Fall of the North RPG

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

The snow fell heavier. The emissaries from Rivendell looked around. Most of the refugees were ill-clad—in the haste of their departure they had left their winter clothing behind. Families huddled, shivering together as they strove to keep warm.

Bethiril felt for them. She also felt the message of Erenor, flashing through her mind every now and then. Her respect for her fellow emissary increased a little, coming up with such a bold (and desperate) move as a protest. However, any action they would take at this time would divert the focus of the king from the more pressing task of evacuating the city. Despite their perception of the king, she knew that what he was doing right now was what he thought was best for his people.

But the road really is folly. She sighed, channelling her anger at the feeling of helplessness that this situation had put her in. She had been there before, but nonetheless it irks her that such situations had to exist.

[Lalwendë]

Renedwen knew full well how to ride a horse but she found herself unable to move. She held the reins in her cold, shaking hands while the young man urged both horses onwards. She couldn’t do more than hold the reins and hope that her son was unharmed. She looked down at him silently, hoping to hear him gurgle or make a babbling noise and couldn’t think of anything except his vulnerability. Her rescuer urged hoer on again and finally she kicked her heels and the horse moved off up the steps.

She halted at the top of the steps, transfixed by the sight of the creature that headed towards her. The air was cold and her heart seemed almost to freeze. She felt the horse falter and her blood ran cold. It was as though a nightmare had come to life. One of the night terrors which took her a dark place where she was frozen and unable to escape from what assailed her until her eyes opened and she woke, clammy and breathing hard. She could not wake this time. The dream was real.

Then she felt something strike the horse and it bolted forwards and she frantically grasped for the reins, only catching hold of them as the horse sped her through the gate. He did not stop until they were well inside the sanctum and he could go no further owing to the crowd of frightened people clustered within. She took a breath as she realised what had happened and slid down from the horse, her legs shaking and her eyes wide. Huddled by the horse’s steaming flanks, she carefully looked inside the bundle of blankets still strapped as firmly as could be to her chest. She saw the face of her son, his eyes closed and his cheeks slightly reddened, but as healthy and placid as ever and her racing heart eased.

“My lady”, she recognised the voice but it was different somehow. Turning around, she saw the face of the young man who had rescued her and gave him a brilliant smile. He was much younger than she had first thought, barely more than a boy, and he stumbled over his words. Still, he did his best to retain his dignity and she found herself glad to receive his best attempt at courtesy. Faerim. She had not heard the name, though she knew her husband would have done; he always took pains to be kind to the younger soldiers. She felt a strange sensation of pride and grief welling up inside her when an ecstatic voice cried out and Faerim turned to greet a woman who was obviously his mother.

Renedwen clutched her son tightly as she watched them embrace. She thought of how she had almost given her son up to someone else, how she had almost run back to her father’s house. She knew it would have been wrong, and she knew she would have known it was wrong the instant she did it. Nobody and nothing was going to take this child from her now. His eyes were open and she saw he was waking, finally unsettled by the noise around them. Those clear grey eyes looked right into hers and she looked into them sadly, thinking of her husband, alive only a few hours ago, and now waking in that green field alone. Maybe he would not be alone for long. There would be her mother and father with him. And her brothers. She was the one alone.

She was shaken from her thoughts by Faerim’s mother who gazed on her thoughtfully, with a look of heartfelt warmth, and then threw her arms about her. Taken aback for a moment, Renedwen almost shrank from the embrace, but she finally sank into it, and put an arm about the other woman in a gesture of gratitude and comfort. Renedwen couldn’t thank this woman enough and did not know how to put her feelings into words. Her son had rescued a stranger, had put his life at risk for her. She was not a wealthy woman, Renedwen could tell she had put her life early into raising a family, yet here she was, welcoming her and offering help. Would this have happened before these troubles? Renedwen did not know, but she knew she wouldn’t have considered such a thing. She was, she had been, the wife of a wealthy man, and they lived in a fine house, and she had fine gowns and fine ideas. All that would have set her apart just a day ago, but now in the ruins of the city she saw that they were all the same people.

Renedwen followed Faerim and his mother, unable to do anything else. Once, she would have led, but now she could do nothing else but follow meekly. She was chilled to her heart and still unable to say much, her sharp tongue finally stilled, and her brilliant blue eyes dim and dull with grief and shock. All the nightmares and portents of doom had finally come to pass and there would be no waking up in a warm bed this time.

