The Fellowship of the Fourth Age (Part 1): A New Beginning RPG

[Tevildo]

Azhar had picked her way through the crowded grove searching for Rowenna. She had scurried from one small group to the next asking the women and children if they had seen the midwife. No one had been able to answer her. Every step brought her nearer the ring of stones that marked the entry to the small haven where the women and children had retreated. So far, none of the slavers had been able to force their way into that inner ring. Through the dust and haze, Azhar could make out the faces of several of the men who fought no more than fifteen feet in front of her; Rôg and Aiwendil, Carl and Dirand, Nasim, Gamal, and so many others were still locked in battle with about half a dozen slavers. For an instant, Azhar stood still and simply stared out, wondering how and when the bloodshed was going to end and whether the protective ring would continue to hold.

An insistent cry rose from just behind her: not a sound of battle but more like a woman caught in the throes of a tearing pain. Scrambling over to the source of that sound, Azhar ducked down and crawled through the opening of a thick hedge, an entrance almost hidden from outside view. She was surprised to find the midwife Rowenna. On the ground beside her lay another woman who was in the middle of giving birth. The woman's eyes were wild with pain, her hair matted, and her skin rimmed with sweat. The birthing was not going well, but what else could one expect in the middle of this nightmare?

Scarcely more than a girl, Azhar stumbled out of the enclosure, unable to deal with the full meaning of that scene. But before she could turn back to speak with Rowenna, there was a terrible roar and a shaking of the earth. A number of slavers still mounted on horses had broken through the border of stones and were advancing at a gallop, racing straight across the inner encampment where all the women and children lay hidden. As that realization sunk in, Azhar felt her blood run cold.

The freed slaves and members of the fellowship who were still fighting came running towards the rocks, but their feet could not match the swiftness of the horses. A single horseman halted and, glimpsing Azhar, swung his mount about and headed for the hedge. The young girl tried to spring out of the way but was tossed to the side by the impact of the horse as it raced by her; Rowenna and the woman giving birth were not so lucky. An instant later, both women lay silent amid the ruined hedge, their bodies woven in a tangled heap as blood soaked into the ground.

Azhar cried out in horror. Even her life on the plantation had not prepared her for this. She caught a quick glimpse of Aiwendil and Rôg who were running side-by-side, part of the crowd of fighters all surging forward in a vain attempt to reach the horsemen and stop them. Her eyes rivetted on the tall southerner. Words of anger and frustration poured from her mouth, "Rôg! Why don't you do something? They are too fast. Someone must stop them, or all the women and children will die."

What happened next was not what Azhar had expected. One minute Aiwendil was standing next to Rôg, and the next minute he was gone. In his place was a
shaggy wild boar , weighing at least two hundred and fifty pounds and sporting two pairs of curving tusks, one on top of the other. The boar swung his tail, pawed viciously at the soil, ground together his tusks and gave a loud snort, taking aim at the horseman who was running just ahead.

[Folwren]

Athwen worked as quickly as she possibly could under the circumstances. Azhar helped where she could, and even with the girl knowing nothing, she was still able to save Athwen a great deal of time and energy. But it wasn’t enough time nor enough energy. She felt her strength lagging and there were still so many to tend to. It was then that she asked Azhar to go fetch help. She must have help or men would die.

Azhar hurried away in obedience of Athwen’s request. Athwen heaved a sigh and brushed a stray strand of hair from her eyes. Her fingers left a streak of blood on her forehead over her right eye. She turned to the next patient.

Patient? Athwen grimaced to herself as she set to work on the wounded man. This was like no set of patients she had ever known. Never had there been one after another of cases wherein the patient was half dead. Of course, not all of these men were half dead – there were some cases of broken bones, slashed arms, or knocked heads – but there was a great deal of blood. Even Athwen, with her hardened nerves to such things, had found herself a few times that day shuddering at the sight of some twisted mess of blood, bone, and ligament.

Sometimes she could not save the victim, and she knew it. These were the most difficult to tend to. She hated to leave them in their misery, but what else could she do? To ease their pain would mean spending precious material on a hopeless cause. She didn’t know what to do with them and she longed to ask Dorran what a surgeon on the field of battle would do.

After a time, Athwen began to think that Azhar and the midwife were long in coming. She finished binding a wound and stood up to look out towards the fighting. What happened out there, she wondered? Where were all of her friends? She hoped that they were safe, and at the same time, she hoped that they were killing the slavers.

“Interesting, Athwen,” she told herself, turning with a sigh towards her work. “You, who are here to save lives, hoping that others are destroyed.” It never struck her that she should think it strange that she, being so exhausted and working, should still have time to consider her own thinking.

[Folwren]

Kwell felt drained of all strength by the time the last living slaver took to his heels. The world was dim, but not as dark as it had been when night first fell. The clouds that had covered the stars were slowly being torn apart and were sliding quietly away in tatters and shreds. The wind below had dropped and the sand and dirt stayed in its rightful place - on the ground. Kwell drew a deep breath - the first in seemed since that morning - and slumped down on a rock.

He was not allowed to sit thus for long. Someone passing soon urged him to his feet and he was given a bucket to go fetch water for the healer. He was kept busy for a while, with other random and small tasks. Soon, the only duties left to be done were gathering the dead, helping with the wounded, or searching and bringing back whatever wood or brush they could find. Kwell set out with some others and began to search for dead bracken, bushes, or trees.

