The Guardian
The storm was raging.
Cold northern wind howled among the naked trees, their limbs clattering like rusty fetters and Nelyafinwë could almost feel them clogging around his wrist. But he did not flinch. He held himself from moving, shuddering only on the inside. It felt like letting the breeze of the winter night enter the depths of his fëa, but that did not scare him anymore – it was no more than an illusion. His cloak proved warm enough, after all: if its previous owner – a mountain bear – did not freeze in it, nor would he.
"My lord!" he heard a scout calling after him, his voice echoing from one black bole to another, splintering off the sheet-ice beneath his frozen knees. "My lord, where are you?"
Nelyafinwë jumped to his feet, a lonely flame flickering in a field of snow. He had to go, they were already looking for him.
He'd hoped he could spend some time in the quiet woods seeking a trail that was impossible to be found. Or maybe he could just stay alone for a few hours to face his grief - once more -, to accept failure – again -, and let another friend go.
Never!
He got his time. He looked for trails and did not find any, he faced his grief and broke down, then accepted defeat – again. This was not the first (and probably not the last) time he had to give up and bow to failure; he knew the feeling well but now that it stroke for the thousandth time the pain in his fëa seemed to become unbearable. He could still not grow accustomed to the dull pressure of helplessness – every time the freezing waves of despair washed over him, it felt like another knife in the guts. For the first time within centuries, he almost wished to seek peace in the Hall of Mandos - where no grift was awaiting him - but something had once more woken in his fëa, something desperate and self-willed that refused to let the memory of Tyelcano go. It was some hidden power that restrained him all his life from poring over his agonizing self.
And then, all of a sudden, he saw it, and there was no turning back. There was a thin trail winding in the snow and threw himself onto it like a hound picking up a scent. Three maddening hours he'd spent in a flickering sea of snow, chasing nothing. By the time he came back his hand was freezing and his maimed right arm began to itch uneasily.
"Come here" he called, not recognising his own voice. "Do not fear the ice, it's thicker than it seems. Do you see something?"
"It's hopeless, my lord," the scout said softly, emerging from the darkness of the woods. "I am sorry."
"I know it is. Now answer my question: do you see something?"
"Footprints," came the grudging admission. "They're leading south."
"South-east as the Eagles fly. I've been following them."
"You should have warned us!" the young Elf exclaimed, forgetting himself. "...my lord," he added in haste, noticing the look on Nelyafinwë's pale face.
"You'd be wise to avoid the word should in my presence."
"Yes, lord," the scout said quickly. "And where was the trail leading to, if I may ask?"
"Nowhere. Paths lead nowhere these days." Nelyafinwë laughed without even a sparkle of happiness in his voice. "Let's hurry now, I must see my captain."
.x.
They were walking side by side, the strong and the tall, the whole and the broken, the humble and the mighty, the scout and the lord. The forest was thinning around them, but darkness grew deeper as the moon sunk deep behind the thick, snow-filled clouds. Frost covered their hair and their brows and it was melting slowly; melting into the black like tiny stars swallowed by darkness and melting into the red like drops of wax consumed by wildfire.
And the storm was raging.
.x.
"Alive?" Nelyafinwë asked the healer.
"Yes, my lord."
"Conscious?"
"No, my lord, and probably for the best. His wounds are severe. Even if he stirred, he could not bear the pain."
"Can you do nothing to ease it?"
"The deeper he sleeps, the less he suffers."
"And if he dies in his sleep?" Nelyafinwë snapped.
"I cannot prevent that, my lord. Nor could I if he was awake. Keep the pain away from him: that is all I can do."
"Do you allow me to see him?"
The ghost of a smile rushed through the healer's face. "Do you allow me" was a phrase that Nelyafinwë oft used, accompanied by a dangerous gleam in his eyes that implied "Not that you have a choice." But now the gleam was nowhere, the lord's eyes empty like two greyish black pools.
"You allow it to yourself, my lord, if I may assume. Come, if that is indeed your wish but don't try to wake him, I beg you!"
Nelyafinwë had no answer for him. He didn't want to make a promise and break it right away.
Of course he would wake him; he would call him, shout right into his ear, grab his shoulders and shake him so hard his bones would clatter.
The healers were skilled for certain, but they knew nothing of this. His friend had to wake and see what he has become. He had to decide if he wanted to stay strong – and he, Nelyafinwë had to know if he was a thrall of Morgoth now, or still his faithful Tyelcano.
