The Battle of Celebrant

The dark tower of Orthanc rose just beyond the tall walls that surrounded its grounds. The feet of the Misty Mountains towered beyond. Magorthaen thought it looked like a giant, with the snowy head of the northern mountains and the smaller arms wrapping around Angrenost like it was protecting a treasure. The walls were lined with the standard of the Angrenost Guard: a tall black tower crossed by a sword and axe, and a black key floating within the pinnacle. The sounds of that guard echoed throughout the camp. Magorthaen stood staring at the tower with one hand absent-mindedly rubbing the hilt of his lango, the sword he wore on his left hip. Magorthaen Tunneth had been raised a farmer and a miner, yet he had dreamed of traveling far and wide, of slaying orcs and evil men that had long threatened the lands of civil people. The Angrenost Guard had seemed the doorway into that world, though his father had warned him against raising his hopes. Minohtar Tunneth had served the Guard for nine years, and he claimed that it was nothing more exciting than “babysitting a dull rock.”

Unlike his father, Magorthaen had no intentions of returning to Ossiras after serving a few “dull” years in the Angrenost Guard. If he was lucky, he would move on to join the army proper, perhaps even serve in Minas Anor. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t return to Ossiras until he was too old to wield the lango. It wasn’t that he hated his old life, or his parents. It was quite the opposite. But Magorthaen knew that there was more out in the world, more that he could obtain than a small farm or a mine. He had already achieved something, in fact. Tearing his eyes away from the tower, Magorthaen pulled the sigil, a ceremonial dagger, from the scabbard hanging on his right hip. It was a sign of his rank as cainenhîr, a promotion he received nearly a year ago, at the beginning of his second year of service. He was now the leader of a tulkarim, a squad of sixteen infantry men. His father, Minohtar, had risen further during his nine years, but Magorthaen intended to rise farther still.

Magorthaen swiftly replaced the dagger and turned to face the Camp of the Guard, as it was called by the soldiers who manned it. The numbers of the Angrenost Guard were small, and there was little need for fortifications when Orthanc could not even be entered by one of the Guard. It was the work of the Numenoreans when they had first arrived in Middle-earth, in the beginning of the Second Age. Nothing could harm the tower, which left many of the Guard wondering why they were even here. The key to the tower was held by the Steward of Minas Anor. Magorthaen didn’t care about the why’s or the wherefore’s; he was just glad to be out in the world. Even if his first step was the dwindling Angrenost Guard.

The Camp of the Guard was bustling, with smiths sharpening weapons and cainenhîr shouting orders. Soldiers were crossing the camp to carry out orders or deliver messages. Several horsemen galloped in and out of the camp; Magorthaen assumed they were carrying messages from the surrounding fortresses. There was significantly more activity today than normal, though no one had said anything yet to him.
The Camp of the Guard was small: a few semi-permanent shacks surrounded by rows of tents, large and small. Because of the Guards’ dwindling numbers and constant rotation, it was hard to feel at home there. The rheinhîr said it kept the men from getting soft, whenever he actually visited Angrenost.

“Cainenhîr Tunneth,” came a call from a young man running toward Magorthaen. “You are summoned to the command tent, Cainenhîr.” The youth, Torgin, was not yet twenty years of age, and he carried no weapons and wore no armor, not even the standard of the Angrenost Guard. Magorthaen knew that he was relied on only for carrying messages. Torgin was the son of one of the Guards here at Angrenost, and a Dunlending woman from the west. His hair was dark, unlike Magorthaen’s and most of the men of the Guard. Intermarriage between the Gondorians and the Dunlendings was not uncommon, especially not here on the far border of Gondor. But Torgin was treated with disdain by most of the Guard. His own father hardly made an effort to stop it.

“Thank you, Torgin,” Magorthaen said. He gave the dark-haired man a smile and walked briskly passed him. Magorthaen tried not to treat him as the rest of the Guard did, but he had learned it was a mistake to be cornered by him. Torgin, given the opportunity, would never stop talking. Magorthaen realized then that much of the camp was moving in the direction of the command tent. Just over the row of tents he could see the rare banner of Calenhardon: four alternating squares of green and white. Green and then white on the top, with the green square containing a white version of the tower of Orthanc. Then white and green on the bottom. Magorthaen had seen the banner only twice before during his three years at Angrenost. Neither of those visits had been important, beyond the fact that the rheinhîr was actually visiting the fortress. Magorthaen had a feeling that this time would be different. The entire camp was abuzz with activity. The rheinhîr‘s arrival could not be coincidence.

Magorthaen passed by rows of small, one-man tents as he made his way down the central lane of The Camp of the Guard. Ahead, he could just see the command tent, surrounded by mounted soldiers bearing the heinhîr‘s banner. Beyond that were the knotted peaks of the White Mountains, under the shadows of which was his home, Ossiras.

“Have you heard?” Magorthaen turned his head toward the unexpected voice. It was another of the cainenhîr by the name of Amodréd, an annoying man from Pelargir. Supposedly he had left and joined the Guard to avoid trouble with his family. He knew that if he did not humor Amodréd he would not receive an answer.
“No, Cainenhîr Amodréd, I have not heard.” Magorthaen tried to keep the irritation out of his voice, but the man was as hard to like as Torgin.
“Ardaric Harnastin, the rheinhîr himself, has come bearing a command for our garrison. No one has heard what it is, but he demanded to speak with Turmahîr Hammar immediately. I saw him carrying a scroll case with my own eyes!”
“That does not mean anything, Amodréd. Hîr Harnastin is a margrave of Calenhardon. It is his duty to check in with his garrisons to make sure we are performing properly. His scroll case could contain nothing more than a few simple demands for changes in our leadership, or more recruits. It is likely nothing to be excited about.”
Amodréd shook his head, the loose links of the chain mail hanging from his head clinking as they bounced from his neck. He pulled his helmet on as they neared the command tent. Amodréd was dressed much the same as Magorthaen, wearing a long-sleeved white vest with the standard of the Angrenost Guard, a leather-covered shield with the same standard hanging on his back, and his lango and sigil hanging from his belt.
“We shall see who is right, Magorthaen. We shall see.” They continued the rest of the walk in silence, with more soldiers of Angrenost joining them, even those who had not been summoned. Bearing orders or not, the arrival of the rheinhîr was exciting news.

The leaders of the Angrenost Guard, the cainenhîr and the turmahîr, were filing into the command tent. The soldiers of the rheinhîr were standing in a line on either side of the entryway, spears and shields held in hand, helmeted faces staring forward. It looked as if they weren’t paying attention to anything, but Magorthaen had a feeling that they saw everything around them. The tent was filled with armored men sitting on the dirt floor. Standing toward the back of the tent was Turmahîr Hammar, the current commander of the Angrenost Guard, Rheinhîr Harnastin, and two other men that Magorthaen did not know. One of them wore a white vest with a silver outline of the White Tree; Magorthaen knew that he would be a rochben erui, a veteran cavalry man who led a cavalry winglet of 40 men. He was tall and handsome, though Magorthaen knew he would be ridiculed by any man in the Guard who heard him admit it. He had a noble look about him. His thick beard was well-trimmed, and his blue eyes seemed to shine with determination and self-righteousness. His well-kempt blond hair fell to his shoulders.

The second man, not as clean or noble looking as the other, had shaggy dark hair only a little longer than the rochben erui’s. He wore a leather jerkin over a white long-sleeved shirt, stained with dirt and a myriad of other substances that Magorthaen could only but guess at. The shield he carried on his back, which Magorthaen could only see because he was facing away from him and speaking with Rheinhîr Harnastin, bore a white horse on an azure field. Magorthaen recognized it as a version of the provincial flag of Dor Rhúnen. Magorthaen suddenly wondered if Amodréd might be right. Dor Rhúnen was in the northern border of Gondor, east of Calenhardon and south of Rhovanion. It was far from Angrenost’s dispute with the Dunlendings. As Magorthaen seated himself on the floor, Rheinhîr Harnastin turned to face the men. He clasped his hands behind his back and stared over the seated soldiers for a few long moments.

“The Angrenost Guard has bravely and loyally defended the western border of Gondor against the threat of the Dunlendings for centuries. Your oaths of fealty, I can see, have not been taken lightly. But now is the time in which I ask you to fulfill that oath to its full intent. The lands north of Dor Rhúnen have been invaded by a massive host of Easterlings. Steward Cirion has ordered a march of both the North and South armies. As a part of the North Army, the Angrenost Guard will be joining the march to repel the Easterling horde. Because of our close proximity to the advancing barbarians, we will have the honors of the first strike! When the South Army arrives they will find a defeated rabble running for their lives from the men who have dedicated their lives to protecting the far reaching borders of Gondor!” A great cheer rose in the tent, and Magorthaen found himself joining in. His head, however, was swirling with mixed emotions and fearful thoughts. They were actually going to war… He had joined the Angrenost Guard for that very purpose, to go out in the world and serve in the glory of Gondor. But his three years at Angrenost had so far shown him an easy life. It seems that everything was about to be turned around.

“You have one week to prepare,” Harnastin continued. “When I return here, we will march north to join the brave men of Aglarond, Lossir, Dunlostir, Calmírië and Onodrith. Men such as yourselves; men who are not afraid to defend their homes!” Another cheer roared through the tent. Harnastin motioned for the man from Dor Rhúnen. “This is Rochben Randir Dringnor, a Heren Requain of the Dringnor family.” Magorthaen recognized the term from his studies here at Angrenost. Harnastin himself was a Heren Requain, an order of knights that contains a long list of noble families, though the list was much shorter than it had been a thousand years ago. While Harnastin was a rheinhîr, a margrave with jurisdiction of the western border of Gondor, Randir Dringnor was simply a rochben, a knight with no official title or holdings in an ennobled family.
“Rochben Dringnor will brief you on what is known about the horde.”

Rochben Dringnor stepped forward, his face grim and haggard. Magorthaen assumed he had traveled fast to bring word of the Easterlings. He wondered if the men of Dor Rhúnen had already done battle against them.
“They are called the Balcoth. They are dark men who give their allegiance to the beasts and the shadows. Their hosts are lead by wainriders, much like the Easterlings who invaded in 1856. King Narmacil II was defeated by the wainriders, though they were themselves eventually driven back into the east. They are dangerous, and their numbers are great. Dor Rhúnen has fought numerous skirmishes with them, though they head steadily west and merely skirt our borders. We fear, however, that they will soon turn south to strike at Gondor. I have left instructions with Turmahîr Hammar on the how to best combat the Balcoth, from what we have learned so far. He will instruct you further.”

With that, Turmahîr Hammar stepped forward. He was a man built like a dwarf, though almost taller than any man on the Guard. Numerous scars crisscrossed his face, and his hair was kept short. He was never seen without the lango on his back, the hilt visible over his left shoulder.
“Head straight to the training yards, cainenhîr. Gather your men and take them through the basic routines. Hand out the spears as well. When I get there, I’ll show you what it means to fear the wainriders. Dismissed!”

The men in the tent all stood immediately, saluted, and filed out. Magorthaen’s head was still spinning. In a week they would be marching out, to death or to glory. A week wouldn’t be enough time to send a message to his family. A week would not be enough time for anything but training and dreading. When he returned, if he returned, he knew he would be a different man.

Magorthaen found Anglad, a man of his squad, outside of the tent. “Help me gather the rest of the tulkarim, Anglad. We are heading to the training yards.” Magorthaen sped off without waiting for the inevitable questions.

"Wh--" Anglad tried to call after Magorthaen, but he was already gone off in one direction to find the rest of their squad. Anglad looked back toward the large tent, then went in the opposite direction. He knew offhand where some of them would be.

Anglad hurried through the camp at Angrenost. The morning sky was overcast. Its mountain air was chill on Anglad's face, but heavy garb and purposeful activity afforded him warmth aplenty. Anglad was conscious of the white vest and its emblem, representing the Angrenost guard and the responsibility he shared with his comrades--a responsibility that suddenly bore greater significance. He wasn't sure yet what was going on, but if Magorthaen's manner was any indication, the meeting just now must have been a matter of some weight. Anglad's blood raced, and not only from his haste.

Anglad was soon passing through rows of small tents. He ducked into one, then paused at finding someone other than its owner within. "Callon?" he asked, puzzled. "Isn't this Menveru's tent?"
Fair-haired and athletic, Callon was about the same age as Anglad, as was Menveru. He stopped his search of the tent and gave Anglad his attention. "Menveru is in the barracks, looking for his helmet. He asked me if I could check and see if he forgot it in his tent." Callon shrugged. "I had nothing better to be at, so I came to look, but it's not here. He'll probably find it at the barracks."
"I see." Anglad nodded. Callon was always helping his comrades one way or another. He was sometimes exploited because of the habit, but he didn't seem to mind. He would offer as often as they would ask. "Well," said Anglad, "Magorthaen wants us to meet him at the training grounds. Something big is happening; I need to gather the rest of us quickly. Could you tell Menveru to meet us?"
"Of course," said Callon.
Anglad turned to leave. "My thanks. Oh, while you're there, would you fetch my spear for me? It would help."
"Ah, certainly," said Callon, brightening.
Anglad nodded his thanks, then ducked out, squinting at the comparative brightness.

He hurried toward the wall, past tents of varying sizes and a few buildings. He knew the spot where he was headed. Once there, he looked up, cupped his hands around his mouth and called. "Darthion!" The husky youth--a year older than Magorthaen--soon came into view. "Meet Magorthaen at the training grounds!" Anglad waited for Darthion's nod, then hurried along the wall toward more tents. Narumir was probably sleeping. Sure enough, when Anglad ducked into his tent, the ruddy youth was asleep on his pallet. Anglad shook him. "Wake, Narumir! Magorthaen needs us to meet him at the training grounds."

Anglad explained the situation succinctly while Narumir equipped himself. "I must go find the others. Meet you there."
"Wait." Narumir caught Anglad by the shoulder before he could leave. "I'll be ready in a moment. I'll go with you."
Anglad acknowledged with a grunt and a nod. Narumir jerked his vest over the mail he wore, put on his helmet, and caught up his cloak. The two ducked out of the tent, and Anglad led the way toward the armory. "Darthion is on his way, and Callon and Menveru should be along soon enough. Magorthaen went in the opposite direction. I think only Brand, Baramir and Arodion are left in this area. Magorthaen will find the others."

It happened, as Anglad had guessed it would, that they found those three together in the armory, maintaining weapons and gear. Anglad and Narumir pulled them from their duties, and ere long they arrived at the training grounds of Angrenost, where they met the previous three. Half the tulkarim was now present, all armed and ready (except Menveru, who was still helmetless). Anglad--spear in hand, thanks to Callon--looked around for their cainenhîr and the rest of the squad. Many other guards had gathered here already, though Anglad's group was still among the first to arrive.

The morning air was chilly and carried with it the harsh memory of winter. The sky hung low above the ground, foul and grey, as if it threatened to engulf all in its misty embrace. It was not a day for work, dark and grim as it was, but for Helmgar son of Aethelred it made no matter. Never would he have gotten far in life if he had not taken chances, if he had stayed and waited for the storms to pass him by. Like all his kin and countrymen, he was cold and harsh and resilient, unbending, unbroken. There had yet to come a day so poor as to force him to remain at his home. There was work to be done and it would be carried out.

This the tall man considered as he surveyed his lands from the hilltop that dominated the region. Once, when his forefathers had settled here, they had chosen this hill and laid the foundations of the very home he now dwelt in. The line of Éohelm did not favour dealings with others; they preferred to focus on their own affairs, undisturbed by man or beast. And so they had settled here, outside the confines of the town which was now Greybarrow. How the times have changed, Helmgar mused as he continued peering into the fields below.

Many houses and holds now dotted the landscape. Areas which had once been barren and devoid of inhabitants were now brimming with activity. His own father had given some of their ancestral lands to new families or settlers from other burgs. And now Helmgar found the once lonely house on the hill surrounded by many others, closing in steadily from the South where Greybarrow lay. He suspected that in his own time, he may have to give out some of his outlying holdings to others. Such was the way Aethelred had taught him; they had plenty and it would be of no use if they hoarded like the wyrms of old.

He then turned to the North, where the mountains loomed over the horizon, bleak and covered in snow. Winter still had everything in its frozen grasp there – cold, unmoving and absolute. The man shuddered unintentionally as he wondered what creatures dwelt there, in the depths of the mountain. Eastwards he then turned, to the Greylin, which was the lifeblood of the surrounding lands. It was swift and powerful, the melting snows having increased its size at least twice. It would be a bountiful year, Helmgar considered; unless snow fell again the harvest would be rich indeed.

“We are ready, father.”

Helmgar turned to look at his son, Léofric, who was leading out two horses with him. The boy had seen fifteen winters and was shaping up as a strong young man. He was shorter than his father, but had already overtaken his mother, while his hands had grown hard and deft from work. He would become a worthy man one day, Helmgar was certain of that.

He took the reins from the boy and patted his mount on the neck, feeling the strong muscle underneath. It was one of the horses Helmgar used to go about his lands, in times of peace. Of smaller stature and lesser breed, it was not exactly fit for battle, but it had plenty of endurance and was a calm, dependable animal. Its black, shaggy coat was beginning to shows signs of shedding, but it was not yet time to fully remove it. Helmgar quietly examined if everything was in check and with one curt nod to himself, he mounted the horse with the practiced skill of a long-time rider.

He looked behind at his son and smiled to himself when he noted how easily the boy mounted his horse, as well. It was already something which came naturally to him, as if he put on a shoe - just as it had to be. Ever so slightly, he tapped the mount on its ribs, urging it into a slow trot. Soon, the four of them – father, son and the two horses - found themselves on the dirt road leading away from their homestead.

“Where are we headed to, father?”

“It is time to see how kind or harsh the winter has been to our crops; I also want to take a look at the river.”

“What about it?” – Léofric asked, as he aligned himself next to Helmgar.

“It has increased in size greatly, I fear that it may overstep its boundaries and cause a flood. We must examine it more closely.” He then added after a pause, “Always be mindful of your surroundings, strive to live by the laws of the land....but do not be afraid to go against them.”

“Yes, father” – the boy nodded once – “Are we going to do anything else today?”

“Hmmmm” – Helmgar coughed, as he wondered – “I had not thought of that; let us see how we fare today. If all goes well, we may visit your uncle; he will be happy to see you, and I can discuss a few matters with him.”

“Uncle Léohelm....what happened with him was a great tragedy. A curse.”

“Such is life, my friend, such is life...” – Helmgar sighed heavily – “It knocks you down, throws you into the mud and dirt...but you must get up again. Again and again. You must never stay down, never accept that. My brother is a strong man, he knows that.”

Léohelm’s fate hung heavily on Helmgar’s shoulders, and the memory of it soured his mood; he grew distant and quiet. Such was their vocation, he knew that. Warriors accepted the risk of death and maiming; it was a part of their life. And yet....fate could be cruel, so cruel. An arm, an eye, an ear...each one of those could be taken from the fighter and it would not be that great a loss. Many were the tales of men who would fight with their off-hand, if the other was crippled. It took a great amount of stubbornness and will, but it was possible. But the loss of a leg...a cursed thing indeed, just as his son had said.

