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Thain  by Lindelea

Chapter 17. Thorn: As Cold as Death

Alive without breath, as cold as death;
Never thirsting, ever drinking;
Clad in mail, never clinking;
Drowns...

It was nearly too irritating to bear, to go to his death with a children’s riddle spinning through his fading thoughts. All sensation was gone, even the icy grip of the gently moving stream. He wasn’t sure if he breathed air or water... an odd notion, breathing water. Perhaps he breathed not at all.

He thought his eyes were open, for he remembered seeing the torches not far from the stream as they'd passed through the enemy encampment, letting the current pull them along. His mail, of course, would have carried him to the bottom, so that he had to keep walking, struggling to keep his head above the water and Berenarth’s as well, but his legs grew ever heavier and now he really did not know if he still walked or if he lay at the bottom of the stream, pulled down by his mail. Alive without breath, as cold as death...

The women with their slumbering burdens had floated ahead, caught by the current, carried along, and so had the older children. Berenarth’s son had tried to stay with his father and Thulion, but the cold had taken him at last; he’d lost his footing and in the final view the aide had seen of the lad, by the fading light of the enemies’ torches, he’d been floating face-down in the stream. Asleep at last, borne to the Lune and on to the Sea, for ever beyond the Witch King’s grasp... Drowns...

When the pain began in his extremities he welcomed it at first, proof that he still had extremities; that he had a body that could feel pain meant he was not yet dead. As the pain grew in intensity he tried to clench his teeth, that he might not betray his lord with a sound, though the chattering made him think his teeth might shatter as fits of violet shivering seized him. At last he was able to make out sounds through the roaring in his ears. When had the roaring replaced the silence? He did not know.

Thulion. Do you hear me? Thulion?

There was something important that he could not quite remember. If only the shaking would stop... He became aware of furnace heat surrounding him, though after a time this resolved into warm bodies pressing close. He opened his eyes, squinting against the light of a shaded lantern, and turned his head to the side, meeting the eyes of a soldier, inches away. He realised then, as warm skin pressed against his skin on both sides, that he was wrapped together with others who braved his deathly-cold to share their living warmth. He pushed against the constricting blankets as a voice said, ‘He’s wakening.’

Wakening, he meant to say, but the word came out in a series of shudders. W-w-w-w-- 

I’m awake! he wanted to shout.

 ‘Sit him up,’ the voice said. ‘Captain Thulion, I have a warming drink for you. Swallow this down, now.’

The bodies on either side of him eased into a sitting position, propping him between them, and a mug was held to his lips. He sipped, then swallowed eagerly, feeling the warmth moving down into his frozen innards. He was nearly able to get a word out, halfway through the mugful. B-b-b-b-b--

 ‘Don’t try to talk, Captain,’ the voice said, and Thulion tried to focus on the speaker.

Fair was the face, fairer than any Man’s, and the eyes youthful and ageless at the same time. The lips smiled as recognition came into Thulion’s eyes, and the Elf nodded. ‘I am sent from Cirdan,’ he said. ‘A messenger reached us, telling of your plight. We are readying boats to take your people across the Lune to safety in Lindon. Angmar dares not cross the water; there is a power in the Lune and in the land he has not the strength to face... at least, not yet.’

 ‘B-b-berenarth,’ he managed, succoured by the warmth of the drink and the slow warming of his body. ‘Aranarth? Ciryarth? Ciryanor?’ Sons of the King. ‘Arvedui?’

 ‘Rest now,’ the Elf said, motioning to Thulion’s props to lie themselves down once more. The aide felt the men huddle closer; he wished to push them away, to fight free of the blankets, to rise, pull on his clothes, and go in search of his lord, but a warm lassitude was spreading through him and his eyes closed despite his best efforts.

When he wakened again he was alone in his blankets, and young Berethor crouched beside him. When the boy saw the aide’s eyes open, he said, ‘Captain. I owe you my life, and that of my mother and sisters.’

 ‘Your brother,’ Thulion whispered.

Berethor shook his head, his expression much too old for his years. ‘He had a peaceful end, at least,’ he said quietly.

The tent flap was raised, and a head poked through, torches guttering in the bitter darkness beyond. ‘My lord,’ the soldier said. ‘Your boat is waiting.’

The boy’s mouth twisted and he gestured as if to push the words away, but he answered, ‘I come anon. Is the assault upon us?’

 ‘Angmar yet waits, my lord,’ the soldier answers. ‘It is said the Witch King will arrive with the dawning, to attack with the rising sun at his back, dazzling our eyes.’

 ‘Then let the men rest while they may,’ the young lord said, ‘but ready to spring up at once, should the alarm be sounded.’

The soldier bowed and withdrew.

 ‘My lord?’ Thulion said, his eyes widening as the implications came home to him.

 ‘Don’t look at me so, Captain. For all we know my grandfather the King will come. He has the palantiri to show him a safe passage, after all. He may well be awaiting us in Lindon.’

 ‘Berenarth,’ Thulion said, more a statement than a question. Somehow more than a few syllables was beyond him, in his present state of exhaustion.

The boy shook his head, his face expressionless, but he put a hand on the aide’s shoulder. ‘My faithful Captain,’ he said. ‘Thanks to you, my father was not taken by the enemy, to be borne back to fallen Fornost, to suffer Angmar’s torments. He died in peace.’

Thulion closed his eyes and swallowed hard. All for naught. All for naught. He must have said the words aloud, for the small hand squeezed his shoulder with surprising strength.

 ‘You brought us through,’ the young voice said, filled with fierce pride. ‘We are forced back, but not defeated. They think to drive us into the Lune to drown, but elf-boats take our people to safety under cover of darkness even now. An ever-dwindling number of soldiers hold the line, while empty tents give the lie to our enemies that we stand against them, waiting for the dawn.’ The hand was withdrawn and the boy rose. ‘Litter bearers wait outside, to bring you to a boat. We’ll meet again in Lindon, Captain Thulion.’

Before the aide could form a reply, the boy was gone.

There was no point in asking after the other sons of the King.

***

Not long after he hid himself, Bucca heard a crashing in the underbrush, and he froze as it came ever closer. A patrol of Angmar, perhaps, hunting in the woods for stragglers? Perhaps the royal family had been discovered in the icy stream, and soldiers had been sent out to find and capture or destroy any more refugees.

The hobbit huddled into a tight ball, hugging his knees, wishing he could burrow into the frozen ground as the blundering sounds approached. He breathed shallowly, hoping that the pony would not betray his presence with a snort or whicker.

The sounds ceased abruptly, a few steps away, as if the maker had stopped to listen to the silence of the forest, and Bucca held his breath, though he thought the heartbeat pounding in his ears just might be loud enough to give him away.

As suddenly, the steps resumed, and before Bucca could move to right or left a heavy booted foot came down, crushing the breath from him even as the Man who’d blundered into him lost his balance and fell atop the hobbit with bruising force.






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