ENDLESS NIGHT
PART FOUR
Eomeril had only a small armful of paltry kindling when he decided he could delay no longer in getting back to the camp. He pictured Celemedril getting colder and colder, until all living warmth seeped from his body into the pitiless night. But the firewood he had would have to be enough. He should never have come so far in the first place, nor left his siblings alone so long.
He had come all the way to the Road in his search. It ran between tumbled rocks that looked like trolls had played at bowls with them. Eomeril knew the scattered boulders were big enough to hide all manner of creatures and indeed, he suddenly realized he had been watched for some time.
He casually bent down as if to pick up more fuel and secretly loosened his sword in its scabbard and his knife in its sheath. He turned away from where he felt the unseen gaze was strongest and dumped the firewood softly. Quick as thought, he unslung his bow from his back and fitted two arrows at once to his bowstring.
He half expected an attack at that very moment. But there was no sound or movement in the rocks around him. Eomeril moved slowly back toward the camp, bow at the ready, turning and twisting in every direction to guard against the unseen enemy that seemed to watch from all sides. Still nothing happened for several long minutes. Eomeril began to wonder if he had let his worry over his brother and sister conjure danger where there was none.
But a cold fear such as he'd rarely known grew in his heart. His breathing was rough and his fingers grew slippery on his bowstring. The moon deceitfully hid its face behind a cloud and for a few moments, even Elven eyes could not pick out any detail in the shadow.
Although he had been anticipating it for what seemed like hours, Eomeril was still shaken by the ferocity of the attack when it came. A dozen Orcs at once swarmed out of the rocks less than twenty yards away, brandishing iron swords and spiked wooden clubs. He fired two arrows at once, rapidly pulled a third arrow from his quiver and fired again. Three Orcs fell dead but the others kept coming, trampling the bodies in their charge toward the Elf.
He kept shooting but with haste and close quarters, his arrows sometimes merely wounded and enraged, rather than dropping the black creatures where they stood. Soon two more Orcs lay unmoving across the Road and two others were wounded. The rest now slowly gathered about Eomeril in a circle, cautious of their adversary but certain of final victory. The Orc who appeared to be directing the fight shouted encouragement in their foul tongue.
The remaining Orcs started to close the circle and Eomeril prepared to sell his life dearly. Suddenly he heard the shrill cry of a horse in fear, cutting through the night. Eloessa! Something was wrong back at the camp!
With renewed strength borne of desperation, Eomeril shot the largest Orc through the heart. Pulling the last arrow from his quiver he plunged it with his own hand into the eye of the leader who had closed with him in fierce combat. The leader's spiked club came down with ferocious strength across Eomeril's face and right shoulder as the Orc crumpled, dead, to the ground.
Eomeril felt white pain wash across his arm but had no time to wonder if it was broken. Whirling, he pulled his knife and threw it to lodge deep in the throat of an Orc behind him.
Then at last he took out his sword, though he was forced to use his off hand, for his sword arm was useless. "Come, you foul creatures. Try the cold taste of Elf steel."
His face was terrible and fair, shining with a pale light that burned the Orcs' eyes, and the Orcs were afraid. With their leader and many of their comrades slain in so short a time, when victory should have been easy, the remaining Orcs gave up the fight and fled into the dark.
Eomeril felt something trickling down his face and found it was blood from a deep gash in his right cheek. His arm alternately burned and went numb. He thought the muscles may have been damaged, but it was not broken as he had feared. He had trouble seeing out of his right eye.
Eomeril wanted nothing more than to slip to the ground and stay there until dawn. But he forced himself to remain upright and headed off at an unsteady run toward his camp, dreading what he would find when he got there.
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Celemedril knew he was dreaming, but could not wake up. He heard Eloëssa chanting in her lovely voice. He kept searching for her but she eluded him. She teased and laughed, running from tree to tree in the Golden Wood as she had when they were children. Then the trees turned dark and forbidding as if they were in the Mirkwood of the east. Some even took on the appearance of tree-people, the mysterious Ents of the ancient stories.