Deep inside him, Helmgar knew that his feelings were not completely selfless. A part of him regretted his brother’s crippling for another reason: Helmgar's freedom had been taken away. He was the second born; Éohelm’s horn had been given to him. It was meant for him to do great deeds in life to make his name immortal in the songs of his people. True, he had a family – a wife, sons and a daughter...And yet, Léofric was almost a man grown; he could take care of all matters by himself. Helmgar was no fool and knew that soon enough the boy would be completely independent from him.

In the past, he had toyed with the idea of travelling. He knew not where, but he had a desire to leave this all too familiar land behind. South, perhaps, to the lands of his forefathers; or maybe eastward, across the dark forest and into the lands of the men who dwelt by the great lake. And then? Even further to the South, where the Men of the West made their homes. It made no matter where; he could not bear to remain here. The blood of the old horselords was in his veins, the blood of the wide, open plain – he could not be caged. And yet, with each passing winter he came to witness how more and more houses crept in around his. It was not a cage of the flesh, of the body; it was one of the spirit and the soul.

At one point in time, his musings seemed possible enough; he had even discussed the subject with his brother a few times. But now…now it was all a dream outside his reach forever. With his brother crippled, it fell on him to look after the family’s lands. To lead the people of Greybarrow in times of need, as his brother and father before him. But it was not meant for him to do this, he felt it. The wisdom of Aethelred had passed onto Léohelm; he was calm and reasonable like their father. But a different kind of blood flowed in Helmgar. Like his grandfather, whom he had never known, he was fiery and action-prone. And the longer he remained here, the more restless he grew; it was no surprise that his grandsire had met his end on the most worthy of places – the battlefield.

But just as he had told his son, fate and life had their own course, and neither Man nor Elf or Dwarf could change them. Not even the legends dared assume such things. Helmgar might have been meant to do other things, but responsibility and duty were not things to be taken lightly. He could not shrink from them; he was not such a man. Thus, he kept his thoughts to himself and assumed the position which was thrust upon him as best he might.

“What have you been doing lately, my son?” – Helmgar asked after he realised how long he had remained silent.

It was a question he had intended to ask, though. He had been away from home for about a week, having had to visit some relatives, and now he was eager to hear what his son had done in that time. He knew it could not be much, but it was one of the small things which he abided by, even after the need for careful guidance had passed away. Léofric was quick to answer, obviously relieved that the heavy silence was no more.

As such, they passed the next few hours discussing this and that – small matters, from everyday life. Who had said what regarding the weather; what the boys in the village had been planning; the rumour that the King and his Guard could pass through here; small, trivial matters, that were of no import in the great scheme of things, but which nevertheless offered flavour and colour to the otherwise bland existence of simple folk like them. Such talk distracted Helmgar from his more serious thoughts and it lightened his mood, for a time he was at ease.

Their fields and crops were in good shape, growing strong and defiant, despite the blanket of snow that had covered them not so long ago. Following Aethelred’s instructions, which he had devised many winters ago, they knew when to plant and when to harvest the fruits of their labours. The harvest was always bountiful, save for a few harsher years, and this time it seemed to be no different.

They had set off early in the morning, with the sun still low on the horizon. Now it was noon and some colour had seeped into the world. It was still cold and forlorn; the vast fields were empty, save for the lonely birds which darted back and forth, from time to time. Here and there, some patches of dirty, melting snow remained, a memory of the field of white which had dominated the region not so long ago. The sky seemed to have cleared somewhat and the golden orb shone down upon them, but the day was still joyless and grey.

Having checked on their fields, the two where now heading towards the river, down a well-trodden path which lead to a pleasant spot on the bank of the Greylin. Their conversation had died down somewhat and as Helmgar looked about in silence, he noticed something slightly amiss about his son’s appearance. The small detail had caught his eye earlier, even as they were setting off, but he could not place it up until now.

Léofric was dressed much like him – woollen clothes of earthen colours to ward from the cold; thick, sturdy boots that covered most of the calf; and a heavy cloak which could protect from snow and rain. And yet, there was one small difference – the boy’s right hand, with which he held the reins, was gloved.

“What is that glove?” – Helmgar asked

“I cut myself yesterday.”

Helmgar frowned slightly. “Let me see”

The boy did as he was told, he drew closer to his father, masterfully handling his horse, removed the glove and showed him his hand. Helmgar threw it a quick glance; the wound was a small slash across the palm. Uncomfortable, but not something which could hinder a rider.

“Leave it at that and put the glove away” – Helmgar ordered – “Your hands must harden still. If you cut yourself while working, will you stop? If you fight and your foe injures your sword-arm, will you give up?”

“No...but the reins...”

“A good rider has no need of reins, my son. Your mount should understand where you intend to go; only when Man and horse are one can you consider yourself proficient. Besides, that wound is not deep enough to hinder you.”

“As you say, father.”

Léofric quietly put the glove away and took hold of the reins once more. For the briefest of moments, Helmgar noticed that the boy winced, but it was fleeting. Soon, he had a solid grasp, just as he had before. To a stranger, this scene would seem foolish, if not more. But, over the years, Helmgar had paid attention to such small details, for he knew that the everyday, seemingly insignificant habits were the most important. As his father had once asked him: “What is a Man if not the sum of his doings? Great or small, it makes no matter. How many great things does one achieve in their time? And how many small, brief tasks does he repeat every day?”

At the time, Helmgar had not understood the meaning of that. He was not certain if he did so now, not completely. Could one ever understand the meaning of greatness? Of one’s purpose? Men wiser and older than him had attempted to do that since the dawn of time...and they would continue for many more years, he reckoned.

When they reached the river, they decided to halt for a time, giving both themselves and their mounts some time to rest. Helmgar paced back and forth around the river, trying to gauge how much it had moved away from its original bed. In the mean time, his son took out what foodstuffs they had taken with them and prepared a quick meal. Their horses roamed freely about, grazing the low, early spring grass.

Helmgar was not quite certain what to make of the river; the usually steeper bank was now completely brimming with water, coming almost of a like level with the land around it. Further downstream, towards the town, its banks were steeper still, which was a relief to him. And yet...if it escaped its boundaries here, it could flood the surrounding fields – causing a disaster not only to his family, but to many other farmholds located around them. He would have to take counsel with his brother.

Knowing he could do no more at the present, he walked towards his son. The ground was cold and wet, but Léofric had strewn out his cloak and used is as a blanket to provide room for him and his father to sit. Helmgar joined the boy and took a bite of the bread and salted meat offered to him. He took out his waterskin and sipped a few drops of water, before returning to his meal. They ate in silence, until Léofric, remembering something, asked his father:

“Father is that the place?” – he pointed at a spot some distance away, on the other side of the river.

“Aye” – came the quiet answer.

The spot which the boy had gestured at was on the outskirts of a small wood which dominated that part of the area. Almost ten and nine years ago, on a day not too different from this one, Helmgar had killed his first foe. He was barely a man then, being a boy of a like age with his son, but he remembered the moment vividly.

“A company of orcs, foul beasts and servants of the Dark powers, had come down from the mountains. It was not a rare occurrence, when I was young...not like today” – he halted for a second – “I was still a boy back then, with barely any hair on my cheeks and an untested sword-arm. My brother, your uncle, led most of the men into the woods. The beasts had made an encampment on the eaves of the forest and at dawn, when they least expected us, Léohelm hit them from the back. The orcs are poor soldiers and they have no honour or courage, pathetic beings...they fled and made for the river, hoping to ford it; for it was summer and the Greylin was shallow.”

“Your uncle and grandfather had expected that outcome and thus, a group of younger, inexperienced youths like me waited for them by the bank. As soon as they came within sight of us, we charged and ran them down, cutting them off from the river and trapping them between our two forces. We slew every lice-ridden one of them.”

Silence followed, it was a tale which Helmgar had recounted before and in greater detail, his son was certainly familiar with it. And he could not quite say why he had told it again – to remind his son what his father had once been? No...it was something else; he had done it for his own sake, he now knew that. It was to remind himself what he had once been and what he had become. Time knew but one direction – onward and it waited for no Man. He was now a man grown, in his prime...perhaps he would one day find himself here again, as an elder in the setting of his years. Perhaps.

“Let us go. I intend to discuss some matters with my brother and I want to be back home by sunset.” – Helmgar declared as he finished his meal.

Aethylwyn shivered as her sister let out a whimper of fear. She turned and faced Léohild and with desperation, begged her to be quiet. They were lucky, their baby sister Helmwyn was fast asleep, in Aethylwyn’s arms. The baby was naught but a year, and she could scream if she felt like that. Were she to wake, they would most certainly be found, and killed. Aethylwyn’s skin crawled as she considered the possibility. “…Don’t wake up, Wyny, don’t wake up…” She prayed over and over again. They were hidden in the darkness of the pantry, as their mother had commanded. This wasn’t the first time their home had been attacked, but it was the first time her father wasn’t home to protect them. But she had faith in Mother. Mother would save them.

The sounds from above were terrifying. It was what made Léohild whimper so. Poor dear, she was barely just over the age of a wean, and to have to go through this…well, Aethylwyn wanted to whimper too. But she was the eldest, she had been through this before, she remembered the terror that she had felt before…and she knew she must not let her sisters feel that terror. Mother was father’s right hand, and now she must be mothers. For father was at war, protecting them in a different sort of way.

There was a scream of pain…it was mother! Léohild cried out, and Aethylwyn violently shushed her. “Léohild, you are a daughter of Fram and a warrior just as anyone else! I command you be silent!” Aethylwyn wanted to cry, she could feel the tears in her eyes and the pain in her chest, as her sister nodded and choked back the tears. How she listened to her. How good and brave her little sister was. Aethylwyn handed the sleeping baby to her sister. Something about her peaceful slumber was keeping her calm, and Léohild needed it now. Besides, mother was in trouble, and it was Aethylwyn’s duty to protect her.

She grabbed the dagger her father had given her and rushed up the stairs. Or at least, she tried to. But each step seemed heavy, and far away from the last, and when she reached the top it seemed that an age had passed since she had been at the bottom. She listened at the door. She could hear no sounds. There was a peephole near the bottom, but she saw nothing outside. It was fading into night, and soon there would be nothing left to see by. Aethylwyn was afraid. She was not a trained warrior, she was not even a boy. This was not her duty! “How can you say that, Aethylwyn? How can you say anything is not your duty. You are a woman, you are mighty and strong. There is nothing you can’t do, nothing that is not your responsibility! If you do not stand, who will?” Her mother’s voice rang in her ears. Her father spoke of war. The element of surprise, he called it. She must surprise her enemy. She burst out the door, as fast as she could muster, knife raised high…

Her mother knelt outside it, leaning over the body of a dead monster. There were others all around him, all dead. Her mother had done it! She had saved them! “Mother!” Aethylwyn cried in glee. Her mother’s head turned, just barely, and she whispered Aethylwyn’s name. Something was not right. She ran to her mother, but when she reached her she saw with horror what was amiss. She was bleeding badly from her side. Aethylwyn’s feet were drenched in her mother’s blood.

“Mother. It’s done now. Let me get you inside,” Aethylwyn said, with such certainty, knowing she had not the strength to carry her own mother.

“Dearest, you are right. It is done.” Her mother lifted one hand and put it around Aethylwyn’s shoulders. “I have done all I can do for you daughters. I have given my life to see yours through.”

“No mama, you’ll be fine…

“Aethylwyn! Listen.” Her mother coughed, and cried out as she did so. She slid down, collapsing on the dead orc like the pillow of a deathbed. That was all he was now. “You must continue where I could not. You must raise your sisters as they were your own. You must grow up now, and grow up strong. Your father’s family will help you, should he not return…” Aethylwyn couldn’t bear to think of that. But she stayed quiet, for she knew that her mother’s time was short, and she had much she wanted to say. “You remember the soup porridge I make for Helmwyn for you to feed her while I’m gone, yes?” Aethylwyn nodded. “You must feed her this every day until her teeth cut. And keep practicing your bow. Make Léohild practice her riding, you all must do this! And…you tell them about me. Don’t let them forget…”

Her mother closed her eyes, and Aethylwyn screamed.

24th of Súlìmë (March)

Helmwyn shook Aethylwyn awake from her memories.

“You’ve nodded off again, Aethylwyn. You aren’t getting enough sleep! You shouldn’t be out so late, it isn’t good for a woman to be riding around the dark with a lot of hairy old men…” Aethylwyn stifled a yawn and forced out a giggle. Her memories of her mother were growing faint, but she could see so much of her in her sisters. Especially Helmwyn, though it was mostly because Helmwyn ran the house that her mother once did. Though technically Aethylwyn was still the woman of the house, when her father lost his leg she made the decision to join the éoherë in his place. This was still her home, but she found she was here less often. And with Léohild married, Helmwyn was the last at home. She hoped that Helmwyn would find love and marry, as did Léohild. It was something Aethylwyn dreamed of for her sisters, if not for herself.

There was a time, years ago, that she thought she was in love. She loved him dearly, but he was gone now. And her heart hardened, and her responsibilities grew…no, love and family was not for her. She promised to do what her mother could not do. Her mother was restricted by the responsibility of motherhood. While Aethylwyn could not lessen admiration of her mother for it, she could choose to not follow that path. In fact, she was afraid to.

“How can you let me fall asleep, Helmwyn? It’s long after midday and there are things that need to be done! Where is father, I must take him for a stroll.” Aethylwyn rubbed her eyes and stood, starting to gather her things.

“Léohild came by and is doing so as we speak. She knows how tired you are, warrior sister. She may have a husband now, but he is understanding of our situation. We are ever bound to protecting our father. All of us,” She emphasized the all. She knew what Aethylwyn had done for them. If only she knew…

“You are so like mother, sometimes. If ever you wonder about her, look at yourself in the water.”

“We all are like her, Aethylwyn. We are all parts of her. I bet Léohild will be with child soon. She says if she has a daughter she will name her Holdwyn. I think her husband is wanting a son, but you know us.”

“Daughters of Fram, it seems, come around more than sons.” Aethylwyn finished her sister’s thought with a laugh. “And what of you? Will you be marrying soon?” She pried.

“Och, who has time for that. With Da on the mend and you off being warrior queen, what would I do with a husband and weans?”

“You needn’t worry about me, Helmwyn. If I were a brother you would not worry. And Father will be fine. See how Léohild does it? You can do that too.”

“You are a brother and a sister. I would miss you even if you were a blockhead. But why do you question me, elder sibling? You could always marry.” Helmwyn offered a sidelong glance.

Aethylwyn’s thoughts darkened. She wasn’t ready to think about him. She never would be. “I don’t think I could, Wyny. My heart is cold.” It wasn’t something she liked to discuss. It hurt her to admit it, and she would say it to no one but dear Wyny. Helmwyn was like a daughter and a mother all in one. Sometimes she thought Wyny was the true warrior.

“Fires go out, but they can be rekindled,” Helmwyn said softly, laying a hand on Aethylwyn’s shoulder. For the briefest of moments, Aethylwyn leaned in. She could feel her mother’s hands, hear her voice again…

“Ho! Is that Uncle Helmgar approaching?” Helmwyn glanced through the open doorway. Aethylwyn stood and followed her sister out the front door. Indeed it was, he just stopping further down the road where Léohild was pushing Father. Aetheylwyn smiled, seeing her family. They had suffered, but they were not broken. As she went to meet them, she passed a trough. Remembering her sister’s words, she bent over and looked. She saw a worn face, with dark hair and eyes…and something in them that was no one else but Holdwyn.

Sparse patches of sunlight filtered down through the thick, forested canopy of Mirkwood, though her rays did little to penetrate the suffocating aura of darkness that suffused the once-proud elvish kingdom. Here in the forest so far from Thranduil’s protected borders, darkness was more than just the absence of light. It was also the presence of evil, veiled though it was. No birdsong echoed through the trees to offer a sense of levity. Only the soft patter of horse hooves offered any noise to break the oppressive silence.

The shadow of threat pressed continually as a dull ache against Elendyne’s mind, just as it no doubt plagued her two travel companions. Huor, a stoic, raven-haired warrior who had served many centuries in Thranduil’s army, rode in front on a proud elf-bred white stallion, a one-handed sword gripped defensively in his right hand. Behind Elendyne rode Finrod, a blonde-headed archer who could be given to light-hearted jokes and singing, though now his expression was as guarded as Huor’s as he held his drawn bow with both hands and guided his white mare with his knees. Bracketed between their protective strength, Elendyne trusted in them to see her safely to the edge of the forest. Elendyne’s own dapple-grey mare Nessa tossed her head uneasily, sensing the veiled threat that continually surrounded them, to which the healer spoke a few whispered words of elvish to calm her. To their right flowed the Forest river, which made her bed in the heart of the Woodland Elves' realm and marked their route.

Without warning, Huor drew his horse to a halt and wordlessly held up a hand. The elves did not need to exchange words to convey what all three of them now sensed. The shadow of threat pressed more insistently against their minds, and Elendyne silently reached for her longbow and nocked an arrow to the string. The horses tossed their heads uneasily and gave snorts of displeasure, but they remained rooted in place, a testament to the trust they placed in their elven riders. The silence was now deafening, until the minute sound of a tree branch groaning under an unnatural weight reached the elves’ sensitive ears. Finrod pivoted in his saddle, and the twang of a bowstring, followed by the whistle of an arrow was quickly echoed by the pained shriek of the fell creature that had stalked them from above. Elendyne’s horse reared and neighed in terror as the crumpled form of a giant, five-foot wide spider fell to the ground beside her, Finrod’s arrow protruding from its abdomen. More clicking and groaning sounds echoed from the branches overhead as some of the shadows in the canopy detached themselves from the surrounding darkness and surrounded the small party, save for the front facing the river. Elendyne’s jade green eyes widened in horror as she took notice of the myriad of webs that lined the canopy high overhead. They had stumbled upon a colony.

The three elves were sorely outnumbered, and they knew it. Trying to stand and fight would be a fool’s gambit and would surely end in their demise. Huor barked out the single command, “Drego! ” and dug his heels into his mount’s sides. The stallion lurched forward with a terrified scream, followed closely by Elendyne and Finrod. Elendyne leaned low against Nessa’s neck and held her bow at her side as the forest whipped by her in a shadowy blur. Huor kept his sword at the ready while Finrod covered their retreat with strategically shot arrows. The elves’ dark green cloaks whipped behind them from the speed of their horses, giving them an almost wraith-like appearance under the shadows of the thick forest canopy. They could hear the spiders, which numbered at least a dozen, pursuing them from above. Huor had been wise to keep the river at their right side so they only had to face the spiders on one front. The fell creatures had the advantage in the trees, and despite the elf-bred horses’ speed and surefootedness, several of them quickly gained ground on the fleeing party. A seven-foot spider leaped down from the branches, aiming its paralyzing stinger for Huor’s head, but the stoic warrior easily knocked the beast aside with a well-placed sword swipe. Finrod felled another that was closing in from behind, and Elendyne rose up in her saddle for a split second to shoot a third spider that had gotten too close for comfort.

