rustic and inadequate would not do. She also was a Lady, and a leader of men. "Our debt to you cannot be counted or repaid," she said formally. "Where we looked to find peril we have found friendship beyond expectation."
Then she frowned, because, softly treading out of the gathering gloom came an elf-woman with Gytha in her arms. The child's small hands were locked around the maid's white neck and the grubby blonde head lay on a smooth shoulder, fast asleep.
"Oft it is so," said Galadriel, and Leofwyn wondered if she struggled not to look at the little girl, "For many and strange are the chances of the world, and not all appearances disclose the truth, as we have learned to our cost." Then, stepping forward, she caught Leofwyn's eyes and held them. Fear settled on Leofwyn like snow. Was some spell, after all, being laid upon her? Was this the point where she would forget who she was, only to wake on the edge of the wood, childless? Exposed before the elf-Lady's penetrating gaze, she fought the influence breathlessly, wrenched her face aside.
The Lady smiled at her once more. "Be at peace, Leofwyn," she said, sympathetically, "And do not speak of debt. The chance guest can be the most welcome. No harm will come to you or yours here. I swear it."
Placed beside her father, Gytha woke only long enough to snuggle into his side. Cyn's drugged sleep must have been lightening. Unconsciously he brought his arm around his daughter and laid his hand on her head. A small triumph at the end of a day of disaster. Forcing the tears away, Leofwyn spread the cover over them both.
Evening painted all things with blue shadow. Lights were kindled in the trees, and some of the lady's maidens had brought lamps to set on stands throughout the large healer's pavilion. Looking at it now, Leofwyn saw it could not have been set up entirely for Cyn's benefit - there was space for a hundred wounded men. Others of the handmaids had brought linen and herbs. They moved purposefully, stacking their burdens, lighting small braziers of charcoal to prepare remedies, singing softly over the medicines. This was a war hospital, being assembled with quiet efficiency around her.
At that moment Oswy returned, clutching a green-wrapped bundle from which the hilts of their two swords protruded. "Mother!" he cried, his face lightening at the sight of her, "I...oh!" Like a shying horse he stopped and gaped at the Lady of the Wood. Leofwyn wondered if she would have to strike or rebuke him, but after a second he closed his mouth and essayed a small bow, and a painfully correct "My Lady."
The sadness left the Lady Galadriel's eyes, and though she returned the bow with grave courtesy, Leofwyn could see, woman to woman, that she was both charmed and amused. "Greetings Oswy Oshelming," she said, her voice warm, "In this place you may lay down for a while the burden for which you were not prepared. Perhaps we will speak again another day, but for now, go. Find rest."
Oswy blushed furiously red up to the roots of his oak-brown hair, and Leofwyn felt another pang. Even if the Lady and her land were as wholly innocent as they seemed, might he not still lose his heart to her and be hurt, even in the midst of all his grief?
Stepping out of the faint moonlight of the glade beneath the great mallorn, came a tall elf, grey and silver as the dusk. He drew the Lady aside, and they spoke together in low voices, the beauty of the elvish language full of tension and warning. Then, in an ageworn gesture of tenderness, the Lady laid her hand in the hand of this twilight Lord. They turned away together.
Servants came and lead Oswy and Leofwyn to a small tent further under the cover of the wood, where they found hot water waiting for them, a change of clothes, and food on wooden dishes; roughly served but finer than anything they had eaten even in Meduseld. They ate and washed in relay, one of them with Cyn at all times. Then Leofwyn moved their bedding into the Healer's pavilion, on either side of the mattress where the injured man and his daughter lay. She said nothing of her thoughts to Oswy, but took one of the swords from the bundle, just in case. If elf or elf-maiden came to take the children while she slept, they would feel her steel.
Stars shone among the branches, and the thin wind hissed in the litter of golden leaves outside, scattering them into the pavilion, over the sleepers and the sweet grass and clover on which Leofwyn lay, but the elves had provided them with many warm furs and blankets, and she curled up thankfully, trying not to think of Oshelm.
"So that is the Sorceress of the Golden Wood," said Oswy thoughtfully beside her, "She is not what I expected."
It did not, Leofwyn thought, sound like the excited praise of lovestruck youth. Somewhat relieved, she said "Oh?"
"I didn't think the Sorceress would be a wife."
Leofwyn turned over, leaves rustling and crackling beneath her. She thought of the two stately figures walking away hand in hand; the Lady saying she had grown up children. A wife and mother she thought, a little amazed herself, It's true the tales never mention that. But then bards rarely did think of such things as important.
The ground smelled of rain and growth, and the movement of the small wind was soothing in her hair. Scild was all knees and elbows at her side, his baby-snore a comfortable sound. "I think your virtue is safe enough," she said wryly, "Indeed I think little of this land is what we expected. Have you seen that they are preparing for war?"
"The orcs who overran us are coming against them," Oswy said drowsily, "We cannot leave until they are defeated."
She wondered how he could be so close to sleep, after the nightmare of this morning, but was glad of it. "We must see what we can do to help," she said, "I like not being in their debt."
"Hm..." said Oswy, and dozed off. She marvelled at him for a moment, listening to his quiet breathing. Then the sigh of the trees, the voice of the distant stream and the gentle songs of the Healers, at work into the night, lulled her. Her grief was set aside and her suspicions stilled. She slept.
Erethon felt it as soon as he set foot outside the borders of Lothlorien. It was as though the bright stars sickened and the sky lowered, threatening. Looking up he saw indeed how grey vapour curled above the darkened trees of Eryn Fuin, lit from beneath by the never quenched furnaces of Dol Guldur. Even over the long miles of tumbled hills between Lorien and the Wolds of Rohan the night air spoke of mortality and decay.
In Lorien the grass and trees, the stones and water, were singing with the voices elves had given them - a song that had remained unchanged since the before the first sunrise. But here the refrain was of Men - brief, swiftly grasped, soon gone - and Erethon felt out of key with the melody of the world.
He spoke softly to the two horses who accompanied him. They did not seem to mind the change of air and were tossing their heads, delighted with the space and the chance to run. Leaping onto the back of the grey, Erethon let them have their wish, leaning close to the pale mane as they galloped together through the weary moonlight. Though he had strung his bow and kept it in hand he sensed nothing ill near him. Nor did he catch sight or sound of any good beast, whether horse or herd of Rohan, or white owl hunting. The hills seemed scoured and silent, and Ithil's pallid glow shone on a great emptiness. Only the grass whispered as the cold wind hissed over the turf.
The night hours passed, and in the East the sky became as bone. He smelled the chill freshness of dew, but over it and through it, discordant as voices shrieking, the scents of cold ash and spilled gore, of ordure and orcs. The feel of the din-horde was greasy over the green pastures, like a spill of tar. Dawn showed him a thin trail of smoke against a citrine sky, and rags of tents, and bodies of both men and orcs littered like strange leaves over the sward.
A mile later, and the scent came to the horses. He felt them balk, and, pitying them, dismounted, bidding them to remain within calling distance. So it was that he came to the ruin of the people of Oshelm on foot, and trod lightly over ground torn and muddied with blood. The first corpse of Man he came seemed at first a rock - it was the wrong shape for anything living, and rust brown as the earth. But then he saw that the legs had been cleaved through and lay a little apart. One arm was outstretched and the other severed. The blond hair was dark with foulness, but the eyes were open. At the sight of them Erethon felt di-nguruthos; overwhelmed by the dread and horror of death.
Where had the light gone out of those dead eyes? Not to Mandos, not to any place that elves understood. It had gone utterly beyond the world. An unnatural and uncanny fate that made his skin creep over his bones.
He could not force himself to go closer, but edged around the thing to check the next, and the next, the horror mounting as he found maidens disembowelled, beheaded infants, trampled babes. His chest began to hurt with the fear of it, the pain and the waste, and he wished he could sing for them, but he knew none of the sagas of Rohan. At last, when it became unbearable, he found himself chanting the Lay of Leithian. At least Luthien of all elves had travelled where mortals go in death, and returned, and been not afraid.
The words strengthened him, and as the light broadened and clouds rode up the morning from the North, his voice also swelled, filling the emptiness with a tale of victory beyond the grave. He let the final words linger on his tongue before hope gave place to silence once more.
"Please...someone."
There was a tumbled tent nearby, a swathe of half-burnt canvas over a lump that moved. He dashed to it, caught the corner and flung the material aside. And then recoiled. There lay a boy little older than Oswy. His hair was copper-bright and his face all freckles. Red rimmed, narrowed eyes sought Erethon's face with desperation. His bared teeth ground together with pain. A long knife lay beside him, and with both hands he was holding his own entrails where they spilled from a ragged wound in his belly. Tears leaked from the corner of his eyes. "I'm thirsty."
Erethon unslung his water bag and cradling the boy's head gave him to drink, carefully. The child's skin was clammy and cold, his sweat soaked hair like river weeds against Erethon's shoulder. He could feel in the very air the boy breathed out the taint of death, inescapable. But not quick. He would linger in torment first, some days.
