East-front by Gwenniel

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Chapter 5

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"We need to keep on moving," Telufinwë said, glancing at me anxiously. "Will you tell them?"

I nodded and gave out commands of keeping on drawing back, but urging everyone to keep the defence. We were now cut from the news of what happened in the west. There had earlier - a long while ago it seemed - been a great sound of trumpets and clamour echoing in the. mountains to the south, but I did not know what it meant. It had not sounded like a horn of the Orcs, but I could not guess what it meant - had Findekáno some unexpected allies on his side? I hoped so and I hoped that it was enough to fight off the Balrogs on the Western field. I also hoped that I would have had some means of communicating with Findekáno - still I knew not why he had set into battle before our arrival, never mind that we had come later than expected.

Now trouble was on our side, too. Macalaurë still had not returned, though I could guess that he had set off to aid Carnistir and Pityafinwë. But unlike Tyelkormo and Curufinwë they had not returned when I called them to pull back.

There was now way we would get to Angband any more, I realized, and saw with anger that I had been a fool to risk open battle to begin with as it had been all in vain. The number of Orcs seemed infinite as every killed Orc was replaced by a new one. And now there were Men, too. Men I had thought I could trust were now slain by my army at my command. The Enemy's power was crunching and it was all out to destroy us. Indeed, our troops were not even half as large as when we set out, and when an Elf was slain he was no longer replaced by another, for his place was left empty and vulnerable for an Orc to shed even more blood.

When I had been a prisoner in Angband Morgoth had boasted with his power. I had spat in his face and he had had me tortured even more. This was the power he had been talking about, I could see now. I wanted to spit in its face, too, but what could I do, one-handed with dwindling army and half my brothers lost?

Then I unexpectedly felt a pain. It was sudden because my hand hadn't hurt the slightest while on the battlefield nor did it now. Yet a suddenly my heart went heavy, my innards felt gutted and a pang of grief overtook my mind - my very fëa had shuddered. Was this a new malice of the Enemy? A sickness that would devour our minds?

Telufinwë by my side gave out a sharp cry. I realized I had almost lost balance from my steed. My brothers gave me looks of concern.

"What is it?" Curufinwë asked. "Do you need medical aid? Have you been poisoned?"

"No...", my explanation would not make sense, but I knew that something was terribly wrong and not just with me, either. I simply knew - I could feel it. Was Macalaurë dead? Had Carnistir been slain by Ulfang? Maybe Pityafinwë... but none of my brothers around me seemed to have felt anything.

"We have to keep moving," Tyelkormo said hoarsely. "The Orcs follow us only so that they can surround us and destroy..." He swallowed and closed his eyes briefly before continuing. "...destroy us and our lands. We should look for a safeguard."

"So we have been defeated?" Telufinwë asked. Curufinwë looked as if he was going to answer, but I knew he could not muster himself to admit the truth, at least not out loud. "Maitimo?"

My head hurt and had I not been on a battlefield I would have almost certainly preferred to lay down. I looked towards the West where my only hopes lay. But now great Balrogs were heading towards Angband - through the air, black shadows as their wings - but also towards East. My hope in the Wast was dead. "Head back!" I shouted. "Head back!"

So we have been defeated.

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A new call on the field had people give way for yet another group of wounded soldiers. As the outlines of the army were desperately fortified as we held back the offensive, the wounded were brought away from the battle so that those who could still be saved would be healed. However, too many of those who were wounded were beyond healing.

But among this new group of wounded warriors were three I recognized all too well. Pityafinwë seemed to be in reasonably good shape, despite his bruises and the bandage around his forehead and behind him was Macalaurë, blood-stained but alive. Then my heart clenched when I realized that the blood on Macalaurë's clothes in fact belonged to the one he held in his arms as they shared Macalaurë's horse. Carnistir looked far too limp as he, with his robes tarnished with dirt and blood, was held tightly against his brother.

"He's not..?" Curufinwë's question was left hanging, but Macalaurë shook his head.

"He's alive," he said, but he didn't sound very reassuring and added: "But he needs treatment at once. I did my best, but we need healers."

"What happened?" I asked when Carnistir's unconscious body was helped down from the horse and a couple of healers that were available quickly started to tend his wounds.

"Ulfang!" Macalaurë snapped, his voice thick with anger and worry. "Ulfang had sworn to serve him and stood right by his side - and then..."

I could guess what had happened. Suddenly Ulfang had turned against my brother who had had no time or chance to suspect anything - or even if he had had, Ulfang would have been too close to him to be stopped. The traitorous Easterling had abandoned all his allegiances to us and joined Morgoth's side. I wondered what he had been promised for bringing the head of a son of Fëanor to Morgoth's throne. Morgoth no doubt would have liked all our heads, but he had nothing but lies to offer in return.