[Kransha]

Hírvegil wished now, as he hurried through the inner sanctum, that he could be with his troops on the field of battle, but King’s orders could not be ignored. Now that the Elves’ were found, Hírvegil had to be sure that the word sent to him was not false, and make final arrangements for departure. Belegorn was a stern and proud Dúnedain commander, one who would not let him down. He had been given command of the Rearguard before, and proved extremely resourceful when such occurrences occurred. If anyone could successfully move the rearguard through two sanctums and cover the retreat of another small army of non-combatants, it was Belegorn, and this confidence boost brought up a surge of optimistic energy in Hírvegil, although it was replaced by grimness again a moment later when the sound of harsh orcish drumbeats and the steady rhythm of crashing projectiles filled his ears.

The Captain ran into the complex of hallways, chambers, vaults, corridors, and colonnades, but the area had nearly entirely emptied, and the plain bareness of the halls was eerie and dark, combined with the terrific sonic explosion that pressed inward from outside with each passing second. Sunlight in the halls had been stifled by smog from the field and the shadow of Angmar itself. Torches were going out as blustery winds blew in and particles of crumbled marble and stone from above fell from the cracks in the domes and roofs of the citadel, clattering onto the floor below where piles of worn dust accumulated into small piles and lumps that soon covered the area. Soon, Hírvegil was distractedly glancing through each doorway into every chamber to find someone who could relay information to him, until he reached a shady hallway, decked with weakened columns on both sides, and rushed down its length. This area was a clump of storerooms and economic chambers used primarily for fiscal ceremonies. There was a small auction house contained entirely in one room, and a larger bank in another, the bank whose vaults held nobility's earnings, rather than those of the common populaces. Some large rooms branched off into smaller rooms, all circular and barely large enough to hold a congregation of five. Hirvegil, huffing and puffing wearily as he went, darted into every alcove and through every arched doorway long enough to scan every room in succession.

At last he caught a glimpse of a veiled, hunched figure standing in one of the chambers, its narrow shadow cast ominously across the shimmering floor. Hírvegil recognized the figure, even with its back turned, as it bent over several marble tables erected in a claustrophobic storeroom. “Mellonar.” He said, and the figure spun about on his flailing robe tassels, obviously flustered. “Captain,” remarked the nervous Minister, hastily diverting his attention to Hírvegil, “you are not with your troops. You-”

Hirvegil quickly cut him off. He could easily have questioned the counselor’s own integrity, rummaging through items in a darkened storeroom when he should be consulting with the Elven Emissaries or reassuring the Dunedain, but this was certainly not the time to entertain personal squabbles such as that. “There is no time for banter now, Minister.” He said, not even moving towards the minister, “Are all the Elves in the passage?” Mellonar nodded, quavering with fear, confusion, or nervousness, as he often did. “I saw two Emissaries there myself, but one journeyed there, I assume, without my knowing.” He paused, looking off and stumbling over the fine Elven name that had escaped his memory before saying, with some confidence, “The Lady Bethiril, it was she.” He took a moment to visibly ponder, and another to jump, jolted by a burst of sound that shattered the stilness of his rummaging session. Behind him and above, a glass window shattered into crystalline shards, with trickled onto the floor nearby, and he backed off subserviently.

“You are sure she is there now.” Hírvegil’s voice held no urgency, but the matter spoken of was urgent. It was definitely in his as well as Mellonar’s best interests to see that all Elves escaped safely from the city. Again Mellonar nodded, his balding head bobbing swiftly up and down as he began to move across the small, closet-like room towards the Captain of the Rearguard. “I heard the guards declaiming to someone as I left the two that had come. I do not doubt that it was her.” He continued moving, but Hírvegil, his armor jingling and clanking gently as he swung around, waved him off and spoke, “Good. Are the civilians prepared for departure?” He spoke even more quietly now, with the stern seriousness stereotypical of a military commander, and of one of the Dúnedain. His proud gaze was lessened, though, by the alarmed state of emergency, the fires of anarchy that raged about him. He bore on his face a mixture of an icy glare and a heated, passionate look of need - need to make safe his city.

