Chapter 13

The march to the front lines had been long and arduous. There were many stops, collecting new recruits from other villages. When Laurehér joined the march, he was but one of approximately one hundred men from surrounding villages whose existence he knew of by name and tale only. He had never seen fit to leave the lands near what had been his village these last seven years, until now. Would he ever return? He hoped so. To what would he return? He knew not, and that still grieved him greatly – even after all of these months of travel. Winter was drawing upon them with more than the occasional chill wind and the brush of snowflakes.

How long had this war been going on now? Fifteen, perhaps seventeen years? He could not remember and really did not care.  Still, the army was far from Angband, for every inch of the way was a hard-won battle since the army from Valinor first landed on the southwesten coast.  Laurehér did remember that much as least.

Laurehér looked about the many rows of tents as he made his way to his own with a bowl of food.  The only other folk from his village who had joined up this time around, besides Laurehér, were the healer’s third son, Barandir, who joined as a healer in his own right, and the fifth of the miller’s eleven sons, Damrod.  These two knew he was an Elf, but no one else seemed to have cared to notice.  Not that he had called attention to the fact, keeping his hair over his ears and his cloak about him to hide his armor. It was surprisingly easy to hide in a crowd of more than one thousand such as this, with mortal men from so many different places with so many different accents and builds of body.

All along the road, they had trained as they marched, practicing the skills which would be useful in battle. Laurehér held back in all of his sparring, not wanting to reveal himself for what he was. After all of these months, his armor once again felt like a second skin, his strength of body more fully returned to him. The draw on his fëa could be another matter for him with his children still very young, but never on the road had he felt weariness encroach upon him. He had no idea what his limits would be in full strength on the battlefield, but he supposed he would find out on the morrow.

Joining Damrod and Barandir by the fire near the tent the three of them shared, Laurehér watched a few errant snowflakes land in his stew.

“They will enhance the flavor,” Damrod assured him with a grin, dabbing at his own bowl with some crusty bread.

Laurehér took a bite. “No, still as flavorless as yesterday.” He grinned back.

“This might help,” Barandir said, reaching into a pouch at his belt and then dropping a pinch of salt into Laurehér’s bowl.

Laurehér tried another spoonful. “Definitely an improvement,” he nodded. “Thank you.”

“It certainly could not make it any worse, could it?” Damrod observed and they all chuckled.

“Have you heard anything about what we should expect tomorrow?” Damrod asked, his voice sounding young and a bit nervous.

Laurehér nodded around a chunky mouthful of stew. Once he managed to swallow, he replied, “I heard we are to form up at dawn. Then we will march north and join up with the other forces.”

Damrod nodded, then bowed his head over his bowl.

“Nervous?” Barandir asked.

“A bit,” Damrod replied quietly.

Laurehér reached over and patted Damrod on the knee consolingly. “You would be a fool to not be nervous and even scared. I feel that way as well, and I have seen many battles. For what it is worth, you have learned well on the road and even back in the village when you used to come round to the forge and ask me to show you moves with a sword.”

“What if I forget it all as soon as I see the enemy?”

“You won’t. In fact you will be surprised at what you find yourself capable of doing as soon as that first strike comes toward you, and you realize that you are in a fight for your life. I have faith in you,” Laurehér encouraged.

Damrod sighed, poked at his food a bit, then dropped his spoon into his half-eaten stew. “But what if it doesn’t happen that way for me? I mean, you are an Elf and a survivor. You are stronger, smarter, and a better fighter than you have led our folk to believe all this time. I have seen evidence of it time and again, ever since you came to our village.”

Laurehér glanced sideways at the youth, who smirked back at him briefly.

“I pay attention to what goes on around me, friend smith. People just ignore me because I am quiet, and they don’t realize what I know. In a way, it is just the same as the way they have underestimated you all of these years.”

Laurehér nodded at him carefully, keeping his expression guarded. The boy was shrewd indeed or perhaps Laurehér’s true self had come through more than he had ever realized over the years.

“Well, Damrod, now that you have made Laurehér uncomfortable, I would say that if things do not go as our good friend has said they might, then you will be seeing a lot more of me than you might like,” Barandir grinned, raising his eyebrows for emphasis.

“I hope neither of us has cause to be a victim of your services,” Damrod said, jabbing his spoon in his bowl again and toying with the contents.

Barandir shot him an annoyed look, which Damrod returned whole-heartedly, then turned to Laurehér. “What if the Elves see you in battle tomorrow? Will they make you rejoin your old regiment? Do you remember which lord’s banner was the one you marched behind?”