"Have you ...come to help me?" The boy gasped, and water ran over his hands from the rent tatters of his guts.
Put him on a horse and he would die more swiftly and in greater pain. Even if Erethon could construct a litter, he would but die in it before they reached the wood. So this is the mercy I was sent to bring, Erethon thought, bowing to the necessity of it. "Yes," he said.
"What are you?"
Erethon stepped back and took an arrow from his quiver. "I am a follower of Lord Tauron," he said, truthfully enough, "Whom you call Bema. And there is only one thing left that I can do for you." He nocked the arrow and drew.
The boy's eyes widened. Then he nodded, pressing his mouth closed to stop the lip from trembling. He closed his eyes, and Erethon shot him cleanly through the forehead, turning away so he did not have to watch as the spirit fled.
"Ai!" he said to the silent hills, "Ai, Elbereth!" He covered his face with his hands and stood as one stunned.
How long he was still, he knew not, but the sun was lowering when he stirred again. Now he made one last circuit to be sure he had not overlooked any other survivor, and when that was done he hardened himself to pick up the bodies and place them on a pyre made from the peat they had cut for their fires and the poles of their tents.
Once the blaze was lit he went over the ground again and gathered every discarded weapon he could find. Lorien would need these gleaned arrows. The smiths could melt and reforge the orc scimitars. Even the eating-knives of dead children could be turned to a new purpose in the defence of Erethon's land. Let Rohan contribute these things it no longer needed. No other help would come to Lorien from the old alliances or the hands of Men.
Not even death would they give us, if our positions were reversed, he thought, and recognized the bitterness that came with too much grief.
At last he whistled for the horses, grateful for the pleasure drawn in every line of them - their day had clearly been to their liking. Dividing the weapons into four piles, Erethon fashioned large bags from the tent canvas and slung them over the horses' willing backs, careful to lade the weight evenly, and pack the sacks as smooth as he might. "We will go slower on the return," he said, giving each an apple, "Come, my friends, let us go home."
They walked through a grey evening. The lowering clouds set in and a fine drizzle swept out of the west, smelling of smoke and iron. Night came without stars.
Far off, a wolf voice cried and its pack answered in clamour. Erethon had been looking about for a place to camp, so that the horses could rest, but now his heart fell, and a sense of doom assailed him. Red were the tongues of fire in Eryn Fuin.
The horses' ears laid back, and their eyes showed white in the darkness.
"We must not linger here," Erethon told them, and ran. They kept pace, trotting beside him, the sacks of weapons slapping against their flanks.
Thus the night passed, and he saw nothing, but the sense of threat grew.
Morning dawned grudgingly, little more than a lightening of the heavy black cloud, except over Lorien. Barely more than a league away, and surrounded by drabness, the golden wood lay under a sky of rain-washed blue, the very rightness of it refreshing him more than rest or food. Yet his back ached with tension, expecting a blow, and his breath came hard, so fierce was the warning on him.
One moment he looked back to the long drab plains and the darkness that was Mirkwood. The shadow moved and boiled, and a great army of orcs came pouring forth from beneath the twisted branches. Harsh voices yammered, whips cracked, and a score of great wagons crawled forward. Wargs and warg riders howled about them, bearing black banners that hung heavily, as though they were already soaked in gore.
As they approached Anduin the orcs caught sight of Erethon watching them. A great laughter and cursing went up. Then they began to throw down the sections of what they had brought in the wagons - great pontoons. They were bridging the river.
Erethon leapt on a horse and set his heels to its flanks. They thundered across the last miles and drew up blown and panting only when Erethon's fellow guards dropped out of the trees to intercept him. He threw the sacks of weapons on the ground and caught hold of the fastest runner in his company.
"Tell the Lord: They are coming. And there are many of them."
The tree shuddered beneath him as orcs hewed it. Erethon shot his last arrow through their leader's eye, unsheathed his knives and ran, squirrel like, along the bough, to leap into a beech further inside Lorien's borders. At once the din-horde pursued him; their battle lines turned ragged by the cramped spaces, until they were no more an army, just a large number of orcs, each one walking in solitude. Two passed below him, quarrelling in their filthy voices. He leapt down, cut their throats, and was hidden in the trees once more before their shrieking could bring reinforcements.
Around him, he was aware of his company, flitting through the trees like silent shadows - dropping down to kill, disappearing again before they alike could be threatened. Already the orcs were in a fury with frustration and fear. No match for elves in a wood.
Erethon worked his way back to the borders, pulling the arrows from orc corpses while here and there, invisible in the leaves, an elf-voice would call out over the clamour and the tide of attackers would turn, making a futile search for the singer.
When his quiver was full and his belt could hold no more he turned back, just in time to hear a roar go up and a yell of orcish laughter. Before him one of the cherry-trees caught in flames, blossom flying up like sparks, but it was not the tree's destruction that pleased the orcs so well. They had dragged an elf from the burning canopy. He, doused in oil, burnt also, to the orcs great amusement.
"Ithildir!" Erethon cried, and, forgetting caution, he raced to his fellow's aid. Others of his company were doing the same and a great number of orcs came pouring out of the woods, attracted by the noise. It was pitched battle then, all tactics forgotten as he shot shaft after shaft. He carved a path to Ithildir's side and flung his cloak around the young archer. Relief touched him briefly when he knew the elfling would live, but he could not help realizing how dearly bought this victory was. Already he was once more without arrows, and the orcs had regrouped and surrounded him.
His company harried them, but the orcs had now learned better than to follow the taunting voices. They kept together, a great pack of swarthy Mordor orcs, with here and there the pallid, cats-eyed, Moria goblins among them.
Setting his back to a tree, the swathed form of Ithildir at his feet, Erethon laughed and gave himself over to the joy of battle as they came at him. His long knives were wet, his hands sticky, his arms black up to the elbow. Orcs fell as his company fired on them from the treetops, but there were simply not enough elves or enough arrows.
Just when he had opened his mouth to begin singing his death-song, a horn sounded from beyond Nimrodel and there came running, like a host of the Elder days, many Galadhrim in armour, lead by a warrior with a cloak white as cloud, wielding an axe inlaid with gold which flashed eagerly in the pale spring sunshine. Merethir, of Celeborn's household, who had come with the Lord out of Ost-in-Edhil, where together they had fought against Sauron the Deceiver face to face.
The orcs cried out in dismay, but Erethon's company was filled with hope, and surging forward, gleaning arrows all the way, the two elf forces trapped and destroyed the orcs between them.
"Well met, Guardian," said the white cloaked lord once the last of the din-horde lay in pieces at his feet, "Not late I hope?"
"You come in very fair time, my lord," Erethon cried, smiling. "Very fair time indeed."
From the high talan in Caras Galadhon Celeborn looked out and beheld from afar the burnings and the ooze of darkness beneath the leaves where orcs forced their way into his forest.
"It looks worse than it is," said Calandil, stepping up beside him, "They have no wood-lore at all. All along the East border they venture in, blunder about, and we pick them off as easily as spearing fish in a millpond. Before another hour is passed they will be nothing more than soil under the roots of your trees."
In the South, where he had sent Merethir, a line of silver gleamed as though Anduin himself had risen to crash upon the glam-hoth. All was hopeful, and yet Celeborn's palms itched for the feel of a weapon, and it irked him to stand here, letting others take the risks. Glancing sidelong at Calandil, he knew that his old friend was more than aware of this, and the look of sympathy was more than he could take. "You stink," he said.
Calandil laughed. He pushed back one of his many gold-tipped braids, leaving a smudge of black blood on his cheek. "Aye, as a perfume, better roll in cowpats than touch an orc...What troubles you?"
"Look."
The braying of black horns sounded out and in the East, all along the river, single orcs and bands of three or five began spilling out from under the eaves of Lorien, joining the larger host which wound northwards like a poisonous snake, ever touching the borders and then drawing away.
"They test us," Calandil said. His slate-blue eyes, so like those of Daeron, narrowed as he understood the pattern, "They seek to find a gap."
"And in the seeking they keep our forces spread and diffuse, so that the greater burden lies on my Lady - to maintain the wards at all points. I like it not."
"No more did Thingol, when Melian bore the brunt of defending us," said Calandil, glad youth in his face as memory took him back to a more wondrous world. Thinking of Elu Thingol's storms of sudden anger - which broke like thunder and left the air refreshed behind them - Celeborn shared a smile with his friend. There were few now left who remembered King Elwë in all his glory, as a beloved kinsman, not just as a figure of dark justice in an ancient tale.
"He was right to mislike it." Celeborn said, "Too greatly Doriath relied on Melian, so that when her strength was withdrawn from us, we fell. I have sent Tasariel and her company to follow the host. The orcs will not find a hand's breadth of this border where we depend on magic alone. Perhaps if they believe us to be defended by arms at all points they will try another tactic."
"Am I to join Tasariel?"