“Yes,” replied Mellonar, “they are prepared.” Hírvegil nodded grimly. “All is as it should be. I shall initiate the final stage of the evacuation.” With that, he dashed off down the darkened colonnade. Mellonar, shaking his cold head as the Captain made his way to the North Gate Passage, turned and returned to his daunting work – filling his robe’s orifices with various trinkets that would not be missed by the evacuating ministers, but might fetch a pretty penny if the Dúnedain ever reached mercantile civilization. He had already stuffed copper and silver coins into his robe's pockets to the brim, and clinking currency spilled out as he moved, littering the floor, once he had finished. A few medallions and semi-precious metals had found there way inside as well; anything worth something. He admitted to himself as he heard Hirvegil's footsteps' fade into a nerve-racking nothingness of sound that he was a cad to do what he was doing, but the reward was enough to keep him from caring. Once he had sufficiently exercised his sudden spurt of kleptomania, he to hurried out of the storeroom and towards the North Gate Passage.

[Arry]

‘What business calls the King,’ Gaeredhel wondered, ‘to keep his people waiting so?’

The brothers’ voices were low as they discussed what they expected to happen next. ‘Most likely he is already at the front,’ said Rôsgollo, ‘and there are any number of advisors who have one last thing to say before he is free to take action.’ He pursed his lips and raised one brow at his brother. ‘You know how hemmed in plain Captains are, always having to weigh this and that before even one part of a plan is put into play. How much worse must it be for a King.’

‘Well, If I were King,’ began Gaeredhel, ‘and the Shadow had fallen on this city as it did today, I would make all haste to put as many leagues as I could and as swiftly between the armies of the enemy and my people.’

‘Then thank the One you are not King, brother!’ Rôsgollo returned. ‘Else we might already be rotting corpses on the northern fields.’

The crowd of refugees nearest to the Elves pushed in closer about the two brothers. There were some, in the grip of fear, who agreed with Gaeredhel, and voiced their greatest worries. What if the King had no plan? What if he thought it hopeless? What if he had already fled and had left them behind to slow the pursuit of his own escape? Others with cooler heads raised their voices recalling how the King had always put his people first. Think on it they admonished their fellow citizens, bringing up instances in which the King had acted for the good of them all. Would it not be reasonable to think he would continue to do so? Voices surged and receded and surged again as more of the crowd expressed their opinions.

‘Now look what your loosely guarded lips have wrought,’ Rôsgollo hissed in a low voice at his brother. ‘This is all we need now, a panic in this small passageway . . .’

There were muted cries, then, from the front of the passageway, whispers really, that moved toward the back of the corridor. And the swish of cloaks and clothes, the scrape of boots and shoes as people turned toward the front. ‘We are moving!’ The words rippled and swelled toward the back ranks, bringing some small measure of hope to those who had feared the worst.

The at-first-slow progress increased in speed until the front of the second wave of evacuees had neared the exit of the passageway. Rôsgollo tucked Gilly in close to his chest, secured tightly by the sling he’d rigged for the child. He led the way toward the exit, Lord Ereglin following close behind him. Gaeredhel followed on their heels, his bow at the ready, an arrow nocked.

‘Hurry, brother,’ Gaeredhel called to Rôsgollo, turning often to see what might follow behind the fleeing men and Elves. ‘There are sounds of Dunedain troops trailing us closely.’ He paused in his talking, his keen ears trained on the sounds in the passage way. ‘And beyond that last line of protectors are the foul sounds of Orcs and other spawn of shadow that seek to overcome them . . .’

[Saurreg]

Belegorn

An enormous missile streaked across the darkened sky and impacted upon the highest structure in the city of the grey-eyed sea lords. A low menacing sound of rupture emitted from the base of the king’s citadel – the seat of power of all Arthedain, followed by the distinctive snapping of mortar and paste. For a few moments nothing happened, and then the top of the slender tower seemingly twisted clockwise on its own accord before crumbling into bites and chunks of clay, concrete and stone which, plummeted swiftly towards the fiery inferno that was once the proud white city of Fornost.

Arthedain had finally fallen and with that, two thousand years of Dúnedain hegemony in the north came to a close.

Fornost itself, once the greatest and most magnificent city of men, second only to the old capital of Annúminas, was no longer recognizable. Its once gleaming white towers and smooth walls had been greatly reduced and those that remained standing were crumbling and stained grey by ash and soot, while its paved streets were caked in grease and dried blood. Fornost, once the capital of Arthedain was now the prize of Angmar. Its capture marked a milestone in the Captain of Despair’s victorious campaign.

