Aftermath

The forest was silent, the lack of sound so emphatic that his ears rang.  His breath rasped, burning in his chest while the long-fallen needles stirred in the very localised wind, releasing smells of death and decay.  A beetle, its back gleaming an unexpected iridescent green, scuttled out the way as if offended by his oversized and disruptive presence.

He forced himself to his feet.  He could not be caught here, he could not.  He cast a hunted glance around the pathless forest, where one tall pine looked much like its companions, and sought some indication – any indication – of an escape route. The trees, tall as they were, offered little refuge.  Long ridged trunks stretched up to spindly branches and thin canopies – no hiding place there, but a trap, where they could pick him off at their leisure.

He needed to reach the bare rock – and the water.  However skilled those tracking him, the stream would confuse them, hide his scent and any trace of his passing.  If he could make it that far …  He would make it.  He would.  There was no room for failure. 

Downhill.  Water flowed downhill.  And even the presence of unspeakable horrors could not make it run silently.  All he had to do was listen.

Which would be easier if his heart were not hammering like a blacksmith at his forge.

The fugitive looked behind him uneasily.

He appeared to have escaped those chasing him.  For now, at least.  It gave him time.  Probably not much, but it would be enough.  It would have to be enough. 

He glanced despairingly at the disturbed ground beneath him.  It would be all they needed to know that he had passed this way – and any attempt to conceal the slight signs would only make his presence more obvious.   He sighed and began to move delicately, carefully – putting all his skill into disappearing into the trees.  They would know he had been here, but they did not have to know where he had gone.

He would not think about what he had left behind him.

He would not.

If he wanted to survive, he must focus on now.

But how could he do that with the stench of the black smoke still choking him?  How could he do that with his sister’s screams still echoing in his head?   The chaotic desperation of those seeking any unlikely haven, the brightness of the blood, the roar of the flame, the terror, the helplessness… 

He swallowed as the bile rose.   He could not let go.  Not if he wanted to live long enough to take revenge.

Glambren slid into the shadows, determined that he, at least, should survive to bear witness to what had happened.

***

‘Sweet Elbereth’s stars,’ the warrior breathed.  He had seen death – seen the aftermath of battle – but this seemed worse.  So much worse.

He was unsure what made it so – the dismembered corpses, the half-burnt cottages – or the sheer ordinariness of what was left.  A child’s brightly coloured ball sat on a basket of sun-dried linens while a few yellowed leaves drifted down to the soft mossy grass – but, less than a yard away, a broken figure stretched, the back of her head strangely crushed and her neat braids coated in … he preferred not to think what.

Not far from him another warrior retched. 

He stiffened as a hand rested on his shoulder, but the familiarity of the figure allowed him to relax instantly.

‘There are those among us who knew these people,’ his lieutenant murmured.  ‘We cannot expect them to leave them like this.’

‘We would never leave anybody like this,’ Legolas said fervently.  ‘Not unless we had to – and then we would come back to see them decently …  Does anybody know how many people lived here?’

Angren glanced up, leading his captain’s eyes to a white-faced elf in the firm embrace of one of the older warriors.  ‘He had kin here,’ he said.  ‘He will know if anyone does.’

‘Give me strength,’ the captain murmured a plea to whatever power might be listening.  It was not the first time he had been faced with an elf who had lost someone dear to him – but he had not before been confronted with a warrior who had lost family.  It was usually the other way round.  ‘Eriol,’ he said.

The young warrior said nothing, staring blankly at the smouldering ruin before him, as if by watching it he could will it back to being as he remembered it.   ‘My cousin was close to bearing her first baby,’ he said.  ‘My adar warned naneth’s family that the outlying villages were becoming too dangerous – told my cousin that she and her husband should pack up and move closer to the Stronghold – but she would not listen.  She liked it here – said that it was her home, that she would not be driven out.’

‘The outlying villages are always too dangerous,’ Polodion muttered.  ‘And we are always pulling back and moving closer to the Stronghold.  What will we do when there are no villages left?’

‘How many people dwelt here?’ Legolas asked Eriol, frowning Polodion down.  True though his words were, they were close to being disloyal to those who struggled against far greater odds than the warrior understood.  And more, they were – at the moment – decidedly unhelpful.

Polodion shrugged.  ‘There were no more than a dozen left,’ he said.  ‘Four ellyth, including Eriol’s cousin, half a dozen ellyn – and a couple of elflings.’

‘Is that all?’  The village looked bigger, Legolas thought.

‘Is that not enough?’  Polodion snapped.  ‘Most of those who used to live here have gone – leaving only those too obstinate to seek their own safety.’

