20: Hunkering Down

It was late afternoon before the storm hit. The dark clouds ate the sky, turning day into night, and the sun set in fiery protest, shooting crimson and gold beams to pierce the gloom, defiant in its death struggles against the storm.

Or so Maglor thought as he watched the sky, keeping track of the storm front which was now visible even from the ground. Thurin returned with the few Elves working on the aqueduct almost glowing with pride at having accomplished his mission and Maglor gave him a warm, welcoming smile, gesturing for the ellon to join him where he was busy helping to shift their supplies inside the west tower.

“What can you tell me about the storm? How long might it last?”

Thurin thought for a moment. “Snow fall long time. I not hunt. I very hungry. Maybe this many days,” — he held up four fingers — “maybe more. It hard to count.”

Maglor nodded. “Well, we have food to last us that long at least, perhaps longer if we tighten our belts a bit. The hunters are still out and that is worrying for we have no way of recalling them.”

“You need horn like Araw,” Thurin said with a nod.

Maglor gave him a surprised look. “And do you know Araw personally?”

Thurin frowned, the light in his eyes darkening as he struggled to remember something he might not know. “Long time ago I hear stories of Araw’s horn. Long time….” His expression became pained and Maglor could feel his agitation and put his arm around the ellon’s shoulders to comfort him.

“I remember him from when I was living in Dor Rhodyn,” he said softly. “I heard his horn once. The sound of it was wild and fierce and set my blood burning. Sometimes I dream of him blowing his horn, calling me home.”

Thurin gave him a puzzled look. “Home?”

“A long time ago, but it has not been my home for many ages. I am not sure I really want to go back, but it seems the Belain wish it. That is why Denethor and his people came looking for me when I came north to die.”

“You die now? I left alone again?” Thurin asked, clearly upset, for he was shaking and tears came readily to his eyes and Maglor knew that the ellon was terrified at the thought of being alone once again.

“No, I promise you. I am not dying now and you will never be alone again.” Maglor gave Thurin a fierce hug. “Do not be concerned for me. I am well. You are well. You will never be alone, Thurin. Denethor and the others saved me just as we saved you and we will go to Dor Rodyn together.” Just as soon as we figure out how, he added to himself as he continued hugging Thurin, rubbing his back until the ellon calmed down. “Now, come. Let us help the others,” he said, releasing Thurin from his embrace. Thurin nodded and together they sought out Denethor who asked them to help stretch some of the goatskins over those sections of the walls that were completed in the hope that they could keep the snow from piling too high inside the enclosure. They spent the next hour helping there and were tying down the last skin when the first flakes began to fall.

“Hello the camp! We need help.”

Maglor, working at the south wall, turned to see the hunters entering the settlement, dragging several deer carcasses and ran to give them a hand with Thurin and several others right behind him.

“We wondered if you would return in time,” Maglor said to Haldir, helping him with the deer he was lugging.

“So did we,” the ellon said with a grunt. “We were about to butcher these deer when we saw the storm and decided not to stop but to get back here as quickly as possible.”

“You did well,” Denethor said with a nod of approval. “Let’s get these deer inside. I am glad you did not abandon them. We may well need them before this storm ends.”

“We were tempted to in order to make better time,” Haldir replied, “but I decided it would be better to bring them with us. As it is, we were forced to leave a couple of them behind for we could only drag one deer a piece.”

“That you were able to bring this much back is more than we hoped,” Denethor assured him. “Your adar will be proud of you.”

Haldir glowed with the praise, then looked pensively at the clouds that hovered above them, loosing their burden of snow. “I hope Ada and Nana are well. If this storm reaches Mithlond at least they have plenty of cover.”

“Unfortunately, they were seen making their way across the plains not too long ago,” Denethor said.

Haldir gave him a startled look. “Are they well? What has happened?”

“We are not sure,” Denethor said soothingly. “Damrod and some others have gone out to meet them. They should at least make it back to the hills but it’s doubtful they will get back here before the worst of the storm hits. In the meantime, we had better get these deer dressed.”

Even with several people helping, they were still at work on the deer when the storm came down upon them in full force, the snow falling so heavily and so fast as to blind them. They did not stop at their task but continued until the last of the deer was butchered, using the newly fallen snow, now lying several inches thick on the ground, to wash off the worst of the blood from their hands before seeking shelter in the west tower where a stew was bubbling over the fire.