Celemedril began to fear for Eloëssa. He had to find her, but the trees kept changing and he lost the path. Eloëssa's chant changed to a lament for those gone to the Halls of Mandos, and then changed again to a voiceless moan that rose to a scream..Eloëssa!
Celemedril jerked awake. His heart was pounding as if he had run up a mountain. He looked around but his vision was blurred. It was very dark. He could make out little except large, four-legged shapes he assumed were the horses. Something was terribly wrong and not just his wound, though his leg burned with pain like someone had replaced the bone with a white- hot poker. "Eloëssa! Eömeril! Where are you?" he called. He heard nothing but the sounds of the horses and the wind.
Celemedril's vision slowly cleared. He struggled to get up. For several minutes he had to remain on hands and knees, fighting off dizziness and weakness. He grasped a nearby rock and pulled himself upright.
Once the world steadied about him, he saw the camp was indeed empty. He did not remember coming here but recognized the Gates of Moria. He called out again. "Eömeril, where are you? Eloëssa, answer me!"
Eloëssa's mare, Vesta whinnied shrilly. Celemedril gazed intently at the horse. "Something has happened to Eloëssa, fair one?" He felt the mare was trying to tell him what he ought to know. Although Eömeril or Eloëssa might have had the gift of understanding Vesta, Celemedril did not.
He saw on the ground, however, something that made his heart stutter with fear. He picked up the leather wallet containing Eloëssa's precious mithril needles. They were worth a small ransom besides being a heart gift from the Lady Galadriel. Eloëssa was never careless with them. He tucked them carefully away, hoping he would have the chance to return them.
Celemedril looked more closely at the ground and saw evidence of a scuffle and something or someone being dragged away to the north. There was a single boot print, too. It was not a soft boot of leather such as he and Eömeril wore, but the nail studded boot worn by the soldiers of Men.
Celemedril looked around and found his sword leaning against his pack. He girded himself and spent a moment clearing his mind of pain and weariness. His inner vision now burned with a single purpose, to find Eloëssa.
He did not know where Eömeril was, but could not wait for him. The Elven warrior ignored the pain in his leg and set off at a ground-burning jog over the rough terrain. By the dim light of a wasting moon he followed scant evidence of the passing of captor and captive for what seemed like hours.
He could not completely overcome the reality of his wound, however. He repeatedly pushed away the pain that threatened to overwhelm him. But finally, he had to stop for a moment. To examine the trail, he told himself. Except now there was no trail. Although the ground was rocky, at first he had found overturned stones and other bits of evidence to indicate which way his quarries went. Now there was nothing. He almost called out Eloëssa's name in his worry, but knew it might be deadly for her if her captor knew they were closely pursued.
At least the trail seemed to indicate a single adversary. One enemy was probably all Celemedril could handle in his condition and even that might be doubtful. With an effort he put such thoughts from him, knowing a warrior can lose the battle in his mind before it is ever fought.
He went several yards further ahead but still found nothing. Either the enemy could disappear at will or Celemedril had missed the place where he had turned aside. Hoping to Elbereth he was right, Celemedril turned back the way he had come.
Heading down the track again, Celemedril went slowly, fearing to miss any possible clue. His strength was waning. He prayed he would still be of use to his sister when he found her. If he found her. His heart quailed in his chest at the thought and he tried to think of something else.
Where was Eömeril? Why had he left their sister alone with only a sick man for protection? If she was hurt, Celemedril swore in his fear and fury that Eömeril would answer for it. The brothers would learn that such oaths taken in the darkness of the heart reap only evil for the oath-taker and only grief for the oath-breaker.
Celemedril despaired of finding the trail again, but kept looking, even when he was beyond hope. He finally stopped and looked up at the sky, seeing stars for the first time that endless night. He traced Elbereth shining coldly above him. He wondered if Eloëssa could see it, too. The night's stillness was absolute. It seemed to press with a physical weight and he bowed his head beneath it.