One of the scouts had found his counsellor three days ago, haggard and insensible, half-frozen in the middle of the Orc nest they'd ravaged. Ropes were tied everywhere around his body, his mouth gagged, his limbs withered, his skin covered in festered wounds. Everyone was convinced he would die before the morrow – everyone save Nelyafinwë, who did not allow himself to consider such possibilities.
Not yet.
.x.
The largest of the guardians' fortress had been partly demolished by the armies of Morgoth during the Dagor Bragollach; but this castle was located far south from the Himring, its walls high and defensible, its towers filled with seasoned warriors. Nelyafinwë still remembered how it stood in the days of its glory, stern and robust, an island emerging from the smoking ruins of the lands they'd once called home. The castle's western wing still stood thick and firm with a roof, some stables and a half-dried well, embraced by an usable bastion. It could still stay an army - and most of all, it could still be heated.
"If this could be called heating, anyways," Nelyafinwë sighed softly to himself as he entered the once-so-mighty hall. He could see his breath flying off his lips like a puff of smoke which filled him with unease.
It's much too cold in here to cure his disease. The whole world is freezing – is this some bloody curse of Morgoth or no more than my usual luck?
Tyelcano – or at least, what could be seen of him – was lying unconsiously on an old, ragged mockery of a bed. Nelyafinwë could see deep cracks in its frames, made of dry pinewood, he guessed. His counsellor had been carefully wrapped in blankets and a set of bondages and a cup of chilled tea was placed on his bedside. In every hour a healer was sent to take care of him, or so the guards claimed.
Not enough, Nelyafinwë stated for himself. He needs unceasing care and warmth. A real bed to stay in. I have to get him in the Himring. But how, if I still have my soldiers to care for and those stupid children to protect? I cannot risk another...
Another Antalossë.
This, at least, seemed perfectly clear to him. More often than not, he needed to be stern and unmoving in his decisions. He could not choose to protect Tyelcano if that meant to risk another lives: lives he was responsible for in the first place. It pained him to see the wise Elf like this – the one to teach him the art of swordfighting when he'd been still a child, the one who'd taught him once more when he'd lost a hand -, but he had no choice.
Hesitantly, he placed a hand on the top of the blankets and let out a relieved sigh when he felt them moving. Tyelcano was breathing normally, even if his pale face suggested he was rather dead or dying. Nelyafinwë lifted one blanket, then another, then he moved closer to the sleeping Elf, trying to block the freeze of winter night which stole into the piece through the cracks in the walls.
Suddenly, the wind began to howl outside and there was a change in Tyelcano's breathing. Nelyafinwë placed his left on the Elf's shoulder, his other hand getting ready to fold the blankets back – then, for the thousandth time in his life, he realised he had no other hand and thus he swallowed his dismay and decided to get what he wanted as quickly as he could.
"Tyelcano," he murmured, gently shaking the Elf's shoulder. "Come on, my friend, wake!"
Shame rushed through his heart as he remembered the words of the healer.
Don't try to wake him, lord, I beg you!
But he must wake, he must see what he has become...
I cannot risk another life...
My brother! I cannot risk the life of my brother... I still have a song to hear...
"Tyelcano, wake!" he groaned.
The painful scream of the wind shook the whole building and a long crack in the wall, which Nelyafinwë had particularly disliked from the beginning, seemed suddenly to deepen.
"Tyelco," Nelyafinwë whispered, suddenly filled with horror.
No, it cannot happen, it must not happen, what would he do then? Where would he run?
Another scream of the wind, another deepening crack. There was a moment of sullen silence, then half of the room gave way and collapsed. Clouds of dust rose to the sky like the smoke of some hidden fire; in some hideous way it was a breathtakingly beautiful sight.
"Valar help us all," Nelyafinwë muttered. He himself remained untouched, just as Tyelcano and the bed he was lying in. The rear wall of the bastion still stood high and proud. What warmth the old walls had held flew off in a couple of minutes but some embers still glew around them, and most of all, they were alive.
Nelyafinwë heard a shout coming from what had once been the dining hall of the castle and he knew the guards were on their way. Gently, he folded back a wandering strand of hair behind Tyelcano's ear. To his utter surprise, the Elf's features suddenly moved and softly, he gasped, then began to cough. Half the building could collapse around him and he paid no mind – what finally woke him was Nelyafinwë's sword-hardened touch on his face.