During this simple bit of work, though his hands were busy with the wood, his mind was free to roam. The territory it walked over was not kind to him. His thoughts were darkened with guilt and self-loathing. He could not help but think that at least some of the deaths among the women and children might have been prevented if he had been there.

He came back to the place of the battle and as he laid his load of fuel, he looked at the dead that had already been gathered near. Lindir was there now, setting the limp body of a child down. Kwell looked at the little boy’s face and then slowly lifted his eyes to the elf’s. Lindir was not looking at him. Kwell thought he might not even be aware of his presence. The two of them were fairly alone - the others worked at a small distance. Kwell wanted to speak to him. He had to approach him, he had to apologize, and above all, he must know what Lindir thought now. Kwell was more ashamed now than he ever had been before. Ashamed and not a little apprehensive of what the elf might do when addressed. But Kwell must speak, he must.

He slowly came about the pile of wood. His feet moved slowly and uncertainly, his heart thumping loudly in his chest. Lindir did not turn or make a movement or sign of being aware of him until Kwell was just a few feet away. Then he turned his head and looked down at the boy.

Kwell stopped his feet abruptly, shut his half open lips and looked back at the elf’s eyes. “Sir,” he finally managed to bring himself to say. “I am. . .I am sorry for leaving the glade. You told me to stay and. . .” he looked down towards the ground as he felt his heart sinking. “I didn’t stay. I went down to try to meet the battle down at the camp.” He was too miserable to try to say anything else and he shut his mouth and waited with his head bowed.

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Kwell? That is your name, I think." The boy's sense of guilt and shame was written clearly on his face. "At first I wondered where you'd gotten to. Then I saw you fighting beside the trench but it was not the time to speak. Ah. lad.....how do I put this?" Lindir stopped for a moment and turned away from the boy, staring at the great byre on which the bodies were laid. He continued staring at the byre as he talked, "You are a lad caught up in things that should not be: things that are hard even for a full grown man or Elf to deal with. No, you should not have left without speaking to me or at least to Aiwendil, who was in charge of defending the grove. If you had explained what you wanted to do, I would have thought hard on your words and very likely agreed. That way, I would have known where you'd gotten to. A man fights best where his heart lies but it is also important that those in charge know where their people are."

He turned from the byre and gazed down at the boy. "The important thing is that you are alive and well and did everything possible you could. No one could fault your conduct in battle. Others have mentioned to me that they were amazed anyone so young could fight like a grown man. Next time, just ask. I wish I could tell you there would be no "next time" but I can not.

"We all regret some of our decisions....things we wish we could change. When I look at what happened in this grove, I wonder if we should have told the women and children to march out last night from this place so they would have been far away when the fighting occurred. Or we might have sent more men out on the plain for a surprise attack on the slavers before they ever got to the camp. Questions like those are eating away at me. If anyone bears responsibility for what happened here, it is not you, Kwell, but those in charge."

Lindir put his hand on Kwell's shoulder before going on, "You will never forget what happened here. No man or elf forgets his first battle. But when you think on these things, also remember this. No battle is completely "good", even with victory. Victory can not bring back those who died. Their loss pulls at the heart no matter whether you are the one in charge or not. I too wonder if I should have done some things differently. But I am only an elf, not one of the powers on high who understands the music. So the only thing left for us to do is go on and live our lives in a way that brings some meaning to their loss. I do not know if you or I could have prevented deaths by doing anything differently. But I am very sure this battle was worth fighting, even if the price was high."

"Kwell, you are young. Decide differently next time. But do not let your grieving stop you from doing something even more important.....learning how to live with your mistakes, if mistakes they be, and going on from there. I am afraid both of us have spent too much time dwelling on things set in stone and not enough time thinking about what we can and must do next. What say you, boy? Will you help me out? Run through the camp and deliver a message to each of those who can make it to the spot where the central campfire burned last night. We must decide what to do next if we are to keep this group safe and go forward to the north. Looking on the ruins of battle can only tear at a man's heart. We must begin thinking about tomorrow....."

************

Folwren's post for Kwell


The elf was gentle in his reply. Kwell had expected anything – anything except this response. The elf seemed to understand, and where he could not understand, he forgave. At first, even Lindir’s gentle words could not clear away the shame and regret Kwell felt. But as he went on, Kwell’s head began to lift a little more, and he felt he could look Lindir in the face.

Kwell promised himself that next time (for Lindir thought there must be another time), he would do better. He must do better, for he felt he had to deserve this elf’s trust and his forgiveness. He didn’t deserve them now. He had never done anything to deserve any such kindness, and the thought made his head droop again.
" If anyone bears responsibility for what happened here, it is not you, Kwell, but those in charge." It was not the deaths Kwell mourned, though. He knew so few people. It was own guilt. Yet, maybe Lindir knew that. Kwell felt Lindir’s hand rest on his shoulder. "You will never forget what happened here."

It was then that the tears first entered Kwell’s eyes. He swallowed, but for some reason, he did not feel the usual anger at crying like a maid. There were reasons to cry now. Forget what happened? The images of his companions who had died, and even of the men he had killed, rose before his mind’s eye, even his physical eyes were blurred beyond vision. He listened in silence to the rest of what Lindir said.

“I am afraid both of us have spent too much time dwelling on the thing set in stone and not enough time thinking about what we can and must do next. What say you boy? Will you help me?” Kwell’s head began to come up once more. “Run through camp and deliver a message to each of those who can make it to the spot where the central campfire burned last night. We must decide what to do next if we are going to keep this group safe and go forward to the north. Looking on the ruins of battle can only tear at a man’s heart. We must begin thinking about tomorrow.”