Suddenly he heard a man's dark laughter, the kind that accompanies acts of cruelty and malice. Celemedril oriented to the sound instantly. It seemed to come from behind a solid wall of rock. He silently crept closer and examined it. He saw the sheltered opening of the grotto he missed before. His leg threatened to give out on him, but he drew his sword and prepared to meet his foe.
When he entered the grotto his worst nightmare greeted him. A Dunlending soldier in tattered gear straddled his sister. Celemedril could see Eloëssa's skirts in disarray around her hips, while she lay still as death. He could not see if she yet lived. His rage blossomed like a red fire from the depths of the earth. He charged the soldier with his sword held high, and his face promised swift death. "Die, Dunlending, die! You are not fit to walk the grass of Arda!"
The soldier twisted from his vicious business and jumped up in fear, scrabbling at his own sword he wore in a sheath on his back. Celemedril's blade was sharp and his aim was true. But fate mocked his intent and Celemedril's leg gave way beneath him. The Dunlending was able to counter the blow with his own blade. The misspent power of the Elf's blow sent his sword spinning out of his hand, back toward Eloëssa's body. Celemedril now panted on his knees, weaponless, in front of his sister's despoiler. He saw his death, and that of Eloëssa, in the eyes of the Dunlending.
The soldier held his sword against the throat of the Elf. The he spoke the only words Celemedril ever heard him utter. "The legends say it is death for a Man to lie unbidden with an Immortal. Yet I have done this thing and still here you see me."
"The legends are true." said a clear voice, like a bell ringing into silence. Before Celemedril could move, a silver blade sliced through the night, right through the neck of the Dunlending. His head was cut neatly from his shoulders and landed at the feet of a body that did not yet know it was dead. Blood showered over the stony ground. The man's expression looked slightly surprised. Celemedril looked up and saw his own sword gripped in the slender but deadly hands of his sister.
"The legends are true." Eloëssa said again. But then the strength seemed to leave her. She sank to her knees, bound hands still holding the sword. She leaned against it, its point sunk into the stony ground, the sword her only support. Delicate ribbons of blood streaked her face and arms. She stared at Celemedril with eyes wide and dark with shock.
He reached for her and she fell into his arms. She shook as one with an ague, but made no sound or cry. Taking his sword from her, he cut the bonds on her hands. Celemedril helped her to her feet, gritting his teeth against the pain in his wound, determined his leg would not fail this time.
He heard a sound and thrusting Eloëssa behind him, whirled, sword in hand, to meet this newest foe. His eyes fixed on the face of his brother. Eömeril's face bore a deep gash in one cheek, still bleeding; and one eye was swollen almost shut. Eomeril held a sword in his left hand, his accustomed weapon hand hung crookedly at his side. But the grayness of his complexion, of one who has known the deepest fear for many long hours, was worse by far than his wounds.
Celemedril in his sudden fury took little notice of the wounds and none of the lines of worry that now permanently marked the face of his brother. "Where were you? Where were you when our sister was stolen from our very camp, attacked and despoiled? You betrayed her trust, and mine!"
Celemedril stepped forward and struck his brother across the face with the back of his hand, like a hard master will punish a worthless servant. Eömeril did not flinch from the blow. But when Celemedril moved as though to strike him again, Eömeril stopped his brother's hand in mid-arc with surprising strength. He bore Celemedril's hand down again and Celemedril, with no choice, gave way.
"Now is not the time or the place, no matter how well-deserved your scorn, brother." Eömeril said tonelessly. "Eloëssa needs our care and comfort first."
Eömeril walked past Celemedril and speaking softly approached his sister. She had sunk to her knees again and looked blankly at the ground. Sheathing his sword, Eömeril touched her gently with his uninjured hand, but she flinched and shrank away. Eömeril drew his hand back slowly, despairingly, but his voice held only gentleness and love. "Come, little one. Let us care for you. Soon we will have you safe in Lorien, and in the care of your Lady who loves you. She will heal your hurts. Come, Vesta awaits you just beyond the rock wall." With that, he picked her up in his arms, stifled a moan, and began to leave the grotto.