Laurehér sighed. “I do not know what the Elves will do when they see me again. I do not know if I will be recognized. If I am, then I will be forced to rejoin them. I will not be given any choice in the matter. As for which banner…I will know it when I see it.”

“Avoid it then,” Damrod suggested, his tone quite serious. “I don’t want you to leave us.”

“Neither do I,” Barandir added, just as determinedly.

“You have been gone a long time, years in fact,” Damrod continued. “Perhaps they won’t recognize you and you can stay with us where you belong.” He met Laurehér’s eyes with his own steely gaze. “You are from our village after all, and your family awaits you there. You are not theirs any more. You are ours. And our village will want their favorite smith to come home again. If those Elves try to take you away, they will have to answer to us.”

Deeply touched, Laurehér stood and holding his bowl so as not to spill it, saluted and executed a most honorable bow to his companions. Taking his seat once again between his most delighted and proudly smiling fellow villagers, he said with a small smile of his own. “We will just have to hope that the Elves are amenable to your claims.”

They both slapped him on the back, sloshing a bit of his stew over the side of the bowl. They laughed at him as he swore and shook the murky liquid off his hands, the spray of droplets hissing as they hit the fire.

The rest of the meal passed amidst companionable chatter of home.

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As Laurehér lay rolled in his cloak, the other two finally having fallen asleep, he thought about his wife and children. His parting from them had been every bit as difficult as he had feared it would be. Faroniel had been angry with him, so very, very angry.

She threw things. She yelled and screamed. She angrily pounded his chest with her fists, cursing, amidst her tears, the recruiters and Morgoth and her stubborn husband’s sense of duty as an elven warrior once again heeding the call to arms.  

“It never stopped being my fight even when I was removed from it. I go to fight once again so that my children will not have to.  Is it unfair that the sons of men should…” he had paused, placing his hands on her strong, slender shoulders, desiring to cleave her to him, yet knowing she would not have him. “Beloved, I plead with you to understand that my conscience will not allow me to watch mortal men go to a battle that Elves should be fighting, that I should be fighting, that I was sent here to fight. If anyone is to bear the burden of this responsibility to destroy Morgoth and end his hold over these lands, then it is the Elves – all Elves, including me. You and the children mean more to me than you can know, but I will not see my son march to war, and I will not see my wife and daughter left alone and bereft as victims of Morgoth. If every able-bodied Elf fights in this war, then that many fewer sons of men will have to join the fray and spend their lives needlessly beneath the enemy’s blades.”

Faroniel turned away from him then and began clearing the table of the dirty dinner dishes. She scrubbed the table and cleaned the dishes without a word or glance at him. Occasionally, she sniffled or sobbed under her breath, wiping her face on her damp sleeve, but she never once looked at him.

The children remained silent, watching her and watching him as he went about preparing his armor and packing a bag.

Finally his son spoke, “Ada, I do not mind going to fight so you can stay here with Nana and Andreth. I have a sword…” Aicanáro ran across the room and dug out his small wooden sword from underneath a pile of neatly folded clean clothes, leaving them in a heap. “And I know how to swish it and poke and stab and smack.” He proceeded to demonstrate his prowess with the weapon and then dramatically killed an imaginary enemy.

Laurehér stopped his packing and knelt before his son, taking him in his arms. “Oh, my brave little prince…” he blinked furiously at the tears threatening his eyes as he spoke. “I…I…” His voice broke, and all he could do was huddle there on his knees, holding his precious son to him. The boy hugged him around the neck and held on tightly, as Laurehér buried his face in the curly, silver hair that seemed to defy all efforts at combing. After a bit, the boy began stroking his ada’s hair and patting his back.

Soon Andreth came over and wiggled her way under one of Laurehér's arms as well, shoving her brother over a bit and hugging her ada with all her might, too. Laurehér clung to her as well just as fiercely as he held his son.

“My little princess,” he whispered. “I love you so very much, too. Just as much as I love your brother.” It took him some time to get himself back under control again and the children stayed there in his arms until he finally released them. He coughed a bit and wiped his face on his sleeves, his hands shaking as he finally let the children go.

When he found his voice again, he held hands with each child and quietly said, “I need you two to help your naneth while I am gone. I need you to be strong and helpful and take good care of her for me. I love her so very much. Just as soon as I am able to come home again, I will. I promise you, I will. I will keep your faces and your voices and your love in my heart every moment I am gone. It is because I love you so much that I have to go away. I do not want anything bad to happen to either of you ever. If I go away and fight the enemy, then you should be safe from him for your whole lives. Forever.” He kissed each one and then held them at arms’ length.

“Aicanáro, Angadan told me that as soon as you can lift a hammer, he will begin teaching you to be a smith. It would make me very proud if you could help him out at the forge while I am gone.” His son’s eyes lit up excitedly.