Kwell reached forward impulsively and grasped the elf’s hands. “Yes. Yes, I will, sir! Thank you, thank you so much!” He could say no more. His voice choked, and he let go of Lindir’s hand as he turned to rush away and take his message to every able man and woman.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Once the immediate threat of the slavers' was dispersed, the heavy cost of the battle made itself keenly felt, and Carl walked about the camp stunned by what he saw, as all were trying to recover a sense of equanimity. He searched for his friends only to find them missing, or injured. So few were unscathed. But most distressing it was to learn that Vŕor had spent the initial assault buried in the tunnel, while he himself had stood just a few yards away, absorbed as he was in leading his handful of archers. Oh how his mind fixed on the fact, as so many regrets rose to his mind while his thoughts drifted.

But when Lindir spied the hobbit's aimless meandering, for Dirand had by now left him to look after his own friends, the elf had quickly set Carl to work with the others who could still heave and carry. Together they gathered all the dead, along with the shields and weapons they found strewn about the camp. And a morbid debate quickly broke out over whether they should distribute the such items as the dead slavers' boots or tunics. The hobbit shuttered, shying away from speaking his thoughts on the matter. And he quickly left, seeing the young man in whose care he had left his pony Stumps. But the dark haired fellow could not look the hobbit in the eye, for he had lost track of the animal through no fault of his own. And the sad tale soon spilled from him. Very early on in the battle, the confusion proved too much for the docile natured beast, and he had been so nervous that the man admitted, he could not afford to ride him, and so had dismounted. Terrified Stumps, once free of his burden had fled toward the east.

Carl closed his eyes and hung his head for a moment, before lifting them again to meet the young man's apologies. Quickly dismissing the former slave's acceptance of responsibility, the hobbit declared it his own fault. He should have reckoned on the old farm horse not taking well to battle. Frankly, he felt as if Stumps was not the only representative of the Shire to be of that disposition today. Walking slowly back to were the pyres now blazed in the dim light of dawn, he stood watching the flames, as he fingered the stone in his pocket. He should never have assumed any of them would have been safe. Taking out his replica of the old woman's stone, he looked at it, his heart brimming with bitter sorrow. Just then he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“What are you doing with one of Brenna's stones?” Dirand asked gently.

“I don't know anything anymore” Carl answered. And moving forward he laid the stone that he had made when sitting beside a cheerier blaze, in the embers at the base of the pyre before turning to his new friend again. “I had hoped that I could have learned about her and why she made such a stones. Any chance that you know why she did?”

“No, not really,” the old man mused, shaking his head. “Perhaps out of some sadness?”

Carl nodded mutely, and after a moment he spoke again, “You were good Dirand, to try to help those children even when the bones of your arm had gone so awry.”

“Nay Carl. I'm not so good. And is any one of us, when it comes down to it? After all who as else is there to look after me in my old age, but those self same children.” And as the hobbit stared up at him in disbelief, Dirand's sober expression bloomed into a mischievous smile, and he winked at the farmer.

Carl smiled weakly. “I think you are a far site kinder than you pretend to be, Dirand. And you'd make someone a good gaffer some day, though I have my suspicions you'd act all unwilling at the start! You're as soft as a downy chick, you are!”

"Well, you can think what you like about me, today. But don't say I haven't be straight forward with you. And if you think that I'm all that soft, then I think you the most simple soul I have met in a long while. No offence, mind. It is a good thing, by all acounts."

[Regin Hardhammer]

"Yes, I've seen it. I have eyes in my head. But how is this my fault? Am I the one who is making them act like fools? I told them to come up to the camp for a drop of brew, not to drink themselves into the ground. I've had my share of ale but I know when to stop. As for the women, how should I know where they are? What do you expect me to be.....a nursemaid?"

Ishkur glowered at Makdush but neither orc nor Uruk drew out their weapon. There was silence in the tent. Finally, Ishkur grunted and spoke, "Makdush, I don't know what you are going to do. But Gwerr and I were leaving. Neither of us wants to be here after the men return." Ishkur threw a warning glance at Gwerr hoping that he wouldn't open his mouth and blab that they had never even talked about that. "Now, if you'll get out of the way, Uruk, I have to mount my horse."

Ishkur turned to his friend. "Gwerr, if you like, we can ride double. Let's head back to camp. As to you," Ishkur glared at Makdush. "Do what you want. Stay or leave. Just stay clear." Ishkur flashed a look over at Makdush that was halfway between a grin and a grimace "And don't forget. Right now there's two of us and just one of you!"

With that, Makdush backed out of the tent.

[Durelin]

Vrór

It was tugging at him. Something was tugging at him, pulling him back toward the surface. He crashed through another layer of thin glass, sending ripples throughout his body, jolting reminders of living, breathing, and bleeding. Breaking through the next layer brought awareness of extreme pain, and he found himself trying to claw his way down to no avail. Luckily a veil of numbness fell with the next layer, and then the rest of the senses began falling into place. The ground was gritty. He could hear again, and he heard so much painful groaning that he was almost afraid to open his eyes, when a million blurs slowly began to focus. Colours poured in until there was a starry sky above him, and greens and browns flooded the peripheral.

Vrór realized that his mouth was open, and the groans were his. He quickly shut his lips, and ground his teeth together to keep himself silent as he adjusted his mind to this rediscovered awareness of his body, and all the aches and pains that went with it. His breath huffed and puffed out of him, and next he tried to regulate it. But his heart was beating, blood was pumping, air moved in and out of him, so his mind could move on to the more complex parts of his consciousness.