Celemedril limped over to stand in front of his brother. He said "Place Eloëssa upon her mare. I will ride with her on the road to Lorien. Do not think to join me in this, for you have not earned the right. Since you are come late to this engagement, I will leave you to finish disposing of the refuse here." He gestured to the beheaded body. He held his brother's gaze. "I think I do not have to tell you I will never leave her to your care again."
Eömeril looked down at Eloëssa's empty eyes. "No, you do not need to tell me." He said. He looked as if he would say more, but remained silent. He steadied the mare while Celemedril painfully mounted in the saddle. Then he gently helped place Eloëssa in her eldest brother's arms. "Ride swiftly, and take her to the Lady Galadriel. I pray she will be able to heal her." He said, unable to stop himself.
Celemedril looked at him coldly. "Do not speak to me of her hurts. Attend to the task I have appointed you. Perhaps that, at least, lies within your skill." With that he set off down the mountain, on the last miles to Lothlorien.
His heart full of guilt, grief and anger, Eömeril turned back to the body of his sister's attacker. He looked at the dead soldier and thought his brother a mighty warrior indeed, to have been so close to death just hours ago and then to have struck down this enemy. Perhaps his brother was correct in setting him the task of disposing of the carrion. It was all he had proved himself worthy to do.
He felt as if it must surely be close to dawn, but the eastern sky remained stubbornly dark. He thought of the horrible sight of an empty camp that confronted him after his battle with the Orcs. He had called for his brother and sister till he was hoarse with shouting. The echoes of his cries in the rocks seemed to mock him.
He tried to find a trail to follow but there was no moon as there had been for Celemedril earlier. He found nothing. His sight was blinded with tears of desperation until he fell to his knees in the dirt. Then he saw what was both hope and torture. A trail of blood, probably from Celemedril's wound. He took Vesta, the mare, with him in case a mount was needed. He followed the bloody clues to the rock wall. He had arrived, but too late.
In a dark rage all the more terrible for its silence, Eomeril picked up the soldier's own sword and methodically mutilated and profaned the body until only small unrecognizable pieces remained. Because burning might attract unwanted attention, he left the pieces lying where they were, an invitation for whatever fell beast might happen by.
Though he did not know the man's name, Eömeril knew he was from Dunland by the make of his tattered armor and his sword. He must have been of high rank in the past, for his ragged cloak had once been of excellent quality and it was clasped at the throat with a finely-wrought gold brooch in the shape of a running stag pierced upon a spear. Eömeril kept only the brooch and the sword. Though it take a hundred years, he swore he would find the man's home and history and make those who had supported or aided him rue the day of their birth.
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Celemedril had to turn south from the grotto back toward their doomed encampment. From there he would follow the cold and sparkling Silverlode through Dimrill Dale and thence to Lorien. As the darkness lightened imperceptibly, Eloessa's mare became nervous and tried to shy from the path. Her rider's hand was firm, however, and he calmed her with a whisper of elvish words in her ear.
As they rode along the path, Celemedril noticed what Vesta sensed earlier. The unmistakable tang of blood was in the dawn air. With day coming there should be little danger from any Orcs around, but he remained alert. Eloëssa did not rouse from the stupor into which she had fallen.
Celemedril soon came upon the aftermath of a fierce battle. The bodies of at least seven Orcs lay scattered in the rocks and across the road. As he drew nearer, Celemedril saw that most Orcs were pierced with arrows. In the throat of the last Orc was thrust the silver-worked dagger of Eömeril. The dagger had been a gift from the elder brother to the younger many years ago. Celemedril reined Vesta and stopped for a long while silently looking at the scene. Then he settled Eloëssa more securely in his arms, turned the mare and set his face toward the Golden Wood.
Finally, as if the darkness had decided all the evil that could happen in one night was finished, the sun was allowed to show its face again upon the earth. Morning had come to the Misty Mountains at last.