Turning to his daughter who looked a little disappointed, he said, “Andreth, I am sure he would be willing to teach you as well.” (She gloated triumphantly at that.) “Also, his wife is going to teach you to make her pies. Every boy in town will kneel at your feet if you can bake a pie like that woman does and wield a hammer.” Andreth smiled joyfully.

He hugged them again, unable and unwilling to let them go for a long time.

When at last he finished his packing, he turned to find his wife standing nearby.  She reached up and gripped his upper arms. Her eyes were red when her gaze met his and her face splotchy from crying. He did not imagine he looked any better at the moment. 

“I do not apologize for my anger,” she said. “I love you more than you can know, and I do not want you to go away from us. But…” she hesitated, looking away and breathing deeply through her nose. “But I understand why you must go. I respect your decision, and I respect you for doing what your sense of duty calls you to do. I know it hurts you to leave us, and I’m glad it hurts you.” Tears started from her eyes again as her voice cracked. “Because mayhap that pain in your heart from missing us will lead you back to us again all the sooner. We love you so much. I love you so much. It will be so hard to be without you.”

He took her in his arms and cried with her.

After a time, she looked up and wiped at the tears still glistening on his face. “My Golden Lord, I love you so.”

He drew her to him and kissed her desperately, longingly, and she kissed him back.

Once the children were asleep, he made love to her and fell asleep secure for one last night in her loving embrace.

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Rolling onto his side to face the entrance of the tent, Laurehér concentrated on the mental images of each of his twins and his beloved wife, sending them his love. Faroniel’s fëa seemed so very weak and mortal and far away tonight. Up until recently, she had been a strong presence when he reached out across the bond he held with her, although he knew she could feel neither the bond nor his attempts to reach out to her through it. Perhaps the great distance he had traveled had taken its toll on his ability to sense her of late. But his children…they responded easily to his mental touch across the parental bond he held with them. They were half-elven after all, so sensing these things came more easily to them. To him, it seemed that he could feel a fervent hug and a whispered ‘I love you’ from each of them as well as a desperate plea to hurry home, but he never could be certain. He hoped he had felt those things as he had hoped every night since he had departed when he longingly sent them his love before he ventured down the Path of Dreams. Tonight, he drifted off in true sleep with the feeling of those hugs wrapped around his heart. 

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The first, barest inklings of dawn stirred the clouds when the horns sounded, rousing the camp, summoning the men to break their fast and gird themselves for war. Judging from the shadowed nervousness of the soldiers, Laurehér figured that few had slept well the night before. His own rest had been untroubled, for a seasoned warrior knew how to grasp tightly at rest whenever the opportunity for sleep presented itself. These, he knew would learn that skill soon enough if they survived these first few encounters with the enemy.

It was perhaps a half an hour’s march to reach the front lines. The great armies of Mortals and Elves lay sprawled before them. Barandir, Damrod, and many others whistled and whispered exclamations at the sheer numbers of men and Elves arrayed before them. Never had any of those folk seen so many people in one place ever in their lives. It was a mighty force to behold. However, Laurehér knew from a glance that the elven force was diminished from what it had been when he left that fateful day all those years ago to grieve his losses alone in peace. 

Back then, there were not nearly as many mortals engaged in the combat as he saw now. Eonwë must have resorted to supplementing the elven troops with mortals to keep the army strong and the numbers high after the losses early on. It grieved Laurehér that so many elven lives had been lost. Briefly he wondered how many more of his friends had fallen. Heaving a sigh, he shook his head and pushed those thoughts aside. He would know soon enough how things stood with his army from Valinor. He just had to get through the fighting today and then the captains would fill him in on everything.

As his regiment of Mortals formed up at the rear of the mortal army, he looked long upon Damrod who stood at his left side. The boy was barely into his twenties with a wife and two little boys of his own waiting for him at home. Fervently he hoped that one day they would be reunited. Barandir was safe enough back at the main mortal encampment, already helping to tend the wounded and make preparations for the additional wounded who would return from today’s encounter. Damrod’s welfare as well as his own would be his primary concern this encounter. At least they were at the back where there would be less fighting and the enemies who made it through to them would be more weary and possibly wounded. There was a better chance of survival. If the situation presented itself, he himself might well venture further out into the fray. If Damrod proved to be competent enough to acquit himself as well as Laurehér felt he would, then perhaps Laurehér could rejoin the elven ranks sooner. If not, then Laurehér would hang back and protect Damrod until the boy’s skill improved or death found him.