Inside, they found themselves in very crowded conditions, but the warmth of bodies along with the fire was welcome and those who had been working on the deer were soon drying in the heat. Goatskins covered the doorway, keeping out the wind. Some few flakes drifted down from the openings above but the heat of the fire melted them away before they reached the ground.

There was some concern voiced for those still out in the storm, but there was nothing anyone could do about it except worry, so Denethor kept their attention focused on ideas for making their camp even more winter-proof than it already was.

“This is just a foretaste of what we will have to endure for the next six months or so,” he said to them, “so why don’t we spend some time deciding on how to improve our conditions so that we do not suffer unduly waiting for spring.”

“Tedium will be our enemy as much as anything,” Maglor said. “There may be long days of being forced inside with nothing to do but wait out a storm.”

“We should begin thinking on hobbies or something to occupy ourselves,” Aerinn said, giving them a shy look. Being one of the youngest of them, she was more content to listen to her elders than to contribute to any conversation.

Denethor nodded. “That is a good thought, my dear. Unfortunately, my hobby was sitting in a cedar tree and watching the Mortals go about their business back where we once lived. I don’t think I will be doing that here.”

There was a lot of chuckling at that. “I’m surprised you never thought to build a talan in that tree,” Neldorion said.

Denethor just shrugged. “At any rate, it might be well for each of us to think on some project that can be worked on when storms such as this one force us into inactivity.”

“We have so little in the way of material things, though,” one of the ellith said. “It’s not as if we can pick up a hand loom and start weaving. None of us brought anything like that with us.”

“I know,” Denethor said with a nod, “still I think everyone should take some time to think about what they can do to while away the time. Thurin, what did you do when you were forced to stay in your cave while a storm raged outside?”

Thurin started at being addressed and shook his head. “Sleep and dream of food,” he answered, looking embarrassed.

“Now that, I can do.” Haldir said with a laugh and others joined him. Maglor clapped Thurin on the shoulder, giving him a grin, and the ellon visibly relaxed, looking less embarrassed.

“I suppose that many of us will be doing that more than we like,” Denethor said with a smile. “Well, I urge everyone to come up with something with which to occupy themselves or I fear we may well be at each other’s throats before too long.”

“I want to see about making the south tower more habitable once this storm has passed,” one of the ellyn said. “It’s crowded enough here already and we’re not at full strength. When the others return, we’ll be forced to sleep standing up as there won’t be any room to lie down.”

There were nods all around.

“That is another consideration,” Denethor said. “Hopefully, the enclosure will also be finished before long and that will allow us to move about more freely.”

“Food is going to be our biggest concern,” Amarthamíriel said. “The hunters may not be able to get out often enough to replenish our supply of meat.”

“Which is why we’ve been trying to stockpile as much as possible, figuring that the cold will preserve the meat until we need it,” Haldir said. “But you are correct that we cannot possibly stock enough to last us for the entire winter. We’ll need to hunt at least once every four or five days and we may not have much luck at times. It’s a pity that there isn’t a ready supply of succulents and fish to supplement our diet. I fear that we will not be able to visit Mithlond once winter settles in.”

“We’ll just have to monitor our food supply very carefully,” Denethor said. “And there may be long stretches of time when there are no storms and the weather moderates enough that we can send an expedition to Mithlond, but you are correct that we cannot plan for that with any certainty.”

“Well, we have plenty of meat at the moment, thanks to the deer,” Rían said, “but we will be very careful with it for we have no idea how long this storm will last.”

Everyone nodded and then someone suggested a song or a tale to while away the time and someone began singing about the Fell Winter and the invasion of the White Wolves into Eriador and soon people were comparing other winters which they had experienced. Maglor declined to join in the conversation, content to listen. Glancing at Thurin sitting beside him, he saw that the ellon’s eyes were half closed and realized that he was already asleep. Denethor, on the other side of Thurin, raised an amused eyebrow and the two shared a smile as Maglor reached over and settled a cloak over Thurin’s shoulders before returning his attention to Rían singing a hymn in praise of snow.

****

The storm lasted almost three days by their estimate with the occasional lull allowing them to move about and ascertain the condition of the encampment. Denethor had people clearing the parts of the enclosure that were still open to the sky so the snow would not pile up too high. Earlier two ropes had been secured between the north and west towers to allow people to find their way to the privy and not a few began speaking about constructing a walkway to make it easier to get back and forth. Someone thought that the conditions might get cold enough that they could use the snow itself to form a tunnel between the towers and a couple of people began experimenting with the piles of snow to see if they could construct something that would stay in place. They became rather enthusiastic about it and once the storm passed they were seen laying down blocks of stone to form a walkway and then building a wall of snow on either side. The temperatures dropped rather sharply and the snow began to crust over, freezing in place.