Eomeril had only a small armful of paltry kindling when he decided he could delay no longer in getting back to the camp. He pictured Celemedril getting colder and colder, until all living warmth seeped from his body into the pitiless night. But the firewood he had would have to be enough. He should never have come so far in the first place, nor left his siblings alone so long.
He had come all the way to the Road in his search. It ran between tumbled rocks that looked like trolls had played at bowls with them. Eomeril knew the scattered boulders were big enough to hide all manner of creatures and indeed, he suddenly realized he had been watched for some time.
He casually bent down as if to pick up more fuel and secretly loosened his sword in its scabbard and his knife in its sheath. He turned away from where he felt the unseen gaze was strongest and dumped the firewood softly. Quick as thought, he unslung his bow from his back and fitted two arrows at once to his bowstring.
He half expected an attack at that very moment. But there was no sound or movement in the rocks around him. Eomeril moved slowly back toward the camp, bow at the ready, turning and twisting in every direction to guard against the unseen enemy that seemed to watch from all sides. Still nothing happened for several long minutes. Eomeril began to wonder if he had let his worry over his brother and sister conjure danger where there was none.
But a cold fear such as he'd rarely known grew in his heart. His breathing was rough and his fingers grew slippery on his bowstring. The moon deceitfully hid its face behind a cloud and for a few moments, even Elven eyes could not pick out any detail in the shadow.
Although he had been anticipating it for what seemed like hours, Eomeril was still shaken by the ferocity of the attack when it came. A dozen Orcs at once swarmed out of the rocks less than twenty yards away, brandishing iron swords and spiked wooden clubs. He fired two arrows at once, rapidly pulled a third arrow from his quiver and fired again. Three Orcs fell dead but the others kept coming, trampling the bodies in their charge toward the Elf.
He kept shooting but with haste and close quarters, his arrows sometimes merely wounded and enraged, rather than dropping the black creatures where they stood. Soon two more Orcs lay unmoving across the Road and two others were wounded. The rest now slowly gathered about Eomeril in a circle, cautious of their adversary but certain of final victory. The Orc who appeared to be directing the fight shouted encouragement in their foul tongue.
The remaining Orcs started to close the circle and Eomeril prepared to sell his life dearly. Suddenly he heard the shrill cry of a horse in fear, cutting through the night. Eloessa! Something was wrong back at the camp!
With renewed strength borne of desperation, Eomeril shot the largest Orc through the heart. Pulling the last arrow from his quiver he plunged it with his own hand into the eye of the leader who had closed with him in fierce combat. The leader's spiked club came down with ferocious strength across Eomeril's face and right shoulder as the Orc crumpled, dead, to the ground.
Eomeril felt white pain wash across his arm but had no time to wonder if it was broken. Whirling, he pulled his knife and threw it to lodge deep in the throat of an Orc behind him.
Then at last he took out his sword, though he was forced to use his off hand, for his sword arm was useless. "Come, you foul creatures. Try the cold taste of Elf steel."
His face was terrible and fair, shining with a pale light that burned the Orcs' eyes, and the Orcs were afraid. With their leader and many of their comrades slain in so short a time, when victory should have been easy, the remaining Orcs gave up the fight and fled into the dark.
Eomeril felt something trickling down his face and found it was blood from a deep gash in his right cheek. His arm alternately burned and went numb. He thought the muscles may have been damaged, but it was not broken as he had feared. He had trouble seeing out of his right eye.
Eomeril wanted nothing more than to slip to the ground and stay there until dawn. But he forced himself to remain upright and headed off at an unsteady run toward his camp, dreading what he would find when he got there.
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Celemedril knew he was dreaming, but could not wake up. He heard Eloëssa chanting in her lovely voice. He kept searching for her but she eluded him. She teased and laughed, running from tree to tree in the Golden Wood as she had when they were children. Then the trees turned dark and forbidding as if they were in the Mirkwood of the east. Some even took on the appearance of tree-people, the mysterious Ents of the ancient stories.