"No. She and Haldir's archers will have to be enough. I need you here in case this is but a feint. Any frontal assault will come here, in the East."
"Then I will return to my wing and be sure they are ready." Calandil turned, the sweeping lift of his cloak and the glint and ring of his ornamented braids like a repeated character in the writing of Celeborn's life - each iteration unique, but the meaning at all times the same. It was good, in this changing world, to have something that altered not.
As Calandil descended, Celeborn walked over to the edge of the talan and looked almost straight down. There, far below, was the smooth shadowed bowl of the mirror glade, the mirror itself like a fallen jewel glimmering. Beside the mirror Galadriel sat, her hands in her lap, her back very straight. He thought her eyes were closed until she tilted her head and looked up at him - a glance as sharp and delightful as cold water on a hot day.
Do you not have work? She chided him in jest. Why are you idling?
It's said that to gaze on a thing of beauty is refreshment to the spirit. So I am not idling. I strengthen my faer by looking upon you. How hold the wards?
The touch of her mind drew away. If he followed he could sense Lorien - every flower, every glade, every hind that lifted a startled head to snuff the wind. Running through the whole country, as softly as fallen rain, flowed the golden power of Galadriel. With that influence, but brighter, stranger, and to his mind less trustworthy, twined the strength and white brilliance of Nenya.
At the edges of Lorien these powers merely whispered, telling of what had crossed into the land, but a mile within they coalesced together into an invisible barrier. Orcs, lured into the strip of woodland outside the barrier, were unable to breach that ring of will, and so remained helplessly within the outer woods, waiting to be picked off by the March-Wardens.
The wards hold well, Galadriel said, a hidden smile easing her tight-pressed mouth, And will continue so. That is as long as you do not make a practice of distracting me.
He smirked. When the time comes I will distract you well enough.
A small flicker of unvoiced laughter quivered the leaves above his head. You are such a fool, my husband. Why did I ever marry you?
That, he said, turning back to the chaos of messengers and the grim faces of his scribes. There was still no news from Haldir in the North. That I shall never know.
The sun had lowered now behind Caradhras, and the horn of the mountain was russet and madder red in her departing beams. Mallorn blossom tossed against a deepening sky as Haldir looked out and saw the orcs approaching, like a tide of thrice burnt oil spreading over water.
Mist strayed over the valley of Nimrodel. Quiet in the silvering dusk, the voice of the waters sang of love and hope and a far off meeting that Haldir knew had never in truth come to pass. Tonight it seemed an ill omen - the song of a maiden cheated of her dreams - just as time cheated the elves and stole from them everything for which they strove.
"But not yet," he said to himself, a whisper of denial towards the orcs and their Master, "You shall not take Lorien from us yet. Not if my hand can prevent it."
"Haldir!" The tree swayed slightly as Orophin swung up to stand beside his brother, laughing, "Tasariel comes, and Ai! the banners and the horns and the evening light on their armour - it is like a tale by the fire wrought in life! How we will sing of this!"
Childlike Orophin seemed at times, Haldir thought, and indeed he was too young to have yet seen pitched battle. Childlike, I hope he remains. For a short time. But the wish seemed little likely to be satisfied. He set the regret aside, telling himself to be content if his brothers both survived this, however their innocence might be lost. "I will hear no song before yours," he said, pledging the words against an uncertain future.
Tasariel's axe fouled in a shield. She dropped it and swept out her sword, but at the very moment when she was unarmed two orcs leapt upon her. She jammed the quillions of her sword into the belly of the first and tensed, hoping that her abused armour and bruised ribs would absorb the blow of the second. But the stroke went wild and the goblin fell, a long arrow neatly through the centre of its eye. Tasariel looked up and met the gaze of Haldir, now but a tall shadow against a sky full of stars.
"March warden," she bowed slightly in thanks.
Haldir's head raised. "Ware! Behind you," and he disappeared again, seeking more arrows.
Thus the weary night passed, and between them Tasariel's warriors and Haldir's archers drove the enemy west and then south along the fences of Moria. Many orcs were slain, trapped between the wood and the crags of the Misty Mountains. But there, where the fighting was fierce, many elves fell also.
"Too many," said Haldir and clasped his brother's shoulder as Orophin stood stunned, looking at the dead faces of friends whom he had thought to have beside him for as long as the world should endure. "See to it that you do not join them."
"I cannot..." Orophin looked upon Haldir with eyes as unquiet as the sea. Then he gave a mute, numb nod.
"You will sing this battle yet, my brother. You will sing for those who have been silenced."
But Orophin shook his head. "No. Haldir I cannot. I...just leave me be."
At Silverlode the orc army hewed down trees and flung them over the river, crossing it in speed. They paid very dearly for that timber. So much so that when they had gone over they came no longer even within bowshot of the trees but passed southward. Hugging the contours of Lorien they kept just beyond the archers' range, as if goading the elves to come forth and do battle in the plain.
"Do we let them go?" Haldir asked, as they rested for a moment beneath the glossy crown of an ancient holly.
"I know not," said Tasariel and whistled tunefully. At the bright notes a blackbird came fluttering from its nest and alighted by the elf-warrior's stained hand. It cocked its head and fixed one gold rimmed eye on her face. "My friend," she said to it, "Fly to Caras Galadhon and tell the Lord that the orc army departs towards Rohan. Are we to pursue them?"
The bird's flight made a brave picture against a dawn sky of palest yellow. Outriders of Tasariel's wing kept pace with the orc host, harrying them still if they came too close, but Tasariel and Haldir breathed deeply of the sudden quiet.
"Now we have time to listen to the grass," Haldir said, "I would send my brother back with an escort for those who have been injured. Rumil weathers this well, but Orophin..." he sighed, "He is very young."
"Then by all means," Tasariel took off her helmet and shook out the long fall of her dark hair, "Not all neri are made to be warriors, just as not all nissi are formed for the arts of peace." She laughed ruefully, "I speak as one who knows! Let him go to the healers then, and take Death itself as his enemy. He will not be less honoured for it."
So Orophin passed back though the protective spells that girdled Lorien with enchantment. There he was met by maidens bearing litters in which to carry those who were most grievously hurt, and after tending those whose wounds were slight, they departed for the healers' pavilion in the city.
But Haldir and Tasariel stood yet a while under the holly, and at length the bird returned, singing.
"Good," said Tasariel and unbuckled the latches of her mail, letting it fall with great content, "The Lord says not to pursue them - and I say aye to that. Let them go. We have at least thinned their forest, and earned some rest before the next assault." She smiled, "Will you drink with me to our first victory, Haldir?"
"I will." But in his mind, Haldir saw the orc host pass in fury and trampling over the long meadows of the Wold, coming on the unsuspecting Men there in all the stored wrath and humiliation of defeat. "What of Rohan?" he asked.
"What of them?" Tasariel shrugged, "Never have they sought our friendship. Little, I deem, would they want our protection. Let Rohan worry about Rohan. Or at the very best let the Lord and Lady worry about them. Your hands and mine are full enough."
Haldir spared a thought for the little Ringbearer, and for Aragorn son of Arathorn. He wondered briefly what impact this extra army of the foe would have on them. But Tasariel was right. Lorien could not fight the battles of all Middle Earth. They had repelled only the first questing finger of Dol Guldur. It remained to be seen whether they had strength enough to withstand the full blow.
Behind Leofwyn a keening wail went up, piercing the lulling songs of the healers with the sound of desolation. She rose and turned, the basin of cold water she had brought to soothe the burnt elf clutched to her chest. By a newly arrived litter one of the ladies of the healers knelt with her arms about the form of a grievously wounded elf who had arrived too late. Even from across the clearing Leofwyn could see his staring, lifeless eyes and the limp roll of his head against the maiden's shoulder. Her hands were tangled in his hair, her own head thrown back as she gave voice to that great cry of denial and loss.
At the sound of it Leofwyn's arms shook, so that the water spilled over her bowl, down her skirts, spattering over her feet and her patient and over Oswy who worked by her side. "Mother?" he said, but she could not speak in return. Her hands, that had been so capable, that had washed and arrayed Oshelm for burial and calmly laid the first stone of his cairn, grew nerveless. The bowl fell from them and rolled away.
Gytha took one look at her face and scampered after it, thinking she grieved over the dropped basin, "I will get it! Look I have it, here it is!" and the child's lack of understanding was a bitter barb to the pain of Oshelm's death now come on her irresistibly, summoned by the elvish lament.
She found herself on her knees, the world gone black around her, only partly aware that her hands were over her face. Her back shuddered but no tears would come. Oswy was at her side, frightened by her weakness, not knowing whether to touch her or not. The sound of lamentation ceased. Leofwyn looked up wildly, wondering who had stopped the note her soul was singing, and met the gaze of the bereaved maiden with a shock of agony and kinship.