“And it’s early yet,” Denethor remarked to Maglor and Thurin who were helping with the stretching of the last of the goatskins over the enclosure. “I fear the cold will be even worse before long.”

“We’ve all survived worse,” Maglor pointed out.

“Denethor! They’re coming!”

Denethor and Maglor looked up to where Duilinn, taking his turn at sentry-go, was leaning out of the tower, his expression one of excitement.

“Ada and Nana and the others are just one hill over. They’ll be here soon,” he shouted down to them and there was cheering among those who heard him.

“Any sign of injured?” Denethor called up.

Duilinn shook his head. “I couldn’t tell. Damrod is with them, that much I could see.”

“Very good,” Denethor said. “Continue watching, son.”

Duilinn gave him a salute and ducked back inside even as Denethor was issuing orders. Maglor volunteered to go out to meet the returnees, but Denethor said it was pointless since they should be arriving soon enough and, true to his prediction, they were seen cresting the hill within a half an hour. Damrod was leading with Ragnor beside him. The others straggled behind, looking rather cold and bedraggled.

“Didn’t think we would ever make it,” Ragnor said by way of greeting when everyone from the encampment rushed to meet them. “We were halfway across the plains when we saw the storm and hastened as quickly as we could. It was a miracle that we even met up with Damrod.”

“Why did you leave Mithlond early, though?” Denethor asked, scanning Ragnor’s people. “Are there injured?”

“Nay, we are all well if cold and wet,” Ragnor assured him. “As to why we left early, I will explain after I’ve changed into dry clothes and have had a hot meal.”

“That goes without saying,” Denethor said with a smile. “Come, we’re all in the west tower at the moment. There is a nice venison stew waiting for you all.”

There were grateful looks and a few cheers from the returnees as they headed for the tower, some of them holding up strings of fish, which were welcomed by those assigned to cooking that day. Denethor ordered everyone else to continue with their appointed tasks. “We will call everyone together once our friends have had a chance to dry out.”

Maglor turned to Thurin with a smile. “Let’s finish with the roof then.”

They had finished with the walls earlier so now they were almost done covering the enclosure. Even the fire pit had been covered, for Denethor had decided to move the fire into the tower itself. Some people were attempting to make improvements to the south tower to ease the crowded conditions of the west tower. There had been a lively debate as to who would end up being sent into exile, as someone put it, and Denethor had announced that if there were no volunteers he would have people assigned there by lot and there would be a rotation schedule so everyone would end up in the south tower at some time during the winter. No one had argued with that.

“Ragnor look sad,” Thurin commented as he and Maglor stretched the last goatskin across and secured it.

“Tired, more likely,” replied Maglor, but privately he thought Thurin was not far wrong in his appraisal. Ragnor had looked sad, especially when his eyes fell on Thurin while he was speaking to them all.

Denethor called them all together about an hour later. Maglor and Thurin found places on the stairs to sit and listen to Ragnor, who was sitting beside the fire with his arm around Finduilas. “We reached Mithlond without any problem and quickly sorted out who would remain and do some fishing and who would come with me to the mountains. We weren’t sure where to look, but I figured that wherever Thurin holed up it had to be relatively near to the city. There is a spur of the mountains that comes about a mile closer to Mithlond than the rest of the range so we made for that.”

He paused to drink some more tea. “It was not too difficult to find the cave. Or rather, caves. The mountains are riddled with them.”

“Lots of caves,” Thurin said with a nod and those who had been gone with Ragnor gave him surprised looks. Maglor grinned at their expressions but did not say anything.

“Yes, lots of caves,” Ragnor echoed. “At any rate, Thurin’s cave was easy enough to find since it was the only one that looked to have been occupied.” He gave them a sardonic grin but then he sobered somewhat. “In the course of our explorations we found a smaller cave, more like a niche actually, in which we found the remains of another person.”

“Arthad,” Thurin said quietly, looking immensely sad, leaning against Maglor who wrapped an arm around his shoulders to comfort him.