Celemedril began to fear for Eloëssa. He had to find her, but the trees kept changing and he lost the path. Eloëssa's chant changed to a lament for those gone to the Halls of Mandos, and then changed again to a voiceless moan that rose to a scream..Eloëssa!
Celemedril jerked awake. His heart was pounding as if he had run up a mountain. He looked around but his vision was blurred. It was very dark. He could make out little except large, four-legged shapes he assumed were the horses. Something was terribly wrong and not just his wound, though his leg burned with pain like someone had replaced the bone with a white- hot poker. "Eloëssa! Eömeril! Where are you?" he called. He heard nothing but the sounds of the horses and the wind.
Celemedril's vision slowly cleared. He struggled to get up. For several minutes he had to remain on hands and knees, fighting off dizziness and weakness. He grasped a nearby rock and pulled himself upright.
Once the world steadied about him, he saw the camp was indeed empty. He did not remember coming here but recognized the Gates of Moria. He called out again. "Eömeril, where are you? Eloëssa, answer me!"
Eloëssa's mare, Vesta whinnied shrilly. Celemedril gazed intently at the horse. "Something has happened to Eloëssa, fair one?" He felt the mare was trying to tell him what he ought to know. Although Eömeril or Eloëssa might have had the gift of understanding Vesta, Celemedril did not.
He saw on the ground, however, something that made his heart stutter with fear. He picked up the leather wallet containing Eloëssa's precious mithril needles. They were worth a small ransom besides being a heart gift from the Lady Galadriel. Eloëssa was never careless with them. He tucked them carefully away, hoping he would have the chance to return them.
Celemedril looked more closely at the ground and saw evidence of a scuffle and something or someone being dragged away to the north. There was a single boot print, too. It was not a soft boot of leather such as he and Eömeril wore, but the nail studded boot worn by the soldiers of Men.
Celemedril looked around and found his sword leaning against his pack. He girded himself and spent a moment clearing his mind of pain and weariness. His inner vision now burned with a single purpose, to find Eloëssa.
He did not know where Eömeril was, but could not wait for him. The Elven warrior ignored the pain in his leg and set off at a ground-burning jog over the rough terrain. By the dim light of a wasting moon he followed scant evidence of the passing of captor and captive for what seemed like hours.
He could not completely overcome the reality of his wound, however. He repeatedly pushed away the pain that threatened to overwhelm him. But finally, he had to stop for a moment. To examine the trail, he told himself. Except now there was no trail. Although the ground was rocky, at first he had found overturned stones and other bits of evidence to indicate which way his quarries went. Now there was nothing. He almost called out Eloëssa's name in his worry, but knew it might be deadly for her if her captor knew they were closely pursued.
At least the trail seemed to indicate a single adversary. One enemy was probably all Celemedril could handle in his condition and even that might be doubtful. With an effort he put such thoughts from him, knowing a warrior can lose the battle in his mind before it is ever fought.
He went several yards further ahead but still found nothing. Either the enemy could disappear at will or Celemedril had missed the place where he had turned aside. Hoping to Elbereth he was right, Celemedril turned back the way he had come.
Heading down the track again, Celemedril went slowly, fearing to miss any possible clue. His strength was waning. He prayed he would still be of use to his sister when he found her. If he found her. His heart quailed in his chest at the thought and he tried to think of something else.
Where was Eömeril? Why had he left their sister alone with only a sick man for protection? If she was hurt, Celemedril swore in his fear and fury that Eömeril would answer for it. The brothers would learn that such oaths taken in the darkness of the heart reap only evil for the oath-taker and only grief for the oath-breaker.
Celemedril despaired of finding the trail again, but kept looking, even when he was beyond hope. He finally stopped and looked up at the sky, seeing stars for the first time that endless night. He traced Elbereth shining coldly above him. He wondered if Eloëssa could see it, too. The night's stillness was absolute. It seemed to press with a physical weight and he bowed his head beneath it.