"They rise in glory like hawks in the morning sky," the elf-woman said, her voice thin from keening, "And our hearts exult at them. And then," she bared her teeth like one in mortal pain, "And then they are gone and we are forever alone... Oh, my Barandir!" She closed her eyes and began to rock, the body in her arms like a restive child she sang to sleep. Aelinoth went to her side, and a tall young elf whose face was all angles leaned down to place a hesitant hand on her shoulder.
Oshelm! it was as if something had been unlocked in Leofwyn. At last the tears came like a wash of blood from a poisoned wound, cleansing her even as it made her shake with weakness. Then a hand caught her under her elbow and an arm went about her back. She smelled the marigolds of burn-salve and the earthy greenness of comfrey. "Come, Lady, come away from here and grieve. Others will work. You have been brave long enough."
There was a spill of golden hair across her cheek and the press of silk. She looked up and was astonished to see sorrow and sympathy in the eyes of Rian, whom she had all but accused of trying to steal her babe. "Come," Rian said again, gently, "This is no place for you now, let me bring you where you can rest and take wine and weep your fill."
She could do no more than nod and rise shakily, leaning on the elf's narrow, strong shoulder. Yet even in her grief she wondered. However separate their fates might be, she could no longer think of these creatures as anything other than fellow women, like herself.
Oswy watched the elf-maiden lead his mother away and felt more useless than ever. He had not known what to do or to say. Leofwyn had never wept in his presence before. He had not supposed she needed to, thinking her so strong. He debated following her to give comfort, but she had not asked for him, and so perhaps she wanted to be alone. It was ill, knowing there was nothing he could do to ease her. He liked it not.
Nor did he like being left here among the women as though he was a child. Had Oshelm lived, he thought perhaps his father would have fought in this war of elves and orcs. Surely these slender warriors would have been glad of a Man's strength beside them. And Oswy would have been, as he had been before, his father's esquire and banner-bearer. He would have had a place, and known it, and been glad of it.
He looked down the long pavilion. It was a strange hospital. A rill of water ran through it, glimmering in its green bed amongst the grass, threading its way past pallets where the injured tossed. Leaves blew in and were allowed to drift where ever they might, when it would be a simple matter to sweep them away. In sick-rooms he had visited with his mother there had always been darkness and that slight odour of old blood, but here was sunlight and the scent of the mallorn-blossom. And though they would not spare labour to clean away the leaves there was always at least one elf with time to spare in singing or playing on the harp.
Oswy sighed and knelt down beside Cyn, who was propped on his side, half drowsing, half watching Gytha play with baby Scild. "Even the harpist is treated as though he does some vital task," he said bitterly, "Yet I am fit for nothing. If my father were alive, I would..."
Wearily Cyn narrowed his blue eyes and shifted to look up into Oswy's frowning face. "Oshelm is here no longer, Oswy," he said, "What you will do is for you to say. You are Lord now."
It was an apt reminder. Chastened by it, Oswy rose and found the bundle of green cloth wherein the elves had wrapped their swords - so trustingly restored to him. Taking Oshelm's sword on his knee he drew it and began to whet it thoughtfully. What should he do, now he was master of his own fate? What could he do, for Rohan and for his own people?
Sunlight dappled the canopy over his head and cast a faint warmth on his bent back. The pass of the whetstone over the smooth blade was reassuring and absorbing, so that he did not at first perceive how all movement in the tent had stilled. It was the harpist's silence that made him raise his head to see that the Lord and Lady had entered the pavilion and stood together, the morning sun at the Lady's shoulder turning their bright hair to splendour.
"The first attack has been repelled," said the Lord Celeborn, his face expressionless as he looked on the wounded, "We chased Dol Guldur's orcs from one end of our boundaries to the next and sent them howling into Rohan."
"We cannot hope that this is victory," Lady Galadriel said, "But it is a reprieve." She smiled gently at both healers and those of the sick who had the strength to look upon her. "There will at least be no more death today, thanks to the valour of our defenders." Then she began to walk among the injured, speaking to each in turn.
Lord Celeborn had turned to do the same, but Oswy forestalled him, standing in his way with the naked sword gleaming in his hand. "You sent them into Rohan?!"
At Oswy's accusing tone, anger lit in the depths of the elf-Lord's dark eyes. "And if I did, is it for you to question me?" he said coldly, "I recall no alliance between Lorien and Rohan, only ill will and the spreading of worse rumours. Do not stand before me armed and demand I account for my deeds to you, child."
Oswy took a step back, daunted. The drawn blade seemed but poor defence against the Lord's displeasure, and he felt both afraid and ashamed. In truth he had forgotten the weapon in his hand. He had reacted like a child, running heedlessly to protest the deeds of the adults. Just was the elf-Lord's rebuke, yet it grieved him strangely from one who had hitherto treated him as a leader of men. He had not known the respect meant anything until it was lost.
"I...am sorry," he said, and straightened his back to look up with more honour. "It was not meant as either discourtesy or threat. I was...troubled for my country and spoke rashly." A darkness came over him, and he knew his father's trust in him had been ill founded. Better would Oshelm have done to entrust his people to Leofwyn, rather than me. Nevertheless, inadequate as he was, for Rohan's sake he had to speak. He could not hold Celeborn's gaze for long, but found himself studying the turf once more. "But is there no way," he asked diffidently, "For you to pursue this host into the plain? If Saruman has sent armies against us, and our warriors are pinned elsewhere, I cannot begin to tell the ruin these new orcs might do, unopposed."
Fear lengthened the pause into torment, and then Celeborn laughed softly. "No," he said, "We cannot pursue them. But Oswy..." Oswy glanced up and was bewildered by the look of kindness on the Lord's face. The anger had passed, swift as a shooting star, leaving no trace. "I have taken thought for Rohan," said Celeborn gravely. "Already my messengers fly ahead of the orcs to Fangorn where dwells an old ally and friend of mine. I doubt me that a single orc will pass his vigilance, now that his blood is up for war. You need have no fear on that score."
Then wonder came over Oswy and his heart was changed towards the elves. Moved by an impulse of valour he had almost despaired of finding in himself he knelt down and lifted up his father's sword with the blade across his upraised hands. "Then receive my sword, Lord," he said, "For you have been a better protector of my people than I, and this is all I have to give in return."
Celeborn gazed on him in surprise, and for a moment Oswy was terrified that the elvish lord would deem him but a child, play acting. He did not think he could ever raise his head again in front of his people, or look himself in the face, if that happened, howsoever gently it was done. But then Celeborn leaned down and placed his hands over Oswy's, steel between them. "I take your fealty, Oswy Oshelming. Not in payment of debt, for there is no debt between us, but in common cause. Rise now, warrior of Lorien and await my command."
So Oswy rose smiling, and sheathed his sword. And for the first time since Oshelm's death he felt he had a place again, and he was glad of it.
It rained. Half the sky was black with clouds and half pricked with stars. The round moon turned the falling water to lines of silver, and sheened the wet leaves. In the cool freshness voices sounded closer and calmer, and the gold and green lanterns of Lorien floated like flowers of Aman, blurred and turned strange by the gleam and patter of the downpour.
Galadriel stepped out onto the uncanopied deck of her high talan. Here in the dark sky the water under her bare feet shimmered, so it was as if she danced on Ithil. And for a moment her spirit tore within her as the Sea-Longing fought with her desire to remain until the very end of the earth. I do not remember such beauty in Valinor. Pain puts an edge even on glory.
She ducked beneath the awning that circled half of the flet and squeezed the rain out of her long plaits before walking further in. It was warmer here, and the sound of the rain on the fabric roof was lulling. Long spills of water trailed from the eves like pennants of crystal and diamond. Somewhere far off, in a dry nest like this, a nightingale greeted the rain with her own fall of liquid notes and, near at hand, the pure tones of a wooden flute uplifted a song of Nenuil to the midnight hush.
Celeborn rose to greet her. He said nothing, but poured hot spiced wine and pressed the cup into her hands. His fingers brushed the cold rain from her cheek gently, and he smiled before turning away and sitting once more with his back to the treetrunk. She sipped the wine, finding her own place, drawing on a cloak of fur and fastening it with a latch made of a single huge pearl. After the day's exertions and grief it was pleasant just to sit and breathe, to feel the movement of the tree in the breeze and hear the small crackle of charcoal in the brazier which lit her face with warmth.
It was hard to remember she was angry with her husband, but she made the effort nevertheless. "'Turhael' you have been called - 'wise Lord'," she said, "But I do not see the wisdom of taking on a child as bondsman."
"He is not a child to his own people." Crosslegged, Celeborn had laid across his lap an axe as tall as he was. Its grey ash shaft was bound with rings of chased silver, its great head of blued steel was inlaid with Elu Thingol's device of falling stars. It beckoned Galadriel into the paths of memory and she came to kneel beside it, touching the tracery of Daeron's runes that made it look almost dwarvish to her eyes.
"Melian's work," she said, feeling the Maia's bright and watchful presence laced through the metal. A great anguish of longing for Valinor lanced through her suddenly, for Melian had returned there many thousands of years ago, and there she remained. Even as Galadriel's parents, and her brothers, and her daughter waited there for her.