The minutes dragged by painfully slow as the chase continued, but at last the sounds of pursuit faded as the elves made it beyond the bounds of the spiders’ territory. Even so, Huor did not slow the pace of their retreat until the borders of Mirkwood loomed on the horizon, and warm patches of sunlight filtered between the trees from the plains beyond. The horses broke from the forest and leaped gladly into the welcoming light of the sun, and Elendyne squinted as her sensitive eyes adjusted to the abrupt change. They had emerged near the northernmost boundary of Mirkwood, still following the Forest river. Huor finally brought the group to a halt, and Nessa trembled beneath Elendyne as sweat glistened upon her proud grey coat and she panted to regain her lost wind. Elendyne dismounted and patted her mount fondly on the neck. “Hannon le, mellon nîn .”

Huor and Finrod also dismounted to bid their comrade farewell. Knowing she would soon be among Men, Elendyne spoke in the Common Tongue, which tasted foreign and unfamiliar on her lips. “What path will you take to return home?”

Finrod deferred to Huor’s seniority, who answered, also in the Common Tongue, in a deep baritone, “Ungoliant’s spawn will not remain this far from their nest for long. We will ride south along the forest’s border and reunite with our king’s sentries to obtain safe passage home.”

Finrod took the opportunity to voice his displeasure at Elendyne’s departure. “I still fail to understand why King Thranduil consented to sending one of our best healers alone to aid the horsemen. Why aid those who will not come within an arrow’s reach of our homeland?”

Elendyne smiled kindly at the younger elf and lightly laid her fingertips on his cheek. “There may yet come a day when our kind will diminish from Middle Earth and Men will grow strong again. What better time than now to forge bonds of friendship and trust with those who may one day fight as our allies?” She kissed him on the cheek. “Namárië .”

Elendyne turned next to Huor, and her heart clenched with unexpected emotion at the impending departure. They had watched each other’s backs on the battlefield ever since she had begun riding on patrols with the warriors, and she had treated his wounds that would have claimed his life several times over on numerous occasions. He had been the first to volunteer to escort her to Mirkwood’s borders when she had announced her decision to leave, and she was slowly realizing that he would probably even follow her to Dol Guldur itself were she to ask. She could tell that leaving her to make this journey alone went against his fierce warrior’s code of honor to protect his kin, especially the women and maidens. However, Elendyne was also a warrior in her own right and needed to prove her own strength apart from the protection of another. She met his unyielding, cobalt gaze and vowed, “I will return. You have my word.”

She could see the emotions veiled behind his seemingly cold expression, but discipline hard-wired from centuries of training kept him in place. “I Melain berio le ,” he spoke, the elvish words dancing from his tongue.

Elendyne kissed him on the cheek like she had done with Finrod, and Huor’s arms wrapped around her lithe form in a brief embrace before they parted. “No in elenath hîlar nan hâd gîn .” It was a more fitting farewell than wishing the sun to shine upon one’s path, given that the Mirkwood elves lived under the constant threat of darkness. Instead, they often spoke of stars as a reminder that darkness also held things of beauty and light.

With the farewells spoken, there was nothing left but to go their separate ways. Huor boosted Elendyne back into her saddle, more out of courtesy than necessity, and then he and Finrod returned to their own mounts. As they rode south along the forest’s border, Huor pointedly ignored the smug, knowing looks from Finrod. For a “youngster,” relatively speaking, the blonde elf could be annoyingly perceptive.

As for Elendyne, she turned Nessa’s head toward the riverbank and set off at an easy canter. They would follow the Forest River northwest, almost to the Grey Mountains, before turning due west. The town of Greybarrow, so she had been told, lay on the western shore of the eastern leg of the Greylin river. With one last glance back at her departing comrades, Elendyne whispered a quick prayer to the Valar for their safety and hers before steeling herself for the long journey ahead.

Magorthaen walked briskly through the Camp of the Guard. At some moments he couldn’t keep the skip out of his step as he thought about what he had just heard within the command tent. But seconds later he would find himself glaring at the dirt at his feet as he walked, dark thoughts crowding out his previous elation. It was in one of these moods that he at last encountered Halward, one of his men. Halward had ancestry from Dale, in the lands far north and east, beyond even Rhovanion where the Balcoth horde was said to be invading. Though Halward was dark of hair and eyes, he was spared the ridicule most gave Torgin. He had no relation with the Dunlendings, and that was good enough for most, it seemed.

“Good morning, Cainenhîr,” said Halward. The man spoke respectfully, despite being older than Magorthaen, and having lost the opportunity of cainenhîr to him.

“Good morning, Halward,” Magorthaen responded, forcing a smile on his face. Halward was sitting on an old, dry log outside of his tent. He held the shaft of an arrow upright between his legs and was in the process of tying on a small iron head. Halward was an excellent bowman, and spent much of his time fletching arrows. It was largely because of his lack of skill with close range weapons that Halward lost the position of cainenhîr to Magorthaen. “Turmahîr Hammar has called us to the training grounds. Put away your arrows and follow me.”

“Why is the Rheinhîr here, Magorthaen?” Halward was always the most perceptive member of the tulkarim; Magorthaen assumed it had to do with his skills as a scout and bowman. Halward placed his finished arrow into an already filled bucket by his feet, and brushed the splinters of wood from his lap to a growing pile at his feet. His placed both of his hands on his legs and leaned forward as he waited for Magorthaen’s response.

“War, Halward. Come on.”

“War?” Halward asked as he jumped up. He turned toward his tent to grab his bow and helmet, pulling his chain mail over his head as he went. “War with who? When are we leaving?” Magorthaen glanced at the bow Halward prized and grimaced. They were to be taught to use spears. Halward would have the most difficulty with that.

“You will hear when we get to the training grounds, Halward. Turmahîr Hammar will explain everything.” Halward glared indignantly at him but said no more. “Baranor and Hirbarad are standing guard on the steps of Orthanc.”

“You mean sleeping on the steps of Orthanc,” Halward said.

Magorthaen could not help but laugh. “They perform their duties diligently, Halward.”

“They sleep diligently,” he replied. “Why do you think they are so often posted there?”

Magorthaen ignored the quip as he concentrated on making his way through the increasingly busy camp. The word had passed quickly, and all of the soldiers and guards were making their way to the training grounds or gathering necessary equipment. Magorthaen and Halward were walking against the flow as they made their way to the gates that led into Angrenost itself. There were no tents or buildings within one hundred feet of the walls. The top of the walls were now empty as the soldiers’ cainenhîr had ordered them away from their posts. Guarding the walls of Angrenost was not exactly a necessity in a time of relative peace. There were small watchtowers posted closer to the border of Gondor and the lands of the Dunlendings that would give plenty of advance warning if necessary. Having guards up there at all times was mainly for show, and to give the men something to do.

Beyond the gate, within the walls of Angrenost, was a circular park filled with green trees and grass, crisscrossed by small stone pathways. Magorthaen and Halward followed the central pathway through the park toward the steps of Orthanc. The tower was incredibly tall; it was something that was hard to appreciate when you were on the other side of the wall. But when you walked up to the base of Orthanc, it was hard not to gape at it in awe. Baranor and Hirbarad, he saw immediately, were not alone. There were two other soldiers with them, and they were all sitting on the steps of Orthanc, leaning against the walls surrounding the main entry portal. At least they aren’t sleeping…, Magorthaen thought. The four soldiers jumped to their feet as they saw the approach of Magorthaen and Halward. As he reached the bottom of the steps he recognized the faces of the other two soldiers beneath their helmets: Findegil and Araglas, two more men of his tulkarim. Those two soldiers were inseparable. They had both come from North Ithilien, though they were not of the same blood. Supposedly they had been friends since childhood, and neither would say why they had come, or had been sent, to serve in the Angrenost Guard. They were both tall with fair hair and blue eyes, though their features were hidden by their helmets and armor.

Baranor and Hirbarad were not much different from the other two who accompanied them. Baranor hailed from the southwestern lands of Gondor, near the coast, and Hirbarad from Minas Tirith itself. Like most of the Angrenost Guard, those two had joined simply to see the world and earn some money. They were both shorter than Findegil and Araglas, about the same height as Magorthaen, though the rest of their features were typical of the southern reaches of Gondor. They both held their spears out and stood at attention as they awaited a scolding from Magorthaen. Araglas and Findegil stood at attention also, and surprisingly well considering their normally playful demeanor.

“I hope you enjoyed your break,” Magorthaen said. He kept his voice hard, but let a hint of a smile show. “For the next week the four of you will spend some time in the training yards.” His smile nearly grew uncontrollable as he saw the dismay on the four soldiers’ faces. “Come on,” he said, turning and waving for them to follow. “Halward and I are heading there now.”

“You mean…it isn’t punishment?” asked Findegil. “Are we going through drills again?”

“We are going to war, Findegil,” Halward said bluntly before Magorthaen could reply. “Steel your heart and rein in your humor. This week will certainly be a difficult one, but it will be nothing compared to the road ahead.” Magorthaen rolled as his eyes as Halward taunted Findegil. He had revealed nothing yet to Halward, though such a description likely wasn’t far off from any type of war.

“War?” Hirbarad asked excitedly. “Are you sure, Magorthaen? When do we march? Who are we fighting?”

“Like I told Halward, you will find out everything when we get to the training grounds. I don’t have the time or patience to explain it, and likely you will have more questions than I have answers for. In short, the Easterlings have invaded Rhovanion, and we are being sent north to stop them before they can advance into Gondor.” Magorthaen stopped and turned toward the soldiers following behind him. “Turmahîr Hammar is waiting for everyone at the training grounds. We need to hurry, so no more questions. Does anyone know where Orogond is? He is off duty today.”

“I saw him with Duinhir and Dervorin,” Araglas said quickly. “They were heading toward the barracks to get a meal, and Dervorin was laughing about a lost helmet.”

Findegil laughed and elbowed Araglas. “He said he wanted to turn it in before the owner could find it. Said it would teach him to leave his belongings laying about.” Findegil and Araglas both laughed, and he couldn‘t help but smile himself. He was surprised, however, that the looming war, and the week in the training yard, had already slid from their minds in favor of a joke.

“Then we should see them on the way there,” Magorthaen said as he turned back toward the gate of Angrenost. The Camp of the Guard, a hundred feet beyond the gate, was nearly emptied. “We need to hurry,” he said. “We don’t want to be late.”

The six soldiers trotted through the quickly emptying Camp. The rows of tents beyond the wall were all empty, a somewhat foreshadowing sight to Margorthaen as he thought about how Angrenost would be in a week. It would likely be even worse, he realized. They would be packing up those tents, and all of their belongings, and taking them north with them. Angrenost would be empty indeed. The wooden barracks came into sight, slightly southeast of the command tent. The training grounds were behind the barracks, though the barracks occupied their full field of view. While the barracks was normally unoccupied during times of peace, it was large enough to support twice the number of the current Angrenost Guard. The only men stationed in the barracks were a few capable blacksmiths, cooks and a rotating group of trainers.

Magorthaen and his soldiers pushed their way through the wooden door marking the entrance to the barracks. It was dark within; candles and oil were far too expensive to transport to the borders of Gondor, or to trade from the Dunlendings, to be wasted when the barracks was largely unoccupied. The entrance to the barracks was relatively large for a building of its size. It served as both the meeting area as well as the mess hall. The long tables throughout the room were mostly empty. Doorways along the walls led to hallways, which Magorthaen knew led to sleeping quarters and storage rooms. As expected, the three soldiers Magorthaen was looking for were sitting at a table eating.

“Orogond!” Magorthaen called as he spotted him. “Your day off is officially over. We are called to the training grounds. You too, Duinhir and Dervorin.” As Dervorin turned away from the table to peer at Magorthaen, he saw a helmet sitting in front of the soldier. A second helmet was in his lap. “Bring that with you, Dervorin,” he said. “You will likely find its careless owner where we are going.”

“Everyone will be there, huh?” Orogond asked with a smile. “Another chance to pound on the old-timers!” The soldier laughed while flexing his enormous arms, boasting over a mouthful of food. Orogond had always been Magorthaen’s least favorite member of the tulkarim, but he was certainly the most skillful in combat. Orogond was the same age as Magorthaen, but built like Turmahîr Hammar. Looking at Orogond now, Magorthaen knew that the coming campaign would likely place the first of the scars on his face that decorated Hammar’s own. Orogond loved placing himself at the front of the lines, to be the first to offer his sword arm. He came from a small settlement in Calenhardon, and perhaps that was the reason for his eagerness: to have his name remembered when the name of his family and home never would be. Orogond spoke little of his home in any case, so Magorthaen could only guess at the reasons for his vigor.

Duinhir hailed from Dor Rhúnen, and he bore a striking resemblance to Randir Dringnor, the Dor Rhúnen man who had come to warn them of the horde. Like most men of that land, Duinhir was a competent horse rider. Magorthaen wasn’t quite sure why Duinhir wasn’t a part of the cavalry, but Duinhir just shrugged his shoulders whenever he brought it up. Dervorin, a man from Pelargir, was a complete enigma to him. He bore himself like a noble, acted like a noble, and despised liars and thieves. He was usually quiet and reserved, when he wasn’t busy lecturing Araglas or Findegil about lying, or any other soldier for doing something wrong. Seeing these three soldiers together didn’t really come as a surprise to Magorthaen, though it was a relatively recent development. It seemed that Orogond, Duinhir and Dervorin all had something of their past to hide, or something they were ashamed of. They were all three quiet, or in Orogond’s case overly charismatic, as a way of avoiding their secrets. Magorthaen didn’t press them. Nor did he really trust them.

“Yes, everyone will be there,” Magorthaen said to Orogond. “And we’re late. Come on!” To stall any more questions, Magorthaen turned on his heel and stepped quickly back into the bright daylight. After even a few moments in the dark interior of the barracks, the sun burned his eyes until they could adjust. As he made his way around to the back of the barracks, toward the training grounds, the eight soldiers, half of his tulkarim, marched in line behind him. There were still others behind them, and plenty more ahead of them. They weren’t nearly as late as he had thought.

The training grounds was a circular field divided by six smaller “arena’s.” Each division was normally reserved for a particular style of combat, though Magorthaen knew that today every arena would be occupied with learning the spear. He found Anglad and the final seven members of the tulkarim waiting near one of the arena’s.

Magorthaen walked up to Anglad and clasped his shoulder with a hand. “Thank you for gathering the rest, Anglad. The Turmahîr should be here soon.”

“While we wait,” said Duinhir, “would you mind explaining what this is all about?”

Magorthaen sighed. He had hoped to avoid being the one to give the details. He wasn’t sure why he was so afraid of it when he was excited about the prospect of war at the same time. Had been excited since he had first had the idea of joining the Angrenost Guard in his father’s footsteps. “Easterlings have invaded Rhovanion. A man from Dor Rhúnen, Rochben Randir Dringnor, arrived here with Rheinhîr Harnastin this morning. The military of Dor Rhúnen has been fighting the horde along their borders, but so far the Easterlings have not moved south. However, Rochben Dringnor believes that the Easterlings, known as the Balcoth, will turn south to strike at Gondor eventually. They are sending all of the North Army to strike first, and we will be supported by the South Army when they arrive.” His explanation was met by silence from the tulkarim. Some of them had known more than others, as he had been pressed for information on the way to the training grounds. A large smile split Orogond’s face as he realized what it meant: Gondor was going to war. Orogond was going to have his chance to earn his battle scars. Dervorin took the news stoically, though his eyes seemed to show resignation. To duty or fate Magorthaen wasn’t quite sure. Duinhir’s eyes were bulging, and his mouth was open as if there was something he wished to say but couldn’t quite form. The others he had brought with him had already known the basics. But Anglad and the soldiers he had gathered had known nothing, unless they had learned of it on the way to the training grounds. He turned to Anglad to judge his reaction.

Anglad looked up at the gray sky. It was overcast but not black. It didn't look like rain, but a damp fragrance had been added to the dusty smell of the training ground. The wide space was steadily being filled with men and youths. Some were even sparring lightly while they waited. Neither Anglad nor his companions were of a mind to join them, reckoning themselves about to see more than their share of training today.

"Are you sure you searched the whole tent?"
"Stop that, Menveru," said Narumir.
"I told you I did. Anyway I had to leave."
Anglad was waiting a little closer to the grounds entrance. He turned his head toward the interchange behind him, where the others were crowded together just outside one of the arena rings. "It isn't as if you have much tent to search anyway, Menveru," he said, cracking an amused smile. "There are a hundred other places you might have left it."
"Perhaps you dropped it over the wall," Brand added in jest, chuckling.
"If you crack your head open in training," Arodion piped in, "maybe you'll make Dervorin faint."
"Or Orogond thirsty," said Brand.
Baramir laughed.
Darthion plopped a hand on Menveru's shoulder. "Ah, don't worry overmuch. We'll keep an eye out for it."
"You ought to stash a lady's token inside," said Baramir. "I'll guess you'd not forget it then."
Anglad smiled wistfully at that. So did Brand and Callon--and Menveru.
So did Baramir. "Come to that, I wouldn't mind a lady's token in my helmet either."
"Here comes Magorthaen," said Callon.

The squad of youths straightened. Anglad turned back around to be ready for the cainenhîr. Magorthaen deserved a proper tulkarim, and Anglad intended to do his part.
"Orogond looks happy," Arodion remarked, just loud enough for the eight of them to hear. "That can't bode well for the next few hours. Probably some hard drills, at least."
"I'd wager you it'll be a sight more grim than that," Narumir muttered. "Maybe an orc raid up north."
"We can take them," said Darthion, sounding anything but grim.
"Peace, fellows!" Anglad whispered back at them.

Magorthaen arrived with the other eight members of the squad. Anglad managed to inspire a certain decorum in the others, long enough for Magorthaen to come up and clasp his shoulder in acknowledgment. "Thank you for gathering the rest, Anglad. The Turmahîr should be here soon.”
“While we wait,” said Duinhir, “would you mind explaining what this is all about?”

Baranor and Hirbarad naturally gravitated toward Darthion and Anglad. The four of them were the best spearmen in the tulkarim, though only Anglad was a fully trained ehtar. Darthion nodded smartly to Orogond; if Darthion was a club, Orogond was a mace. Orogond nodded back. Findegil, Araglas, Brand and Baramir clustered together, while Dervorin went to stand with Arodion and Callon. Menveru and Duinhir were closer to that group, though they stayed a bit further off. Orogond stood next to Halward. Those two could be like thunder and lightning in a battle, Anglad thought. Or nevermind the battle: they were like thunder and lightning all the time.

Following a sigh, Magorthaen explained what was going on. Anglad processed the brief summation. It was no orc raid, no outbreak of brigands, it was a full invasion. Easterlings. They were to strike back. Anglad's blood raced, as he knew his comrades' must be also.
"I'd have won that wager," Narumir managed to get out, under his breath.
Anglad noticed Duinhir's eyes had grown wide, but Anglad didn't think it was from fear.
"They'll be starting some drills soon," Findegil said, adding to the explanation.
Anglad nodded gravely. "When do you think we'll be moving out for--"
"My helmet!" cried Menveru, completely shattering the atmosphere as he reached for the lump of metal Dervorin held behind his back. Dervorin hastily brought it within Menveru's reach, savagely concealing an uproarious laugh. Menveru jerked it onto his head, saying, "Where was it?"
"On a shelf in the barracks kitchen."
"Oh."
Callon grinned, vindicated.
Narumir cast his eyes upward at their poorly timed levity. Anglad pinched the bridge of his nose, for the same reason. Were their circumstances so easy to forget?
"Soon," said Magorthaen, surmounting the interruption to answer Anglad's question.
Hirbarad asked, "What sort of drills do you think we're waiting for?"
"The Spear."
Anglad, Darthion, Baranor and Hirbarad swelled, eyes alight. Halward hung his head. Callon shrugged. Orogond was grinning, but Anglad didn't think it had anything to do with the choice of weapon.