Why in Middle-earth does my head hurt so bloody badly? he wondered.

Khamir and Adnan

When the young boy Kwell delivered the message that Lindir called for the able-bodied men, to bring them together for planning, Adnan immediately began to rise. Khamir laughed, and reached out to place a hand on the boy’s chest, pushing him softly back down. It still did not take much force; the younger man was clearly still quite weak.

“You may be all patched up as best as you can be,” the one-armed man told his young friend, “but you’ve lost a lot of blood. Moving around is going to push your recovery back even further.”

Adnan let out a frustrated growl, and Khamir grinned at him. “With that spirit, as long as you resist any foolishness, you’ll be back to fighting the baddies again in no time.” The older Southron was still a little surprised at how optimistic he could be, and how playful, but it had become clear to him that Adnan was bringing out a lot of qualities in him that he stubbornly admitted he liked.

‘Taking care’ of the young man was good for him, and kept his mind off of his own pain, physical and otherwise. The boy was living and breathing, and regardless of how he appeared, fairly happy. Others were not so…lucky? Was it really just that Reagonn and Zaki and Tareef and so many others were unlucky? They were sacrifices, he decided. It sounded cold, but it meant much to him.

Sacrificing for others was something he was never good at. It had always been most important to him that he live. It was his life, and it was all he had, and…it was his. But now he realized that because it was his it was also his to give. Perhaps Reagonn and the others had not planned or wanted to give their lives, but they had all chosen to risk them. That was sacrifice. Not anything glamorous or extravagant, not even a deep emotional decision to make.

Maybe it was just…for a moment you forgot – it was a moment of insanity.

Khamir had not thought of his life only because he did not have time to, with all the other faces that filled his head and his heart with concern. And looking at Adnan, battered but alive, he could smile, he could even feel proud. They had accomplished much this night. And it was not quite over. Khamir slowly rose, keeping his teeth clenched to not let a sound out.

“What about you?” Adnan demanded angrily.

The one-armed Southron placed his hand on the boy’s head and ruffled his hair. Adnan sneered. “I’m bigger than you still,” he said teasingly, “I have more blood.” With teeth clenched he limped over toward Lindir where the others were beginning to gather. It made little sense to Adnan, but he was for once not in the mood to argue much. He about pounded at the ground with his fist, but luckily stopped himself before using his…partial hand, as he thought of it. He looked down at the bandaged mass, and marveled at how he could not feel that anything was missing. Of course, he could not feel much of anything at all.

When he heard some very low, gruff grunts and groans from nearby, Adnan pushed himself up further as best he could to look around. He noticed a large object moving beneath a blanket, and soon recognized from the greying orange hair that it was the very short…man, or whatever he was, named Vrór, who he had helped carry to safety. Was he awake? Did that mean he was going to be alright? His heart jumped as his eyes darted around. Had anyone else noticed? What if the small man needed help, needed water, or…

“Athwen!” he called, “Miss Athwen! Somebody! It’s Vrór!” Hopefully the healer had time to see him, at least, to make sure he did not need anything immediately, whatever that anything might be.

[Child of the 7th Age]

A small brown thrush, a bird rarely seen in Mordor, angled his way across the heavens, heading back towards the camp where his journey had begun. Aiwendil was so intent on rejoining his companions that he almost missed the handful of riders approaching from the west. They had been riding hard but were now stopped for a moment of rest. Curious about the men, the thrush flew in that direction and flitted down to perch on a nearby crag of tumbled boulders. The cliffs rose straight up from the plains and totally encircled the land, making a kind of small canyon where travelers could take shelter from the wind and weather. Aiwendil was close enough to hear the men and see what they were doing. He immediately recognized them as the last bedraggled remnant of the once proud band that had attacked their camp earlier that day. The istar let out a sigh. If these were the final men left alive, as they appeared to be, then his companions had prevailed, and the people were safe.

The riders were arguing among themselves; one stood up and drew out a dagger waving it menacingly in the other’s face. They had decided to go back and retrieve their belongings but there was more than that at stake. Aiwendil caught snatches of heated conversation about a chest stored in the captain’s tent reputed to contain many gold and silver coins. Even in these outlying parts, gold had real value, and a stash of money would make a wonderful resource to help fund the settlement on the Plains of Gorgoroth.

Aiwendil considered what to do. He did not want these men to continue on and remove the chest before Lindir made it over with the scouts. Yet the istar was bone weary. He had risen at dawn and spent the past seven hours in the midst of battle and giving chase over the plain. Home in Valinor, Aiwendil could switch from thrush to lion and even to giant eagle in the merest flash of an eye. But here, inside the bounds of Middle-earth, things were not so easy. His incarnate shape, that of an older man, was subject to the same pains and weariness as any other mortal. In order to chase off the slavers, he would have to appear as a large and threatening animal, something he could not presently do. It was not a lack of will or knowledge. He simply did not have the energy required for such a task.

He tilted his head to one side and tried to think, but, whether it was the limitations of the small thrush brain or the simple weariness from which the istar suffered, no good ideas came to mind. He was almost ready to admit defeat when he felt the vibrations throb beneath the rocks. He listened and caught the same ominous noise that he had heard before when the great hunters had passed him by. This time, however, the sound was amplified a hundredfold, as if an army of a thousand men was on the move and heading in their direction.