Behind him, Angren nodded.  The remainder of the patrol would gather what they could find and – hopefully – identify the bodies.  At least they knew for certain that this group of orcs had not escaped with any prisoners.  They had been too late to save the village, but had, at least, been able to wipe out the attackers.  For what little consolation that was.

Life began to revive around the ruined village as the patrol scoured the surroundings for the remains of those who had, only the day before, been part of this serene life among the trees.  Birds, driven off by the noise and smoke, returned to their usual haunts.  A young goat wandered back towards her shed, bleating to be milked, and a tabby cat uncurled from her resting place on a sunny branch and stretched.

Eriol blinked.  It did not seem right – the world had changed and nothing would ever be the same again.  Yet the forest seemed unwilling to acknowledge it and carried on as if what had happened did not matter.  His hands were shaking, he noted absently, and the voices of his fellow warriors seemed to be coming from a very long way away.  All he could hear was a faint wailing, as if, somewhere deep inside himself, he was crying like an infant whose world had been destroyed.  He blinked again.  Surely he was hearing a wailing.  He looked up.  Perhaps something had been saved from the wreckage.

‘Captain!’  A soot-blackened warrior emerged from the goat’s shed – carrying something that certainly was not milk.  The bundle in his arms squalled as if it had finally been given permission to make as much noise as it liked.

‘A child?’ Legolas said incredulously.  ‘How did he escape?’

‘He was under the bucket – I suppose the orcs did not think to search for it.  Why would they expect to find an elfling as small as this one…?’

Eriol moved.  His cousin – he had seen what remained of her, torn and bloodied – but, beyond all expectation, she had saved this little one.  He felt the blood begin to flow through him again.  He had something to do, someone he could help.  He would not have to go home to his naneth and tell her that nothing was left of her family.

‘Someone had best milk the goat,’ Angren said practically.  ‘This one sounds hungry – and I doubt he would appreciate warrior’s rations.’  The lieutenant managed a quick grin at Polodion.  ‘You are a proud adar – that gives you the experience necessary for this duty, I think.’ 

***

‘Are you sure?’ Legolas sounded resigned.  The ellon would be sure, of course he would.  He was hardly likely to be so bemused by the unexpected survival on his cousin’s infant that he had forgotten how to count.

‘I am sorry, Captain,’ Eriol apologised.  ‘I should have…’

Legolas waved a hand.  ‘You were in shock,’ he said.  He looked at the shrouded figures laid out ready for the pyre.  ‘Two missing, you say.  Your cousin’s husband – and her brother.’  He glanced at Angren, who nodded and gathered his best scouts with no more than a gesture.  ‘They might have run, I suppose – but orcs are good at chasing down those who try to get away.’  He ran his hand over his hair.  They needed to get back on patrol.  This was not the only village clinging on, here at the edge of his adar’s power.  And, at the same time, they needed to send Polodion and Eriol – and the goat – back to the Stronghold with the infant.  And the infant was noisy enough – and demanding enough – that he should really send additional warriors to keep away any dangers her squawking might attract.  And now … now they had to send out search parties to find two elves whose bodies probably lay among the trees.  He sighed.  There was more to leading a patrol than fighting – and it was the endless number of command decisions, the juggling of inadequate resources to cover ever-increasing demands, that wore him down.  ‘You have until sunset, Angren.  If you have not found any signs of them by then …’  He did not want to have to say it – but his lieutenant knew what he meant.  They would light the pyres shortly before sunset, so that the flames would die down as Anor set and the smoke would be concealed by the darkness of night.  Then they would want to put some distance between themselves and the beacon call of fire.

Three pairs of scouts left them seriously short of warriors – but, hopefully, they had eliminated the greatest danger near them and they would be ready to move on before the next squad of orcs ranged this far.  And they could not refuse to seek a missing elfling, even if they were fairly certain that he was dead. 

The baby wailed again.  Polodion was definitely not finding this assignment easy – Legolas tried to subdue his gleeful feeling as being decidedly out of place – and persuading the infant to accept the goat’s milk dripped into her mouth was driving the elf to exasperation.  Not to mention the added irritation of having Eriol hanging over his shoulder starting anxiously at every sign of displeasure from the tiny elleth. 

‘Come on, little one,’ Polodion coaxed.  ‘You need to fill your belly – then you can sleep and grow strong.’  He had been surprised, on cleaning the elfling, to find that she was an elleth.  Somehow he had expected an infant who had survived an experience like this to have been born to be a warrior.  The elleth allowed the milk to trickle from the corner of her mouth without swallowing.  He raised her up and wiped the overflow away before dripping a little more into her puckered mouth.  ‘Go away, Eriol,’ he said, forcing himself to keep his tone even and pleasant.  ‘Prepare her some clean clothing, if you must help.  Or heat water for a bath – she smells like goat.’