Before they marched forward to the battle line, Barandir hugged each of them, making them promise they would do their best to return in one piece. He in turn promised he would do his best to keep them alive if they should return in less than favorable condition.

The call to draw weapons came at last. Amidst the ring of steel, the stirring of armor, and the creek of arrows upon taut bow strings, Laurehér felt Damrod nudge his left arm.

Turning slightly, he saw Damrod gesturing as he asked, “What of that helmet you have carried beneath your cloak up until now? Aren’t you going to put it on?”

Laureher hesitated a moment. He had intentionally not worn the helm until the moment of battle for it would be an obvious revelation of not only his elven heritage, but his kingship as well. Nodding and feeling a bit self-conscious, he replied, “Yes, I guess I ought to wear the thing since I did haul it all this way in my pack. Thank you for the reminder.”

Damrod nodded in return, his eyes growing wide as Laurehér put the helm on his head.

After an awe-filled moment, Damrod grinned, “Well you will be easy to spot in battle now. Laurehér…” he seemed to ponder something a moment. “Seeing you in your full armor now with the helm…your name, Laurehér, ‘golden lord’ speaks of your true rank, does it not?”

Laurehér, nodded. “It does hit near the mark.”

“You marched beneath your own banner before then didn’t you?”

Laurehér nodded again.

“When you rally to it again, I will not be far behind you. We are fellow villagers after all,” Damrod smiled, wonder and awe lighting his face.

“Thank you, my friend,” was all that Laurehér could think to say. If he did find his banner and his men, then explanations would become exponentially more difficult with Damrod there. He sighed. He could not worry about that now.

All around him, he heard more than a few whispered prayers beseeching the Valar for protection in the fray. He added his own prayers as well, asking for safety for his children that Morgoth never find them and that one day he would return home to his beloved Faroniel, Andreth, and Aicanáro.

At first, few of the enemy came within reach because of the multitude of blades and arrows of those before them. Laurehér allowed the first four or five orcs that came within reach to engage Damrod, so the man could gain confidence. However, he kept a close eye to be sure the orcs never got the advantage over Damrod.

Damrod accepted the occasional pointer on technique from Laurehér during those first engagements, and soon seemed confident in the slaying of orcs or at least comfortable with the idea. The first encounter with a mortal man in service of Morgoth was another matter though and Damrod fell to his knees retching after he killed the soldier.

Laurehér stayed with him and guarded him from the occasional orc who broke through the lines while Damrod struggled to regain his composure. 

“I do not know if I can do this,” Damrod mourned. “What if he has – had a wife and children at home like I do? What if he had no choice in being here? Or came here like I did to defend a home far from here?”

When the situation allowed, Laurehér helped Damrod to feet, wiping the young man’s face with the edge of his cloak. “You have no choice in the matter now, my friend. They most assuredly will slay you if you allow doubt to assail you while you fight. Acknowledge not whether it is an orc or a mortal man when you fight. See only the enemy who will slay and eat your children if you fail to stop him. The rage of battle will soon overtake you and you will only take note of the race of your opponent to adjust your style of fighting.”

Damrod took a deep breath and nodded, his eyes downcast. “I am sorry, Laurehér. I am ashamed. I would probably be dead if you had not been here with me. Forgive me.”

Laurehér lifted the young man’s chin until their gazes met. “There is no shame in having a conscience, and never apologize for it. It is supposed to be difficult to kill your own kind. I am proud of you for being willing to march all this way to at least try to raise a blade to defend the freedom of your folk. And you should be proud of yourself as well. I am honored to fight alongside you.” He glanced over his shoulder and quickly added. “It looks like the battle is finally upon us. Let us hence and fight side by side as brothers.”

Damrod took another deep breath, then raised his own blade once again, his voice much more confident than before. “Yes, my brother, let’s.”

Together they charged into the fray.

XXXXX

An indeterminate amount of time passed, measured only by the lull and rush of enemy to fight. Strike. Slash. Parry. Thrust. Cut. Rest for a few breaths. Resume.

When Damrod grew weary and withdrew a bit to gain some room to breathe and rest, Laurehér waded deeper among the enemy, the bloodlust more fully coming upon him now that he was free to move at his own rate of speed. In the distance, he observed a blood-stained white banner waving amidst a small group of Elves who stood in a circle, a shimmering island in the sea of orcs. When the fight allowed, Laurehér looked more carefully at the group and noticed a tall ellon in very fine armor stained with orc guts.  The ellon moved more slowly than he should have, suddenly turning to reveal splash of sticky red blood down his left side.  The ellon skillfully dispatched his current opponent when another got in under his guard and dealt him a serious blow.