Just then, the Turmahîr arrived. The huge, stocky commander was a daunting sight, and he wasn't even wearing all his armor. All the men in the training grounds gathered close as Hammar came on the scene, anxious to hear his forthcoming announcement.

Hammar launched without preamble into an explanation of their situation. His summary was impressive, carrying many times the weight of Magorthaen's more resigned telling. Hammar's voice was inescapable, for one. But the essential information was the same. Easterlings: the Balcoth. Invasion. The situation had sounded grave when Magorthaen brought the news. From Hammar, it was dire. Anglad looked around, seeing each man stand a little straighter, a little stronger, a little harder. The matter had reached its heart and struck home. But Hammar wasn't done with them, and a good thing, too. Hammar could invoke each man's sense of protection and purpose. The road would be hard, he promised, but that was why Gondor had men like them, soldiers, to tread the hard roads. And tread them they would.

The soldiers' response was not so much a cheer as it was a roar.

Immediately the drills began. The force of guards was divided into their groups, and those with more experience with the spear were placed in positions to help demonstrate the proper forms and techniques. That meant Anglad was facing the rest of his squad, while Baranor, Hirbarad and Darthion were interspersed among the other thirteen youths, including Magorthaen.

"One!" Anglad called, thrusting his nine-foot spear forward with both hands, without moving his feet. The others followed suit, running through the basics even though they all knew that much. Foundation was important. The body and mind needed to remember the basics before more it was introduced to more advanced actions. "Two!" Anglad took a step forward and thrust with both hands, then returned to the starting position. The others followed. "Three!" Anglad stepped forward, this time with the dominant foot, while he pivoted his torso and thrust the spear far forward with his dominant hand--the one furthest from the spear's blade. This was the most far-reaching attack. Anglad returned to the starting position. The others followed.

And so it went, and the hours passed. The men moved up from the basics to thrusting in different directions, then to cutting, using the spear as if a sword were attached to one end of a staff. They learned tactics, keeping attackers from passing the spear's edge and closing the distance. They learned close-range maneuvers, wielding the spears like quarter-staffs, should an attacker manage to come in close. They learned to attack with the butt of the spear, how to target an enemy's vital areas and weak points. Finally, they observed veterans sparring, then moved to sparring with one another. By the end, even Anglad had learned a some new tactics and techniques. And he was worn out.

The gray sky began to darken. Anglad had a feeling this was only the beginning. And, despite his fatigue, his heart pumped fresh excitement through his veins.

Helmgar brought his horse to a slow trot, upon noticing his kinsman just up the well-trodden path. Léohelm was accompanied by one his daughters, Léohild; they looked up as the two riders approached.

“Hail, my brother.”, Helmgar said, “I trust the day finds you well?”

He then deftly dismounted his horse and went up to his brother, kneeling a few steps in front of him as a sign of respect. Léofric joined his father, standing upright as he had no need to pay respect to an older sibling; instead he merely nodded his head as he spoke:

“Greetings, Uncle.”

A great rumbling laugh emerged from Léohelm, like its owner it was joyous and full of life. No mere injury could cripple the great man’s spirit; it seemed to Helmgar that his brother would laugh even on the day of his own death. Or, more than likely, after it.

"Helmgar, my brother! What's this? Rise! Rise! What brings you here this fine afternoon?" Léohelm looked to his nephew. "And Leofric! You grow everyday! I imagine you aren't getting your ears boxed by your cousins any longer, except maybe Aethylwyn. She always was a bully!”

Leohild, her father's arm still rested upon her shoulder's gave a smirk. But not one of joy. She and Aethylwyn had been having troubles, since Aethylwyn had joined the éohere.

Helmgar rose to his feet and placed a firm hand on his son’s shoulder, a small smile creeping across his face.

“The lad will grow into a fine man one day, he has taken after his Uncle, I suppose”, another smile.

“We need to talk”, he then added, his features growing more serious, “The winter snows are melting, I fear that the river may overstep its boundaries. “

Léohelm's brow furrowed, and he placed a hand on his chin while leaning heavily on his crutch. Léohild gracefully allowed him movement while keeping him balanced. Any one of his daughters could and would do the same, quickly adapting to whatever darkness came their way. They were noble in their own right, every bit like their mother as they were like their father.

"I need to see this, Brother," Léohelm finally responded. "We don't want to move those on the waterfront if we don't have to. But if it is as you say, we don't want to pay for ignorance with lives. I will not forget the last time we had a flooding. That accursed river! Why is it that the best soil is always in the most dangerous location?" He pondered for a moment longer, and then began walking again. "I must get off this foot. I'm worn and tired, even afternoon walks are draining. And Léohild, you must be wanting to get back to Éadmód!"

"Éadmód is not yet back from his duty father," Léohild replied curtly. "But you should be resting. Look, Holdwyn is anxious for you to be home. See her waiting outside?" Sure enough, when the group looked, Holdwyn was there, shading her eyes from the sun, waving to them as they looked her way. As they moved closer they realized that Aethylwyn was there too. It was a rare occurance to have all of the family together at the same time without any occasion for celebration.

“Let us get you back to your home, Brother. “ Helmgar nodded at Léohild, “You are relieved for now, my dear niece; I will help your Father for this short trip.”

Helmgar then moved to Léohelm’s side and offered his sturdy shoulder for support, allowing his brother a much firmer place to lean on. Léohild gave a nod to her father and uncle, half a wave toward her sisters, and then turned opposite they were headed, back down the road where she now lived. Léohelm shook his head with a laugh. "Her ma's temper! But she'll be alright."

Helmgar turned back to his son and said:

“Léofric! The horses!”

The boy nodded and, taking both mounts by the reins, began to lead them towards his uncle’s house. In the mean time, Helmgar studied his other two nieces; they had grown to become much like their mother had been – strong and independent. A good thing, he considered silently, for they would have to brave the perils of this world without a father’s shielding hand.

“How the times have changed, my friend…” Helmgar muttered quietly to his brother.

"Changed? Yes. I suppose I'm ordered about by three of Fram's daughter's, rather than just one. See? They took my leg to make me complacent." His laugh was contagious, and the shock of the statement quickly rolled away to more laughter.

"Papa!" Helmwyn ran up to her, and quickly shooed her uncle away. "I've got him, I've got him, the big lug. Come Papa, let's sit you down." Helmwyn was the only one of the three who called him Papa still, the rest called him Father.

"Yes, yes Helmwyn. A rest will do me good. Let's get refreshments for our guests!" Helmwyn glanced at Aethylwyn, hoping she would run and start the tea. However, she was distracted.

"Sir," Aethylwyn nodded, caught between greeting her uncle and greeting her new captain.

Helmgar smiled at his niece and laid a hand on her shoulder, a rough squeeze followed – like one would give to a man. Unlike his brother and father, he was not a great reader of men; but even he could plainly see that his niece was now faced with the important question: duty or kin? Blood was thicker than water, though. He had to remind her that.

“In times of peace, especially under your Father’s roof, I am merely Helmgar”, he looked about and turned towards her once more “You have been practicing with the sword, as well as the bow, I take it? I need not remind you how important that is.”

It was asked in a gentle tone, out of genuine concern. Helmgar had seen not one or two bowmen falling prey to enemies in melee, an arrow could only get you so far.

Aethylwyn glanced uncertainly at the sheathed sword buckled against her hip. "I train more with this than with my bow, Uncle," She said, but without pride or boast. "It is newly made, for a person of my, ah, size," she said, and the uncertainty came back. "I was having to wield a short sword like a broadsword, and the balance was all wrong. I am not strong enough for the heavy blades standard of Blacksmith Herudred. He was commissioned to make this," She then drew the shortsword from its scabbard. It was shorter by a few inches, its blade thinner in width, giving the illusion that it was not smaller at all. In her hand it looked of perfect size, but as she twisted it and handed it to him, hilt first, he could see that it was smaller and a fair bit lighter. The hilt had the standard dual bronze horse heads facing toward the blade. The pommel was wide, with a half circle design enclosing a second set of horse heads. The pommel was oval, rather than round, to accommodate the smaller blade. The balance was perfect, Herudred had done his work well.

“Herudred is a master that much is plain.” Helmgar remarked as he tried the sword.

"How did you afford this?" He then asked her, and that uncomfortable look came back.

"I'm to volunteer at the forge until I've paid off the weapon. I had to have it to remain with the éohere, but I've not yet the funds to cover it. But I will, Uncle," She said hastily. He returned it to her, and she sheathed it with only minor difficulty. Still, it was obvious she was not comfortable with the weapon.

“Good. Let us not speak of such matters now; I have come here to meet my kin, not my men.” His features softened and he said more cheerfully “Perhaps you can practice with your cousin someday; he assures me that he is skilful but I keep reminding him that there is yet at least one woman who can beat him.”

Helmgar turned around and grinned at his son, who had just now entered the house, but had no doubt heard his father’s words. Having dispersed with the pleasantries, Helmgar took a seat opposite his brother and became serious again, the stern lines etched into his face deepening. He studied him for a few moments; maiming had not quenched his brother’s burning spirit. The ever-present smile on his face was as bright as always, it reminded him of their father. And despite an obvious lack of physical activity, the man was still built like an ox – the chair could hardly contain his massive shoulders.

“What do you suggest we do, brother?”

“I need to see this for myself, I already told you” for a moment Léohelm’s features deepened into a frown, but soon his usual smile returned.

“It is getting late, perhaps if I were to come tomorrow...”

“The journey to the river’s bank is not that long, brother; especially for a horseman of your skill.”, he laughed, “Come now, do not try to get rid of your older sibling so easily!”

Helmgar sighed “Very well. If we have a good pace we can be there and back before the sun has set.”

“Ah, so you finally saw the obvious!” another laughed followed and Léohelm looked around for his daughters.

Helmgar got to his feet, deciding that it was best to use all the time available to him. However, with one final look of defiance he asked:

“Are you not too weary to ride?”

“I am not going to ride, brother; you are!” another booming laugh, another wide grin “Besides, the safety of the farmlands is more important than what I may or may not feel. We go and that is final.”

Most would not feel it, but Helmgar sensed the firmness in his brother’s last words. Despite his cheery and pleasant exterior, Léohelm was a man who always had his way. Especially if it involved his younger sibling. Thus Helmgar, despite his better judgement, saw no choice but to honour his brother’s request.

“Léofric!” he called out, his voice booming just as much as Léohelm’s “Unsaddle the horses!”

Holdwyn entered the room and looked at her father with concern on her face. She opened her mouth to speak:

"Papa, shouldn't you - " Leohelm cut her off with a wave of his hand.

"Nonsense, Holdwyn. I'm refreshed and ready for something other than walking."

“We will go take a closer look at the river” Helmgar clarified “I expect us to be back at sundown, or an hour after that at most”

In the meantime Léohelm used the strength of his arms to push himself away from the chair, Helmgar moved quickly enough to offer his brother’s outstretched hand a place to lean on. They got his crutch and together, shoulder by shoulder, like in the days of old, they walked outside. Helmgar’s son was quick to meet his father’s demands and as a result the horses were unsaddled, just as ordered. Two men would ride better without a saddle and the second horse he would use for the return trip, there was no point in over-exhausting the animals. Especially considering that both men were heavily-built. The horses of their stock were sturdy though and Helmgar was certain that they could bear the weight of three riders, even if for a short period of time.

Helmgar mounted the horse swiftly and then nodded at Léofric, who helped his uncle onto the horse. It proved to be an easier affair than Helmgar had at first anticipated, but with the help of the boy, the other man found himself on the horse soon enough. It was evident that Léohelm had once been a master horseman, even with his crippled limb he managed to mount gracefully enough and needed only a few nudges.

Holding the reins steadily, he would need more control in this case, Helmgar turned his head back to his son and told him.

“Stay with your cousins for a while, if you wish, or return home. Tell your mother what has happened and that I will be home later.”

He then urged his mount into a steady trot, while signalling for the second horse to follow him. The animal was perfectly trained and it understood the gesture of its master at once. And thus the four of them set out.

“It’s good to feel the wind beating against my face again” Léohelm told him in a tone which was a shade grimmer than it had been before “I fear I have lingered in one place for far too long.”

“A great evil, my friend, but there is little we can do about it. What is done is done. Not every loss can be compensated.” Helmgar replied glumly as he steered the horse onto a different path.

“Bah! You sound like our mother, on her good days!” He laughed and Helmgar could not help but smile, their mother had indeed been a dour woman “Not every loss can be compensated, but every loss can be overcome. Such is our way, when have we ever backed down?”

“If I can help in any way...”

“No, no...this is something a man must do by himself. Some battles must be fought alone, my maimed body is only for me to struggle against.” his voice had now become more akin to Helmgar’s, lower and not as full of mirth.

“What were you telling my daughter? Is she a good warrior?” he then asked, changing the subject.

“The best warriors never reveal themselves until the moment is right.” Helmgar told him

“I taught you that, little brother. It is good you remember my lessons” Léohelm grinned.

“I was reminding her that a warrior must be skilled in all aspects of warfare, the men of the éored may not always be around to ward her.”

“Seeking equal measure of proficiency with weapons usually results in an average warrior.” a slight paused followed “We are all born with a gift and it is not for us to shy away from it.”

“I did not tell her to become a swordsman...or woman, I merely asked her to consider the sword as a weapon as well.” he then added with a bit more boldness that he had allowed himself previously “Do not pretend you did not understand what I meant.”

As he uttered those words, Helmgar felt shocked. When had he ever had the gall to speak to his older sibling thus? And what had happened to cause such a change? Was it the realisation that he was now a man grown, with his own family and outlook on life? Was if the fact that he was now a Captain, respected and looked up to by many? Or did he, deep down, feel his brother’s helplessness and, thus, sense he had some superiority over him? Was he merely gloating over a crippled man?

“You seem to be getting used to your position of power it seems.” A booming laughter from Léohelm followed, but Helmgar noted his brother’s displeasure.

24th of Súlìmë (March)

Léofric looked sullen watching his horse ride away without him. Aethylwyn understood. A person’s horse was more than a tool or a pet; it was an extension of their being. At least, that was the way of the Éothéod; each was taught very young to care for their horses. Little ones would help care for their parent’s horse, until they were old enough to ride. Then, a foal would be bred for that child, and that horse would last well into adulthood, until another was needed. Horses were a part of the family, their lineage traced just as a man’s would be.

It brought pains to her heart that Father’s horse was killed the day he was maimed. There had been no need to find him another – it was well known that he would not ride again. No, they were wrong. He is riding right now. Léohelm rode upon Léofric’s horse, or rather would be on the way home. Léofric would have to walk home. It was no short distance.

“Léofric, stay a while, and we can practice swords,” Aethylwyn called to her cousin as he turned to leave. He seemed uncertain, caught between two choices, neither of which seemed pleasant to him. “Surely it would be better to wait for your horse than to walk the long road alone?”

Léofric heaved a small sigh of defeat and faced the house once more. “I’ll stay for a while, I guess. What’s for dinner anyway?” Holdwyn beamed and led him inside, talking about the wonderful dinner she was going to make just for him. Aethylwyn knew it to be true. Holdwyn didn’t waste fineries unless there was someone to use them on proudly. Even a cousin would count. Aethylwyn didn’t bring up swords again; she had only mentioned it for his sake, and he didn’t seem interested in the least. She didn’t mind.

They rested inside for a time, but it was getting dark and Aethylwyn wanted to have Amras saddled and ready before she had to report for duty. Right now, he was out grazing somewhere or sleeping; he had much less trouble adjusting to her new schedule than she did. All new members of the éoherë were required to take the graveyard shift of sentry duty. It began when the stars were full in the sky and did not end until the sun began peeking over the eastern horizon. Learning to keep awake when her body screamed for sleep was Aethylwyn’s most difficult task at hand. It was no wonder the newest members were stuck with the chore of staying up all night, for little reason. She wore a brown horsetail on her helmet to mark her new status; those accepted as full soldiers would then wear the black, but not she. She was an archer, and when she finished her training and became truly one of the éoherë, she would wear the red. A unique rank equal to that of the black, but rather than spearmen they were archers. She twirled her fingers in the hair of the helmet, imagining a fiery red plume rather than the brown one. Though Amras had red fur, like his father - who was her mother’s last horse - he had a blond tail. Blond was for the Captain; the only rank that exceeded Captain were the infród, who wore the grey. These were the true warriors, seasoned from many battles. The infród were respected beyond even the Captain. Her father had been one. Thus was the reason for the newly awkward relationship between Helmgar and Léohelm. It is the not the same for every infród. Most want to die in battle; those who don’t sometimes choose to hang up their swords and become village leaders. And others are just forced to quit, to fall into the shadows of the youth before them.

The sun was almost down now, Aethylwyn had tarried too long. She got up to go brush and saddle Amras, leaving the smells of dinner behind her. It only took one call from her for him to trot into sight; he was beautiful. He was her first and only horse, born when she was twelve years old. He was in his prime now, and would last some years yet. She did not want to think of life without him. His brown fur shone red like a velvet coat, with blond mane and tail that would be suitable for a captain’s helm. He was large, larger than his father had been by two hands. It was a surprise, him growing so. Despite his size, he was mellow as could be. She often wondered if he would do well in battle; all horses were somewhat battle trained, but not all were trained as extensively as a soldier’s. It was more of a ritual to take one’s horse through the basic training than actually needing one’s horse battle worthy; it was taught long ago that all horses should be ready for no one could know for certain what the day would bring. Some could end up being sold, and how can one sell a horse if it was not properly trained? However, the horses of the éoherë had constant and much more extensive training, such that Amras only had touched the surface of. She hoped he would be alright.

Dinner was a vegetable soup and spiced lamb, and it was delicious. Holdwyn beamed over their compliments and stuffed more on their plate when they said they were full; Aethylwyn hoped Holdwyn would find a husband soon. She would make a fine mother. However, Father seemed to occupy all of Holdwyn’s time.

Father and Uncle were not back yet before she had to leave. She bid goodbye and Holdwyn declared that she would ride Léofric home; there was no point worrying his mother more than necessary. Despite his protests, Holdwyn readied the saddle and urged him on and upward before clambering up behind him. Her riding skirts were split for ease of riding, like most women’s, and she had no problem at all sitting behind. Aethylwyn departed and waved goodbye to her sister and cousin.

Her duty was on the West Bridge, it was the bridge that crossed the Western split of the Greylin River. There was only one along this side, connecting to the Forest Road that ran west and lead to the dark forests beyond. No one had come this way in years; perhaps another reason why newest members were posted there. The bridge was many miles away from her home, taking her some time to reach there. She hoped her partner was already there. Those she relieved never bothered to wait, and she wouldn’t admit it, but being out there on the bridge alone, in the dark, was frightening.

When she finally arrived, she was surprised to see Éadmód. He had long since become one of the black, and this was not his duty. “Éadmód, what brings you to the West Bridge?”

