Chapter Nine: Memories of the Dead
A tempest approaches, he thought bleakly, watching the roaring heights whipping back and forth in fury. The elven soldier scaled the mallorn with an alacrity hampered by the gusting winds trying to wrench him from his tenuous position. Crouched on a thick bough, he gazed around at the forest, keen eyes automatically seeking out other familiar figures hidden amongst the leafy branches. He spotted one gesturing towards him and with an agile leap, landed on the platform beside the figure who hailed him.
"Ho, Thillas! What news?"
"Nothing. Save the furious wind and soon-to-be rain," the scout answered back, taking a seat beside his friend.
Arenath offered him a chunk of waybread and a flask. Chewing his frugal supper thoughtfully, Thillas stared out at the black plains stretched below them, featureless, shrouded in shadow and deep mists.
"Beautiful night, is it not? Makes you appreciate the finer things in life." He lunged for the flask before the wind sent it tumbling over the edge of the flet.
"Ha! Like a soft bed and a flask of warm Dorwinion you mean?" Arenath laughed. "I wish for it too. But such are our orders."
The scout rolled his eyes without his friend seeing. "Indeed." His eyes narrowed puzzlingly as he looked up at his friend. "Who is in command now?"
Arenath did not answer for a moment as though he himself were unsure. "Fedorian—when he returns. I, until then, I suppose."
"Oh."
"You sound so disappointed." Arenath turned a gentle smile on the scout who looked away to conceal his smile.
"Disappointed? No. Dismayed—maybe. I hate to think of you in charge of anything save the sweet cakes."
Arenath barely heard him, his eyes suddenly intent upon the outer fringes. He slapped his companion's shoulder. "Look there!"
Horses approached. Indistinguishable with hoods thrown up to conceal their faces, the riders cantered full pelt into the trees.
Already elves had swiftly descended to meet them, arrows notched uneasily. But the riders were elves, of that Arenath was sure and he gave the signal for the men to stand down. Panting and blowing froth, their sides lathered in sweat, the horses slid to a stop as he walked briskly up to them.
Someone struck a lantern. The blue-white glow glimmered on the wet grass as Arenath peered up at the riders, the cool wind whipping his hair over his face.
"We have injured," Orophin croaked, his voice torn from him by wind and grief. He clasped his elder brother tightly against his chest seeming afraid to release him though his hands shook with exhaustion. Dried blood caked one shoulder.
"We will get them aid speedily." Arenath nodded to one of the scouts who immediately sprang away into the darkness.
A small elf stepped into the soft blue light and Arenath recognized Déorian. He looked about done in and bent over his knees in weariness.
"You have been gone long." Disconcerted to see them so battered, Arenath reached up to help slide Rameil carefully from the trembling steed.
"He needs help—he was badly hurt." Ancadal looked concernedly after his friend.
Orophin shakily dismounted as several others stepped forward helpfully and eased Haldir down from the horse. His eldest brother was scarcely conscious, his face very pale though. Tendrils of loose hair clung to his face and neck with sweat. It had been a trying ride. But Orophin felt at least a little calmer now that they were home.
Rúmil hung back, silent and whey-faced, scarcely looking up as two women, clothed in grey appeared behind the returning scout. One was Geilrín.
Arenath looked from one haggard face to another and his own fell as he realized for the first time that one was not among them.
"Where is the captain?"
A half-finished glass sat within reach as Rúmil raked a hand through his unbound hair, not caring that it swung back before his eyes again. His reflection looked as tired as he felt. Night had fallen long ago and he was drained in every way imaginable, physically, emotionally, mentally. He wanted nothing more than to lay his head in his arms and howl out the misery that threatened to break free of his chest.
But, Haldir slept uneasily in the bed behind him and he dared not wake him with his grief. Orophin had found comfort reuniting with his little daughter and gentle wife. Rúmil had no such comfort and his eldest brother had yet to wake. Oh, for dawn!