Ragnor gave Maglor a strange look. “His brother,” Maglor said. “Those cat-creatures we fought against, he ate some of their meat and was poisoned. Haldir and the other hunters came upon some but we ended up burning the carcasses. Even their pelts had a nauseating smell to them so we didn’t even attempt to keep them.”

“Poison, you say?” Ragnor exclaimed. “That’s odd, for when we found the body there was a knife stuck in its chest. Even if he had been dying of poison, I think it was the knife that actually killed him.”

Now everyone was staring at Thurin in shock and disbelief. Maglor brushed a hand through the ellon’s hair. “Thurin?” But Thurin did not respond, just sat there in dejected silence, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Are you saying Thurin killed Arthad, his own brother?” Denethor asked Ragnor.

“No. I am only saying that we found the body of another Elf with a knife in his chest. That’s why we returned sooner than we were planning. If Thurin murdered the other Elf, he could well murder others. I felt it important to return as quickly as possible to warn you.”

Maglor was only half-listening to Ragnor’s explanation, concentrating on Thurin. Glóredhel, who was seated on the step below them, reached up to place a comforting hand on Thurin’s knee, her expression one of compassion and sorrow. “Would you like to tell us what happened, Thurin?” she asked softly, her tone sympathetic rather than condemnatory.

For several tense minutes there was only silence as everyone waited for Thurin to speak. Maglor hugged him. “It’s all right, Thurin. We just want to help. Can you tell us what happened?”

“I not like smell of meat,” Thurin finally said, not looking at anyone as he spoke. “I tell Arthad not eat, but he said he not want to starve. We not have food for long time because of a storm. No hunt in storm. Found cat thing already dead. Arthad cook it and eat. He… he so sick… so sick… he beg me kill him… he beg me….” He started weeping in earnest and Maglor took him more fully in his embrace and held him close, rocking him slightly.

“Shh… it’s all right, Thurin. Shh…” He looked up at the others staring at Thurin in sympathetic horror.

“No wonder he went insane,” someone whispered.

Maglor gave Denethor a helpless look, not sure what they should do next. He had no doubt that Thurin had killed his brother out of mercy and not out of anger, but even so, the horror of it was more than he wished to contemplate.

Thurin suddenly pulled himself out of Maglor’s embrace. “I bad. I sorry. I go now.” He made to stand up, but Maglor pulled him back down.

“No. You’re not going anywhere,” he said.

“You hate me now,” Thurin protested. “I bad. I not good. Maglor good. Denthir good. Glorthil good. Everyone good. I not good. I go.”

At that Denethor rose and made his way to the stairs with people making room for him, stopping to look up at Thurin. “If you think we’re all good and pure as the driven snow, my friend, then you are mistaken. We are all of us bad in some way or another. We are all of us good in some way or another. That is true for you as well. What you did was terrible, there’s no denying, but we don’t condemn people for doing what any of us could well have been forced to do in similar circumstances. I think you’ve been punished enough and we do not hate you. We hate that circumstances drove you to do what you did. For better or worse, Thurin, you’re one of us and we don’t give up on anyone, just ask Maglor.” He cast Maglor a grin, which Maglor returned.

“Arthalion.”

“Who?” Maglor asked Thurin, for it had been he who had spoken.

Thurin wiped the tears from his face. “Arthalion, not Thurin.”

“Arthalion,” Maglor repeated, giving Denethor a significant look.

Denethor nodded. “Arthalion, then. Thank you. We’re happy to have you with us, Arthalion. I have no doubt the Belain meant for us to find and rescue you.”

Thurin — or rather Arthalion — gave him a puzzled look. “You not hate me?”

“No, child,” Denethor said with a gentle smile. “We don’t hate you.”

Arthalion looked about him and seeing the genuine concern on everyone’s face started weeping again. Maglor hugged him, giving Denethor a knowing smile and began singing a lullaby. Soon, everyone was joining in and in a short while, Arthalion was fast asleep. Maglor kept his arm around the sleeping ellon, gently rocking him, while he listened to Ragnor’s description as to what else they had discovered in the caves.

“We found this,” he said, pulling something out of a haversack lying at his feet. It was cloth-wrapped and he slowly undid the covering.

Maglor felt the breath leave his body and his scarred hand spasmed with pain at the sight of the jewel sitting in Ragnor’s hand, reflecting the firelight. “Valar, no!” he whispered in horror as he gazed upon what could only be a Silmaril.

****

Araw: Oromë.