“Baldor got injured sword playing with some of the other recruits.” Sword playing was the use of wooden swords to do battle on foot and on horseback. Scrapes and bruises were usual, but nothing to keep someone off duty.

“How bad?” She asked. Baldor was far younger than her, most recruits were. It was like imagining her cousin injured. He was grown, but just out of childhood.

“He fell off his horse; the other stepped on his arm. We think it’s broken. He’ll be alright, but it’s going to take a while to heal. He is not happy. He wanted to reach the black before his friend. His friend wasn’t happy either. It was his horse that did it, and the Captain on duty said he should have had far better control. It’s the truth. Neither will be reaching the black any time soon.” He shrugged indifferently.

“That’s too bad,” she responded. “No replacement tonight is there?” She added, knowing full well the answer.

“No, they figured you would be fine for one night. I was sent out here to tell you, and you know I’d keep you company, but…” his voice trailed off as he idly scratched his head. She very well knew what he meant, but he didn’t even have the courage to say it.

“Léohild will be missing you,” she said, avoiding the full truth. Yes, she would be missing him. But more than that, she would be furious to know he had spent time with Aethylwyn. It was an awkward situation. Éadmód and Aethylwyn were born the same year and had been best friends, growing up. Four years ago, he had proposed to Aethylwyn. He would have asked sooner, if she had been available. That was something she didn’t want to think about; ever again. Her heart had been elsewhere, and then broken. He had waited an appropriate amount of time before asking her; her father had already approved of it. She even loved him back, a little. But she couldn’t bring herself to accept the offer. Their friendship suffered severely after that. In fact, it was only when he proposed to Léohild that she even saw him again. Léohild was very aware of their past and asked Aethylwyn permission, which was surely given. Their marriage started off well, but when Aethylwyn joined the éoherë to take up her father’s mantle, she began to spend more and more time with Éadmód again. She had no doubt that he loved her sister dearly, and had moved on from the past. She certainly had. But Léohild was not convinced.

“You’ll be fine here alone?” He asked her. She merely nodded, and turned away from him and toward the bridge.

“I’ve always been alone,” she whispered to herself.

The first day of travel passed rather uneventfully for Elendyne. She and Nessa maintained a steady, easy pace along the shore of the Forest River. Despite Elendyne’s misgivings about spending the night in Mirkwood alone after the spider attack, no fell creatures plagued rider or horse that night. She arose early the next morning, re-saddled Nessa, and the duo passed the border of Mirkwood into the plains that loomed before the Grey Mountains shortly after noon. The plains, though, held a different kind of danger for the forest elf. Here no trees offered shelter from unfriendly eyes, and the sight of an elf maiden traveling alone would be a tempting sight indeed.

The full strength of the sunlight hammering the plains without a forest canopy to impede her rays both comforted and unnerved Elendyne. On the one hand, her keen elvish sight allowed her to see every flutter of movement, from the swaying of the grass to the scurrying movements of small birds and mammals, for miles on all sides. On the other hand, the stark lack of cover made her feel unusually exposed, especially since she was so used to being surrounded by the forest sentinels of Mirkwood. While she portrayed an outward façade of stoic composure, she could not fool Nessa. The grey mare tossed her head uneasily and snorted her displeasure at the change in her companion’s mood. Elendyne found a rocky outcropping a little taller than Nessa’s head nestled into the side of a gently sloping hill as the sun started to set, and it was about as sheltered of a campsite as they would find that day. She did not bother with a campfire but instead ate cold trail rations before picketing Nessa and slipping into a fitful half-sleep, her weapons within arm’s reach.

It was more of a feeling, some unnamed instinct rather than any physical noise, that awoke Elendyne in the middle of the night. She quietly sat up and reached out with her senses, detecting nothing, but experience had taught her to trust her instincts even when her senses contradicted them. She rolled to her feet, her sword in her left hand, and made a cautious lap around her tiny campsite. Nessa had also awoken by now, and her nostrils flared uneasily as she watched Elendyne warily. Then the direction of the wind shifted, and the horse let loose a tiny whinny as an unwelcome scent wafted across her muzzle. Elendyne smelled it half a second later, the distinct odor of sweat, blood, grime, and man, tinted with a certain wildness she had never encountered before. But judging by the potency of the scent, there were more than one, and they were close.

A slight distortion of the air was the only warning noise Elendyne got, and she jerked to the side just before a crudely shaped arrow embedded itself in the ground where she had been standing. She snapped her gaze toward the arrow’s origin and sank into a battle crouch as at least a dozen figures melted out of the shadows and charged at her in an unruly, yet somehow organized mob. She had read scrolls about the wild men that plagued these hills as bandits, and they certainly deserved the title based on their appearance. Their faces bore long, scraggy beards, and the dirt and sweat covering their limbs was as much a part of their outfits as the poorly tanned leather skins and crude but deadly swords and hunting bows.

Elendyne had only a couple of seconds to get her bearings, and then everything melted away except the flurry and heat of battle. She could only guess at their intentions for attacking her, whether for her possessions or because of her supposed vulnerability as a lone female, but she pushed those thoughts aside as her body spun, twirled, and lashed out in the familiar sword-fighting patterns she had practiced for decades. At first she did an admirable job against such an onslaught of foes. She quickly decapitated the first bandit and used the momentum of the strike to complete her rotation and bury the blade in the second bandit’s chest. She held off two at once before chopping one’s sword arm off and slashing the throat of the second. However, she continually had to retreat backwards to keep from being surrounded, and she was quickly running out of room. Nessa screamed in panic and tugged frantically at her picket line, but the bandits were clearly more interested in the elf woman than a horse who could not fight back.

Elendyne had to turn her back to the advancing horde to take on a bandit who had slipped behind her, but as she turned back after leaving him to crumple to the ground clutching his stump of an arm, she found herself inches away from yet another bandit who had his sword raised with both hands for the deathblow. But before he could bring the blade down across her head, he grunted aloud as if someone had punched him in the gut and fell forward, a white-fletched arrow protruding from his back. Elendyne froze in shock and then could only watch as two familiar white horses galloped from the shadows like avenging ghosts straight into the knot of bandits, their hooded riders brandishing a bow and sword, respectively. The remaining bandits who were not trampled underfoot by the horses’ hooves quickly fell to the blonde warrior’s lightning-fast arrows and the raven-haired warrior’s grim, determined sword blows. The battle was over in less than a minute, leaving Elendyne staring in open-mouthed shock at the two elves before her as if she were in one of her waking dreams.

“Huor…Finrod…” she whispered their names, still not trusting her eyes as they dismounted their horses and approached her. Regardless, she slipped into speaking elvish automatically. “What in the name of the Valar are you doing here?”

“We received new orders to find and accompany you once we reunited with the king’s sentries,” Huor explained in his usual stoic, no-nonsense tone. His eyes quickly raked up and down her body, looking for any signs of injury in an efficient, thorough manner that made her resist the urge to squirm self-consciously. “Are you unhurt?”

“I’m fine…thanks to both of you,” she replied.

“Please, Huor, you’re not even telling her the full story!” Finrod interjected, his usual mischievous twinkle in his eye. The dark-haired elf gave Finrod a warning glare, but the younger one continued unabashed. “After bidding you farewell, we rode for a day before reuniting with the king’s sentries. They seemed perplexed to see us without you and asked if we had heard the recent reports of the wild men moving north along the Greylin River. I was about to say we hadn’t heard any updates since we had left to escort you, but Huor,” he paused to give the older elf a teasing wink, “got this positively terrified look and took off on his horse back the way we had come like he was fleeing from the great dragons of old!”

A slight look of mock horror crept across Huor’s normally stoic face, which he quickly tried to cover by clearing his throat. “I was…merely reacting in response to the potential gravity of the situation, and clearly my actions were justified given what just transpired.”

Elendyne broke into the conversation by laughing lightly in amusement at their bantering. “I am sorry, my friends, but I’m just so delighted to see you again.” She regained her composure and continued in a more serious tone. “I really owe you both my life.”

Finrod gave Elendyne a warm smile. “It was our honor and pleasure to come to your aid.” Then he shot a mischievous smirk at Huor. “Though I hope you’re prepared for us to be annoyingly persistent, because we’ll be accompanying you from here on.”

Elendyne gave both of her companions a fond look. “Nothing would make me happier. I welcome and appreciate your companionship.”

Huor politely cleared his throat to get their attention. “I believe it would be best to move from here as quickly as possible. This many bodies,” he indicated the dead bandits with a nod, “may attract unwanted attention that we would be prudent to avoid.” Neither Elendyne nor Finrod could disagree, so they all hurried to pitch the small campsite, calm and re-saddle Nessa, and retreat from the area. They rode at a brisk canter for about an hour before Huor called them to a stop in the midst of a small copse of hills, where they rested for a couple of hours until dawn broke.

The rest of Elendyne’s travels went smoothly after reuniting with Huor and Finrod. Even though she had only been on her own for two days, she realized that she had missed their company greatly. Having two additional warriors along also meant that no bandits or wild creatures tried to attack them at night and risk alerting whoever was on night watch. By the end of the third day of travel in this manner, the three elves found themselves overlooking the town of Greybarrow from the top of a tall, gently sloping hill. “Are you sure this is the place?” Finrod asked.

Elendyne consulted the map in her hands before rolling it up and returning it to her saddlebag. “The western shore of the eastern leg of the Greylin River. This has to be correct.”

Huor nodded in satisfaction. “Come then. Let us hope the men here are as receptive to our presence as our king had hoped.” Elendyne and Finrod turned their horses to follow his lead and started making the descent toward the town, hoping to come across a friendly face who would hear their message and welcome their aid.

The second day of spear training was significantly darker than the day before; the training grounds were surrounded by a wall of fog. Magorthaen was grateful for the chill breeze though. With the closing of the previous day’s training, he had been drenched with sweat despite the overcast weather. He had a feeling today would be no better.

Turmahîr Hammar stood staring at the line of his soldiers, the Angrenost Guard. They had all been equipped with not only a spear, but a shield as well. Without preamble, Hammar launched into his demonstration.

“The first tactic we will learn today is the shield wall. While useless against cavalry, which we will be sure to see, the shield wall provides an excellent defense against the standard infantry charges, especially when faced against overwhelming numbers.” Hammar’s deep, rough voice echoed in the fog. He held his shield and spear, in his left and right hands respectively, out to his sides. “These are your tools of survival. But more than you, they protect your fellow soldiers. Every soldier in the line is protected by the man to his right.”

Magorthaen glanced to his right; Halward looked toward him and gave a small wink. Magorthaen smiled and looked to his left, where Duinhir stood, watching Hammar intently. Neither Halward nor Duinhir had experience with the spear, or close-range foot combat, which was why Magorthaen had kept them close to him. In the formation Hammar was describing, it seemed to work out rather well.

“Complete shield coverage is key in this formation,” Hammar continued. “There are two ways of using the shield wall, with a sword or with a spear. We will focus on the spear, though either type may be utilized on the field.” Hammar pulled his shield and spear in toward his body in demonstration of the proper position. “Raise shields!”

The entire formation of soldiers lifted their shields and spears in the way that Hammar had demonstrated. Magorthaen’s shield covered his left side and the right side of Duinhir. His spear was held upright against his shoulder, and Halward’s shield covered most of his right side. Between Halward’s and his own shield, he was completely covered.

“The second row of the formation will hold their spears over the shoulder of the first row to provide the next line of defense. Raise spears!”

Magorthaen felt the rustling behind him as the soldiers maneuvered to get their spears up over their shoulders without hitting or spitting anyone. He saw the glint of the spearheads as they passed over his shoulder to poke out beyond the shield wall.

“Farther!” Hammar yelled. “When do you expect to kill the barbarians? When they come in for a kiss? Get those spears out!”

Groans accompanied Hammar’s command as the soldiers were forced to heft the spears out farther. With more of the spear held out in front of them, Magorthaen knew that the weight would increase and the balance would decrease. Holding the spears like that would require quite a bit of practice.

“Good…” Hammar stepped closer to the line of spears and swung out his own against them. Several spears fell to the ground, one bouncing off of Magorthaen’s shoulders. He couldn’t stop himself from flinching, which knocked Duinhir sideways.

“You worthless trash!” Hammar yelled. Magorthean swore he saw spittle fly from the veteran’s mouth. “Pick up your spears! The next man to drop his weapon will spend the night holding it in just this position. In fact, if you don’t show me you understand the severity of the situation, you will all be standing here until morning. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Turmahîr!” they all called out in perfect unison. At least they got that right, Magorthaen thought silently.

“Raise shields!” Hammar ordered. A whooshing sound of metal-covered wooden shields followed as the front line brought their shields in position. “Raise spears!” A ringing of wooden shafts marked the positioning of the spears over Magorthaen’s shoulders. Hammar strode forward, swinging his spear more forcefully than he had the first time. Not a single spear dropped. Hammar walked further down the line, testing several different spots. Not a single spear dropped, though several wavered.

“Good enough,” Hammar said gruffly. “The next formation is for when you find yourself up against the wainriders or the barbarian’s excuse for a cavalry. Ideally, you will switch for the shield wall formation to the pike formation in the heat of battle as needed. Unfortunately, I don’t think I can trust you to pull it off just yet. So we will go through this process a little more slowly.”

Hammar ordered everyone to strap their shields to their backs and then organized the field into a massive square. Spears were held by the first three rows, swords by the next few, and archers composed the center. Hammar explained that cavalry would be held in reserve for both the shield wall and pike formation, though the pike formation was designed to resist enemy cavalry without support from one’s own.

“The first row of the pike formation kneels and places the butt of their spears against the ground. Point the tip of your spear where you imagine the heart of the poor beast would be as it races toward you. The rest of the pikemen will hold their spears out the same as they did in the shield wall, but closer in this time. No need to strain your weak arms just yet.”

Magorthaen knelt and dug the butt of his spear into the ground. He pictured a horse racing toward him, and did his best to angle the tip of his spear to where the heart might be. He noticed the spears to either side of him were at roughly the same angle. He couldn’t see the tips of the spears over his shoulders this time.

“When the cavalry closes in, let the front line take the initial brunt of the charge. When their spears are down, the next lines charge forward. This formation is also useful against infantry. The entire square advances slowly with all spears held forward. There are no weak spots in this formation. The entire square should be able to shift to prevent enemy cavalry from surrounding you. We will practice both of these formations until I think you can do it out in the field without disappointing me. For now, go get some water.”

Magorthaen stood and brushed the dirt off of the plates covering his knees. “Not too bad, huh?” Duinhir said cheerily. “I’m not even sweating yet!”

“You will be,” Halward retorted. “When you see the horde advancing toward you, you will do more than sweat.”

“Enough,” Magorthaen said. “You two should be focusing more on your technique than worrying about how easy or hard the day will be. Or the future. The fact of it is, we don’t have much time to train for it. And we need to be able to trust each other; everyone in the tulkarim. We need to be able to work together. That means getting along outside of the training field as well.”

“Of course, Cainenhîr,” they both said together.

After the water break, the Angrenost Guard resumed their formation in the field. Hammar went over both of the formations several times until he grudgingly admitted satisfaction. Though the sun could not be seen through the dense fog, Magorthaen thought that it was getting steadily darker. Rheinhîr Harnastin eventually came to the field and spoke quietly with Hammar for a few moments. When Hammar returned his attention to the gathered soldiers, he was grinning widely.

“At the request of your Rheinhîr, we will be doing some more… lively training. I will split you into two shield wall formations, though without spears. Lets move!” Hammar shouted and pointed until there were two separate formations on either side of him. When he was satisfied, he held his arms up in the air and shouted “Attention!” When the formations were quiet and still, he delivered his instructions. “Both formations will march slowly toward each other. When the front lines meet, use your shields to push back your opponents. The rear lines of the formations will push forward as well, using their weight to drive their own formation on. When the line of one formation breaks, the victor will drive through and use their shields to shatter the defeated formation. This will give you an understanding of what it will feel like in battle, with pressure on both sides of you and no where to go. It will give you an appreciation of what you will have to do to survive. The losing formation will have a night of further training. Go.” With that, Hammar ran from the field. For a few moments, neither side moved. Then Magorthaen stepped forward, and his line was forced to follow. Other soldiers down the line had moved when he did, so it almost looked like a solid, uniform motion. He couldn’t stop himself from grinning, despite his heart beating wildly. He had never done anything like this before!

The opposite formation moved forward as well, though a little more hesitantly than they had. Magorthaen’s ears were ringing with the sounds of the march, and the thumping of his heart. Now he was feeling the sweat that slicked his skin and dripped in the most uncomfortable and inconvenient places. The opposing formation drew closer, until he could see the apprehension in his enemies eyes. He pictured them as dirty, barbaric men wielding clubs and axes and wearing armor that was caked in dirt. It was hard not to run ahead of his line, but that would have defeated the purpose entirely.

The tension grew almost unbearable as the two formations were mere feet from each other. A roar erupted from both sides, and Magorthaen felt himself joining in. A battle cry, though he knew not what he said. It was just a yell, but a loud one. At last his shield touched the man before him: Cainenhîr Amodréd, the annoying man from Pelargir. What were the chances! He released all of his energy and anger toward Amodréd, using his shield and his weight to push the man back. A sudden weight against his back nearly made him lose balance, but Halward and Duinhir managed to keep him upright. The roar continued unabated, and he realized he had not yet drawn a new breath.

The struggle continued for what felt like hours, though it certainly could not have been. The weight pressing against him was like a tide, first pushing him forward and then pulling him back. His body felt on fire and his throat was parched. Amodréd was grimacing as he tried to push Magorthaen back, but to no avail. He thought his heart might burst with how hard it was beating, but he felt such a rush of energy as he had never felt before. He pushed harder, and he felt Halward lean in toward him to add his own weight. And suddenly, without any sort of warning, Amodréd buckled and fell backward. Magorthaen surged forward with a cry of intense elation. He felt almost no resistance despite the numbers of opponents before him. Halward and Duinhir drove him forward, and their shields split their enemy apart.

In moments Magorthaen was on the other side, clear of the defeated formation. Turmahîr Hammar, Rheinhîr Harnastin, and the two strangers who had accompanied him were standing their to greet him. Hammar clasped him on the shoulder, and then moved on to the rest of the victorious soldiers. Harnastin was clapping and offering congratulations. The two strangers stood still and emotionless. Magorthaen had the feeling that they were unimpressed.

More backslapping brought his attention back to those around him, where his tulkarim had gathered. They all looked as excited and as exhausted as he felt himself. But they had earned their night’s rest.

The sixth day of spear training saw a break from the gloomy weather, for the sun shone clear in the early morning. The breezes were still cool, but the sun brought warmth with her light, and though it cheered the training soldiers it also caused them to thirst more often as the day wore on. At least the training area had mostly dried. The ground was still damp from the rain two nights ago, but it was no longer full of puddles as it had been yesterday.

They practiced the shield wall again, and here as at other times, Anglad, Darthion, Baranor and Hirbarad were interspersed among their tulkarim, helping to display the proper forms so that each of the seventeen youths increased in skill as evenly as possible. Anglad had already noticed a general improvement in the strength and stamina of his fellow squad members. However, the days had not been without hardships. Turmahîr Hammar was hard on everyone as he moved among the squads, and his praises were reserved only for paragon performance, but though it was easy to resent him, there was an honesty and consistency about his methods that inspired effort and integrity. Today the final level had been added to the shield wall training. Hammar had put groups of tulkarim together to train in unison, to illustrate how they would need to work together within the army at large, moving in unison as a host as well as they did as a squad.