From that point on everything happened very quickly. The small bird fluttered his wings and flew as high as he could go. A band of trolls was approaching the spot where the men were now deep in conversation. This was no small hunting party but an organized army that was racing forward in tight formation. Finally awake to their danger, the slavers scattered in panic and tried to scramble on their horses, but were not quick enough to escape the stone soldiers who rushed forward with pikes and axes. The slaughter took only a few moments and was far more devastating in its ferocity than anything Aiwendil had witnessed earlier in the grove.

As the last ounce of his strength receded, the small bird plummeted back to earth and landed in a soft heap of feathers. One moment there was a thrush, the next an old man rubbing his eyes, struggling to rise. Aiwendil was trapped inside his body. Too weary to take on any other form, he ran and hid beneath the overhang of the rock cliffs. The army of trolls ground to a halt while the leader barked out orders in the black tongue. Aiwendil peered warily from behind his enclosure. To his dismay and puzzlement, the group was setting up camp. He wondered why they did not travel at night as was customary for their kind. Then he remembered. These were no ordinary trolls but olog-hai, completely immune to the hot rays of the sun. Apparently, they had decided to sleep through the night and continue on the next morning. With a groan, the old man buried his head in his hands. He was trapped within the canyon with no way to get out until the brutes resumed their journey. He sank down defeated on the ground.

_______________

[Folwren]

Athwen and Dorran were still speaking quietly together when Athwen heard a call from one of her patients. “Athwen! Mistress Athwen! Somebody! It’s Vrór!”

“Vror,” Athwen whispered, looking up. She glanced down at Dorran. “I’ll be back when I can. I’ve been hoping he’d wake up.” Dorran nodded and Athwen quickly got up and moved towards the dwarf and Adnan, who sat near him. The young man looked up at her as she came, looking anxious and excited.

“I heard him groaning or something and he moved,” Adnan said.

Athwen gave him a smile and met his eyes briefly before kneeling beside Vrór. “Vrór?” The dwarf was silent, but there was a pinched and contained look on his face. He just might be half conscience... “Vrór?” she said again.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

When Carl walked up to him, Lindir appeared as though he was looking past him, so lost in thought he was. And honestly Carl marveled at how the elf was able to keep his mind clear, getting everyone organized despite all that had befallen them. Those eyes must have seen a good deal of this before, if what he'd heard about elves was true, Yet Carl smiled to think that they overlooked the hobbit in front of them. Clearing his throat, he shifted his weight.

“Ah, Carl,” Lindir said without looking at him. It took only a moment for the hobbit's weary brain to realize it had been ridiculous of him to think Lindir hadn't noticed. To be sure he noticed. He was an elf after all, even though he really didn't seem the same sort of elf Sam had gone on about. He didn't seem the sort to sing. But just as Carl's mind was beginning to ramble off into those curious corners it frequented when he was most tired, Lindir brought him round again. “How is that arm of yours doing?”

The hobbit looked down at the dried blood that streaked his arm, and grasped it lightly with the other. “It stings a bit, not too bad though, but that is what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“About your arm?” Lindir asked.

“No, not really. I'm not hurt bad you know? Like a lot of these folk here are. And I'm no good at sitting around fussing with bandages, mopping foreheads and what not, when there are provisions out there to be got that might make them feel easier.” The elf nodded as he listened to Carl. “What I mean is,” the hobbit began again, trying to be more direct, “I'd like to go with you to the slaver's camp. I can heft a stack of corn as good as the next man, and this scratch won't keep me from it.”

“Yes, but it seems you have lost your pony. Would you be willing to ride the slaver's horse into the camp when it is quite likely slavers might greet us there?” the elf ventured.

“I'd much rather have Stumps and that's the truth, and I hope the poor beast is found, for Mordor's a foul place to wander off. But until then, I must ride the slaver's horse, for good or bad.”

“Ah right then, we'll have one more to ride out with us!”

“Thank you, Sir! I just want to keep busy, if you know what I mean. Thinking too much, just sitting here like this.”

“Yes, I do,” Lindir replied, “though we might require you to think as well. But in the mean time, we need more hands to help carry food to those who can't get it for themselves.”

“Aye Sir, I'll see to it,” Carl said, relieved that he was to set out again soon.

[Durelin]

His mind was prepared to slip back into the empty darkness when one sound broke through a myriad of noises, muddled together and distant, and emerged clear and focused in his ears. Vrór recognized it as a voice, and though he did not really hear what it actually said, he associated himself with the sound. Something was calling to him, and his vision slid back into focus.

Awareness came crashing down on him, and he blinked. He knew that voice… Vrór… She was calling his name…Athwen.

“Athwen,” he tried the name on his lips, but it came out a muddled “Ah-win.”

“He is awake,” came another voice, male, but young. Vrór could not place that one, not yet. Maybe with time…with time…now he had to rest….

“Vrór.”

The Dwarf’s tired and ragged body and mind wanted him to fall back into a long sleep, but as he was snapped back and reminded of the pain in his body that came along with the rest of his awareness, his mind was forced to cling to reality. He groaned. Reality hurt.

Why did it hurt so bad; why did he hurt so bad? His memory flashed back to the tunnel, and soon he found it difficult to focus. There was not much there to remember. He had been checking it, to make sure it would work, make final adjustments, because it could not fail…

“Did it work?” Vrór asked, with considerable urgency, particularly for how weak his breath and voice still was, naturally expecting fully that Athwen would know exactly what he was talking about.

[Folwren]

Vrór’s head moved slightly and Athwen saw his eyelids flutter. His lips opened, and weakly, a sound came out. “Ah-wen.” She smiled a little and pressed her hand against his hot forehead.