"Yes," Celeborn sharpened the edge until it shone like the falling rain, "And older than the Sun. For Melian made it when Morgoth returned, and her enchantments are strong on it against his servants." The flash of his smile was fierce. "It has been a faithful servant to me: In the war beneath the stars, before ever your people returned to Middle Earth; in the War of Wrath, when the Noldor remained on the Isle of Balar; in Ost-in-Edhil, when you and I were apart, and too many times between. And every time I hold it I know that Doriath yet endures, if only in me."
Thus in this as in all things. To her it was a call to Valinor. To him an affirmation of his ties to Middle Earth. She looked away. "If the Rohirrim spend their children rashly what is that to us?" she asked angrily, "Tell me you will not take this boy into war."
"You would have me dishonour him instead?"
"I would have you..." she rose and paced to the door. Now that she had grown used to the warmer air within, the night seemed over cool on her face, "I would have you not have made this decision in the first place." She turned, feeling caged, wishing to just walk away as she had in Eregion, so at least she would not have to watch as he put himself in peril. "You know you will be forever looking over your shoulder to be sure the boy is safe, and you cannot afford to be distracted thus. No warrior can."
There was silence. Celeborn bent his head and sang over the axe a long soft song in an ancient tongue, strange to her. All their years of togetherness were nothing before it, and in its power he seemed to her, as at times long ago, as alien and remote as the most savage of the Avari. When it was done he raised his head and looked at her askance through the pale waterfall of his hair. "And here was I," he said, grimly, "Thinking you must wish for my death."
"I..." she tried for fury and found it beyond her grasp. The night was too cold and her heart too weary. Instead she lifted the axe away and came to sit by his side. "I should hope for it, I suppose," she agreed. "For it would shorten our parting." But she had seen Nimwen, clutching the dead body of her lover to her breast, and the human woman kneeling sobbing by her husband's cairn, and she could not harden herself to willingly endure the same. "But I find I cannot. It would be too mean a victory. I would have you come West because you wished it, not because you had no other choice."
He raised both hands and smoothed back the rain-dampened hair from her brow, smiling a slow smile of delight. Then he cast his arms around her and held her close, and the night no longer seemed so chill. "Thank you," he said, "I will take care. I swear it."
A long day had passed in toil. Tasariel's outriders returned to the makeshift barracks set up in the angle between Silverlode and the Lady's wards. Some curried and tended their horses, while others began the tedious task of cleaning and repairing armour. Haldir's folk took up once more the watch on the door of Moria, and an uneasy peace fell. Smoke curled out of the Black Pit of the Dwarrowdelf, and changing winds brought long banners of fume and ash out of Mirkwood. The sky to the East began in sulphur and deepened into soot as shadow crept forth from Mordor, harbinger of its armies.
Haldir walked about the camp, checking its order. All was well. With freedom to think, he marvelled again at the Lady's bravery in choosing this place - this small wood between three of the Enemy's strongholds - as her own land. Long ago, when the Dwarves first stirred up the Balrog of Moria, Amroth, King of Lorien, had fled from its threat with many of his folk, choosing to run to the Havens rather than stand firm. Lorien might have perished then, but that the Lord and Lady heard the people's pleas for help and left their home in Belfalas to settle here and rule in Amroth's stead.
Haldir sighed, looking out at the advancing darkness of the sky. Amroth had been all consumed by love, and perhaps had little choice but to follow Nimrodel in her flight to the sea. He could not blame the King. But Amroth's retreat made Haldir's regard for the Lord and Lady all the stronger. They have been steadfast for us. Now we will endure for them.
The breeze freshened, and the trees tossed overhead, and of a sudden the sound was of the ocean. Gulls wailed, and a voice full of sorrow cried out words he could not quite catch. There was a tang of salt in the air, and the slap of ropes on the masts of ships all long ago fallen to the still places in the deeps of the water. Ever, when the wind was in the South, the voice of Amroth would be blown from the sea, where he had drowned, still striving to be reunited with his beloved. It was a familiar sound, but no less eerie for that. "Stars shine on your face, Majesty," Haldir said to the wind, "But one lost King is enough. No more."
"And thus we see why Haldir is exiled to the borders of the Dwarrowdelf." Tasariel appeared beside him; a tall woman of the Noldor, lithe and strong and ...lordly... in her tunic, trousers, and leather gambesson, "Talking to the dead? It is an ill craft."
"Forgive me, lady," Haldir laughed softly, and nodded at the busy encampment with its many fires, smells of cooking, and raised, challenging voices. "I am not used to such crowds. Oft on our patrols my brothers and I have no one to speak to but the air. It is a hard habit to break."
"Yet we are a host," she said, "And it were ill to face death with a night of such grim thoughts behind us. Let us rather use this peace in a time of storm to rejoice, that we may be strengthened for tomorrow."
At her council Haldir felt chilled. If it had come to snatching every last bliss before ruin, then there truly must be little hope. But he nodded, "Aye, let the Enemy listen to our laughter, and may it choke him."
So as the sun went down, lighting the spill of Mordor cloud from beneath, the elves on the Northern border made preparations for a feast.
While twilight still lingered above the mountains, a horn-call rang out, further in the woods. Turning to it, Haldir saw the healers returning - Orophin among them, his wheat-blond hair marking him out even at a great distance. He looked still sobered and silent, calmer than he had been during the battle, but only as the surface of quicksand is calm, when no unwary beast has yet trodden it.
"Should he be here?" said Tasariel, with a touch of dismissive arrogance, as though she had no time for Silvan frailty, "Unrecovered, returning to a situation he knows he cannot endure?"
Then Haldir was wroth, "Lady," he said, "How else is he to learn? If a child is tossed from a horse once, and frightened, is it not a greater friendship to put him straight back on? I am proud of him that he is making a second attempt." And he went to embrace his brother and welcome him back.
Night fell, and the few stars were dim in the heavens, obscured by mists and smoke, but the garrison of Moria set out lanterns in the trees, and banners of gold and silver, pricked with bells that chimed softly as the breezes stirred them. The healers had brought word from the Lady Galadriel that no attack would come this night, nor early in the morning, so they drank and were merry in the face of death. And many who had been tense and close to tears, as Orophin had, were eased by this proof that joy could coexist with sorrow.
But when Linion, Tasariel's minstrel, opened his mouth to sing - first to bring melody into the darkness - Haldir arose and left the warmth of the fires, passing beyond the wards to a place where he could not hear the music. He spent the rest of the night alone, quietly making arrows. For he had sworn not to listen to any song before Orophin's, and Orophin remained silent.
There was feasting also in Caras Galadhon. The sides of the healer's pavilion were rolled up so that all within could see the merriment. Where there had been one harper there were now three, challenging each other in a light hearted game of skill. The sick were brought such tender meats as they could manage, and watered wine, and encouraged to turn their faces towards the laughter and the lights.
Cyn was recovered enough to teach Ithildir - occupant of the nearest bed to his - how to play Tafl. It proved a long game as one or the other of them would drift into sleep between moves, but they seemed to manage well enough, he with no elvish and the elf with no Westron.
Tired beyond measure, wept dry, Leofwyn rocked Scild in her arms and watched Gytha run up and down from one end of the pavilion to the next. "Child," she said, "Be still, you fret the injured."
Gytha ran to her side immediately and looked up with bright impudence. Now she was no longer afraid for her father some of her pliable good behaviour had worn off. "Lady, I want to look at the feast. I want to go see Oswy. May I, please?"
"I..." she knew not what she wanted to say or why she was so reluctant. It would be safe enough for the girl to go just to the fountain clearing. Likely her only danger would be that she would be smothered with over kindliness.
"You could come with me. Daddy doesn't mind, do you daddy?"
Cyn smiled indulgently but raised his weary gaze to Leofwyn rather than his daughter, "It does me good to see her happy. Would you?"
She felt bullied - like a reluctant horse being goaded towards a jump it feared. Part of her yearned to stay in silence and darkness; to sit by Oshelm's cairn and care for nothing more until swift thirst sent her to his side. But then who would look after Scild? Could she leave him here motherless, to be raised by some elf-woman, ignorant of his birthright, of his very kind? She sighed and pulled herself to her feet laboriously, putting out a hand for the girl, "Very well then. Though we will not stay long. Elves may sing all night, but little girls need their sleep."
Leofwyn walked in silence, but Gytha soon pulled her hand away and began the to and fro running of an ill trained dog - or an exuberant child. Folk, gliding like faint lights towards the sounds of merriment, eddied around her effortlessly, and one slender flautist stopped to lean down and place a garland of violets on her hair. Their faces mirrored one another in startled joy for a moment, before he laughed and fled back to the smiling lady he walked with.
"Look!" said Gytha, twirling in place with her hands outstretched, the small purple flowers nodding over her curly blonde hair and pink cheeks, "Isn't it beautiful! ...Oh!"