Belegorn watched, almost mesmerized as the top of the king’s citadel came crashing onto the forum. He was filled with disgust at the misdeed that was done but at the same time felt a pang of envy for the assets and capability of the enemy. No one could deny the fact that those wretched orcs were exceptionally gifted siege engineers. Belegorn attributed that talent to their destructive nature.

The stalwartly Rearguard was now in the narrow confines of the north passage with the north gates a hundred or so yards to their rear. They had traded blood for time at the main gate of the third wall while women, children and the infirm made their escape out of Fornost. Like automated killing machines, the tough soldiers let the enemy bash themselves senseless against their broad shields before cutting them down skillfully with sharp swords or running them through with long spears and thus the Captain of Despair paid a high price for the barter of the gates. Only when the last of the non combatants had left the walls of the great city did the elite regiment continue its leap frog withdrawal into the inner sanctum with immaculate precision and discipline, brave lusty voices laughing and singing.

While the rearguard made its slow but steady retreat, a gang of feisty soldiers from the annihilated vanguard suddenly appeared out of nowhere before an astonished Belegorn and offered to fight to their last along side him and his regiment. Grateful for the reinforcement, the acting-captain of the rearguard ordered the leader of the troop to lead his men ahead of the rearguard and undo any ambush that the enemy might have planned during the chaotic fighting before finding mounts for themselves and to flee while they can. “Easily accomplished my lord Lieutenant! Rest assured!” replied the leader of the men, a man by the name of Euphranor and he was true to his word – no sooner had the first elements of the Rearguard entered the first building did it find decapitated orcs laying sprawled behind upturned tables and slumped against the dark corners of walls.


A feral cry filled the narrow but long north passage, sending echoes along the stone carved walls. A pack of iron-clad uruks launched themselves against the thangail of the Rearguard only to be knocked onto their feet by the mobile wall. The guardsmen parted their shields and dispatched the stunned orcs with ruthless efficiency before reforming the infamous shield fence again. These men were the battle-proven highly experienced men of the third line. The withdrawal was entering its most crucial phase and Belegorn wanted only the most capable men to hold the dark torrent that threatened to engulf them all. Already, companies after companies starting with the newer men were dismissed from the north gate via horseback and the Rearguard was down to its last element of veterans – men who volunteered to be literally the last line of defense. The regiment’s standard was amongst the first to be sent off – to its rightful captain lest the regiment be overran and the pennon capture. Only Belegorn’s ever reliable archers remained also and these were now busy at work – pouring a thin line of liquid fire incendiary from where the line of guardsmen stood, in the axis of the passage before turning in both directions and laying it across the with of the north passage so that the pattern of the powdered substance of pitch, sulphur, tow, pounded gum of frankincense and pine saw dust resembled that of an elongated tee.

The two archers finished pouring the connection, stuck the cock snuggly into the opening of the barrels and scampered off towards their mounts at the entrance of the north gate. The sergeant of the archers arrayed his men and one of them gave Belegorn a curt nod. He was sweating profusely and it wasn’t just due to the humility of the passage. Belegorn lifted his stained sword and ascertained that he had all the principal non-conmissioned officers’ attention and in another hand he held a flare. It was time to put his plan into motion – at best the rearguard lives to fight another day and the enemy is forced to seek another way pass the north gate to catch up with the refugees. At worst, everybody got to visit the Halls of Mandos. Belegorn began his series of commands,

“Frontline! Fall back! Normal pace!”

The command was echoed by the sergeant of the shield bearing guardsmen who started backtracking. Metallic soles marching in unison. The last defense of Arthedain was no more.

“Archers ready?”

“Ready!”

The thangail continued its steady withdrawal, it was getting closer to the top of the tee. Another feral cry filled the passage as another pack of uruks commenced their charge, hot on the heels of the guardsmen whom they though were cracking.

“Frontline down! Archers fire!” yelled Belegorn as he pointed his sword in the direction of the retreating guardsmen and charging uruks to emphasize his point.

Immediately the highly disciplined and alert guardsmen fell onto one knee and lowered their heads. Not a minute too soon a flurry of black feathered arrows streamed overhead and found their mark amidst the charging uruks, stopping that menace dead in its tracks. Time was of the essence and Belegorn wasted none of it,

“Frontline fall back! Archers fall back! Quick time!”