“He is awake!” Adnan cried from behind her. The smile slowly left her face, though. Now that he was awake, the dwarf was clearly in pain. His whole body seemed rigid and his face didn’t relax, nor did the tightness in his jaw. He strained to open his eyes - Athwen saw the grey of his irises - but then shut them again quickly.

“Did it work?” he asked suddenly. Athwen’s hands paused in the air. Her eyebrows drew slightly together. Then they relaxed and her lips twitched a little at the corners.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, it worked perfectly, Vrór,” with the utmost gentleness. Perhaps it hadn’t stopped all of the slavers, but it had done its job as best it could. “You did a good job. What were you doing under there? Never mind,” she added quickly. “Vrór, are you in pain? What can I do to help?”

[Durelin]

“Yes, it worked perfectly, Vrór…”

Vrór was so pleased to hear those words that he almost forgot his pain for a moment, and the corners of his lips twitched up slightly into a semblance of a smile. It had worked, and they had won, as he knew they would. He had known it… He tried to focus on the rest of Athwen’s words, though he found himself imagining the rumbling in his ears that he remembered as one of the last sounds before…

“Vrór, are you in pain? What can I do to help?”

Pain, yes…the real aching came mostly from his left arm, though most of his body felt sore. It felt like he had been beaten, though he knew that was not right. He tried moving his left arm, but found himself wincing in pain when he attempted to pull it up at all. His upper arm, maybe his shoulder, was on fire. Vrór then tried to move his other arm, and with a little more force than he knew typically necessary, it rose from the ground an inch or two without much difficulty.

“My arm…left one…it’s probably broken somewhere,” he muttered, “the upper part and shoulder really hurts.” He sounded very curt, as for some reason talking just did not feel good, and he was unsure why. He felt disoriented, staring up at the dark sky. But the stars…oh, the stars…they were so beautiful…the stars even in Mordor were so beautiful…

Vrór found it a little difficult to focus again, like when he was imagining the rumbling in his ears that he remembered as one of the last sounds before…the tunnel had caved in. The tunnel had worked, hadn’t it! The tunnel trap had worked, right?

“Did the tunnel work?” he asked Athwen fervently.

[Folwren]

He asked again if the tunnel worked. Perhaps he thought she hadn’t understood. A shadow crossed Athwen’s face. Her hands had immediately flown to his tunic to see if she could get to the left arm, but her fingers froze as her eyes darted again to Vrór’s face.

“Yes, Vrór, yes. The tunnel worked just fine. I told you just now, you know.” She couldn’t get the tunic loose enough, so she reached for her knife and carefully went at the shoulder seem. “The slavers on their horses followed me right up to it and when I stopped my horse, they went right on and down they went, plunging right into it.” She opened the seam and realized that she had another difficulty. His mail hauberk lay between her and the damaged arm.

“Vrór. Do you think you can get up and let me help you take this off?”

[Durelin]

“Yes, Vrór, yes. The tunnel worked just fine.”

The Dwarf smiled. Just fine. All his work had indeed paid off, and the battle had…well, it must have gone well if he was alive, Athwen alive, and… Who else? The smile disappeared. He had not even thought of everyone’s safety yet! Where was his mind? Only on himself? Well, on his work, anyway… Vrór opened his mouth, trying to form a question on his lips, to voice his concern and affirm his hope, but Athwen continued.

“I told you just now, you know.”

Vrór’s lips remained parted for a moment, and his brow furrowed in both confusion and worry. He wanted to ask if she was sure, but he knew that made no sense. The Dwarf was a very practical person; it was foolish to think for a moment that a young woman wouldn’t know whether or not she said something.

But…he hadn’t known…he hadn’t heard, or…something. She was not more than a couple feet from him! How could he not have heard? Vrór tried to remember what she had said just before he asked about the tunnel, but he just felt like he was getting more and more lost in a fog.

“Do you think you can get up and let me help you take this off?”

Still wondering about this “fog,” the Dwarf did not take this as a question but rather a command, and started to try and rise before he even considered whether or not he could. Using the arm he could move, he planted his hand on the ground, and began pushing himself up, his arm trembling as he did so. He felt Athwen’s strong helping hands on him. The firmness of her touch allowed him to look at her with clearer eyes.

“Thank you, Athwen,” he said, “A hundred, thousand times thanks.”

With the woman’s help, Vrór very quickly was sitting up, though some of his dizziness returned so that he desired to fall back again and shut his eyes. Something caught the Dwarf’s eye, even through the haze, and suddenly a young man, one of the slaves – or former slaves, rather – was beside him.

“Do you mind, sir,” the boy began a little hesitantly, “if I help you stay up? I mean…you’ve got to need it after that…” he trailed off.

“Thank you,” Vrór said, sounding a little breathless. It was much harder work than it should have been to keep his torso up. He definitely needed the young man’s support from behind, and could hardly argue with any help he was given, from anyone.

Soon his mail hauberk was removed, and he felt considerably more freedom of movement. He winced and had to grind his teeth together to keep from crying out, as it had been impossible to remove the garment without jostling and moving his bad arm a bit.

When the hard work, at least for Vrór, was over, he glanced around, and seeing some familiar faces he tried to remember what it was he wanted to ask Athwen. Then he was lowered back down, and he really felt the memory escape him. The young man sat next to him again, and the Dwarf searched his face looking for some sort of reminder. Soon he returned to his confusion surrounding his question about the tunnel, though he did not know what it had to do with the boy, and he frowned.

“Athwen,” he began quietly – subdued, “Did I ask you about the tunnel before, too?”