Suddenly he heard a man's dark laughter, the kind that accompanies acts of cruelty and malice. Celemedril oriented to the sound instantly. It seemed to come from behind a solid wall of rock. He silently crept closer and examined it. He saw the sheltered opening of the grotto he missed before. His leg threatened to give out on him, but he drew his sword and prepared to meet his foe.
When he entered the grotto his worst nightmare greeted him. A Dunlending soldier in tattered gear straddled his sister. Celemedril could see Eloëssa's skirts in disarray around her hips, while she lay still as death. He could not see if she yet lived. His rage blossomed like a red fire from the depths of the earth. He charged the soldier with his sword held high, and his face promised swift death. "Die, Dunlending, die! You are not fit to walk the grass of Arda!"
The soldier twisted from his vicious business and jumped up in fear, scrabbling at his own sword he wore in a sheath on his back. Celemedril's blade was sharp and his aim was true. But fate mocked his intent and Celemedril's leg gave way beneath him. The Dunlending was able to counter the blow with his own blade. The misspent power of the Elf's blow sent his sword spinning out of his hand, back toward Eloëssa's body. Celemedril now panted on his knees, weaponless, in front of his sister's despoiler. He saw his death, and that of Eloëssa, in the eyes of the Dunlending.
The soldier held his sword against the throat of the Elf. The he spoke the only words Celemedril ever heard him utter. "The legends say it is death for a Man to lie unbidden with an Immortal. Yet I have done this thing and still here you see me."
"The legends are true." said a clear voice, like a bell ringing into silence. Before Celemedril could move, a silver blade sliced through the night, right through the neck of the Dunlending. His head was cut neatly from his shoulders and landed at the feet of a body that did not yet know it was dead. Blood showered over the stony ground. The man's expression looked slightly surprised. Celemedril looked up and saw his own sword gripped in the slender but deadly hands of his sister.
"The legends are true." Eloëssa said again. But then the strength seemed to leave her. She sank to her knees, bound hands still holding the sword. She leaned against it, its point sunk into the stony ground, the sword her only support. Delicate ribbons of blood streaked her face and arms. She stared at Celemedril with eyes wide and dark with shock.
He reached for her and she fell into his arms. She shook as one with an ague, but made no sound or cry. Taking his sword from her, he cut the bonds on her hands. Celemedril helped her to her feet, gritting his teeth against the pain in his wound, determined his leg would not fail this time.
He heard a sound and thrusting Eloëssa behind him, whirled, sword in hand, to meet this newest foe. His eyes fixed on the face of his brother. Eömeril's face bore a deep gash in one cheek, still bleeding; and one eye was swollen almost shut. Eomeril held a sword in his left hand, his accustomed weapon hand hung crookedly at his side. But the grayness of his complexion, of one who has known the deepest fear for many long hours, was worse by far than his wounds.
Celemedril in his sudden fury took little notice of the wounds and none of the lines of worry that now permanently marked the face of his brother. "Where were you? Where were you when our sister was stolen from our very camp, attacked and despoiled? You betrayed her trust, and mine!"
Celemedril stepped forward and struck his brother across the face with the back of his hand, like a hard master will punish a worthless servant. Eömeril did not flinch from the blow. But when Celemedril moved as though to strike him again, Eömeril stopped his brother's hand in mid-arc with surprising strength. He bore Celemedril's hand down again and Celemedril, with no choice, gave way.
"Now is not the time or the place, no matter how well-deserved your scorn, brother." Eömeril said tonelessly. "Eloëssa needs our care and comfort first."
Eömeril walked past Celemedril and speaking softly approached his sister. She had sunk to her knees again and looked blankly at the ground. Sheathing his sword, Eömeril touched her gently with his uninjured hand, but she flinched and shrank away. Eömeril drew his hand back slowly, despairingly, but his voice held only gentleness and love. "Come, little one. Let us care for you. Soon we will have you safe in Lorien, and in the care of your Lady who loves you. She will heal your hurts. Come, Vesta awaits you just beyond the rock wall." With that, he picked her up in his arms, stifled a moan, and began to leave the grotto.
