Ruscdîr silently rode through the woods, trying not to worry as he approached the gates of Menegroth, towering over him, majestic and forbidding all at once. He tried to focus on his horse's ears as the trees reached out to him excitedly, trying to welcome him back with echoes of his past of laughter and love, of his life before it shattered.
He pushed them back.
He didn't want to remember.
A child suddenly sprinted in front of his horse, causing him to stop short.
His breath froze in his lungs before he could say anything.
The child continued to run and play, climbing trees and giggling, his red hair a tangled mess.
"Nana! Nana, look at me! No hands!" He giggled as he hung upside down, clinging to a branch with his knees, while making a face.
"Ruscdîr Elgonion, stop that this instant! You're soiling your clothes!" His father barked, looking neat as always, his red hair carefully brushed and braided, his tunic unstained by dirt or grass.
He looked every bit like the member of a nobleman's counsel that he was.
A good paying position that he hoped to pass on to his son.
"Elgon, you're such a pansy!" A fair voice laughed.
Tears pricked his eyes as she came out of the woods to stand beside her husband.
She was exactly the way he remembered her.
Her hair pulled back in a messy bun, her gray eyes bright, her freckled face cheerful, her deep brown dress stained with dirt.
His father's polar opposite.
Yet they loved each other so well.
"Taurlind, I can't just…"
"I know. I know why. You don't want to become your father."
Elgon tensed, looking downwards in silent shame.
Ruscdîr huffed back tears.
Despite their strained relationship, he couldn't help but feel bad for his father. His mother had once told him that Elgon had not always been the way he was. He used to be more like her, free spirited, wild, restless… only to be forced into an official position without warning by his own father.
It was no better than being caged in a dungeon.
"You're trying to prepare him at a young age to soften the blow."
"Taurlind, I just don't know what else to do. I can't just send him into this without some sort of plan…" he looked over at his son almost wistfully, as though recalling his own freedom.
"You won't be sending him without a plan. I know you too well to know that you're going to be at his side the whole way when the time comes." a small smile spread across her face. "If there's one thing about you that hasn't changed, it's that you're still a big softie with more heart than anyone else I know." she said, playfully tapping his chest above his heart.
A sad sort of smile crossed his face.
"At least you're able to see it." he murmured, planting an affectionate kiss on her forehead.
"Let's just wait a few more years. Let him be a child for as long as we can."
"Adar won't be happy about it." Elgon said softly, a small smile crossing his face. "But I don't think it'll kill him if he doesn't know."
"Doubt it." she replied, easily returning his smile.
He turned, grinning as he walked over to his son, who was still scrambling around the tree like a squirrel.
"Alright, you! It's high time we got back home for dinner!"
Ruscdîr watched silently, tears streaming down his cheeks, as he watched the child he once was smile and leap out of the tree, his father reaching out to catch him.
It was something he used to do all the time.
He still recalled the feeling of the wind whistling in his ears.
The leaves gently grazing him as he jumped.
The scents of ink and parchment that clung to his father.
The way his mother would laugh if he accidentally knocked his father over.
Her smile.
The way his eyes would get a sort of sparkle to them when he looked at his son.
He urged his horse to a gallop as soon as the child landed safely in his father's arms.
To remember what his life had been like, and to think about what could have been, was far too painful.
He didn't even acknowledge the guards as he flew through the gates.
He roughly blinked away the tears as he looked around him.
Menegroth was exactly as he remembered.
The cave had several openings in it, allowing in sunlight and tree limbs, as well as acting as openings for the trees growing within the cave. Natural columns in the cave were adorned with lanterns filled with starlight. The fountains were filled with the clearest water, which glistened when it caught the light. Talans were scattered around in the trees. Every so often there was a waterfall coming from an opening in the stone, which emptied into a large cistern with a guardrail preventing anyone from falling in. Children raced through the streets, joyously playing. Scholars, warriors, healers, workers, and artisans mingled together, conversing, debating, joking, all of them being watched over by the solemn marble statues of warriors, silently holding their vigil over the Iathrim.
It had been the statues that inspired him to become a soldier.
He used to imagine himself like one of them.
Strong, proud, adorned in resplendent armor, guarding his nation and the ones he loved.