By the end of the training the afternoon weather had grown relatively hot, more than the Angrenost guard was used to so early in the spring. Hammar drilled them verbally one last time, as a whole, impressing upon them how vital it was that they remember all that they had learned. He finally bid them a short but honest encouragement, and that was that. The men were dismissed from the training area to eat, but not to rest. The barracks had received little maintenance over the past few days of urgent instruction. After their light meal, everyone would have work to do.

All sixteen youths in the tulkarim, plus its cainenhîr, carried bowls of stew to a worn wooden table in the barracks hall. Magorthaen avoided taking either spot at the ends, sitting instead on one of the long side benches. From there, the usual pairs and groups gravitated toward one another. Orogond did take one of the head seats, whereupon Halward, squinting with what could have been either mirth or jealousy, insinuated himself into the other. Anglad himself tended to stay close to Orogond in order to keep him somewhat more tactful, yet he kept distance enough from the brash youth not to be overly irritated by him. Narumir sat next to Magorthaen, a reddish, rugged counterpoint to Magorthaen's fairer yet harder complexion. Brand, Baramir and Arodion, as usual, sat together in a row, as did the inseparable Findegil and Araglas. The rest simply sat wherever they first found place. Callon was the last to sit, giving way to the others first, so he ended up on the corner next to Halward. Darthion switched places with Menveru in order to sit opposite Callon, perhaps out of some sense of protection.

As they began to eat, Orogond was obviously feeling pleased. "We've gotten better," he said through a grin. Anglad turned his head, unused to hearing Orogond speak in terms of the tulkarim as a whole. His first words seemed more for himself than the group, however, and his next angled them toward his usual character. "The best there is, if Magorthaen keeps the rest of you at this level. They'll put us on the front lines, for sure." He was almost laughing. Anglad was no longer surprised.
"Not that I intend to drag us down," Findegil said, leaning over to look at Orogond, "but I'd sooner not crash into the Balcoth first, if it's all the same to you."
"You'd better not, and no, it isn't."
Narumir piped in with the verbal equivalent of slapping their wrists. "Our duty is to be at our best. Whatever else will be must come on its own."
Halward humphed but said nothing.
Menveru said, "Aren't we moving out in two days?"
"Tomorrow, actually," Magorthaen said after a spoonful of soup. He shook his head, suddenly irritated. "Do you pay attention to anything other than the stick you swing around in your hands? There is more in a battle than killing and dying, Menveru, and you'd best remember that. If it comes down to you having to make a tactical decision, or to even remember an order, I would hate to be the man depending on you." Magorthaen took another spoonful of soup, but he wasn't done just yet.

"In fact," he continued, "before we march out tomorrow, you will be in charge of checking our equipment and supplies. Halward will watch over you so no one will have to suffer for your absentmindedness." Magorthaen glanced at Halward, and the archer nodded slightly.

An uncomfortable silence settled over the table. They ate in silence for a few moments, none of them quite feeling it was their place to speak just then. Anglad, wanting to salvage their off time together and bolster their squad unity, finally spoke up. "Orogond is right, though," he said, trying a lopsided smile. "We have gotten better."
Araglas agreed heartily. "We've been ahead since we bested Amodréd's tulkarim the other day!"
Darthion put in, "I don't know we're as good as all that, but Hammar's certainly whipped us into a solid unit."
"I don't think it's just Hammar," Callon said. "We're the ones who did the work."
"Both certainly," said Hirbarad. "I'm sure no soldier wants to be on the front lines, though, no matter how good he is." With a chuckle he amended, "Except Orogond, of course."
Anglad tried to put a good spin on it this time by saying, "If they do give us the front, I'm sure Orogond will keep our spirits up."
"Hah! Just keep up with me and do as I do."
"Well, as Magorthaen does," Brand corrected. "But otherwise, I suppose you've the right of it."
"I just hope we do what we set out to do," said Duinhir, finally speaking.
Dervorin, sitting erect next to him, gave an approving nod. "That, I promise you, we will."

Side conversations had already begun by that point among those sitting together, effectively winding down the communal conversation. Anglad, for his part, took to discussing sections of the week's training with Baramir, Arodion and Baranor, who were sitting next to him. Arodion, on the side of Anglad opposite from Orogond's end, discreetly took amusement in Orogond's apparent view that he was the best spearman of the squad after only six days of training, whereas Anglad had been fully trained years before. Anglad wasn't inclined to think too much of this, however, since Orogond often beat him in sparring matches regardless of what weapons were used best by whom. "He's the better fighter. I wouldn't mind having him next to me in a battle." He leaned closer to the side with a grin, the noise of the hall masking his words. "Just as long as he realizes I have to share his space, too."

The meal drew to a close with, if not merriment, at least a passable good humor overall. After returning their bowls to the tubs, the tulkarim departed together to the yard, following Magorthaen to receive their instructions from the barracks master, an old and straight-backed man named Mablund. He knew what needed to be done. He instructed Magorthaen to assign at least six of his men to work on either the wall or the structure of the barracks itself, another four to preparing the tents and camps of their squad for quick departure in the morning, and the rest Mablund left up to the cainenhîr's best judgment.

Magorthaen decided to send Darthion, Orogond, Baranor and Hirbarad to the wall, Dervorin, Brand, Findegil and Araglas to the barracks, Anglad, Narumir, Halward and Baramir to the tents, and then Duinhir, Callon, and Arodion to the armory, and finally himself and Menveru to the kitchens. The young men dispersed smartly, grouping together as assigned and heading straight for their respective areas of duty.

Later, in the kitchens, Magorthaen and Menveru were scrubbing clay or metal pots, pans, dishes and utensils. Grateful for the assignment of a relatively mindless task, Menveru was nevertheless subdued next to Magorthaen, though his discomfort did not interfere with the efficiency of his work. Menveru always tried his best, and though he was forgetful of some things, he did have a natural competency above the norm when it came to physical tasks. Along with several youths from other tulkarim, he and Magorthaen set about their work with great effect.

"I apologize for my harsh words at the table earlier," Magorthaen said to Menveru. "You know I value everyone in the tulkarim, and we have all learned to depend on each other. I just wanted you to understand the reality of what we are facing, how serious it really is."
Menveru nodded. "I do understand, Magorthaen. Its just that... why should we dread something that is still so far away?"
"Because it is important. Think of it this way, Menveru: if you always expect the worst, then the only surprises are welcome ones. If you expect every day to be your last, then the day after is even more beautiful. If you constantly relax and let go, you might find yourself unable to deal with those surprises."
Menveru mulled this over for a moment. His puzzled expression indicated he had his doubts, but he was willing to take his cainenhîr's word for it. "I will try, Magorthaen," he finally said. "I'm sure you are right, but, that just seems a depressing way to live."
Magorthaen laughed and clapped Menveru on his shoulder. "It is, Menveru. It certainly is."

Elsewhere, Magorthaen's choices for assigned groups were vindicating themselves. Darthion managed to bolster Orogond and the watchmen, Baranor and Hirbarad, into an effective unit that Mablund could use on and around the wall. Duinhir, Callon and Arodion were a great help in the armory despite their apparent differences; Arodion dutifully went from task to task in good order, while Duinhir helped coordinate the three as well as some others along with the weapons master's instructions to increase efficiency, and Callon was back and forth between everyone, making sure all had the tools they needed and fetching supplies or carrying messages wherever necessary. Meanwhile, Dervorin and Brand kept Findegil and Araglas in line and focused on whatever the older men of the guard had for them to do.

Anglad was making good progress along with Narumir, Halward and Baramir. Working anywhere in the vicinity of Narumir always helped to maintain focus, and with Baramir and Anglad in company as a dual force of common sense and balance, Halward's cynicism gave way to his perceptive instincts and helpful insight. All four were intelligent and competent enough to make the kinds of decisions requisite to readying the squad's camps and tents. The tents they would need for this one last night before packing it with them on the road, but the belongings of each member of the tulkarim needed to be organized, packed and ready to go. Both Anglad and Halward had a rapport with each of their fellows, though for different reasons. Halward tended to be the one with the answers; Anglad tended to be the one with good advice. Of the two, Anglad tended to have a slightly better reputation, if only for his easier personality and unshakable image. Halward was more ambitious, tending to be noticed more when he accomplished something. Narumir was a stern middle ground between them, nothing if not a rock for the entire tulkarim to stand on, though he tended to be underappreciated for it. And Baramir was well content to do his part as best he could. He, Baranor and Arodion were unflagging in their willingness to be about their duty.

Baramir's part in their task was to dismantle as much of each tent as possible while still keeping a sturdy cover for the men during the night. Narumir folded all the canvas chairs and tables, leaving only the cots, and emptied all else to be organized into rolls or saddle bags, which was for Halward and Anglad. Having the same two people account for the whole squad helped to standardize the whole affair and keep them all from comparing among themselves or trying to take too much along. Halward and Anglad worked together to separate each person's belongings according to their best judgment from what could be taken and what should be left inside the barracks. Anglad kept most of his own things in the barracks anyway, as did several others, so he and Halward also went back and forth between the camps and the barracks, putting everything for their squad well in order.

On one of their trips to the barracks, arms full with belongings put into sacks, Halward must have been in a relatively good mood, for he seemed more open than usual. "So, we'll finally get a taste of war," he said, half wistfully, half anxiously.
"Easterlings will be tougher than orcs, I suppose," Anglad responded. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about it, himself.
"I've expected something like this for a long time, at least in the back of my mind, but... I guess I never prepared myself enough." He looked over as they neared the barracks. "You've had training to be a full ehtar, I know. Before Magorthaen became cainenhîr, I thought of asking to learn the spear from you, but... once I saw how you fight, I started to think of you as a rival, the same as him, and I couldn't bring myself to ask."
This was new to Anglad. "What about the older men?"
Halward scrunched one side of his face slightly and shook his head.
"And after Magorthaen became cainenhîr?"
Halward shrugged as they passed inside. "There didn't seem to be much point anymore. These past few days have made me see differently."
"Differently?"
"You've always been the same, Anglad, ever since I met all of you. You haven't changed at all. I think I followed your example more than I wanted to. Now I think, perhaps I should have changed more than I did. Then I might feel more ready for this war."
"What about Hammar's training?"
They began to climb a flight of wooden stairs. "A few days isn't enough to learn it. I know the bow; I don't know the spear--not well enough."
And I the spear, but not the bow, Anglad thought. Then, at the same moment he had the idea to share knowledge, he wondered if Halward hadn't steered him toward that goal during the entire conversation. "Perhaps I am lacking skills for this war as well. I've never been the best with a bow. I think I see too much at once; focusing on a single point makes me feel blind to everything else."
"Is that why you hold the bow sideways when you shoot?"
"I haven't thought about it much until now," Anglad said. "Probably."
As they reached the top of the stairs, Anglad decided it didn't really matter whether Halward was being manipulative, because he was right. "It seems to me that we each have what the other lacks. It's a shame it's taken the shadow of war to cause us to realize it."
"Then, would you teach me an ehtar's spearmanship if I teach you archery?"
Anglad offered a smile to the darker-haired youth. "How could I say no?" He still felt as if he was giving more than he was getting, but then, Halward had always been respectful to Magorthaen even if he tended to pry or challenge. And, the better Halward knew the spear, the more chance they had of survival as a tulkarim. Anglad was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

The next day, long before the sun crested the circle of mountains, the Angrenost guard rose, ate one last, hearty meal in the barracks, and as a host, broke camp and began the long march to Calenardhon.

After their earlier exchange, the two brothers had grown quiet – each leaving the other to his own thoughts. Helmgar’s words had left a rift between them, but the silence did not come because of that. It was merely the fact that the two knew each other so well, they shared a bond that ran stronger than blood, they were two parts of the same whole. They had no reason to speak idle words, because they did not feel uncomfortable in the quiet company of the other.

The sun was slowing running its course in the sky and was now sinking in the West; day made way for night.

“The nights have grown darker as of late…have you noticed?” asked Léohelm.

“Aye and longer too, something fell is afoot.”

“I do not like this, our father told us of such times – back in the olden days, when the world was younger.”

“I remember…” Helmgar grew quiet for a moment, before asking “What could it be? Men speak of the Shadow in the woods…down south and east…”

“The Mirkwood, aye…it is an evil place, but I fear that this is something bigger.”

“What could be a greater threat than what lurks in the shadows of those trees?”

“I know not, my brother…but I do not like it. Not at all and I…” he trailed off, waving his massive hand dismissively.

His voice had grown calmer than when he was with the others, more sombre and older – showing that behind his seemingly impenetrable facade of mirth and happiness, stood a grim and world-weary man. But it only lasted for a moment, before long he seemed carefree as usual.

“Has this river moved since the last time I came out or are you just going slowly because you enjoy my company?” he complained after a while.

“This hill conceals it” Helmgar nodded at a small rising before them “once we pass by it, you’ll see the Greylin.”

Of course, Helmgar had no doubt that his brother knew that – Léohelm knew much and more about the lands around them, more so than his younger brother. As the silence lengthened, they once again turned to their thoughts and passed the short remainder of the journey in silence. Not long after, though, the Greylin did indeed come into view.

The rays of the setting sun coloured it the colour of molten gold and it seemed that the whole river was one endless stream of the precious metal; ever flowing, never halting. They watched it quietly for a few moments, after which Helmgar spurred the horse onwards. Once again he found himself on the pleasant spot where he had been with his son earlier, the only difference being that the shadows were now facing the other way.

He dismounted from the horse and helped his brother do the same. The big man was still quite nimble, Helmgar suspected that he could get off the horse himself if need be.
Regardless, he then helped Léohelm reach the river, where the older brother decided to take a seat and began peering in the waters. Helmgar paced around him back and forth, waiting to see what conclusion his sibling would come to.

“This is not as big a problem as you suspect it is, brother” Léohelm announced after a while “But you were wise to worry. Help me up.”

Helmgar approached to lift his older brother to his feet, thankful that Léohelm still had one leg to support his weight, for he was not a light man. With that done, he began speaking and pointing various locations along the bank to Helmgar.

“The bank is steep here, but it is steeper still both up and downstream. And most of the snows have melted away, it was not a particularly harsh winter and the summer will be here soon. The greatest threat is here” he gestured at the surrounding area “We must reinforce this side of the river with dikes; I doubt we will have time to work on the other. Thankfully the terrain over there is lower, so the water will naturally divert in that direction.”

“The bank is only steep upstream until about Old Ramgar’s estate, after that it becomes even lower than this one” he tapped his foot on the ground they were standing on.

“Aye, but Ramgar’s estate is on high ground and his fields and pastures are south of it, safely behind the chain of hills that dot the landscape from there to the foot of the mountains.” he then added “And since when did you took to calling Ramgar “old”? He’s barely ten winters my senior, next thing you’ll tell me is that I’m old as well!” a laugh followed.

“In that case, I shall tell the others tomorrow.” Helmgar told him.

“Yes” his brother nodded thoughtfully “but it may not even come to that. I suspect that if there is a flooding, it will be upstream and will not reach us here.”

“And yet, we must be prepared. You taught me as much.”

“Aye, that and more I have.” He turned at the dwindling sun in the West, after which he focused on his younger brother again “It promises to be a warm night...for this time of year.”

“Indeed” Helmgar only realised that when his brother told him; the day had been chilly, but the afternoon brought in a warm breeze from the South. “

“A perfect night to spend out in the wilds, is it not?”

Helmgar glanced at him askew “I plan to spend it under the roof of my house.”

“Not today, my friend.” Léohelm smiled at him, but it was not one of those light smiles or grins he usually showed...it was something far more meaningful “I was of a mind to make a journey in this area and what better companion than my own brother?”

“You speak foolishness!” Helmgar said unhappily “If you want a journey, you can tell me and we shall do it by day, with provisions enough to see us through.”

“Look at yourself!” Léohelm said sternly, a cold note creeping in his voice “When was the last time you slept under the moon and the stars, brother?”

Helmgar had no answer for that, it was indeed long ago.

“Our father oft told us” his brother continued “that a man is a man when he sleeps on the cold earth, on the blanket of leaf and grass, wet with dew. With the ants and the bugs and the chirping of the birds to keep him company, under the watchful gaze of the stars above. Have you forgotten?”

“No” Helmgar told him grimly.

“Then what? Is it this?” he patted the stump where his leg had once been.

“It is some-“ the younger brother began explaining, but was cut short.

“I’m maimed, brother. Not dead. Or dying. And I am still a man, even if a good part of me is missing. Will you confine me to my house, as a bird is locked in a cage? To be watched over by my daughters until, one by one, they depart from me to live with other men and raise families of their own?” he sighed “Our House will live on, but my line is as severed as my leg. No son will bear my name, no warrior will announce that he is son of Léohelm...”

“You have a daughter, one who can bend a bow as well as any man I know”

“Aye, but it is not the same, you know as well as I” Léohelm told him “She serves out of a sense of duty for her lame father, but she was not meant for it. No more than you or I were meant to sit home and look after a house.”

Helmgar crossed his arms in front of his chest, looking out over the river. What his brother said rang true and yet...why tell him now? What had caused his shell of seemingly uncaring nature to crack?

“Yet, you seem most joyful at all times, brother” he told him “Full of laughter and smiles....”

“Aye, that is so” Léohelm said “How else would a man live in such a situation if he did not have laughter on his mouth and mirth in his heart?”

“Why do you tell me all this?” Helmgar decided to get to the heart of the matter.

“A good question, young brother” Léohelm gave him one of his typical grins, before taking on a more serious expression “I already told you...I know not what, but something will happen soon. The world is changing...”

Helmgar’s frown deepened, as his eyes continued peering amidst the waters. Léohelm was truly their father’s son, much more than Helmgar ever was or would be. And old Aethelred knew many things, he sensed many things. It was a natural talent, a deep connection with tree and leaf and grass, with the world around them that allowed his judgements to be sound and true. Truly, Helmgar had little knowledge of how this...talent was developed or even passed on or if it could even be called such. It was merely long years and winters, piled upon one another, the wisdom of their forefathers passed on through the generations, even before they had come here from the South.

Whatever his brother felt, Helmgar was blind and deaf to it. He was cut from a different cloth; he carried the other part of their heritage. The warrior, the wanderer, the free spirit of the wide plains. So, who was he to know what Léohelm had seen or heard? Who was he to doubt his brother’s predictions?

“That is why...” Léohlem’s voice snapped him from his thoughts. He had not felt it, but the silence had dragged on for quite a while he now realised. “That is why I told you this...who knows if we’ll ever get another chance to speak quietly again?

“Now, help me get to that tree, it will provide more support than your shoulder!" Once his arm hugged the rough bark, he gave his next order "Bring the horse...no not that one, the other. We still have quite a journey ahead of us.”

So, it was decided. Once more his brother had proven that he was made of harder stuff. On the surface, once more Helmgar mused as he brought the fresh horse along, Léohelm appeared calm and gentle. But underneath....much like their late father, he was pure iron. Cold, hard, unbending. Despite his experience, Helmgar still had much to learn if he ever hoped to have his way with the older sibling.