Celemedril limped over to stand in front of his brother. He said "Place Eloëssa upon her mare. I will ride with her on the road to Lorien. Do not think to join me in this, for you have not earned the right. Since you are come late to this engagement, I will leave you to finish disposing of the refuse here." He gestured to the beheaded body. He held his brother's gaze. "I think I do not have to tell you I will never leave her to your care again."
Eömeril looked down at Eloëssa's empty eyes. "No, you do not need to tell me." He said. He looked as if he would say more, but remained silent. He steadied the mare while Celemedril painfully mounted in the saddle. Then he gently helped place Eloëssa in her eldest brother's arms. "Ride swiftly, and take her to the Lady Galadriel. I pray she will be able to heal her." He said, unable to stop himself.
Celemedril looked at him coldly. "Do not speak to me of her hurts. Attend to the task I have appointed you. Perhaps that, at least, lies within your skill." With that he set off down the mountain, on the last miles to Lothlorien.
His heart full of guilt, grief and anger, Eömeril turned back to the body of his sister's attacker. He looked at the dead soldier and thought his brother a mighty warrior indeed, to have been so close to death just hours ago and then to have struck down this enemy. Perhaps his brother was correct in setting him the task of disposing of the carrion. It was all he had proved himself worthy to do.
He felt as if it must surely be close to dawn, but the eastern sky remained stubbornly dark. He thought of the horrible sight of an empty camp that confronted him after his battle with the Orcs. He had called for his brother and sister till he was hoarse with shouting. The echoes of his cries in the rocks seemed to mock him.
He tried to find a trail to follow but there was no moon as there had been for Celemedril earlier. He found nothing. His sight was blinded with tears of desperation until he fell to his knees in the dirt. Then he saw what was both hope and torture. A trail of blood, probably from Celemedril's wound. He took Vesta, the mare, with him in case a mount was needed. He followed the bloody clues to the rock wall. He had arrived, but too late.
In a dark rage all the more terrible for its silence, Eomeril picked up the soldier's own sword and methodically mutilated and profaned the body until only small unrecognizable pieces remained. Because burning might attract unwanted attention, he left the pieces lying where they were, an invitation for whatever fell beast might happen by.
Though he did not know the man's name, Eömeril knew he was from Dunland by the make of his tattered armor and his sword. He must have been of high rank in the past, for his ragged cloak had once been of excellent quality and it was clasped at the throat with a finely-wrought gold brooch in the shape of a running stag pierced upon a spear. Eömeril kept only the brooch and the sword. Though it take a hundred years, he swore he would find the man's home and history and make those who had supported or aided him rue the day of their birth.
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Celemedril had to turn south from the grotto back toward their doomed encampment. From there he would follow the cold and sparkling Silverlode through Dimrill Dale and thence to Lorien. As the darkness lightened imperceptibly, Eloessa's mare became nervous and tried to shy from the path. Her rider's hand was firm, however, and he calmed her with a whisper of elvish words in her ear.
As they rode along the path, Celemedril noticed what Vesta sensed earlier. The unmistakable tang of blood was in the dawn air. With day coming there should be little danger from any Orcs around, but he remained alert. Eloëssa did not rouse from the stupor into which she had fallen.
Celemedril soon came upon the aftermath of a fierce battle. The bodies of at least seven Orcs lay scattered in the rocks and across the road. As he drew nearer, Celemedril saw that most Orcs were pierced with arrows. In the throat of the last Orc was thrust the silver-worked dagger of Eömeril. The dagger had been a gift from the elder brother to the younger many years ago. Celemedril reined Vesta and stopped for a long while silently looking at the scene. Then he settled Eloëssa more securely in his arms, turned the mare and set his face toward the Golden Wood.
Finally, as if the darkness had decided all the evil that could happen in one night was finished, the sun was allowed to show its face again upon the earth. Morning had come to the Misty Mountains at last.