Yet here he was, a humble Lieutenant in leather armor that would only shield him for so long.
The son of a counselman turned drunk.
He sighed.
There wasn't much he could do to change his current fate.
He continued onward, until he reached the place he dreaded returning to.
He frowned, angrily looking at the door of his childhood home.
If it could be even called a home anymore.
Ruscdîr closed his eyes, trying to calm himself, and undo the knots in his stomach, as well as the tightness in his chest.
A babe's cry echoed from within the talan.
He tensed at the sound.
"Come on, Rusc." he whispered to himself. "You can do this." He knocked on the door.
After nearly ten minutes of waiting, his father finally opened the door.
"Ruscdîr! How good to see you!"
"Mae-govannen, Adar." He replied, trying to smile, and sound somewhat enthusiastic. He'd hoped that his father had missed him, and seeing the look in Elgon's eyes made him a bit more hopeful that someone in his family was thinking about him.
At least sometimes.
They stood there, content to simply be in each other's presence for a minute.
Looking at his son, Elgon couldn't help but think about how much looking at Ruscdîr was like looking at a mirror image of himself.
A younger mirror image, but a mirror image nonetheless.
Same red hair, same brown eyes, same sharp cheekbones, same strong jaw…
Yet… he was solemn. Haunted by the things he'd witnessed, his soul torn apart by grief and pain.
It killed him to see his son like that, yet he didn't know how to say what needed to be said, or do what needed to be done.
If he couldn't save Taurlind, how on earth could he save his child?
How long would they go on like this, hiding behind their smiles, even though their eyes betrayed their misery?
How long would it be until they were able to be-
"Rusc!"
Ruscdîr looked up sharply, trying to hide the anger in his gaze.
She always, always, called him by his nickname in hopes of presenting as a friend.
"Mae-govannen, Meluilind."
"Come now, Rusc. How many times do I have to tell you to call me Naneth?"
"I'm sorry, Meluilind, but I can't call you that." he said calmly, despite the fact that his teeth were clenched. "I'm afraid that title belongs to my mother, and my mother alone."
"Your mother died over a century ago. It's high time you got over it and accepted that she's gone."
"Not to me."
"Now, now, Rusc, she means well." Elgon said, quickly trying to diffuse the situation before it got worse.
The baby cried again, breaking through their conversation.
"Oh! Taurlind!" Meluilind cried, rushing out of the room.
Ruscdîr's jaw dropped, and he grew incredibly pale at the sound of her name.
"Rusc? Ruscdîr, what's the matter?" he stumbled to the door, shoving it open, ignoring his father's words.
"Ruscdîr!"
"Don't!" he hissed, turning around sharply.
Elgon's hand retreated back to his chest from his son's shoulder.
"Just don't!" he could hardly see his father through his tears.
"Don't what? Ruscdîr, I thought you'd be happy about having a sister…"
"Half-sister." He snapped. "Don't push it, Adar. you've already gotten remarried, had a child, and named her after Naneth. Don't push your luck by suggesting that I'd be happy about your choices."
"Rusc, Melui named her after your mother so that her name might live on."
"No, she named her after naneth so that her daughter's name might live on! Not Naneth's!"
"Why do you hate her so much?! Meluilind has been nothing but kind to you!" Elgon shouted, growing frustrated.
"By trying to replace Naneth?! She has done nothing but try to force her way into my life as though she were my mother! You may love her, Adar, but I feel entirely different!"
An unstable quietness followed, and the air seemed to stand still.
Bystanders both in the streets below, and on the bridges above paused, gawking at the pair arguing outside the talan.
It had been years since any of them had seen Elgon and Ruscdîr together.
"If there's something I want more than anything in the world right now, it's a way to make you understand." Elgon growled through gritted teeth, trying to fight the tears that were slowly coming.
"Funny, I want the same thing." Ruscdîr snapped in return, his emotions outweighing his rationality. "Better yet, I wish I could've been anyone's son but your's."
A shocked silence happened as soon as the words came out of his mouth.
Witnesses looked at each other in uncertainty.
During his time living in Menegroth, Ruscdîr had been notorious for saying things he didn't mean, however, this didn't sound like he didn't mean it.
Elgon stared, speechless, tears slowly pooling in his eyes.
Ruscdîr's face softened somewhat as he realized what he'd just said.