The ellon crumpled and the Elves around him moved to try to protect him. Laurehér knew the ellon was important, though he could not immediately remember his name. Charging on ahead, Laurehér cut a path through to the Elves and joined them in protecting the ellon.  Slicing through orc after orc, Laurehér came to realize that the orcs recognized the importance of this ellon as well.

Blow upon blow he dealt, but more orcs kept coming. Two, then three, then four of the Elves around him fell. Still more orcs advanced, hacking at the fallen as they bore down upon Laurehér.  A gash on the cheek, a slash on his left wrist, a cut on his hip, yet still he fought on. At some point he caught a glimpse of the ellon he was so intent upon protecting, and a few dead orcs later it dawned on him who the ellon was. He was the leader of the Vanyarin army. He was Ingwion, the heir of the High King of all the Elves and he was Laurehér’s, no Arafinwë’s cousin.

Anger welled within him and he swung as if a spirit of wrath had taken control of his sword, cutting and hacking through every one of the enemy who drew too near.  For a brief moment he caught sight of his own reflection in the armor of the Elf nearest him. It struck him with amaze that his eyes blazed with flame like a crazed wrathful Vala amidst the blood and gore covering his armor. The vision served to add fire to his already insatiable bloodlust and he fought on, causing the dark mortals among his enemy to flee him in terror.

The sun settled down into late afternoon, but still the battle drew on. Eight more of the prince’s guard fell, but Laurehér still held his own. The number of the enemy lessened, but he felt himself growing weary now. Though his wounds ached, he vowed to fight on, for what else could he do? The two Elves in this whole war of wrath that Morgoth most wanted dead were the Noldóran and the heir to the Ingaran. Ingwion lay at his feet, his bright blood muddying the dirt around him and Arafinwë felt himself growing weaker. His own wounds were neither deep nor vital, but they had seeped for hours now, draining him of his vitality.

Arafinwë parried, struck, another orc fell, but so did the Elf who had his back. He turned and beheaded the orc who had struck down the ellon. There was a lull, and Arafinwë looked around bewildered, discovering that he was the only Elf still standing in defense of the prince. He lowered his sword breathing heavily, the drain on his fëa becoming more pronounced with every breath. His wounds should not be doing this to him! What was wrong?

He looked about, gasping as his strength quickly drained from him.  All of a sudden he felt a tremendous rending of his spirit which drove him to his knees even as he cried out in agony. Instinctively his thought turned inward and then cast out searching for his family. He felt for Andreth, then Aicanáro, finding them both safe and responding to his touch. Then something bright and silvery-white and glorious brushed his mind and he felt Faroniel’s touch upon his fëa, felt her love for him hold him and surround him.  And then he felt nothing.

Faroniel was gone.

His wife was dead.

He bowed his head in dread and horror.

His wife was dead.

Again he cast about for the children. But they were alive and crying out in despair, clinging to his fëa. They had been at her side when she breathed her last.

He sent them his love as best he could, trying to comfort them while reeling in shock and despair.

His wife was gone.

Somewhere to his right, Damrod called out to him, but he had not the strength to look up.

Were the children alone? No. Someone else was there with them, too. The healer? Angadan? Their aunt? All of them. Good. The children were going to be all right.

But Faroniel…

His beloved wife was dead. He was alone again. The hole in his heart and fëa where his bond with her had been ached, raw and gaping. Slowly he felt it eating away at him, destroying him from the inside out.

“Laurehér!” Damrod called again nearer.

Faroniel was gone.  His wife was dead. He needed to go home. His wife was dead. His children needed him. Their mother was gone. His wife was dead.

“Laurehér!” Even closer.

He could not move. Damrod would have to come to him.

“Laurehér! Noooo!!!”

A swoosh in the air beside him. The sound of cleaving armor. His sword leaving his useless hand and hitting the ground. Blood spraying wide and red, covering his stomach and legs even as he watched fascinated, horror struck.

His blood. Red and warm and freely flowing.

Another strike, Rending armor. More blood. The ground rushing up to meet him.

A bright flash of lights all around him. An orc turned to dust nearby.

No pain. The ground a comforting pillow beneath his weary head. No feeling in his arms and legs.

“Lord Eonwë, we are too late! Already I see his fëa preparing to depart to Mandos!”

“No! Manwë asks that I heal him!”

“My Lord, look at him. It is too much! The Noldóran is as good as dead.”

“Lord Manwë has commanded that I try!”

“But these wounds would have unhoused one of us Maiar!”

“Lord Námo will hold his fëa here while I force the healing. Tend to Ingwion. We cannot lose him either. Do whatever you must!”

Darkness.

Light.

XXXXX

Fëa – spirit

Noldóran – the King of the Noldor