A cacophony of trampling feet filled the passage as the guardsmen came thundering towards the north gate and where Belegorn was. Despite the rush, Belegorn noted that each guardsmen was wary on where he planted the sole of his boot, especially where lines of incendiary were. The guardsmen continued their frantic retreat and did not stop even when they were clear of the incendiary. Joined by the archers, they continued retreating, streaming pass the first lieutenant. The enemy had recovered and had starting pursing. Bellowing at the top of their lungs with joy and wildly waving crudely shaped scimitar, axes and clubs in the air.

Belegorn sheathed his sword and pulled the cord of the flare, igniting the charge and threw the burning item onto the incendiary, turned tail and fled at breakneck speed. There was a violent white flash and the entire passage behind him was engulfed in an eerie hue of blue. Shearing heat engulfed him and his nerves screamed in pain over the extreme sensation he felt. But Belegorn ran on nearing the gate, because he knew that to stop then was to surrender to death. He could hear the death cries and howls of the miserable beasts as the liquid fire greedily consumed them. The heat was excruciating and even there so close to the gate, the air had turned into a superheated stream flowing towards the source of the flames. Belegorn faltered and felt his legs undoing beneath him. But then strong hands reached out and pulled him forwards, through the gate into the open.

Belegorn fell face first onto a moss covered ground. He could feel the vibrations from the shuffling feet about him and then cold water being poured all over him over and over again. Coughing and spluttering, he turned around,

‘Enough! Are you trying to drown your lieutenant!”

“No sir!”

‘Good, for I’ve had enough! Mount your horses and ride for the column. And someone help me up! I feel like a drowned rat!”

[Kransha]

Passage to the North Downs was quicker than expected. Those on horseback, or riding in carts, on mules, or hurrying on foot moved quickly away from the ruin of their once-home, shedding but a few choice tears over their loss. The armies of the Dúnedain were beyond devastated; they were ravaged. Once a proud army of thousands, the full core of the military had been reduced to around one hundred men – not nearly enough to stand up to the hordes of Angmar. Thankfully, Belegorn’s clever plan had bottled up the orcs in the city, amidst crumbling wreckage, and the trick would slay many as they tried to surmount it, but it would not withhold them forever, and this heavy thought weighed like a jagged rock balanced on the shoulders of the trekking refugees. Reaching the North Downs would not save them either.

It was less than a day before the column, moving swiftly against harsh winds that swept down from the north, ascended into the rolling hills of the North Downs. Some small outposts, towers of wood that barely reached above the snow-capped slopes of the Downs, dotted the area. They grew more frequent as the column spread and stretched, winding up over cobbled paths that looped into the hills. Tussocks also pockmarked the snowy white earth, and clouds moved with serene tranquility overhead. A burden of sadness lay upon the group, but it was not enough to drag them down, or keep them silent for very long.

Hírvegil rode at the back with his troops; he had reunited with them after the train escaped Fornost, and given due congratulations to his trusty lieutenant, Belegorn. He could not dwell on his second’s accomplishment, unfortunately, nor could he ponder many thoughts beside those that filled his mind. The King’s portion of the column, separate from the rest by nearly a mile and containing the ministers, counselors, and more prosperous landowners or merchants of the city, had already entered the Downs fortress deep in the hills. Hírvegil knew that, when the Rearguard arrived, they would discover the nature of the Dúnedain’s stay in the hold; whether it would be a long stay and an attempt to outwear the Witch-King’s host through siege, or a brief sojourn disrupted by almost immediate departure. A long siege was not a good idea, in the humble strategic opinion of the Captain of the Rearguard. The North Downs hold was not an impregnable fortress, it was a keep that might serve to hold off the orcs for days, but not months or, more likely, the years it would take to fully repel the fearsome Chieftain of the Nazgûl and his merciless host.

The sun was in the sky, but barely visible between wisps of plentiful cloud. The vessel of Arien had not shone over Fornost, possibly hidden in fear of the Witch-King’s shadowy wrath, but now it burst out with subdued defiance, meek but apparent despite the coming of dusk. The sky’s hue was still dark, but no longer because of evil shadows or dark occurrences. Night was on its way, and a blood red tinge had slid onto the horizon, gently tracing the silhouette of distant white mountains turned orange by the golden glare. The hills became steeper around the Rearguard and those citizens who had been absorbed into it. All horses and beasts of burden bore both man and supplies, some saddled down with two people as well as sacks of rescued goods bound to their flanks. The animals trudged upward as the primitive pathway they strode upon became wider, and bordered on each side by picket fences of ancient, rotted woods. The train passed through thin gaps between hills as the hills became mountainous peaks and the valleys beneath became near gorges.