“Where to?” he asked glumly, once they were both mounted on the horse. The one they had ridden up until now was following behind them, given the chance to rest.

“There” Léohelm pointed at the forest on the other side of the Greylin “A ford crosses the river further upstream, it is no more than an hour’s ride from here.”

Helmgar tapped the horse gently on the ribs and so they began the next leg of their strange journey. The sun would well and truly set before long, leaving them in the dark, but both were locals and had travelled throughout the surroundings more times than either of them could remember. As before, they rode in silence; each man leaving the other to his thoughts. Grim and slightly frowning, as usual, Helmgar was pondering on his brother’s words.

What were these changes he sensed? He wondered what was going on in the wider world, down South. For many years the Éothéod had lived here in the distant North, far away from the woes and troubles of the southern kingdom. Too many Helmgar thought. Far too long had they lingered here, blind to the world around them. Who knew what shadow was stirring in the Mirkwood or farther still, to the East where once their hated enemy had come from?

What if he was thinking of the wrong direction, though? His eyes looked up at the distant shapes of mountains to the North, from whence orcs would often come down and raid. Could that be the source of his brother’s concerns? But why would it be? So far, the wretched creatures had never done them much harm...as a community. Men were killed true enough; some were crippled – as both of them knew all too well – but never did the problem grow to a threat. Until now, perhaps?

Shaking his head somewhat angrily, he chased those thoughts away from his mind. He looked around and determined that the ford was getting nearer, based on one of the hills nearby. As far as he remembered, it could be seen just after a man left the landmark behind his back.

Not long after, they were crossing the ford, the horse’s hooves splashing through the water. Despite the many snows melting, it was still crossable, although the water reached up higher than usual. So, it was as his brother had said, Helmgar considered – the only real threat was downstream where they had been, where the land was lower. Once on the other side, Léohelm told him where to head next and soon enough they were on the eaves of the forest.

The wood was an old place and had once extended beyond the distant bank, into the hills and plains that now made up the homesteads and fields of the Éothéod. Understandably, much of it had been cleared away to open up more and more new land, as the number of people increased. On this side of the river though...no attempt had been made to settle it, as it was widely recognised as a gathering for orc warbands before they descended on the nearby towns and farmholds. Perhaps the strangest thing about it, though, was that it had no name of its own. Men simply referred to it as “the forest” or “Greybarrow’s forest” when dealing with outsiders.

One more story lost to the mists of time, Helmgar mused. With each layer of years upon it, the simple fact turned to story, then to legend, then to myth. Forgotten in the swirl of centuries and millennia...

“That is a good place” his brother once more snapped him from his thoughts, gesturing at a nearby clearing.

Helmgar realised that they had been under the leafy canopy for some time now. Wordless, he led the horse in that direction; a small glade nestled between the ancient trees. He dismounted soon after, then helped his brother do the same. After seeing to the horses, he unstrapped a small axe from his belt and went to look for fallen branches. Although he had not anticipated this unexpected stay in the wild, he always carried an axe with him – who knows when the need for one might arise?

The forest was dark and full with the sounds of woodland animals. It took him some time and a few trips back to the campsite, but eventually he found enough kindling to see them through the night. Meanwhile, Léohelm had managed to start a fire with what Helmgar had brought him earlier, despite the fact that most of the firewood had been wet. The rest of it had been left close to the fire, so it had a chance to dry before being given to the fiery tongues.

As Helmgar took a seat opposite his brother, he glanced up at the stars above. The moon would come out soon and shine down upon them in its silvery light. Much as it did last night and the night before it and all the nights before that, back until the shaping of the world. So too did the stars – beautiful, unreachable, eternal. Everything was the same, but Léohelm claimed otherwise. What change was coming, Helmgar wondered and, more importantly, when?

Earliest hours of the 25th of Súlìmë (March)

Aethylwyn struggled against sleep as the moon crossed the sky and hid behind a patch of clouds, making a single lantern the only source of light. The stars above were the only other thing to light her way and keep her company, besides Amras, of course. She would walk him back and forth across the bridge, the roaring of the high river waters the only discernable sound across the hilly plain. The mountains beyond to the north were not visible in the darkness, and the only evidence of them was the absense of stars below.

Amras hooves clicked as he crossed the wooden bridge yet again. Aethylwyn had dismounted, holding the lantern ahead of her as she and Amras paced back and forth. Every once in a while a sound beyond the clicking of hooves or roaring of water would play, and Aethylwyn's ears would focus on the sound until she identified it; usually being the hoot of an owl or song of the cricket. Even once she heard a wolf howl in the far distance.

After many hours the moon finally reemerged, just as Aethylwyn thought she would surely fall asleep against the calm serenity of the night. The moon comforted her, and she thought that the rest of the night would be easy. It brought a pit to her stomach when she heard a noise that was completely foreign to the peaceful night in Greybarrow. It was a clang. Was that not the sound of metal upon metal? Amras ears flicked as a horse in the distance whinneyed. Aethylwyn peered into the distance, the moonlight guiding her eyes.

There! In the distance, three riders were fending off wildmen! Wildmen? This close to Greybarrow? Aethylwyn mounted Amras and urged him forward. She hooked her lantern to the pommel of the saddle and armed herself with bow and arrow. Her legs clung tightly to the horse's back, and Amras had long since learned to feel the slight urging of his rider's knees. It was a specialty of all the éothéod to be able to lead a horse without hands, using a mix of nudges with the knees and feet, and verbal orders. The hill was straight ahead, and Amras lead her easily toward the fray.

She watched closely as she approached, observing the scene and making sure that there would be no need for reinforcements. There were two men and a woman fighting off wildmen. The wildmen were many and Aethylwyn was angered at the brutality and simplicity of the act. The bandits were obviously trying to rob the three of their possessions.

Aethylwyn watched as one man and one women swung their swords with grace and great ability; another was using archery much like Aethylwyn was accustomed to, though his bow was greater and more fine. All three were covered in blood, and Aethlywyn could not discern if it was blood of their own or their enemy. As she neared, she realized that these were not men, but elves! Elves, here in Greybarrow! She had seen elves before, a few times, when she was young. Being so close to Mirkwood, one would think she would have seen elves all of the time. But they were a reclusive lot, those wood elves, and she couldn't remember how old she was the last time she had seen one.

By the time Aethylwyn had reached the hill, the three had been pushed down the hill. Though they were receeding, Aethylwyn was confident that with another bow, she and the three could keep the bandits from Greybarrow. If, by chance, she did not survive, she would be sure there would not be enough bandits left to do any real damage to her home. She let loose her arrow and quickly reached for another. She had already aimed a second arrow before the first hit its mark. The she-elf gave one glance at Aethylwn, her face filled with grim determination. Then she nodded to Aethylwyn and Aethylwn nodded back, and they continued the battle.

It did not take long for the four to dispose of most of the bandits. The rest went running, and Aethylwyn chased them but not far, just enough for them to not be able to regroup for a second attack. The other three did not chase; Aethylwyn could see that their horses were weary and frightened; the road must have been long and hard for this trio.

Aethylwyn rounded back and set Amras to a sprint to catch up to the elves, who were already trotting toward Greybarrow. They slowed as she approached, and politely let her lead the group, as was her duty to do. By this time, the morning was just beginning its approach, the blackness of the sky barely giving way to grey of dawn. She replaced her bow on her back and took up the lantern once again. "I am Aethylwn, daughter of Léohelm and archer of the éoherë. Welcome to Greybarrow, Lord and Lady elves. It is an honor to have witnessed your valiant defense. Whatever I can do to assist you, I will see it done."

Elendyne and her companions had to tread slowly as they descended down the hill towards Greybarrow. The grasslands here were peppered with small rocks, and the land showed evidence of either a recent rain or the river having overflowed its banks. In the blue-black darkness just before sunrise, the elves were in no hurry and let their horses pick a comfortable pace.

However, they did not go far before the nagging threat of danger pressed at the back of Elendyne’s mind. She caught Huor’s eye and nodded to confirm what the seasoned warrior also sensed. He jerked the reins and turned his horse back as an arrow struck the ground where he would have tread. The stallion reared and neighed his alarm as Huor drew his sword, followed by Elendyne and Finrod, who drew his bow in the blink of an eye. “Take the fight to them!” Huor barked in elvish as he led the charge back up the hill, having already pinpointed the target. Elendyne and Finrod spotted them seconds later. Behind a stand of boulders lay nearly two dozen more wildmen. Their manner of dress and appearance marked them as companions to the ones the elves had previously slain to protect Elendyne.

“Murderers! Murderers!” the wildmen roared as most of them charged on foot while a handful covered their charge with arrows, a clever strategy against the three mounted warriors. Finrod managed to take out two of the archers with deftly fired arrows before the two sides clashed. Instead of a direct frontal assault, Huor and Elendyne veered abruptly in opposite directions, forcing the group of wildmen to scramble to split up and stumble over each other.

Huor and Elendyne kept up the pressure on the frontlines with hit and run tactics, darting in to deal killing strokes and wounds to the wildmen nearest them while Finrod harried them at a distance with arrows. The blond archer focused his attentions on the archers and finished them off first before turning his attentions to the melee warriors. Despite their crude weapons and lack of battle finesse, the wildmen still had the advantage of numbers. Huor and Elendyne sustained several cuts on their arms from swinging their swords at close range against multiple foes, and their cloaks became stained with both their blood and that of the wildmen. The three were forced into a closer group, losing their advantage of maneuverability, and had to retreat farther down the hill towards Greybarrow.

The whistle of an arrow reached Elendyne’s ears, but before she could instinctively duck to avoid it, the deadly barb struck home in a wildman’s chest. She turned in her saddle to lock eyes with another mounted warrior, a human woman to her great surprise. She nodded in acknowledgement to the newfound ally, her face grim and determined. The other woman nodded in return, her eyes showing no fear, before returning to the battle.

With the aid of a second archer, the four quickly managed to kill most of the wildmen and send the rest fleeing for their lives. The human pursued them briefly, but Elendyne could feel Nessa’s chest heaving with exhaustion beneath her. She met Huor and Finrod’s eyes and began slowly guiding the horses back towards Greybarrow. They seemed to realize that food and rest awaited them back in that direction, which encouraged them to increase their pace to a trot.

The human woman quickly caught up with them, as her horse still had energy to spare. Elendyne held out a hand in beckoning, allowing her to lead the group. As they neared the town, however, Huor moved his horse in front of Elendyne’s while Finrod dropped back to bring up the rear. Even though they had fought alongside one of Greybarrow’s warriors, Huor’s centuries of hard-wired caution demanded that he not take any chances with the safety of one of Mirkwood’s best healers.

The human woman brought the group to a stop at the entrance to Greybarrow and took up her lantern so the elves could see her face. Elendyne was surprised that a human woman so young had taken up the mantle of a warrior but respected her valor and the skills she had already shown. "I am Aethylwn, daughter of Léohelm and archer of the éoherë. Welcome to Greybarrow, Lord and Lady elves. It is an honor to have witnessed your valiant defense. Whatever I can do to assist you, I will see it done."

With a quick glance back at Elendyne, Huor moved his horse aside and motioned for her to come forward as their spokesperson. She slowly took down the hood of her cloak, letting her raven black tresses spill over her shoulders. She met Aethylwyn’s gaze calmly and spoke in the Common Tongue. “I am Elendyne Amandil, daughter of Aerandir and Healer of Mirkwood.” She motioned to her companions and introduced them in turn as they also removed their hoods. “This is Huor and Finrod, warriors of Mirkwood who ride as my companions and protectors. We bring an urgent message from our king to your leaders. The wildmen of these plains now move to threaten the kingdoms of Men, and we fear much worse may come if your people do not act quickly.” Elendyne held out both hands as a sign of peace. “I offer my services as a Healer and the weapons of my companions as a sign of good faith that the words we speak are true.” She fell silent and awaited Aethylwyn’s response.

21st of Súlìmë (March)


The march was fast-paced. The excitement of even the few hardiest warriors was contagious, and, like a plague, it spread throughout the Angrenost Guard as they departed from the only home they had known over the past years. Billowing clouds rolled across the sky, but rivers of blue gave hope that rain might be delayed. Every soldier felt energized, yet it was mixed with a sense of dread, like a poison biting at the will of a hardy man. As Magorthaen looked back at the foot of the Mountains of Mist, where Angrenost lay encircled by the cradling arms of the southernmost reaches of the mountains, he feared that he would never see the place again. Yet, at the same time, he hoped that he would never have to. This was his chance to move on, beyond the decaying guard at Angrenost; if he survived the war, anyway.

The Angrenost Guard marched in columns, with the ranks of younger members enclosed by the veterans. Magorthaen marched at the head of his own tulkarim, which was itself divided into four rows of four men abreast. Magorthaen knew their order without having to look back. As their cainenhîr, it was expected of him to know everything about his tulkarim. Anglad led the first squad, standing on the far left of the first row. Beside him were Darthion, Narumir and Halward. Leading the second squad was Duinhir, along with Menveru, Callon and Dervorin. Baranor, Hirbarad, Brand, and Baramir made up the third squad; Arodion, Findegil, Araglas, and Orogond the fourth. They were all men that he had learned to trust, and he knew that all of them would depend on each other over the course of the next few weeks.

A gust of wind brought the smell of fresh, spring grasses to Magorthaen’s nose. The fields they marched through were wet with dew from the previous nights’ frost, though the soldiers marching ahead of him had left nothing but damp dirt for him and his fellow soldiers to follow in. The green fields extended all around him, with colorful spots of wildflowers to break up the otherwise monotonous green. It would not last long, he knew. Not as long as it did at his home in Ossiras. The shadow of the mountain Thrihyrne, and the surrounding rivers of Isen and Adorn, made that a fertile land. The only lasting testament to the strength of the lands of Calenardhon was the forest that was still far north of them, Fangorn.

Reaching that landmark would be the first obstacle in their march. There they would have to cross the river Entwash, which would bring them to twisted lands of The Wold. But before crossing that they were expecting to meet with the rest of the forces of Calenardhon, men from Dunlostir, Aglarond, Lossir, Onodrith, and other towns and fortresses. Until their first campsite at dusk, it would be a long, boring and silent march. Almost overwhelming the smell of the lands around him was the sweat of the men, the dust from the recently created trail, and the leather of armor. The only sounds he could hear were pounding boots, shifting armor, and clanking swords and shields. Occasional coughs, whispers or outright laughs broke the relative silence. But those outbursts were often met with harsh rebukes from their respective cainenhîr.

Magorthaen watched as the sun crept from the eastern horizon until it was nearly overhead. At midday, they were given their first break. The precise organization of the Angrenost Guard dispersed into a slightly less organized field of small circles. For the first time since the beginning of their march that morning, Magorthaen got a glimpse of his tulkarim. They looked as bored as he had been, though a few of them looked as if they were smiling. Whether for their break or because of internal thoughts, Magorthaen wasn’t sure. He shifted his pack off of his back and began rifling through for his small lunch. Wordlessly, the rest of the men did the same. It wasn’t until a few mouthfuls had been swallowed that the first words were spoken.

“I wonder how many men will be waiting at the river,” Hirbarad mused. “I would love to see an actual army.” The ehtar sat with his wooden spear across his lap and his food in his hands. His helmet, like everyone else’s, was lying in the trampled grass at his side. His curly black hair was slick with sweat and plastered to his head. It was because of the curls that he kept it shorter than most other men.

“It will be nothing compared to our numbers when the Southern Army arrives,” Araglas said. “I’ve seen the might of Gondor. It dwarfs what we have here.” Magorthaen, and everyone else, knew that Araglas was from Ithilien. The man was certainly proud of the fact, and seemed to believe his proximity to the capitol of Gondor made him superior to those whose homes were in the farther reaches of the kingdom.

Orogon snorted derisively. “Everyone has seen the might of Gondor. Everyone knows the might of Gondor! Except for these barbarians from the east. And we don’t need to wait for the Southern Army to teach them that.” Orogond’s face was red and dripping beads of sweat. Despite being physically stronger than the rest of the tulkarim, Orogond always had trouble in the heat.

“Drink more water, Orogond,” Magorthaen interrupted. “We don’t need you passing out halfway to the river.” Orogond glared as several others laughed. Magorthaen felt a pang of regret; he hadn’t meant to belittle him. His biggest problem with leadership was approaching issues from the wrong angle. “That goes for the rest of you,” he said, hoping to correct his error. “Don’t make me check your skins.” The conversation lulled as sixteen water skins were upended.

Anglad leaned an elbow on the grass and thought aloud. “I wonder how long it will be before the fighting starts. If we have to wait for reinforcements, would they have us train further in the meantime?” The idea looked to appeal to him, for he went on, wistful. “It might then feel more a part of us than merely an untrod reach of our homeland. I should like to spend time on the field before battle comes to it.”

Duinhir shook his head slowly, his long blond hair brushing against his armored shoulders. “We are supposed to join up before we cross the river. From what I’ve heard of The Wold, it’s far different on the northern side of the river. Besides, we don’t know that we won’t see fighting before then.” Duinhir being from Dor Rhúnen, Magorthaen suspected the soldier knew what he was talking about in terms of the geography. But he doubted they would see any combat before crossing. If those barbarians were smart, they would try and ambush them just after crossing. The Wold was indeed harsh terrain.

“Now there is a sight most men don’t expect when they sign up,” said Brand. He’d finished his food and was leaning back on his arms, one leg stretched out before him.

“The Sisters of Nienna,” said Callon, with his head and shoulders turned to follow Brand’s gaze. Magorthaen could see the smile forming on his face. The Sisters were a group of healers, spread across Gondor.

“I’m sure their order is being well-paid for following us around,” Magorthaen said. They were a sight to look at. He saw only four of them, walking close together and speaking in hushed tones. It was probably luck that they even saw them at all, with as big as the army was already. Being isolated at Angrenost left most men wanting in terms of relationships. Magorthaen couldn’t pull his eyes away from their swaying hips as they walked off. For some reason, Magorthaen was glad no one else saw his gaze linger; everyone else was doing the same.

The rest of their break passed by quickly and uneventfully. The march resumed, and boredom set in. Magorthaen found himself envisioning battles alongside the marching soldiers. He knew it was nothing to look forward to, but marching slowly toward it was not something he found himself looking forward to more than simply getting it over with. The faces of his tulkarim told him that most of them felt the same. Five full days of marching to reach the river, and only one half over. Magorthaen sighed deeply… and reminded himself that this was what he signed up for.

Entwash. Spear in hand, Anglad stood near the riverbank, watching the sky rather than the land. The thick crescent of the waxing moon had the feel of a good omen just then--some symbol of hope that there would yet be light through the coming days of darkness.

"Never thought to find you lost in fancy upon the watch."

Anglad was startled from his thoughts; he hadn't expected activity from the direction of the camp. Outwardly, it might have appeared that Anglad had known someone was coming. "Halward," he greeted, without turning around. "Couldn't you sleep after so long a march?"
There was a short silence. Anglad somehow knew Halward was ruefully shaking his head. "We finally made it to the river. Who knows what we'll find on the other side?"
Anglad agreed but didn't much feel like talking yet.
"They say the Easterlings have had their eye on Gondor's northern lands for some generations. The Wainriders were driven back, of course, but now they come from Rhovanion."
Anglad nodded thoughtfully. "The Lonely Mountain is close by the eastern lands. I doubt not the men of Dale know much of their doings."
Halward humphed. "If only it were so."