[Nogrod]

Ishkur flashed a look over at Makdush that was halfway between a grin and a grimace "And don't forget. Right now there's two of us and just one of you!"

With that, Makdush backed out of the tent.

Gwerr remained silent until he was certain that Makdush was far enough. "Okay you sparrow-brain! I hope you were not actually thinking what you just said about leaving."

"We had to get him out from sneakin' around somehow, you know that well enough!" Ishkur snapped back. But it seemed Gwerr was not listening.

"I know that my fool. But did your tiny little brain just tell you that we'd leave? What if the slavers come back? We can't leave our bloody mates, how witless or drunk they are. Listen to me now! If we two are the only survivors from this we will just become renegades with some money... But the dream we had! We need those others to build a settlement even they'd be lunatics and idiots... maybe we can raise more intelligent folks from their children when the time comes? But now we need them and can't leave them! So come up with solutions better than running away!" Gwerr looked at his mate seriously, challenging him to answer.

"It's one bloody disaster if the slavers come back soon, however concerned you choose to be about it", Ishkur replied sharply to his friend's outburst.

Gwerr let off the reins he had picked while Ishkur had been challenging the Uruk and lowered his head shooking it slowly.

"You're right my friend", he mumbled and then lifted his head to meet the gaze of his mate yet again. Suddenly a grin flashed on his face. "Think about it, Colagar fighting anyone right now..." He laughed and Ishkur laughed too. But it was a tense laughter to ward off the ghosts from their troubled minds.

Gwerr took hold of Ishkur's shoulder and started towards the ale-barrell dragging the not so reluctant Ishkur with him. "Fate stuff...", he said as they reached the barrell. "If they come, they come. And there's nothing we can do about it. You're right. So let's just hope the slavers won't come back until the sun has awaken those idiots and forced them to get back to the shadows." Gwerr picked Ishkur's goblet from the floor and filled it from the barrell. "I think this is a better place to wait for our fortunes than getting out anyhow". With that he handed the goblet to Ishkur and reached for his own.

"You ever been in a weak flank of an army?" Ishkur asked thoughtfully as he had taken a sip from the beer. Gwerr was filling his goblet but froze with the question. He nodded slowly. The memories were running through his mind forcing him back to that day of blood, sweat and tears.

But Gwerr recollected himself for a moment. "Yeah, the same feeling it is. If the enemy general has decided in advance that he will go for a breach on your side and then the cavalry attacks that weak flank... Well, there's nothing else to do than trying to stay alive then... It kind of redeals the future for you... But you can always hope beforehand that it doesn't happen."

Gwerr was still immobilised, stuck in those painful memories filling his mind. After a while Ishkur broke the silence. "So you were there then? At that grievous day? On the right flank?" Gwerr nodded lightly but remained silent, his head bowed down.

Now it was Ishkur's turn to grab his mate from the shoulder. "You're alive still my friend... I was in the center falangs that day but I heard about what happened and it made me feel sick and pained." Gwerr trembled a little but yet pulled himself together. He filled his goblet and turned towards his friend. "It was horrible... we were plain butchered there."

[Folwren]

The hauberk came off and Athwen, with Adnan’s help, gently helped the dwarf lay back. She smiled at Adnan, thanking him silently, and then her hands went to the dwarf’s arm again. She glanced up at the dwarf’s face now and again, wondering what he searched for as his eyes moved about.

Yes...that arm was broken, and his shoulder was badly dislocated. Something probably fell on him. She would have to set it, wrap the shoulder and splint the arm. A painful operation for Vrór. She had better set right to it.

“Athwen,” Vrór said quietly, stopping her abruptly. She looked at him quickly. “Did I ask you about the tunnel before, too?”

What was it that plagued him about that tunnel? She reached across him and took the hand of his uninjured harm and pressed it reassuringly. But she paused to reply. What was wrong? “Yes, you did. You asked me about it twice, but that’s alright, Vrór. You’ll be fine. Now wait here. I need to get somethings.”

She got up before he could answer and walked briskly away. She would need bandage and something to work as a splint. She would need help, too.

In a little while, she found someone to give her a helping hand, and she also hunted up a flat piece of wood nearly four inches broad. “It will have to do,” she said with a sigh, tucking it under her arm. She followed her helper back to the grove where Vrór lay waiting for her. There, she prepared her bandages, and checked the wood again. It was smooth and without splinter, worn so by wind and sand. She dusted it carefully and rinsed it with a little water to clean off the bits of sand that clung to it.

When she came again to Vrór’s head, he found the dwarf once more too unconscious to speak or be spoken to. It was better that way, Athwen figured.

With the help of the young man, she set the bone and bound the wood splint close to it Then with the utmost gentleness, for the dwarf had come back to his senses during the short operation, she set the arm in a sling and tied it up around his neck.

“So you don’t move it,” she told him as she bent over him. “No doubt you will move it anyway, if you're like any other man I know, but this will at least keep the movement limited.”

When she was through, she carefully gathered and wound the remaining bandage and tucked it away in her bag. She made Vrór as comfortable as she could and then left him alone so he could sleep and she went back to Dorran.

[Child of the 7th Age]

With the moon high overhead, Makdush had meant to take off from the camp and head back across the plains to the rock strewn cove where they had bedded down for the past few days. The Uruk had expected Ishkur and Gwerr to do the same. To his surprise, that had not happened. The two orcs had stubbornly decided to hang out inside the camp. They showed no signs of leaving, though it was now only a few hours more until the sun would rise.