As Hírvegil, prodding his horse and inciting it to move faster, looked about warily, he saw the hillsides close in on him and the column packed together tightly, moving beneath some archaic stone arches set into the walls of hill-rock on either side of them, remnants of a past architectural regime. As the refugees passed beneath the last high arch, Hírvegil clucked his stern tongue in recognition, knowing that they had crossed through the North Pass. He looked downward expectantly to see the North Downs’ Keep, an unimposing brick structure built into the recess of a mountain, surrounded on one side by a shallow coomb that flattened out in one section to create a land-bridge that led into the keep. Two towers sat, built into outcroppings of the mountain looming of the keep, on either side of the hold, and, as evening came and the sunlight dimmed, glimmering torchlight could be seen, like flickering candles, on the towers’ turrets.

When, by the torches of the Rearguard, the refugees caught sight of the keep, many broke into a run, or goaded their steeds to their fastest paces, pushing the creatures to their imagined limits. The earthen bridge seemed to expand to meet them, and the iron-grilled gates of the keep gaped like a pleasant maw to take them in. The hundreds crowded into the chamber just behind the door, and filed through expansive halls, ablaze with chatter and talk, until they all reached a greater chamber, huge in size, with an unseen ceiling and arching walls that vaulted at a level far above. This was the grand chamber of the hold, where councils of old had oft been held, built beneath an off-shooting hill of the high mountain. Here there was no time for merry or teary reunification, for the place was buzzing and claustrophobic. The Rearguard dismounted, leaving countless stable boys, pages, and squires to hurry the animals to a stable in the fort. They surrounded the civilians, who joined the others of their ilk at the center of the hall. The remainder of Fornost was barely five hundred, many civilians and lords among that number, and all were present in the grand room, though some nobles and ministers were rumored to be taking counsel in adjacent chambers. There was not a silent instant that passed, for all were speaking at once, creating a tremendous din. No one knew exactly what was going on, or what was going on, or much of anything, in fact.

Until, that is, the King arrived.

The room fell silent as King Arvedui of Arthedain mounted a small marble platform at one end of the chamber, flanked by elegantly clad royal guards and close ministers, as well as servants who stood or knelt beside him. Hirvegil looked on from the very back, trying to deduce what had occurred before his arrival. He guessed that Arvedui had consulted with the few ministers who arrived with him and settled on a finite plan, without the aid of the nobles who had been part of Hírvegil’s evacuation party. Now was probably the best time for a morale boost, considering the circumstance, and who better to give such a talk than the King. Arvedui did not often appear to his people, except for addresses to the populace made from a balcony or podium arranged for him. This unprofessional, personal atmosphere was jarring and abnormal, but the shifty Dúnedain, nervous and filled with consternation, got used to it sheerly for the sake of their own peace of mind. After nearly a full minute of blank silence, the King raised his open hands and spoke, his kingly voice booming.

“My people: our home is lost to us, our lands are marred, and many of us lie slain in Fornost Akallabêth, but we are still here!” There was some more shifting, but no distinct whispers from Arvedui’s audience. He had referred to Fornost as “Akallabêth”, the Downfallen, a name of old Númenór. This was appropriate usage, but ill-timed. Solemnly, he went on. “Regardless of the losses we have bravely endured, there is still a road we must take. We are not defeated, not bereft of life or lost in a tempest sea; we are the Dúnedain of Arnor, the people of mighty Isildur and Elendil, we shall not be conquered by wraiths and foul-spawn!” He brandished a fist madly in the air. “This is not our home, nor will it be for long. A plan has been devised that shall grant us safety from the insurgents from the east.”

He took time to pause, but all remained quiet. This was news, good or bad, that would incite a reaction.