But dawn was a long way off and sleep offered him no solace. Each time he dozed he dreamt again of the fires, of the clamor of battle and Fedorian's fearless countenance smeared with blood. He would awake gasping and covered in sweat as though he had raced those unbearable miles home again.
Finishing the wine in a single quaff, he laid his head in his arms and shut his eyes, tightly trying to ground out the images that floated before them. Against the darkness of his eyelids, he still saw the flickering afterimages of candlelight. Hundreds of candles trickled down into the dark, a river of light streaming into the deep fosse outside the city gates.
Guardians came from all corners of the borders to give their farewells to their fallen comrade in arms. No body to burn, of course. Somehow, it made the loss even harder to bear, thinking of Fedorian's body lying cold and unburied in the starlight, dishonored by scavengers. Or worse, the Haradrim's wolves. But they mourned him nevertheless as a proper warrior should be.
Rúmil did not know many of those present and could never remember their faces afterwards. He listened to the heartbreaking lamentations sung by the upturned faces lit from beneath by the amber candle flames. He watched while they lit an empty pyre to free their friend's spirit—wherever it be so that it would speed quickly across the vast waters.
It felt so empty.
The elf sighed and let the memory slip away like water through his cupped hands. Why would this night not end? He feared to lift his head lest he see those remonstrating green eyes staring at him out of the glass. Such a pang of guilt and loss pierced him like a razor that he could not help the muffled noises that escaped his lips.
A soft sound intruded on his grief, made him start and lift his head.
It was not who he expected.
Silivren shaded a candle with the palm of her hand, her beautiful face glowed with the flame's reflection in her eyes. "I took the chance that you were still awake. I'm sorry if I disturbed you."
"You never do," he said. "What do you need?" Numb dread dully squeezed his stomach.
Over and over during and after the ceremony he and the other survivors of that ill-fated mission had been asked to recount their tale. Rúmil, drained from the memories, had excused himself quickly after that, wanting to escape all eyes. All night he had feared she would come and now she had.
"I would speak with you privately, Rúmil, please."
The elf glanced back at his brother's sleeping form. Haldir rested quietly for now and Rúmil knew he would not be missed for a few moments at least. He stood a little unsteadily from the chair and followed after her.
Fedorian's daughter held the candle steady in one hand as she descended through the door onto the spiraling stairs underneath, Rúmil close after her. Not far from the borders, several such telain had been built for the injured on the perimeter. Easily defended in case of attack, any who tried to mount the steep stairs would be forced to enter the small door from underneath one at a time. Rúmil tried to think of these distractions instead of the horror of what Silivren wanted to speak to him about in the middle of the night.
"Your mother is she all right?" he asked, noting the dull grief in her eyes when they stopped on a landing.
"She…She's sleeping. She asked me to check in on you and Haldir before."
"Rúmil…" She scarcely managed his name before she closed her eyes as though in intolerable pain.
Desperately, Rúmil cast about for something, anything to latch onto. "You are to be wed soon. You must try to…forget this grief—if only for a time."
"How can I forget?" she cried. "Rúmil, you have been a brother to me all these years—you know."
He knew.
The silence hung heavy between them as he stared expectantly at her, dread's coil cutting sharply into his chest.
Silivren seemed to be gathering herself, her fingers twisting together nervously over the candle stem. "You… you were with him to the end were you not?"
Rúmil only nodded which did not seem to encourage her at all.
For a moment, she looked up into his face and then away, and back again as though trying to decide what to actually ask him. "I want to know… What did he say?"
Rúmil froze and hesitatingly spoke. "He thought… of… you at the last." Rúmil swallowed hard. "He—he told me to tell you how much he loved you and your mother."
The greater solace to her. Silivren nodded and looked away, her green eyes filled with generous tears. "I was certain. I knew!"
She was certain. She knew.
Taking his shaking hands in hers, she clasped them tightly. "Thank you." She laid a sisterly kiss on his cheek.
He closed his eyes. Whatever disagreements he had had with his commander seemed paltry and unimportant now. "His end was in every way worthy of his life."
"He was very brave."
She left him there with a greater emptiness inside him than before she had come.