"If… if you don't…" Elgon choked, trying to compose himself before continuing.
"Adar… Ada, I…"
"If you don't want to be a part of this family, you don't have to be."
He said, slowly walking back to his talan as though he were in a daze.
"Adar! Adar, wait, I-"
"Don't, Ruscdîr." Elgon said softly, echoing his son's words from earlier, as he turned around to face him, blocking the door. "Just… just don't."
With that the door closed, and Ruscdîr found himself both shut out of the talan, and his father's life.
The only witnesses to his tears were the birds perching in the trees around him as he placed a hand against the slowly splintering wood of the door, recalling all the times he'd touched the door, slowly realizing that it was likely his last time touching the wood.
His last time feeling the memories it held.
Elgon sat by himself at the table, roughly wiping away his tears as he took a hefty swig of the brandy he'd left there, quietly enjoying the burn it left in his throat.
If only it could burn away whatever poison made him say what he'd said!
He quietly walked into the baby's room, remembering when it used to be Ruscdîr's, as he watched Meluilind nurse their daughter.
"I heard shouting. What happened?" She murmured. "You both frightened Taurlind terribly."
"I… I disowned him." He mumbled, hardly believing what he'd done, as he gently placed a hand on his daughter's head, feeling her soft red locks, remembering when Ruscdîr had been an infant.
"Probably for the best. He was terribly troublesome." She said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You were starting to go gray!"
He tried to smile a little at her words as he gently grazed his knuckles along his child's soft cheek.
"I'm changing her name." He stated suddenly.
"Whatever for? Taurlind's a lovely name!"
"Aye, it is, but… it just… it doesn't suit her. I think her name needs to be stronger."
"What were you thinking?"
"Dagorwen." He said after some contemplation. "Let's call her Dagorwen."
Hoof beats thundered through the glade, making the leaves quake in the trees. The horse was jaded, yet still kept running as she was urged on by her master. The ellon astride her broad back wasn't faring much better. He was breathing almost as heavily as she was, his light eyes flicking back and forth, scanning his surroundings for danger. Despite his distress and exhaustion, his uniform still remained unsoiled and his hair neat, although it would need to be smoothed down.
A bugle and a scroll were thrust through his belt.
Thankfully, Pessmenel would be the messenger's last stop, as it was the furthest province away from Menegroth.
He raced onwards, eager to reach his destination and then return home.
If he hurried, he'd be there in no less than half an hour.
Beleg quietly patrolled around the town square that afternoon, enjoying the sun on his face. Culdôr and Mablung were elsewhere, also keeping watch over Pessmenel. Being the province's law enforcement as well as defense meant they had to keep an eye on what was happening within their borders as well as what was going on outside. He could honestly say that, although he loved going beyond the borders, his favorite duty as a marchwarden was protecting Pessmenel from within. Guarding one's home from the inside really showed a person what they were fighting for: for the beauty of the familiar landmarks and the sense of home, but more so for each and every familiar, lovely, smiling face.
When one was far away from home, as Beleg himself had been on more than one occasion, it became much easier to forget what one was fighting for.
A horse and rider suddenly flew into the courtyard, frightening away the sparrows and forcing pedestrians to leap out of the way.
Beleg sprinted towards the horse, latching onto the bridle, carefully calming the beast down.
"What's your message?" Beleg asked worriedly, already sensing that the news was ill.
The messenger fumbled for the scroll thrust through his belt, panting heavily as he tried to catch his breath.
"Bad." he breathed, anxiety etched into his features as his deft fingers loosened the leather tied around the scroll, keeping it closed to prevent anything from happening to the ink. "Very bad indeed."
The crowd gathering around them was alive with concerned voices raised, questioning the messenger and his news.
Mornar walked out of the stable, worry carved into his face. He had just finished caring for Tinnuhâl when he'd heard the commotion outside. He stood on his toes, trying to see over the crowd. Finally, he gave up, and climbed onto the roof of the stable, carefully perching on the thatch. He could see Alquawen standing outside the healing halls, high above him in the trees. Their eyes locked for a minute before their attention was drawn back to the herald, who was already trying to get everyone quiet, despite the fact that he was still trying to catch his breath.