“The North Downs shall hold us intact for some days, until preparations for a longer trek across the wilds have been made. By the will of the heavens we shall traverse the lands to the west and make haste to the Blue Mountains.” Now whispers and sidling words could not be avoided. Unnerved chatter undulated through the crowds. “There,” continued Arvedui calmly, “the refuges of the Dwarves shall be home to us until we have recovered from this stinging blow. Food and supplies can be found there, and metals in those mines to forge new weapons that shall replace our splintered blades. Shields will be remade, spears sharpened, armor wrought, and victory regained in time. It may take many months, but, by the Valar I swear, the line of Isildur shall reclaim Fornost and all of Arnor in time, and our glory and power shall be restored. The strength of the House of Elendil shall crush this menace in time. Until then, we will repair to the Ered Luin and rest in safety.” He stopped again, having paused periodically for reactions during the speech, and let it all sink in.

“Make yourselves ready, all, for a great journey. Look to your arms and your families, tender them dearly, and let them not stray from you. The wilds shall not bow to us, we must overcome them, and the elements in turn. But, I say no darkling thing shall hinder us. Arnor is not over, my people. The North has not fallen yet!”

With that, Arvedui descended from the platform, leaving a sudden overwhelming surge of noise in his wake.

[Osse]

Slowly, Carthor’s eyes opened to take in the ruddy light. He was stretched out on a bier of yew; the branches were lashed together and covered in fabric to form a membrane which was currently sagging under his weight. As his eyes slowly reached out to focus the great room around him, he became aware of a cold wall of grey stone to his right. The wall was covered in richly embroidered tapestries and hangings depicting great scenes of battle. One by his cold, grey right hand depicted a great hunt, the dogs rearing as they went in for the kill upon a large boar, fighting to the last. Carthor’s head swirled as he tried to raise it, the blood rushed to his throbbing head and he lay heavily back down upon the bier. His eyes closed and his tired, damaged mind tried to piece together the happenings of the last day, the last bloody, horrible day.

Flashes of the battle raced like stampeding kine through his mind, their thundering, steel clad hooves breaking the soft ground of his mind and throwing other memories, like dust into the wind. Faces, both man and orc, alive and dead, swirled in the dust. Carthor could feel his own hand as it gripped his broadsword, could feel the shudder as it bit into flesh. A tall building, aflame suddenly reared up out of the dust, its form like a great beast itself, stricken by many hurts, yet still unconquered. He could hear the screams, taste the hot blood on his parched lips, feel the cobble stones underfoot and the sickly wind as it mockingly caressed his face with the stench of the dead. And then out of the dust came a great beam, burning as it fell on him.

Carthor opened his eyes. There, kneeling by his left side, bathing some linen in steamy water, the fragrance of which filled the air, was his Lissi. It was then that Carthor realized that the fear and doubt in his mind was not directed at what had happened to him, but rather what had happened to her, her and their two boys. Carthor’s gnarled hand reached over and touched hers, the porcelain skin warm from the water. She started and looked up from the bowl, her lovely grey eyes bright in delight. Lissi’s lips opened for speech, yet the words lingered on her tongue. Carthor gently raised his finger deftly to her soft lips and with much effort pulled himself upright enough to place a delicate kiss on their supple curve. Lissi sat upon her haunches, quite shocked at this tender change in her stone hard husband.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Carthor said gently. “You and my boys.”

“Where are they? Are they safe? What of Brander??” The questions that had been plaguing Carthor rolled like waves from his heart.

“They are quite safe. Those two are no braggarts, and looked after their mother well. They are both now helping the men prepare, the king has addressed us.” Lissi’s voice had softened from the usual strength it held when directed at her husband, and her face seemed tired and worn and she said no more.

A short period of time passed where neither of them spoke, Carthor just reveling in her presence, Lissi looking around the large stone hall with interest. Neither saying what was on their mind.

Part of Carthor’s organized mind longed to fill in the events that he had missed – how had he got to the North Downs stronghold, a place he had been on two previous occasions? Who was responsible for his rescue? What had happened to the rest of the Vanguard? How close was the enemy behind them? Where would the people go now, for surely this was no better a place than Fornost?

Instead, he just laid his head in the lap of his beautiful wife, quieted his mind and gave his swimming head a rest. Lissi bent down and placed a beautifully soft kiss on his furrowed forehead and his eyes fell closed. Carthor escaped into the soothing quiet of dreamless sleep.