The ellon left reluctantly – and the older warrior cast up his eyes in relief before returning his attention to the infant.  ‘Your survival has helped him,’ he confided to the indifferent child.  ‘I was worried about him for a while, but I think he will be all right now.’  The elleth wrinkled her nose and opened and closed her mouth as if tasting the milk he offered.  ‘I wonder what your naneth called you, child.’  His long fingers touched the soft cheek delicately.  ‘I daresay we will never know – not until we are reunited beyond the sea in the days beyond days – but we cannot leave you nameless, little one.  Your kin might choose another name for you, but for me…  I will call you Cuilant.’

‘It is a good name.’  Legolas could not resist brushing his hand over her wisp of dark hair.  ‘And we must strive to get her back to safety to ensure it remains true.’

Eriol stood, his arms full of clean linen, and stared at them both before fixing his eyes on his cousin’s child.  ‘Gift of life,’ he said.  He looked round him at the village that was now no more than a memorial to slaughter.  ‘It is a perfect name.  My cousin would have been proud to use it.’

***

Angren nudged his companion.  The tracks were subtle – but they were there nonetheless. 

‘He might have made it,’ the scout said in surprise.  ‘I suppose the orcs were too busy enjoying themselves to notice this one slip away.’

‘If he was not in the village in the first place…’ Angren mused.  ‘Ellyn are good at keeping out of sight when it is time to work – it might have saved him.’

The pines whispered above them and the fresh fragrance of their sun-warmed resin cleared the warriors’ heads of the stench of death.   ‘The ellon has a good instinct for keeping out of sight,’ Tondréd approved.  ‘Although, of course, it could be a bit of a nuisance if he is unwilling to let us discover him.’  He gestured with a finger.  ‘He has sought the safety of water.  Let us follow him to the river.’

 ‘How do you know he went this way?’ Angren followed Tondréd along the tumble of rocks that marked the power of the snow melt that filled this stream each year to turn it for a few short weeks into a raging river. 

‘I just do.’  Tondréd smiled.  ‘There is more to tracking than following signs – you have to think like the one you pursue.  The ellon had the sense to seek water – and he will have headed upstream to where the water could hide him.’ He waved a hand at the foaming water.  ‘The water is wilder up here – and the rocks bigger.  He will know of a place where an ellon can hide.’

‘I hope we find him unhurt,’ Angren said soberly.  ‘I would not want to have to go back to the patrol still suspecting that he was here – and abandon him to seek his own salvation.’

‘We will find him.’  Tondréd sounded confident.  ‘He is only half-grown – he will have reached his limits before long.  And, when he sees us, he will come to us.’

‘I am not so sure.  Elflings go beyond reason at times – especially when they are half-grown.  He might be so determined to hide that he will not even understand we are seeking to help him.’ 

Glambren huddled behind the shelter of the waterfall.  The ledge was narrow, but the spray of icy water felt like a caress and while he had rock at his back he felt safe.  Well – safer than he felt anywhere else.  The cold washed away the fear and the contamination and stopped the hurt.  He did not want to come out – did not want to face what might be left for him, alone in a forest that had become alien and more than terrifying.  While he hid here he could believe that no-one could find him, no-one could harm him, he could try to pretend that none of it was more than a game, that what played out again and again in his mind had never happened.  He stared at the silver curtain of water, hypnotised by its movement, soothed by its roar.

But he was not alone.  He could hear it in the voice of the water.  He could feel it in its touch.  He must not allow himself to sleep – to do so would be to give in, to abandon himself to the call of death.  He was not ready for that.  Glambren forced himself to breathe more deeply and moved reluctantly to where the fall of water was thinner, where he could see beyond it.  It would be easier to surrender, but his adar would not have wanted him to do that.  His naneth would have wanted him to escape, so that he could grow up to protect the forest against the evil creatures that wanted to destroy it. 

And there were elves.  Dressed in the dull greens and browns of the king’s warriors, their bows on their shoulders and their blades sheathed.  He wanted to scream at them, to warn them of their danger, but it was as if his throat had forgotten how to produce any sound louder than a whimper. 

He had to warn them.

They could not know that the trees hid hideous creatures with teeth that tore at elven flesh, creatures that laughed as they slew anything in their path, creatures that burned and destroyed and left nothing behind them.