"SÎDH!" Beleg shouted, silencing the crowd. The messenger wearily smiled nodding his thanks to the marchwarden.
"The news I bear is both ill and important, so all of you must listen, for I shall say this only once." the messenger murmured, carefully unraveling the scroll. "Aran Thingol went on a hunting trip beyond Melian's girdle this morning with several members of his counsel. The party was attacked by edain on their way back to Menegroth… Aran Thingol was badly wounded during the fight, but there were thankfully no deaths."
To Beleg, the air seemed to freeze as soon as the words left the messenger's mouth.
Growing up in Menegroth, being raised by Thingol, Melian, and Lúthian, had given him a unique chance to see what his King was actually like, yet, like most of the Iathrim, to him, Thingol seemed indomitable.
"In order to heal him, Rîs Melian is going to require all of her strength and energy… thus meaning, Melian's girdle is down, and there shan't be any sort of warning if anyone crosses our borders."
Mornar frowned.
The Nargothrondians were far more warlike than the Iathrim for this very reason. Not having any sort of warning meant that they had to be on their toes at all times. They were attacked somewhat regularly, but it wasn't as bad as most outsiders thought, since they knew their enemies, and had good relations with several edain tribes, giving them someone they could count on for backup.
Doriath, however, did not have such luxuries.
They were not allied with any edain, and there were no edain tribes living along their borders, meaning, they had no idea exactly which tribe they were fighting.
He sighed deeply, already starting to feel anxious.
The messenger, having done his job, left the Iathrim of Pessmenel, stunned silent, in a flurry of hooves.
He climbed down from the roof, and started walking back to Alquawen's talan.
"Where are you going?" Alquawen asked as he passed her.
"Back to your talan. To check if I need to sharpen my sword or anything…. I've got a bad feeling about this…"
Two miles southeast of Pessmenel…
Fernthîr walked through the woods, a brace of rabbits slung over his shoulder. He prodded the leafy ground with the butt of crude, handmade spear every now and then, searching for rabbit dens. The two he'd already caught were small, and while they'd fill his stomach for the night, it would probably help Dînaerlinn if he managed to catch some more for her and Brennil as well. He smiled a little, thinking about them. After all they'd done for him, it was the least he could do for them.
He suddenly stiffened, feeling the hairs on his neck stand on end as a new scent caught his attention.
He looked around him cautiously, holding his spear tighter.
Whatever it was, it didn't smell good in the slightest, but… it hadn't noticed him yet.
He gave a quiet growl as he weighed his options. If he ran away quietly, the chances of it noticing him were less but if it did notice him it could follow him back to his den. On the other hand, if he went to investigate, his chances of being caught were higher, but he'd get an idea of what he could be up against.
"Linn and Bren live close by." He murmured to himself. "They might not be safe… Fern should go see."
He followed the scent, gradually getting closer and closer as he traveled deeper into the forest.
He squinted, giving a soft whine of pain as the glare from a campfire peeking through the bushes hurt his sensitive eyes. Hearing rough voices, he quickly climbed a tree until he had a better view of the clearing hidden behind the brush.
He gasped.
At least a hundred and fifty edain were camped out there. They were all armed, and preparing their various weapons for war.
He gagged as he noticed a horse carcass on the far side of the clearing. Beside the dead mare lay her rider, a messenger, blankly staring at the sky with his now unseeing eyes.
An adan, who had previously been sitting at one of the campfires, stood up, and gave a loud whistle, catching everyone's attention.
He was young, about nineteen or so, as far as Fernthîr could tell. For some reason, a particularly foul stench was radiating off of him. Fernthîr gripped the branch tighter. Out of all the edain present, this one was certainly the cruelest.
"Our mission begins tomorrow." He began, his voice holding a commanding tone to it that made Fernthîr's stomach twist into knots. "My uncle, Algar, was thinking small when he decided to attack that troop on the road to Nargothrond, in hopes of capturing some Generals to hold for ransom. Dúnmod had bigger plans for us, but he was more focused on greed rather than power. It was his arrogance that led to his downfall. His plan was for us to take this province of Pessmenel, and hold everyone for ransom, once we'd forced the soldiers we'd captured to allow us past Melian's girdle. I plan to take this a step further. If we can take Pessmenel, then we can take their armory and stable, which will allow us to take the next province… Why settle with taking a province and holding civilians for ransom when we can take Doriath herself, province by province? We have enough people, and elvish medicine is said to be the best. We can force their healers to attend to us so that we may always be in prime fighting condition. We can just kill someone if they dare refuse us."