Two mysteriously gleaming grey eyes opened.
"Nelyo," the older Elf breathed in a croaked voice, "what are you doing, my little prince?"
It has been quite a while since Nelyafinwë had been last called little, or even a prince. Suddenly, the ice on his stern, lordly face seemed to melt and he laughed softly.
"How did you know me? It's been a long time and you're not even looking."
"It's your hand, Nelyo. I know your hand since you've been a child."
That hurt Nelyafinwë.
"You're lost in time, friend" he said. "Come and sit. We cannot stay here and freeze to death."
Tyelcano obeyed slowly; he gathered what little force he could find in his freezing body and sat, shivering, clasping his blankets. By the time he finally settled in his new position his face was even more pale than before, his eyes deep and hollow, his gaze blank and sullen.
"You've come too late, my prince" he finally whispered. "I cannot be spared. I cannot even stand."
"I'm not asking you to stand yet," Nelyafinwë said. "But I am asking you to stop calling me a prince. You may have forgotten but I'm no longer holding that title."
"All I remember is darkness and Orcs and winter", Tyelcano said, slowly shaking his head. "And the King, my lord Nelyo, where is the King?"
"Depends, which one," Nelyafinwë laughed without joy. "Most of them are dead, I must tell. Now, Tyelco, do you remember this? Do you?"
With that, he raised his maimed hand and ripped off the bondages he always wore underneath his clothes; like this, the great white scars on his right underarm never showed to the eye of strangers. (Or anyone else's).
For a second, Tyelcano stared at him in horror; then there was a sudden recognition in his eyes. Nelyafinwë could almost see his memories flashing back in his mind.
"My lord Nelyo!" Tyelcano called, now aloud. He finally seemed to be back in the present."When did you... And why... and what for... and how did you find me?"
"Unfortunately, it wasn't me" Nelyafinwë smiled wearily and pulled up the blankets to the noldo's neck. "But I came as soon as I could. Everyone else was afraid you might rise as an Orc after the amount of torment you've suffered but I've never doubted you."
"How kind of you," Tyelcano coughed. "How long I've been asleep?"
"A couple of days. Or weeks? Far too long, that is all I can tell for certain. We don't have much time. We're going to freeze, my brother is weary and I need your counsel."
"Your brother" Tyelcano sighed. "Which one?"
"Makalaurë. We're the only ones left. The Gap was taken then burned down and left behind by our enemies and now that it's empty, we haven't got enough soldiers to fill it. What little force remains is gathered within the walls of the Himring. I'm sending scouts to take care of the lands of Himlad and we're trying to set a watch over the roads every now and then but we don't have the numbers to make this permanent. And now in this raving winter I want my people to stay within my walls. Even a Balrog would freeze in this weather."
"Wise words from a wise lord," Tyelcano said thoughtfully. "You were already grown up when we last departed but you're growing still."
"And so grows the shadow that veils my heart," that was all Nelyafinwë could manage. He felt worthless of such praise.
"That cannot be prevented," the Elf smiled at him wearily. "The shadow is within you. If you cannot chase it away, no one ever will."
.x.
.x.
"We're returning to the Himring," Nelyafinwë's voice boomed over the heads of shivering soldiers. The wind has not ceased since its unfortunate encounter with the bastion's front walls and the approaching host of thick snow-clouds seemed anything but promising. Fortunately, the Eastern road stayed usable and a guard glimpsed three carts less than an hour's walk from their partly demolished camp. Makalaurë's provisions were swiftly approaching and this lifted Nelyafinwë's spirits a little.
We could eat and drink a sip, warm ourselves up then depart. We could go home! And Tyelcano would not need to ride, he could settle in one of the carts. Valar bless my brother!
His thoughts turned to Makalaurë, gentle Makalaurë whom he loved dearly, though at times, he hid his devotion deep in his shattered heart. He felt a sudden longing to his brother, the only friend he had left in this wide world.
Not the only one. Now there's Tyelcano, too.
He should have always been there for me. I could have prevented a great number of fails by simply letting him aid me!
But no one could change the past, not even Nelyafinwë. Humming one of Makalaurë's favorite songs under his breath, he left the remnants of the bastion hall to greet the newcomers, his eyes bright, his smile almost visible.
Later, he stated to himself that if only he could have known what he was about to find in the back of the last cart, he might had been much less pleased.