His limbs did not want to move.  They were clumsy with cold, aching with over-use.  As he tried to stir, his foot slid away, so that he collapsed on his belly with one leg dangling over the edge and catching the relentless fall of water.  He scrabbled to the back of the ledge, panting with fear, pushing himself to wriggle through the narrow opening that gave daring elflings access to this secret place. 

He had to tell them.

Tondréd put his hand on the lieutenant’s arm and held him still as the small figure staggered out to the slippery rock.  Appearing to rush at the child would only frighten him even more than he was frightened already. 

But the ellon headed straight for them, stopping only when he was close enough for them to hear his constantly repeated whisper.  ‘Orcs,’ he said, again and again. ‘Orcs, orcs, orcs, orcs, orcs.’

‘We know,’ Angren said gently.  ‘We have made sure they will not hurt anyone else.  They are dead, child.’

Glambren looked at him with blank incomprehension.  Oh yes, they were dead.  There was no question of that.  They were all dead and more than dead.  Tears blurred his vision and, without realising it, he began to laugh and laugh as if he had been told some irresistibly amusing joke. 

The lieutenant swept the child up and held him cradled in strong arms, even as he looked helplessly at Tondréd. 

‘Let us get him to the healers,’ the scout said.  ‘They will know how to help him better than we can.’

***

‘You know where to meet us,’ Legolas told Angren.  ‘We will wait there as long as is reasonable – but then we will head east.  If you miss us you will have to catch us up as quickly as you can.’

The lieutenant nodded, soothingly stroking the hair of the ellon who seemed firmly attached to his side.

‘If the healers decide that you need to take some leave,’ Legolas glanced at Glambren and lifted an eyebrow, ‘I suggest that you do not put up a fight.  It is more than time for someone else to detach himself from the comforts of home and take a turn at this patrol.  And your wife would be glad to see you, I expect.  There is no accounting for tastes.’

‘We will make all speed back to the Stronghold that we can,’ Angren told him.  ‘But it is not going to be a fast trip.  Between the goat and Cuilant, we will have to be making constant stops.  I expect Glambren will be thoroughly tired of both of them before we reach home.’

The ellon did not speak.  He had made scarcely a sound since they had found him, but had followed the lieutenant around like a shadow as if only in his strong presence did the child feel safe. 

Legolas sighed.  It had been a relief to leave the haunted village to return to the forest, its ruined houses already no more than the memory of the homes of elves whose fëar had fled to Námo’s care.  Glambren and Cuilant – and the goat – were more than they had ever expected to save from the destruction and he supposed they should count themselves lucky to have retrieved so much.  Even if Cuilant's adar had lost his fight to draw the orcs away from his new-made family. 

Yet, how could his warriors congratulate themselves on so limited a success, when so much more had been lost?  Every village, every isolated homestead, every tree, every inch of ground that fell to this creeping evil, this greedy shadow, was one more reason to fight.

He looked at the bundled-up infant, bound to Polodion’s chest in an improvised pouch designed to leave his hands free. 

This was a battle they were not winning.  He knew that – just as every warrior in the realm knew it.  The evil was growing: they were working harder and running faster and yet still they retrenched as the enemy pressed in on them ever harder.

‘Take these two to safety,’ he said.  They were a symbol.  A sign of hope – and hope was something they could not afford to lose.

Legolas crouched down to look the ellon in the face.  The child clutched at Angren’s tunic, but did not bury his face, meeting the captain’s eyes squarely.  ‘You did well,’ the prince said approvingly.  ‘You faced peril and endured against all the odds, and still you had the courage to stand up to help others.  You are a true son of the forest, Glambren.  You can be proud of yourself.’

He thought for a moment that the ellon was about to respond to his words, but the flash of brightness in the child’s expression passed.  He did not realise that, as he rose and turned to lead the skeleton of his patrol back into the trees, the boy’s eyes followed him with intent interest.

Angren stroked the dark head.  ‘Come on, Glambren.  They have brought us as far as they can without endangering those who are left in the forest.  It is up to us now.’

The lieutenant turned reluctantly away from his vanished patrol.  They had done what they could for the dead – now it was time to find succour for the living.  Time to ensure that the aftermath of this incident did not leave irreparable scars on two young fëar.  The dead he could leave to Námo, but these two were his responsibility and it was up to him to protect them.  He sighed.  A task, he thought, that sounded easier than it would prove – here were two who would need long and sensitive care before they were ready to take their place among their peers.

His detachment was waiting for him to give the word – and the sooner they started, the sooner they would arrive.  He looked back one last time and then turned towards the Stronghold.

‘Come on,’ he said.  ‘Let us get started.’