They had come to the edge of the fountain glade. In the darkness the great mallorn was ablaze with lanterns - white as starlight, golden as the sun, green as summertime. Torches and lamps flared on every tree and the clearing was full of leaping fires, and elves. Elves with flowers in their gleaming hair, white gems glittering on their raiment, happiness on their faces and voices loud with mirth.
At the end of a long line of feasters the Lord and Lady sat, he crowned with yellow elanor and she with white niphredil. Beside them sat Lord Calandil, who had taken Oswy away this morning to teach him his new duties and had not yet allowed him back. Calandil's wreath of mayblossom sat a little drunkenly on his gold-wound plaits, Leofwyn thought, and unexpectedly the small imperfection made her smile.
The fountain leapt and dazzled, full of lamp and fire and starlight. The air was sweet with song. Pipe, lute and drum combined in racing melody, at once otherworldly and full of excitement. Someone handed her a bowl of roast meat and buttered greens and new baked bread. Sitting down, a little dazed, she watched Gytha scramble away from her side and plunge into the dancing, to be swept up and spun in circles by a reveller; her laughter joining theirs.
I... am alive, she thought, with some resentment but more marvel. I am alive, and the night is fair, and there is still good in the world. She thought of the destruction of her village and the death of her husband, the prospect that tomorrow the enemy would strike again, and more would die, crushed beneath a tide of orcs, and it seemed strange to her, almost callous, to feast and rejoice in the face of that.
It was callous, perhaps. And yet she felt better for it.
One of the other pages handed Oswy a full jug of wine and hooked away the empty that dangled from Oswy's fingers without breaking step. "Le hannon!" said Oswy a little self consciously, and grinned with satisfaction at the look of cool approval he received in return. He had not done so badly for himself during his day of cleaning armour. He now knew the names of many of the squires and had acquired a few - terribly accented - phrases in elvish.
On the other side of the clearing he saw his mother, eating with a faint smile on her face, and Gytha, red to her hairline, panting and giggling. Seeing him she waved, gulped down a drink and then disappeared among the dancers. Leofwyn nodded at him, and the pride in her eyes warmed him through. Taking the wine to Calandil, Oswy felt briefly well content. His family were turning their faces towards life as meadow daisies open to greet the sun.
He sighed and looked up. The sky was slate grey overhead, and the gibbous moon rode above their revelry among wracks of heavy cloud. Its white light was devoured by shadow even as he watched, and - born on the night air like a vapour - fear seemed to flow from the East and curl about him. The music and laughter of elvish celebration fell away, and the warmth of the fires grew chill. It seemed that all lights sickened, and Oswy wanted to tear his eyes from the sky, but he was caught. Dread fell on him as he saw, high above the trees, a black speck come drifting. Ash from a fire, it could have been, except there was purpose in its flight.
No crow. No raven even. He swallowed, his mouth gone suddenly dry, his breath full of the taste of tin. The black speck was no more a speck. It flew towards them - towards him - and its speed was greater than the wind. The lamplight faltered, and the stars swooned before it as it swelled and grew, huge and fell. The moon covered his face. And then it was upon them, turning above the clearing with a thin, cold cry. A voice that spoke of poison, and yearning, as a ghost might cry, desiring and hating the blood of the living. Terror stopped Oswy's heart. He breathed in despair, knowing himself to be alone, worthless, contemptible, and - letting the wine fall from his hands - he cowered before the black wings, covering his face.
Then Lady Galadriel stood, a slender elf-woman crowned with white flowers. She spread out her arms in a gesture of denial towards the night borne abomination. Light leapt from her hands like the dazzling fountain bursting from the earth. It seemed the pillar of radiance would transfix the black flying thing above them, but at the last moment it broke, wheeled away and departed towards Dol Guldur, its shrill cry freezing the night behind it.
Galadriel lowered her hands, brushing them against her skirt as if to shake off dirt. "The servants of the Dark Lord are unmannerly," she said, speaking into a sudden silence, "I do not recall inviting Lord Khamul to our feast." Her eyes were fierce, a ferocity mirrored in her husband's smile.
"I will rebuke him for it when we meet," said Celeborn, laughing.
The feast began again, and in defiance it seemed in better cheer than before. But Oswy sat, hugging his knees and trying not to weep. Terror had departed with the dwimmerlaik, but stronger than ever lay the conviction of utter worthlessness on him. They make a jest of it. And I cannot even raise my head and look at it. He knew his cowardice had been seen and noted. His brief tenure as a warrior of Lorien was over. Tomorrow he would be back with the other children, and rightly so.
A comforting hand fell on his shoulder. He looked up with astonishment into the narrow, delicate face of Lord Calandil. The moon turned the elf's fair skin into silver, inhuman and beautiful.
"I am no good after all," Oswy said. He would rather the condemnation came out of his own mouth, allowing him at least the virtue of humility. He picked up the fallen wine jug. It was of course empty, the grass stained and sodden at his feet. "I am sorry."
But Calandil's gaze was measured. Without pity or blame. "Do not think you are the only Man ever to react thus to the Ringwraiths," he said, "This fear is their power, and it waxes great beneath the Shadow of Mordor. But forewarned is forearmed. You know now what to expect, Oswy, when you ride out to war against the forces of Darkness."
There was no dawn. A drab, brown light lay over the wilderness between Lorien and the eves of Eryn Fuin. Anduin rolled dun under a sky of grey. No birds sang to welcome the day, but a shadow wheeled above the clouds and fear followed the unseen wraith as the stench of the down draught of its wings.
Erethon was on watch at the borders, taking note of the comings and goings among the squat black tents of the glam-hoth. Yesterday his patrol had managed to cut loose one of the pontoons that bridged the river, but it had cost them dear, coming within range of the enemy, and the venture had proved useless, since the orcs had recovered their bridge down stream. Its ugly, tarred weight lay again like a shackle across mighty Anduin's neck.
The Nazgul passed overhead, deepening the already dim light. Orc horns brayed and clamour spread from their camp. Turning his eyes towards Dol Guldur Erethon saw something black and huge draw out of the twisted boughs of Mirkwood. Teams of yrch were dragging it. Like centipedes they looked at this distance, all slimy armour and legs. Warg riders rode beside it. A vast misshapen bow on the back of a heavy carriage, it seemed, shaped from oaks ravaged from the Greenwood. Teams of Uruks paced beside the wagon, six at a time, carrying its mast-sized arrows, which did not come to points. Instead, on the tip of each massive beam, there was a cage of iron and glass from whose ill made joints black liquid seeped.
"Siege engines against a wood?" Erethon asked himself, "What folly is this?" But he misliked the way it crept slowly closer, leaving its trail of ooze to foul the grass it crushed. The orcs of the camp greeted its appearance with bloodthirsty yells. Foreboding seized Erethon. He caught hold of his messenger and told him "The great ones must see this. Bring them. Run fast!"
A moment of disquieting peace settled over the land. Mordor cloud eddied and a sunbeam stabbed down, illuminating the machine in all its hideous glory. It was close now, set up upon the other side of the river. Chains rattled amid an outcry of whips and screaming, as slaves turned the windlass to pull back the cable that was its bowstring.
Sunlight passed. The cloud closed again and the day seemed darker than before. Rope groaned under tension. One of the Moria orcs climbed up onto the arrowhead with a torch. Vainly an elf of Erethon's patrol shot at him - but the engine was just beyond the archer's range. The arrow fell, wasted, on the ground, as the goblin touched his torch to the globe of black liquid.
Instantly it was a ball of fire. At once the great bow was loosed and the fireball arced over Anduin trailing greasy smoke. Fifty paces into the borders of Lorien it fell, and oaks shattered under the impact. Splinters of glass exploded from the arrow tip, and with them went oil - a gush and pulse of thick oil that spattered on bark and branches, on leaf mould and pine needles, and then clung, burning, setting the living wood alight.
"No!" Erethon tried to put out the nearest blaze with his cloak, but the oil soaked into the fibre and soon it too was ablaze. He flung it from his blistered hands and it burnt on, the fire eating out from it, tendrils winding through the undergrowth like poisonous snakes, creeping up saplings to make the leaves sizzle.
"Here!" young Ardil ran forward, hurled a punctured waterskin at one of the fires. It burst, but instead of dousing the flames, the burning oil rode upon the water, splashing further. Fifteen trees were already alight and the blaze was spreading.
"Leave it and fall back!" cried Erethon in dismay.
There was the sound of hooves - many hooves quiet on Lorien's soft grass - but at the same time the shriek and thrum of the infernal crossbow sounded again. The arc was flatter now, the missile coming down further in. Two hundred paces inside Lorien's sacrosanct borders the second fireball fell and all began to burn.
Galadriel felt the heat of the fire on her face, gentled her horse. Looking at the fair woodlands shrivelling in flame, seeing through the curtain of fire the seething blackness that was the army of Dol Guldur, hearing their jeering laughter, she grew cold, crystalline with fury.