Halward came forward to Anglad's left. The rush of the Entwash babbled a constant soliloquy on the virtues of fresh, new life, full of promise and plenty. Calenardhon joined its song, even during the night, but beyond...
"The Wold has been under a shadow for as long as anyone remembers," Anglad muttered sadly. "Now a deeper shadow comes to cover it."

This sapped the desire for conversation, and they stood thus in silence for several minutes, and Anglad again lifted his gaze to the stars. They were ever a comforting sight to him--a reminder of home and heart, as well as a presence that protected and guided and inspired. It made the world seem significant, that right and noble men were not the only force for good in the world.

After some time there was a third voice, and this time Anglad heard its footsteps before it spoke. "Halward? Since when do you stand the watch?"
Halward turned. "Couldn't sleep."
"Nerves? I suppose we'll be crossing tomorrow, with the North Army finally joined."
Anglad by now had recognized the voice as Baramir's. "I thought it was Darthion's turn next."
"He thought it an omen that our tulkarim was one of those picked for the watch tonight, with the army together, so he wanted to watch the early gloaming until sunrise. I offered to exchange places. It's all the same to me."

"How hard do you think they'll hit us?" Anglad asked, to neither and both of them.
"I rather thought we would hit them," said Baramir.
Anglad breathed a laugh. "I hadn't thought of it so. You're right, of course."
"You two should get some rest if you can."
"If I could sleep I would be," Halward muttered, but he followed when, a moment later, Anglad turned his face toward the camp and bid Baramir a good night.

The scent of crushed wildflowers and weeds wafted from their footfalls and mingled with the cool night air in their lungs. The air had been moist from the river, Anglad realized when they left it and the mud and dust of the army camp changed the flavor of the air. As they made their way to their tulkarim's tents, Halward walked thoughtfully. "We never got a chance to practice today," he said, putting it as the reason for his restlessness. They had spent a few hours each night after the march teaching each other the finer points of spearmanship and archery.
Anglad was apologetic. "We were picked tonight. The watch comes first."
"You don't have to tell me that. I was but thinking aloud."
"Ah."
Left unsaid was the kind of thing they had been talking about for days, that they didn't want to be unprepared when they went to battle. At least, they didn't want to commit their lives without knowing they had done everything they could to be ready.
"If you practice your spear further tonight," Anglad said, "try not to stay up much longer. We can't be a proper tulkarim if some of us are over tired."
Halward glanced back at the river as they reached the tents. "I doubt any of us will be tired during the crossing tomorrow, even if we had marched three days without sleep."

Anglad said nothing, but he had to agree.

“Elendyne. Huor. Finrod.” Aethylwyn gave a short bow to each as she recited their name and put their faces to memory. “Wildmen, you say? I might have said that I do not believe such a wild claim if I have not just witnessed it with mine own eyes!” She admitted. “The people of Greybarrow will be very thankful for your warning and for your offer of protection. If you will follow me, I will lead you to town. My father’s home is most comfortable, and you may rest knowing you are safe. My father will want to hear more information that you bring from your king.”

Elendyne allowed a grateful smile to cross her face as she nodded in acknowledgement of the young woman’s words. “Thank you for your hospitality, Aethylwyn.” The name took on an almost exotic sound when spoken in the musical, lilting tones of elf speech. “I carry a message penned by our king that should explain the situation,” she added, gesturing to where the scroll rested among her saddlebags. “Before I speak with your father, I must ask to see to my companions’ injuries. As elves, we heal quickly, but as a healer, I prefer to leave nothing to chance.” She did not mention her own injuries, but all three of them had sustained shallow cuts on their arms from the wildmen’s crude blades. While none of the injuries were life threatening, a healer’s compulsion to treat the wounded beat at Elendyne’s senses.

“Of course, Lady Elendyne,” Aethylwyn responded, and promptly turned Amras toward the direction of the bridge and beckoned the three elves to follow. She felt somewhat proud to take the lead and bring this troubling yet exciting news into Greybarrow. At first, she only felt a twinge of worry as to what might be happening to make the elf king extend the offering of an elven healer. It was the youth of excitement within her that blinded her from worry. However, as they crossed the bridge and began passing the homes of Greybarrow, the excitement of the night began to fade. As her neighbors ventured out in the early dawn of morning to begin their chores, they watched with wary eyes as Aethylwyn led the three toward her father’s farm. Aethylwyn started thinking more about what might be going on, just beyond the borders of her people, and wondered how bad it was. How close it might come to home.

The three elves kept their hoods over their heads as they rode through Greybarrow to avoid attracting too much attention from the villagers. Even so, Elendyne could feel their curious, watchful eyes tracking their movements. She wondered when elves had last set foot on these lands. Decades? Centuries? Her gaze instinctively wandered to her companions. Huor had moved his horse in front of hers to place her between the protective strength of himself and Finrod. She shook her head in good humor at his overprotective nature.

When they arrived, Aethylwyn dismounted and wrapped the reins around a post, beckoning the others to do the same. “I’ll tend to them after I get you inside,” She assured them as they dismounted from their horses.

“Thank you once again,” Elendyne responded. “I’m sure they will enjoy a good rest in a proper stable.” She tied Nessa’s reins to the post, patted mare’s neck fondly, and removed her satchel of herbs and medical supplies before joining the others.

Aethylwyn gave a courteous knock and then opened the door. “Helmwyn? Father? Are you here?”

“In the kitchen!” she heard her sister reply, and Aethylwyn held the door open to let the three elves inside to the great room, where there were still embers glowing from last night’s fire. Their great room was rather small, the fireplace in the center along the wall, with a large dining table to the left, and rug on the floor near the fireplace, and a few chairs toward the right. Aethylwyn began to stoke the embers when Finrod gently took the poker from her hand.

“There is a lot of work to do, but you need not do it alone,” the blonde elf said, giving her a little wink.

“Manners, Finrod,” Huor chided with a hint of humor, switching to elvish to keep their words private. Finrod had the good grace to blush as he chuckled and returned his attention to coaxing the fire back to life.

Aethylwyn muttered a thank you and retreated to the kitchen, where safe behind the doors she allowed herself to blush. Immediately Helmwyn was standing a mere pace away from Aethylwyn, staring her in the face.

“What on earth happened to you?” she shouted. Aethylwyn looked down, noticing for the first time how filthy she was, and the small scrape on her left arm. She brushed off her sister.

“There were wildmen,” She heard her sister gasp but didn’t not halt her conversation, “attacking three elves. The elves are in the great room now, and I need to get them some water.” There was a second fire in the kitchen, a large one for roasting meat and boiling soup. Aethylwyn had begun searching for their kettle when Helmwyn pulled one off of the fire.

“I’ll take it to them,” she said, with only a slight waver of nervousness in her voice. Helmwyn was so young, but took over duties almost faster than she was handed them, just as Aethylwyn had. She truly had Mother’s spirit. “And I’ll make sure we have enough for everyone to eat breakfast. Now go get father,” Helmwyn ordered Aethylwyn. “And clean yourself up too, sister.”

Aethylwyn smiled. “Just after I tend to the horses,” she promised.

Helmwyn stifled a gasp as she walked into the great room to find the three elves waiting patiently, staring at the beginnings of a fire. Helmwyn did her best to curtsy while holding a boiling kettle of water in one hand and a large bowl in another. “Gentlemen, My Lady. I’m Helmwyn, daughter of Léohelm.”

She then placed the bowl on the table and poured the water into it before placing the kettle on the hook in the great room fireplace, to keep it warm.

Elendyne gratefully accepted the bowl of warm water. “Thank you, Helmwyn. I am Elendyne, and this is Huor and Finrod.” Both male elves gave small bows as they were introduced. With that, Elendyne beckoned Huor to follow her to the table and chairs. He sat patiently as she laid out a mix of herbs from her satchel, ground them up with a mortar and pestle, and sprinkled them on top of the water. She stirred the concoction with her finger, allowing the pleasing aromas to fill the room. The herbs would help prevent any infection and speed up the healing. Sitting in the chair in front of him, she gently removed the leather gauntlets from Huor’s forearms to better inspect his injuries.

“If there is anything you need, please help yourself to it. The kitchen is just over there if you need me. I’ll make us a meal.” The elves thanked Helmwyn for her courtesy, and Helmwyn gratefully removed herself from the room before the smell of blood overwhelmed her. One thing Helmwyn wasn’t was a warrior. She flew back to the kitchen, leaning against the wall a moment while she gathered her senses.

“Pardon me.” Helmwyn heard a voice behind her and shrieked. It was one of the elves, Finrod. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. May I help you in here?”

“Oh, ah, yes. Of course. Why don’t you…here, cut these.” She handed him some potatoes and a knife, took a breath to calm herself, and set to work in the kitchen while Aethylwyn stabled the horses and Elendyne tended Huor in the great room.

“These wildmen were quite skilled with the blade,” Elendyne remarked. The gauntlets had protected Huor’s arms from any serious injuries, but the crude blades had still managed to score him near the elbows and the more vulnerable undersides of his forearms. Shallow wounds like that looked worse than they were only because they tended to bleed more, but they had already started to mend thanks to the elf’s natural ability to heal quickly. Elendyne took a clean cloth and washed the dirt and dried blood from the cuts and then ground up a poultice of herbs to place over the deepest cut, speaking softly in Quenya to encourage the healing.

As Elendyne wrapped the cuts in clean bandages, she looked up to see Huor watching her intently. As her eyes met his, she noticed that his cobalt blue eyes did not hold their usual mask of stoicism but instead had softened with a mix of gratitude and concern. “You should see to your own wounds now.”

“But Finrod…”

“…is currently occupied,” Huor interjected, nodding to where the blonde elf had disappeared beyond the kitchen door to help Helmwyn. Elendyne knew she would not win the argument, so she removed her gauntlets and cleaned the few cuts on her arms while Huor watched. She knew why he was so insistent. She had come to harm, however minor, while under his protection, and his fierce warrior’s honor demanded that he see her properly treated. He only let her take care of him first because it would cause her more pain as a healer to not treat him. When she reached for the bandages, he gently took them from her hands and wrapped her cuts himself.

“Hannon le,” she said softly as her face reddened slightly, to which the dark-haired elf simply nodded. Only once Huor was satisfied with his work did he call Finrod over from the kitchen for Elendyne to tend to him. His cuts weren’t as serious since he had been fighting mostly at a distance with his bow, so Elendyne treated him quickly.

Aethylwyn had taken all of the saddles and reins off the horses, brushed them down, and given them food and water. She did it quickly yet efficiently, for a mount who was not cared for and loved was a terrible thing among the Eothéod. She noticed a few minor wounds and reminded herself to have the Lady Healer take a look at them. Still, she cleaned them as best she knew how before finally leaving the horses to rest.

Aethylwyn took a look at herself in the trough and removed her helmet and armor. She splashed water on her face and then removed her tunic to rinse the sweat of battle off her body. It was not a true bath but would have to do for now. She then replaced her shirt, which still clung wet in the morning chill, and reentered the house, trying not to shiver.

She found Elendyne finishing bandaging Finrod’s injuries while Huor stood behind her chair, ever watchful. “If you don’t mind, I will wake my father now,” she said to the Lady Elf.

Elendyne stood from her chair and gracefully interjected, “Before you do, would you like for me to tend to your injuries? I can see that the wild men’s blades marked you as well.” She spread her hands in the universal sign of peace, showing that she meant the young woman no harm.

“Oh. Yes. Thank you,” Aethylwyn said, blushing slightly as the other two elves looked on to her. She felt embarrassed again for rushing the healer, who was very patient in contrast to herself. Aethylwyn was so anxious to hear the news, she didn’t think twice of her own injuries. It reminded her of when her father told her about heroes he had fought with that died from festered wounds, some nothing greater than the scrape on her own arm. There were always lessons to be learned.

Finrod stood and let Aethylwyn take his chair. Elendyne could easily sense the nervous tension radiating from the young woman and gave her a reassuring smile. She pulled out a few more herbs from her satchel and explained as she went, hoping to set her mind at ease through conversation. “We healers learn to use the gifts of the earth to treat all manner of ailments. Herbs for cleaning the wounds,” she indicated the first pile of herbs, “for promoting healing,” she gestured to the next, “and for stealing away pain.” She refilled the bowl with warm water and added more herbs. She also included a sprig of lavender, which Lord Elrond had said had a calming effect on humans.

“May I see your injuries?” Elendyne asked as she stirred the concoction. She examined the few scrapes and cuts and was pleased to see that none of them looked serious. “Do not worry. They should heal quickly.” She dipped a cloth in the herbal water and gently cleaned the wounds before mixing up another poultice and applying it to the deepest scrape near Aethylwyn’s elbow. Humans could not fight off infection as easily as elves, so she made the poultice stronger than the one she had used for Huor. “Sometimes speaking in Quenya, the ancient elvish tongue, encourages the healing,” Elendyne explained before chanting softly in the otherworldly tongue.

Huor and Finrod stood at a respectable distance to give the two women a measure of privacy. The elder elf noticed a look of disapproval on Finrod’s face. “Speak your peace, brother,” Huor said.

Finrod crossed his arms over his chest and glanced sideways at Huor. “So young. They would only be counted as infants to our people, yet they already carry the burdens of war.” Huor followed Finrod’s gaze to where it lingered on the wounds on Aethylwyn’s arm. “Do humans make a habit of sending their women into battle?”

Huor rested a hand on Finrod’s shoulder briefly in understanding. The younger elf had never left Mirkwood until now and so had no experience with humans. “Their lives are a mere flicker in time to us, and their ways are not ours. Have patience, my friend. We will find answers soon enough.”

Aethylwyn tried to concentrate on the healer’s actions and words. Her elvish speech was soothing and brought pleasant feelings to Aethylwyn. However, she couldn’t help but wonder what the other two elves were saying. They watched her and spoke as well, but it was not a healing chant. Rather, it was conversation. She felt as though their eyes were piercing her soul…but she was not brave enough to ask what they were saying. Somehow it felt rude to question what was spoken in another language. It was as if it was not meant for her ears.

“I am finished now, Aethylwyn,” Elendyne said, and stepped back to let Aethylwyn stand up. Aethylwyn was surprised how much better her wounds felt. The sting of freshly cut skin was gone, and the shine of newly staunched blood was already slowly replacing with the dull, darker scab that would protect her from sickness. She was very grateful, and said so. What a wondrous skill, and very useful in times of war. This thought reminded her that there was business to attend to.

Just then Helmwyn walked in with a stack of dishes and said, “Breakfast is ready! Oh…where’s Papa?” Helmwyn locked eyes with Aethylwyn.

“I was just on my way to go get him,” Aethylwyn promised her baby sister.

“I’m sorry Helmwyn, I’m afraid I deterred her from her task. Forgive me.” Elendyne said with a smile.

Helmwyn let out a nervous laugh. “It’s fine, no trouble. I just need Papa to eat, is all.”

“Of course. I’m going right now,” Aethylwyn said, and took off down the hall. The next room was Helmwyn’s room, and the one across from that was Aethylwyn’s, though she was rarely in it. The last and biggest of the sleeping quarters was her father’s room, and she knocked twice on the closed door. No one answered.

Inside the room was still dark, and somewhat cold as the window faced to the north and its shutters were tightly bound. He was still in bed, still sleeping, his snore a quiet reminder that he was still breathing. She came to his bedside and stirred him awake.

“Oh, past dawn already? I find I just don’t sleep as well at night as I used to!” He said groggily as he struggled to set himself up.

“Father, I have much to tell you. I met three elves who were fighting wildmen last night and –“ her father cut her off.

“Wait, wildmen? Elves? Hold on, dearest, go back and recount everything.” She did so as she brought him fresh clothes and turned away while he dressed himself. She brought him his crutch, and she had just finished telling him her story when he was standing and ready to go to the great room.

“I wanted to tell you, Father, not just because you are my father, but because of your status as infród,” Aethylwyn finished. “It seemed you were the proper person to tell.”

“Yes, Aethylwyn. Never forget, a warrior’s duty does not end, not even when he mounts his weapon,” he involuntarily glanced at the sword which hung neatly on a rack in his room. “Now, let us meet these guests, and read this Kingly letter.”

Aethylwyn helped her father enter the great room, where everyone exchanged introductions. The elves stood at attention as Léohelm entered the room and gave him the warrior’s bow of respect, with their right arms held over their hearts. Realization dawned on them as they noted the older man’s crutch, though they kept the surprise off their face. With the man of the house unable to fight and no sons, it only made sense now that Aethylwyn had taken up her father’s mantle. Elendyne understood all too well the pain of seeing her father incapacitated in such a manner and respected Aethylwyn’s valor even more.

Helmwyn had filled everyone’s plate with a scramble of meat, eggs, potatoes, tomatoes and assorted vegetables. Aethylwyn didn’t know much about cooking, but she did know that when there were many mouths to feed, the best thing to do is to mix everything together. Whether a soup or solid dish, it seemed that the food reached further that way.

They ate with pleasant conversation, discussing trivial or personal things, rather than the controversial topic that was ahead of them. It gave everyone a chance to become acquainted with each other not just in name, but in demeanor as well. It was always important, her father had said, to get to know a person for who they are, and not what their title deemed them to be.

After breakfast, Aethylwyn helped Helmwyn clear the dishes, both of them declining any help from their guests. It wasn’t propriety as much as they each saw in their father’s eye that he was ready for business. No sooner than the last plate had been removed they heard their father say “Let’s have this letter then.”

“My lord,” Elendyne acknowledged with a nod as she removed the metal tubing from her satchel and carefully removed the letter. She passed it across the table to Léohelm and explained, “My people have fought the Shadow for many centuries, and our scouts on the borders of Mirkwood have been tracking the movements of orcs, Easterlings, and wildmen. The wildmen have grown too bold as of late and have recently begun crossing the river Anduin, heading for Gondor. If Gondor falls, our king, Lord Thranduil, believes they may set their sights on the horsemen’s lands or Mirkwood. We alone do not have the warriors to spare for a full-out war and still protect our people from the fell creatures that haunt the forests. Your village was closest to our borders, so Lord Thranduil sent us as messengers to bring this report and offer aid.” She gestured to the letter. “You will find more detailed reports of the wildmen’s movements and the threats our respective lands face in the letter.”

Léohelm looked over the letter. The entire room was quiet as he scanned over the penmanship of Lord Thranduil. Aethylwyn held her breath as she watched her father’s eyes scan across the page. He showed no sign of emotion, no hint as to what he was thinking or what he would say next.

After an agonizing couple of minutes, he finally looked up from the letter, folding the parchment neatly before handing it back to Elendyne. He met her eyes when he said, “My apologies, but I and my people are not who this letter was meant for. We have no business with the south.”

Elendyne was about to speak when Aethylwyn interrupted. “Father, you have a duty to bring this information to the council, to see if –“

Leéohelm’s voice boomed. “My duty is to protect my people through my decision making. It is made.” The room rang in silence, only the crackling of the fire interrupting the sudden quiet. He turned from his daughter, whose head was lowered in submission, and looked to the three elves again. “You may rest here for another night. Then I suggest you head south, where your services will be needed.”