They were coming for him again. Cruel hands dug into his shoulder like splinters of glass and he cried out, trying to wrench away from them but his body moved so slowly to his frantic commands. They hauled him by his shoulder which screamed mindless agony at him. And he could see their leering faces all about him, dark and cruel as they plied the whips, stripping away flesh. A sharp pain bit suddenly as though wooden splinters were being jammed into the flesh of his leg and twisted.
"Leave me… stop it! I cannot tell you what you want!" he wanted to scream at them, to make them understand. But his vocal chords seemed paralyzed.
But they gave him no heed…
The soft cries snapped Rúmil out of a heavy sleep; and he sat up abruptly, wondering what had awoken him. Hearing movement in the room, he snapped around to face the bed behind him.
Twisting and thrashing in the sheets, Haldir fought against the phantom shadows of his feverish mind.
Disregarding the back aches from sleeping upright, Rúmil threw off his cloak and knelt at his brother's side, gently pressing back the arm trapped stiffly in a sling to keep the injured shoulder still. But that seemed to frighten him all the more and Haldir struggled fiercely, nearly catching his brother across the face with his free hand, lost somewhere between sleeping and waking.
Rúmil captured the wrist and coaxed it slowly back onto the bed, wondering what he should do. He had never been good at this and he panicked, half-rising to see if he could find Geilrín. But he could not leave his brother like this.
Freeing one of his hands, he gingerly tugged Haldir's uninjured shoulder. "Haldir, wake up," he whispered, smoothing a hand over the trembling fingers. "Shh, Haldir, shh, it's all right. You're all right. Wake up." He shook him a little harder.
As Haldir shifted, a frown furrowing his brow as he stirred towards consciousness, Rúmil drew back, a hand still hovering over his brother uncertainly.
Suddenly, wide, silver eyes snapped open and fixed on his face. Rúmil flinched away from the unbearable terror he saw in them as Haldir woke fully, drenched in his own sweat, panting as though he had been nearly smothered.
For a moment, his younger brother could only stare, thinking fleetingly of how strange this felt. His brother had always been the one to care for him when he had been injured on the perimeter. And now to see him in need of comfort… it felt somehow wrong.
Rúmil recovered first. "You are feverish, muindor. Just breathe deeply, all right? You're safe. You're home now," he assured him, stroking the damp hair back from his brother's pale face.
"Rúmil?" Haldir blinked to steady his blurred vision, his voice thick and slurred. "Where… where am I?"
"Home, Haldir. We're home."
"Oh."
For some reason Rúmil didn't understand, Haldir did not look relieved. Instead his eyes were fixed elsewhere as though he hadn't even heard his younger brother. Rúmil found himself staring into haunted eyes that did not look back at him, gazing far away into something he couldn't see.
"Do—do you wish to speak of it?" Rúmil asked, shifting uncomfortably. He had never been very good with these kinds of talks; they made him uneasy.
Haldir only shook his head with a grimace as he glanced down at his shoulder, seemingly surprised to find it splinted and bound tightly to his chest. He touched it with his other hand, the wrist of which had a light bandage wound around it. Looking at it, Haldir couldn't recall what had happened but he ached all over and already his mind had began to drift back towards sleep, nightmare, though not forgotten, put aside in favor of healing rest. Then he noticed his brother watching him still with deep concern.
Haldir tried to smile at him to ease the worry in his brother's eyes but he didn't succeed. "Go get some sleep, muindor. You may return when you no longer look as though you're going to fall over."
Rúmil nodded reluctantly, stifling a yawn as he touched his brother's forehead gently. "I will not argue with you." He grabbed a spare pillow from the chair he had been sleeping in and tossed it on the ground, stretching himself beside the bed.
Haldir sighed in exasperation. "I did mean for you to go home and sleep."
"Yes, well, until you're better and able to ride, this is my home."
Too tired to argue, Haldir hid a grateful smile as he tipped a blanket over the edge of the bed in mock-temper at his youngest brother. "Goodnight then!"
Rúmil draped the blanket over himself. "Goodnight."