"This must not be." Celeborn vaulted from his horse, walked to the edge of the forest fire with his hands outstretched as if he longed to touch and comfort the dying trees. When he turned Galadriel saw in his eyes, as in the eyes of every elf there, a shock and disbelief hotter and whiter than the flames behind him. "It must not."
Galadriel slid down from her palfrey and stood very still, her eyes closed. Gathering Nenya's power she sent her thoughts outwards, feeling the world spin, winds jostle like ill tempered giants above her, tracks of power, the flight of Saruman's gorcrows, the distant hidden murmur of waterfalls in Imladris. A third missile screamed in to burst among the trees to her right. She felt it little, poised like a weaver with the winds as her thread. Instead, gently, she guided a spool of air onto her loom.
The breeze shifted, flowing cool from Caradhras, smelling of rain; heavy spring rain that washes away dams and all the accumulated dreariness of winter. A few drops fell, pattering onto leaves, hissing into steam. She smiled. And then, across the brown, wasted lands, on the tip of a needle of black stone, the Great Eye turned to look on her, and the mind of Gorthaur, Annatar, Sauron the deceiver was bent upon her. As Gil-Galad must have suffered, pinned beneath the black, burning hand, she also felt - exposed, suffocated, in agony. Involuntarily, she winced - a tiny movement of pain across her serene face.
The wind changed again, wheeling back to the East, bringing at first a marsh stench and then arid fumes that parched the throat and seemed to make the fires burn more greedily.
Longing to do Sauron hurt, to gore the diamond and adamant power of Nenya across his filthy spirit, she endured a moment, but it was not for her to reveal the secrets of the Three to him. Retreating at last she let go her power. Her legs felt suddenly weak. She swayed, and Celeborn caught her shoulders, steadied her. "The Enemy is aware of me," she said, opening her eyes. Her voice sounded weary. So defeated, I would hardly know it myself, and her husband's face grew grim. "I cannot wrest the winds of the world out of His hand to bring rain. Not without I drain the power I am hoarding against our uttermost need."
"Very well," Celeborn nodded, a brusque gesture. Where she felt drained, he seemed alight. There was a flame like that of his tortured land in his eyes, fey and dangerous. "Then we will try it my way." His gesture brought Merethir and Calandil out of the escort, and they nodded understanding, as though this had all been discussed before.
"Erethon. I will need you and your archers on horseback."
"My Lord."
The human boy brought Celeborn's armour, looking bemused at its lightness. The long hauberk of mithril chain, made for him when he ruled Eregion, brought back memories of betrayal, terror and sorrow she had wanted never to revisit. It was as fair as all of Celebrimbor's work, the same icy, pure colour as her Lord's hair against the backdrop of blazing amber.
Seeing him buckle the belt around it, reach for his helmet, arrayed for war like a hero of the elder days, a darkness of remembrance came over Galadriel. Even so Celebrimbor must have looked in Ost-in-Edhil. Before they took him, and abused him, and hung him from a pole, as their banner. She caught Celeborn's arm. He must not be allowed to do this. Had he not promised to take care? "No!" she said, "It is folly to go beyond the wards. You run into needless peril at the Enemy's bidding. It is his very purpose to draw you out thus."
Before the many eyes who watched their quarrel she could not say it; You are my weakness and my strength. The Enemy cannot touch me. But if he kills you... They would break his body in her sight, and she did not know, she did not want to know what she would do then. As Melian had turned her back on her kingdom when Elu died, her heart cried out that she would care nothing for Lorien if its Lord was slain. "Remember Doriath!" she said, "Let the borders burn, they will regrow."
Celeborn leapt back on his horse, put out a hand and Calandil passed him a long spear with a pennant of green and gold. Pausing, he looked down. Had he heard in the sparse words what was essentially a declaration of love; the confession of her vulnerability? Would it turn him back?
He smiled, a flicker of warmth that did not touch the danger in his eyes. "We are not they," he said stubbornly, "And I will not have this."
Fury overcame her. She clenched her hands at her sides. "No," she said, bitterly, "For Elu's foolishness was at least over something important. But you risk all for common trees. Not even mellyrn."
There came another burst of fire and a glade of beech went up, twisting and roaring in flame. Celeborn matched her wrath with his own. "They are my craft, my joy. As dear to me as the Silmarils to Feanor, and I will not stand by and watch them die."
She was Galadriel, and she had done all the pleading she would. She drew herself up, "So be it," she said coldly, turning away, "If you wish to imitate Feanor in his madness there is little left to say. Only think how much good it did him."
The half-wing of cavalry departed behind her back as she bent her mind towards preventing the spread of flame. The Enemy had chosen his vantage point well. From here it was but a little distance to Caras Galadhon and if the fire could not be checked it might indeed threaten the city. But I will not tell him so.
The sound of battle reached her ears. Calmly, she gave orders for ditches to be dug and the waters of the Silverlode diverted. When all was underway she mounted her palfrey and departed, calmly, for the city. She smiled encouragingly at the diggers, messengers, and the healers she passed on their way to the battle lines. And inside she told herself that if he died, the last thing he would ever have had from her lips would be condemnation.
It was poor comfort to know it was all his own fault.
Oswy did not know if this was dream or nightmare. Hooves crunched on charred black soil and the air was hot and bitter in his mouth. He could feel, by the waxing and waning of terror, the ever present threat of the wraith circling above, and when he looked out the forces of the Enemy were like cockroaches, crawling thickly over the riverbank, clustering about the foul machine that was their target.
"Take this," Celeborn turned his horse and passed Oswy a banner mounted on a long, shining spear. The pennant snapped angrily in the east wind, streaming out over the elvish host. There, on a field of midnight blue, circled eight comets with heads of diamond and tails of silver about a moon of pearl. They gleamed even in the barren, brown light. "And do not let it fall. It is the emblem of my King."
"My Lord!" said Oswy, aghast at the honour, "Though I die it shall stand."
"Gurth a choth in edhil! Gurth an glamhoth!" cried the Lord of Lorien, setting his heels to his horse's flank. The riders surged forward behind him. Oswy saw now why the elvish cavalry was called a 'wing' - they rode as if in flight. Pale were their horses and their mail silver, their shields as white as snow.
For a moment he was upborne as though soaring amid the wings of swans in the light of the first sunrise. There was a glimmer about the elves' faces and their hands, and the unsheathed blades of their swords. Their spears shone with wrath, and the Mordor filth of cloud above seemed only to make the elvish warriors blaze more brightly. Oswy felt at once ungainly, squat and clumsy among their tall elegance, and uplifted, permitted a last glimpse of something aweful and beautiful, before it passed away into memory and song.
A din of mocking shrieks greeted them as they flew toward the enemy host. The army of Dol Guldur drew up in deep ranks about their precious engine. At the gallop the cavalry formed into a spear of riders; Celeborn at the point, Merethir and Calandil with their greatest knights to his left and right. Behind them, in the shaft of the spear, rode the rest of the force, the archers in shelter behind the knights. Oswy found himself beside a slight elf with amber eyes who carried the emblem of the Golden Wood - a banner of fresh spring green with a mallorn as its device, its trunk glimmering silver and its flowers of gold. She nodded at him and gave a smile like quicksilver. "I am Elien. Stay beside me and I will see no harm comes to you."
He bit back the retort that he did not need to be defended by a girl. "Then Oswy, Oshelm's son, will do as much for you," he said with breathless courtesy.
Across the orcs' own pontoon they sped, hooves drumming wild music from the splintered wood. The river lapped at their heels as they surged forward, wind in their faces, standards streaming above. Now a thundershower of arrows whined out from the enemy horde to ping uselessly from elvish armour, or fall behind riders protected by their own speed. Erethon's archers unshipped their bows and returned fire, shooting with as deadly aim from horseback as though they stood at peace among the boughs.
The sharp point of the cavalry touched the first rank of orcs, drove inwards. The wedge of knights forced through the enemy shieldwall, making a gap that those in the shaft filed in to fill; carving and holding open a way to the machine, and a path by which to return.
At last there stood naught between the elves and the siege engine but an Uruk chieftain upon a Lord of Wargs; grey backed, red of eye and tooth. Celeborn's spear took the Warg through the throat, but there it stuck fast. He cast it away, taking the blow of the Uruk on his shield, and, drawing his axe, he clove the creature's head in two and trampled its body beneath the hooves of his horse.
There beneath the shadow of the engine he stopped, and Oswy, amazed, saw him set his hand to the timber of the great bow and speak to it in tones of command. Orcs scaled it from the other side, thick as maggots on a corpse, and Erethon's folk picked them off unerringly as they came. Yet more replaced them, and then more, and one by one the archers fell idle as their arrows were spent.