Somehow Makdush could not bring himself to head out on his own. He kept his distance from Ishkur and Gwerr and sat by himself at the central campfire, occasionally peering over in their direction. This was more from curiosity than any feelings of anger or hostility. He had also kept away from the other Uruk-hai. He had even thought of hunting out a few of the women to find out what was going on with them. But the females and younger orcs were nowhere to be seen. He hoped they had not totally disappeared. Sometime after midnight, a few more horses had come straggling back into camp and Makdush had managed to snag one of these for his own. The horse was a rather ungainly creature, stocky and battlescarred, lacking the grace and power of Ishkur's mount. But at least the creature provided him with a way of getting around. The horse was brown in color with a thick black mane and tale daubed with mud and dirt. The Uruk had started calling him 'Grunge'.

Makdush still could not shake the feeling that someone would be coming back to the slavers' camp sometime later that day. He decided to go out and have a look. Mounting up on Grunge, he kicked the horse in the flanks and sent him galloping out of camp. He rode off in a westerly direction while keeping a sharp eye on the distant horizon.

**********************

Lindir

Lindir rubbed his eyes, stretched, and sat up in his bedroll. They had talked about leaving later in the morning, but several of the riders had expressed a desire to get on the road early, while there was still some cover of darkness. He gulped down a hurried breakfast of spring water and a small square of bread, girded his sword to his side, and quickly made his way to the eastern edge of camp where the riders had gathered and were now mounting up.

Lindir glanced apprehensively around the group. Several of the scouts still looked tired, wearing bandages, favoring an ankle, or rubbing at a nagging injury. Even the horses did not seem to be up to their best. The Elf gazed over at Azhar and Carl who had stopped to talk with each other. Both of them had strained expressions on their face, as if they were in pain or worrying about something. The girl was riding behind Kwell. He hoped the boy had learned his lesson, and there would be no more instances of someone running off without letting anyone know. Now, however, was not a time for lectures. Once Lindir had made sure they were all there, he beckoned with his hand that they should follow his lead. The group trotted out onto the plain, heading slowly but steadily towards the slavers' camp.

[Firefoot]

In the past couple of days, Grask had run a full gamut of emotions – adventurousness, nervousness, curiosity, trepidation, satisfaction – but not until this point had he felt any true fear. His search for the females had been outstandingly unsuccessful; he had not even found a footprint or a bag left behind. To all appearances, they had simply disappeared. Grask wondered if they might have simply up and left, tired of the males’ drinking and lazing about. Up until a little while ago, he could have cared less, but now, with all the males held captive in the pit, it meant he was alone.

Completely, helplessly, alone.

Not to mention wet and miserable.

He had hunkered down beneath a squat thorny tree after his initial failure to locate any of the others, both in hopes of remaining hidden from the men and as at least a token shelter from the rain which had begun to fall steadily a little while ago. The tree was no match for a nice, dry cave however, and before too long Grask felt soaked to the bone and chilly.

Then he had heard what sounded like Orkish voices not too far away and felt a gleam of hope return. Before he could get up to join them, however, he heard more shouts and a commotion in the direction of the camp. After that he heard no more Orc voices or rustling in the bush. He could only guess that Ishkur and his mates had been captured like the rest.

And he could only guess that all the Orcs that had been captured would be killed. He did not know why they simply had not already killed them and had done with it, if that was what they were going to do anyway, and Grask saw no other alternative.

So where did that leave him? Even if he were not found, he would be left on his own out here in the wilderness. He had no idea where he was, and was not even sure of the direction from which they had come. Oh, sure, he could survive out here for a while, but without a larger group he wouldn’t last long.

He might die out here.

He was afraid.

[Folwren]

Azhar had asked for Athwen’s help with the children and Athwen had gratefully agreed. Perhaps the girl knew the way she felt and something in her told her to give the woman a way out. She quietly slipped away from Dorran, ignoring the reluctance with which he let her go.

“Azhar,” Athwen said, her voice somewhat hoarse with the recent overflow of emotion, “go and get the children, they should not watch the execution. I need to check on the wounded.” Her voice trembled towards the end, but it did not break, nor did more tears come to her eyes. She turned away and went to her charges. She made her passes and when she was satisfied that they were as comfortable as possible, she went out again to meet Azhar.

The girl had with her five children, all younger than eight. Athwen summoned up a small smile to give them before asking, “Is this all of them?”

“Three more are sleeping over there,” Azhar pointed. “And Kwell didn’t want to come. He wants to watch the executions.” Her voice was bitter and Athwen sympathized with her feelings.

“Kwell is just a boy,” she said quietly.

“That doesn’t mean he’s not just as responsible as any of the men,” Azhar said sharply. Athwen blinked and made no reply.

“Come,” she said instead. “Let’s not speak of it.” She stooped and took two of the children’s hands and led them away around the hill, out of sight of where the orcs were being hauled up from the pit and led to the edge of camp. They circled the slight rise of the land and came behind the embankment, where a few nights ago Carl and Vrór had dug Kwell and Azhar out of the pit. The girl pointed towards the embankment.

“That’s where we got out,” she said, “that night we were rescued from the slavers.”

Athwen nodded. “Let’s go and let the children play on the slope there,” she said. “I will sit and watch.” They did as she instructed and before very long the children were occupying themselves with a game. Athwen sat and for a while she did watch the kids. But slowly her awareness dropped. Her eyes lowered and she sat in silent depression, waiting for some noise from the proceedings of the execution to reach her and dreading it all the while.