[Nuranar]

As the King stepped down, the chaotic hubbub rose once more. Lissi forcefully quelled the despair rising in her and turned to her sons. "Go find us a place to rest. Here, Brander, take this" - she handed him the bag she had brought. "Faerim, take care of them. I'm going to look for your father among the wounded. If--"

"You can't do that," Faerim interrupted. Concern was written all over his face. "You don't know - I'll go with you, or I'll just go, and--"

"Faerim." The tone was sharp and brooked no objection. "You need to look out for your brother and the lady. When you've had some rest, help the men wherever they need you. I need to find my husband. If he is not among the wounded, I will meet you by the main entrance to this hall shortly. If I do not return, I am with him, and will come to you when I can."

Faerim nodded and began to turn away, gently directing Renedwen and his brother. The woman seemed intelligent and aware, but the listless apathy in her face was alarming. Lissi had no intention of leaving her alone. Brander hesitated. His searching hand found Lissi's arm, then her shoulder. Then he enveloped his mother in a fierce hug, just for an instant, and turned and found Faerim. Lissi blinked, swallowed hard, and began shoving her way in the other direction, where she'd seen the wains go.

~ * ~ * ~

The infirmary was a series of small rooms, inadequately heated by braziers holding coals, but still warmer than the rest of the Hold. Lissi picked her way through the livid darkness, peering uncertainly for the face she knew, kneeling beside those she could not see, hoping that the face behind the blood might be Carthor's. A number of dim figures also stooped and rose, other women hoping against hope. The noise here was not the clamor of conversation; it was the low murmur of groans, cries, orders, and weeping.

With a sigh, Lissi rose again. She looked at the next man, then the next - then back to the first. Quickly she stepped across and looked into his unconscious face. It was he! Her heart was pounding so hard it frightened her; the tears that suddenly began flowing down her face were a relief.

A minute composed her, and she was busily looking him over for injuries. Someone had removed his helm and set it beside him; a large dent in it mutely testified as to the ugly bruise on his brow. There were large, painful-looking burns on his shoulders and neck, but it was the head wound that worried Lissi.

Remembering something seen on the way to the infirmary, she quickly left the infirmary. There he was - a bent old man tending a fire. And yes, there was water heating on it. Carefully Lissi filled a bowl and hurried back. The old man never looked up.

Lissi washed Cathor's burns with the hot water and bandaged them with long strips of linen torn from her smock. She knew she hurt him, for the man's face grimaced and he moaned, but never did his eyes open. Then she carefully cleaned the blood and dirt off his face and bathed the bruise on his head. Once she left to get more water. Silently she cared for him, sitting quietly by his side through the long dark hours.

Suddenly a hand - his hand - reached out and touched hers. Lissi jumped, and she gasped to see Carthor's piercing blue eyes fixed on her. She opened her mouth to speak, but her relief and gratitude were wordless.

Her husband smiled at her confusion and shushed her wordlessly. Then, rising carefully, he leant forward and gently kissed her. If Lissi had had any words before, this incomprehensible action would have obliterated them. She could not recall the last time her husband had kissed her. All she could do was stare, her mind reeling from the double shock.

"I thought I’d lost you," Carthor said gently. Oh, so gently! When had been the last time? "You and my boys." Wondering, Lissi saw the anxiety in his face grow. "Where are they? Are they safe? What of Brander?"

"They are quite safe," Lissi said, her voice trembling. She cleared her throat and pulled herself together, even trying to smile. "Those two are no braggarts, and looked after their mother well. They are both now helping the men prepare," she finished - no, one more thing. "The king has addressed us." And made clear his folly and our doom, she did not say. Carthor did not answer immediately, and Lissi's thoughts wandered back.

"We shall traverse the lands to the west and make haste to the Blue Mountains," the King had said. "There, the refuges of the Dwarves shall be home to us until we have recovered from this stinging blow." Does he not know that the mines have been deserted for a century? Is he that much a fool? "Food and supplies can be found there, and metals in those mines to forge new weapons that shall replace our splintered blades. Shields will be remade, spears sharpened, armor wrought, and victory regained in time." There is nothing there - no food, no fuel, no supplies. Victory with a hundred swords, against Angmar! There is nothing but death. Why does he lead us there? Why?

Lissi's thoughts, wandering in sad circles, were interrupted as Carthor sighed wearily. He looked around once more, then laid his head in her lap as if it was the most natural thing to do. Lissi's eyes filled with tears. She kissed his forehead and watched him sleep.