Now stationary, the sortie was surrounded; a glimmer of light in a raging sea of darkness. By Oswy the knight who protected him was dragged from his horse by two wargs and torn between them like a rag of meat between dogs. The press of the horde drove inwards through the gap - the young archer, Ardil, meeting it in hopeless valour armed with naught but his two knives. Courage flared in Oswy at the sight. He wedged the pole of the banner of falling stars in his stirrup and, holding it one handed, he fell upon the orcs with his father's sword. Stabbing one through the shoulder, he turned to find Ardil had slain the second. As they smiled their thanks to one another the cavalry closed the gap, putting them both in shelter once more.
"Na vedui!" said Celeborn, as Merethir hewed down three of the machine's attendant goblins behind his back. He looked up and cried in a clear voice "Drego!"
At once the elves wheeled their horses. Striving their utmost they pressed the din-horde back, widening the path they had kept clear between them. The wedge of knights reformed and sped down the open space to crash like an ocean wave upon the forces that stood now between themselves and Lorien. Turning, Oswy saw the Golden Wood - green leaves fluttering, a scent of springtime - and breathed in with relief. Safety, so close.
But at that moment darkness fell on him. The Nazgul. The creature it rode came down like plague, and the vast stretch of its naked, featherless wings drove the stench of decay into his face. Heavy, slow, it turned above him, and the cowl of the wraith's hood swung from side to side as if it sniffed out spilled blood, or Oswy's fear. His limbs became as water and his heart trembled. Yet he was not its prey. It passed overhead, and the claws of the fell beast reached out, iron-taloned, towards the Lord Oswy had pledged his honour to protect.
"Baw!" shouted Elian at Oswy's side. She stood in her stirrups. "Gurth a Ulaer!" and she hurled the banner of Lothlorien straight through the stretched hide of the dwimmerlaik's wing.
Dark blood fell on her. The creature turned and its huge head came down. Oswy saw a beak filled with teeth, heard a sound like that of vast shears, told himself he should do something, he should... Then the wraith leaned forward and there came a whispering from the emptiness beneath its hood, as though it breathed out. Shadow took him, he swayed in the saddle, chilled to the bone, clinging to the King's banner as to a last glimpse of starlight in a world gone black.
Elian's body fell on the ground and the emblem of Lorien fell next to her, the bright golden mallorn settling into blood and filth, broken as she was.
The fell beast rose into the sky, ungainly on its injured wing, pursued by the last arrows of the elves, and it was only as it withdrew that Oswy's strength returned to him. He looked down. "No," he said, "No." Had he not said he would take care of her? Truly, he was nothing but a curse to these people. He began to dismount, thinking that at least he could bring home the standard she bore and thus preserve her honour. But, as Oswy paused, Ardil slapped the rump of his horse hard.
"Noro! Noro lim."
And he found himself galloping fast in the retreat with nothing to show for the end of a brave life but tears.
Warg riders pursued them, and orcs surged behind them so the Anduin seemed engulfed in a tide of seeping oil - so many of the foul creatures were clambering over one another, driving their comrades' faces into the mud of the banks as they scaled them. The water ran black and sluggish, choked with orcs bloodcrazed enough to try swimming.
Gaining the borders of Lorien, the sortie plunged on through an acrid wilderness of dead trees. Soot clung to Oswy's face and choked his breath, and his eyes were raw with weeping and with smoke.
Within the wards Calandil's wing and the other half of Merethir's forces were drawn up in safety. Fresh and rested, they were eager to avenge their wood and their fallen friends. The sortie passed through them just as the pursuing orcs ran howling within bowshot, and the arrows of the elves came down like falling water on the army of Sauron. The dead were piled in heaps among the black and withered trees.
Disoriented by safety, Oswy reined in. Around him healers helped the injured out of their saddles. Erethon's folk dismounted eagerly, accepted parcels of new arrows brought by maidens from the city, and returned to the fray, disappearing into the untouched woodlands that surrounded the gash of black devastation. Archers in the trees safe within the wards shot volley after volley into the burnt slot in the borders until it became a charnel mound where the orcs feared to tread.
Down that black treeless scar Oswy could see across the river to where the siege engine stood, unmarked, unchanged by the elvish charge and sacrifice. Even now the enemy was winding up the great cable to fire it once more. Grief filled his throat. They had done nothing. They had failed.
There came a jerk on his horse's head. He looked up, surprised. Calandil had taken his reins and was pulling him towards the ridge where Celeborn sat on his horse looking out at the battle with grim satisfaction. Orc blood marked Celeborn up to the elbow, and one shoulder was red with gore. Oswy had not yet seen such a hawk like, predatory look on the elf-Lord's face and he quailed before it, knowing himself dishonoured. He breathed in and forced the words out firmly, but in a very small voice. "I am sorry," he said, speaking rather to Calandil, whom he feared less, than to the Lord of Lorien, "I was forewarned but still I faltered. Still I could not stand when the wight was there."
"Well," Calandil's mouth quirked in a small, sad smile, "Third time is the charm. Though I would not call this failure."
Celeborn turned to look at Oswy with vague bemusement, stirring out of deep thought. "The banner of Elu Thingol stands," he said quietly, "Was that not all I asked of you?"
"But," Oswy was ashamed further by their remote kindness, "So also stands the machine of the orcs, and... and the standard of Lorien is lost."
"I am aware of the deed of Elian," said Celeborn, "And honour her. As for the engine, look."
Uruks took one of the huge missiles from the pile beside the machine, loaded it into the great bow. Oil dribbled from its tip, igniting eagerly as the goblin marksman pressed a torch to it. It occurred to Oswy suddenly that he stood in the very centre of where the bolt would fall, and a flash of thought showed him the rain of fire, the heat, the agony. With a maul the orcs struck the lever to fire the machine.
As a new bow, drawn fully back and loosed without an arrow, will sometimes burst apart in the hands of its wielder, fracturing into shreds, driving into his hands and face, so the siege engine exploded. The frame, no longer capable of containing the massive forces of its tensioned cable, tore apart, and went flying. Oak beams mowed down ranks of the enemy host - falling, shattering, splintering. The oil-soaked arrowhead tore into the heap of other missiles. They erupted in flame and great gouts of it arced through the air, spattering on the Uruk-Hai, setting alight the fur of the Wargs. Primal terror took the wolves of Dol Guldur and they ran hither and yon among the horde, howling, spreading the blaze.
Seeing it, the orcs who fought still among the trees of Lothlorien were dismayed. They retreated to the further shore of the river, pursued by the arrows and the laughter of the elves. But those who had ridden in the sortie cheered, and one began to sing, a music full of rushing hooves and fire, sublime speed and the white blaze of the spears of the Galadhrim shining in the darkness.
"For Galenros," said Celeborn as if to himself, "And for Ragnir, and for Elien. For Guilin and Gelion and Lhunuil." He sighed.
And for Oshelm, Oswy thought, moved and oddly comforted, And Ceolwulf, Eldwyn and Folcwine... It was the first time he had dared think of them. But it no longer seemed strange to recite their names beside the casualties of Lorien. It seemed...right. His mood was lightened and his guilt assuaged at the thought that they would be avenged together.
"My Lord," said Calandil, buckling the strap of his helmet to his saddle, "The last of the wounded are gone to the city and all is underway, will you not come?"
The smell of innocent beauty wantonly destroyed mingled with the stench of orc blood on Celeborn's hands. His sleeve was soaked and heavy where Galenros had bled to death in his arms, and it seemed he could not look anywhere without feeling that charred gash in the fair woods of the borderlands as though it were a brand in his own skin. Even within the wards leaves were scorched, and trunks burnt. Beneath the ground the voices of roots cried out to him for healing as they slowly shrivelled, blackened and died.
The elation of battle faded, to be replaced by too much pain.
"My Lord?" said Calandil, in concern.
"Though he will kill for the sake of it," Celeborn was glad to hear his voice sound calm, measured, "Still the Enemy has a plan in this." He gestured towards the smoking ruin. "Behold. The attack came where the wards run closest to the city and the width of forest is narrowest."
"You believe he could threaten Caras Galadhon?" Calandil sounded incredulous. To the core he was a son of the fence, building all his thoughts on the knowledge that the protective magic of a Sindar Queen was unassailable. "How? No matter what Khamul throws at our borders, still his forces cannot come within the wards."
"They will not need to." Measuring distances, Celeborn's heart sank still further at the knowledge of a real weakness. He pieced the plan together as he spoke. "With the machine beyond arrowshot they burn the borders, so we have no cover from which to attack them. Then they bring their engine across the river and set it up just outside the wards. From there, they have the range to hurl their firebolts into the very centre of Caras Galadhon."
"But the wards..."
"Will only keep out living creatures. Not missiles. With the borders burnt, to prevent them we will have to come out from the Lady's protection; fight them in open warfare. And there are a hundred of them to every one of us. Such a tactic would be suicide."
His thoughts turned to plans for evacuation; what needed to be taken and what might be left. Galadriel's orchard and the fields of lembas-corn were within the city walls. It would be ill to lose them, but the forest could provide all else the people needed - food, water, shelter. Perhaps - he told himself firmly - it would after all be a blow they could endure. Visions of the mellyrn scr