Fernthîr felt his heart pounding out of his chest, threatening to expose him.
"Edain are no good! Must tell Linn!" He urgently whispered to himself as he quietly scrambled down the tree, breaking into a run as soon as his feet hit the ground.
"Look!"
"What is that?!"
He raced on faster, his cover blown, his mind scrambling for a way to warn Linn without leading the edain to her and-
He screamed as a sharp pain exploded in his leg, knocking him to the forest floor. He quickly got to his feet, pulling out his spear from where he'd had it slung over his back, nearly falling over due to the arrow sticking out from the back of his knee.
He managed to wound several edain before a club came crashing down on his head, sending him to oblivion…
… He groaned, briefly opening his eyes before closing them again.
"Well, well. Look who's awake, lads." His eyes snapped open, and he found himself tied to a tree, staring right at the young adan commander. "You're a funny looking thing, aren't you?" He gave no response other than a low growl. "What can you tell us about Pessmenel, you worthless scum?" He asked, his brown eyes boring into Fernthîr's yellow ones as he pressed a knife into the half-blood's throat as hard as he could.
"Fern won't tell you anything!" He snarled, making sure he spat on the adan's foot, which earned him a punch to the face.
The adan moved out of the way enough to allow his prisoner a clear view of one of his men heating up a knife in the fire. He smiled a little as he noticed Fernthîr's eyes widen.
"We'll see about that."
Ruscdîr quietly wandered the streets of Menegroth, having had five hard drinks. He'd built up a rather frightening tolerance for alcohol over the years, and it took a lot of it to get him anywhere near drunk as a result. It was times like this when he wished that weren't the case.
He looked up to his right, spying his father's talan in the trees.
He couldn't decide on whether he should cry or shout profanities.
A baby's cry echoed from above.
He huffed a laugh.
Waking up in the middle of the night, every night, sounded like hell.
Served them right.
After several minutes, however, the baby was still wailing away.
He frowned, even though he was praying with all his might that his sister was just an incredibly fussy baby.
But the more she cried, the more concerned he became.
Reluctantly, he ran over, and climbed the tree until he reached her bedroom.
She was laying in her cradle by the window, sobbing, and neither Meluilind nor Elgon were in sight.
He couldn't help but feel a small spark of anger.
"Oh, hush." He grumbled. "You shouldn't be complaining about anything. Your life is pretty much perfect." She still continued to cry, but quieted down slightly at the sound of his voice.
"Ah, who am I kidding? You don't have it perfect at all, you're stuck with a pair of scumbags for parents." He sighed, admittedly feeling badly for her.
A tiny hand reached up, and for some reason, the small gesture pulled at his heartstrings, even though he'd never admit it.
"Alright, let's see what's wrong with you, you little beast." He mumbled, gently picking her up out of her bed. She stopped crying almost immediately. "Hm.You don't feel wet at all. Is this all you wanted, then? You wanted attention, you needy little-geh!" He yelped, pulling his tunic out of her mouth as he came to the horrific realization that she was trying to nurse from him.
"If you're hungry, then I'm afraid you're going to have to wait for your witch of a mother for that. I'm no elleth!" He put her back, absentmindedly rocking the cradle.
"I have to admit, even though you're her daughter… you're not that bad."
The next morning…
Beleg stretched, getting to his feet. As always he was up with the sun, despite not having gotten much sleep due to the worry that had been plaguing him. He looked over his shoulder to see Mornar asleep in his cot, clutching his sword.
It had taken two sleeping potions to get him to rest.
He walked over to the window, careful not to wake his companion.
An eerie feeling came over him as he noticed that the sunrise was red.
"Ai Valar… please help us." He mumbled, hoping they would listen to a simple prayer.
His dread only grew as he caught sight of three figures walking up the road...
And that's that!
Thank you all for staying with me so far, I'm so sorry that there wasn't a chapter last month, this quartr was crazy, and both it and marching band season just ended. I'm definately going to have more time to write now though! Love you all!