"Ulfang," Pityafinwë spat out the name, "had been allied with the Orcs all along. It was all planned and he himself lead the treachery. His son Uldor had a pike. He attacked Carnistir from behind."

"Is he still alive?" I inquired.

"I slew Uldor myself," Macalaurë said darkly, with no sound of remorse.

Uldor - I remembered him: the youngest of his father's sons, recently come into full manhood. "What about the others?" I asked. The Easterlings were by now all under the command of Orcish leaders, but I wanted to know whether Ulfang or his heirs would get any of what they had been promised - no doubt as lies.

"I believe Ulfang as well as his sons Ulfast and Ulwarth were killed by members of the House of Bór," Pityafinwë said and Macalaurë confirmed his words by a nod.

The first heartening tidings I had heard in a while - at least not all Men had abandoned us. Although I wondered if I could trust a Secondborn ever again, at least not everybody had betrayed us for what empty lies the Enemy had whispered to them.

"Lord Caranthir's wounds are severe," a healer called out to us and my thoughts were interrupted. I walked up to them. Tyelkormo and Curufinwë were already crouching by Carnistir's side, Tyelko brushing aside a healer who would have taken care of his shoulder wound.

Carnistir seemed still to be unconscious, as his lips were slightly parted and his eyes were closed. Indeed, when the healer opened his eyelids, his grey eyes were staring upwards, towards the cut on his forehead, gazing at whatever emptiness his life was spiralling to. The cut on his forehead was nothing, though, a mere laceration at the worst. What the healer was pointing at was a deeper on his chest in spite of the armour he had worn. Macalaurë had earlier stopped the blood from coming, but the healers had changed the bandages and seen the wound.

"We have done the best we could at the moment," the healer continued. "Now we would need to take him further away - a battlefield is no place for the wounded."

They treated the Lord of Thargelion with the utmost care, lifting him on a stretcher. Pityafinwë placed his sword by his side. I looked after him as they hurried away. Evacuating the wounded and the dying was chaotic - those for whom being carried on horses would only have made things worse had to be carried to safety. I had seen Elves and Men who had been so wounded that - if they still could talk - they asked to have the mercy of escaping pain.

Curufinwë came up to me. His expression was dark. He reminded me of what Telufinwë had asked earlier. Have we been defeated? I still had not answered.

"There is a hill on the north-eastern side of what now is known as Taur-nu-Fuin," he said reluctantly. "Its southern side cannot be reached past the hill. "

"You mean we should find a fortification," I concluded for him.

"Only for a brief refuge until we renew our strength. If sought our way there we would have at least have one side left open in case of siege."

"Can we renew our strength, Curufinwë? Can we hold this war much longer?"

"Would you prefer a retreat where the Orcs would but hunt us down later..."

I closed my eyes for a moment and sank into thought. While the first attack of Morgoth had been nothing we hadn't seen before, the second flood had been devastating. The Enemy was ever a step ahead of us. Men we had trusted had turned against us and revealed everything and we were now assailed on three sides and as I looked upon the troops around me I could see many faces missing.

"I ordered for the troops to head back and come to me," I called to the ones around me. "Where are they?"

These were the ones I had left: most of them were my own guards, some of them had followed Curufinwë or Macalaurë. Yet none of them would have answered. The bannermen glanced at each other, the guards shifted until one stepped forward and taking off his helm he bowed his head, but his words were clear: "My king, they have scattered."

"The troops have been broken - many were caught and others fled," another voice said.

So they had fled. Of course I was angry - all our efforts had been in vain. But I could not blame them, either. Too small groups could not survive when caught off from help. But this also meant that those whom I might have taken with me to the hill Curufinwë had mentioned were too few to last there. And Carnistir's condition was severe. In that case...

"We have to return East," I said. "It is better than to perish here."

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My heart could have been trying to escape through my throat for all I knew, because it never slowed down its beating in my chest. We had gone as far as we could at the moment. Then we had had to stop. I had decided that we had put a good enough - considering our circumstances - distance between us and any potential pursuers so that we could afford a break. We desperately needed one, too, as those who were wounded were becoming wearier by the minute. If we intended to return with renewed strength we could not retreat too far away. I knew not whether we'd return, though, as none of us were in very good shape - least of all Carnistir.

The healers had other things to tend to, so Macalaurë sat dressing Carnistir's wounds, changing the red bandages, whispering quietly in attempts of comforting his brother. Macalaurë's face was full of concern, but he worked both with haste and with care. Muffled moans escaped through Carnistir's lips. His wound was taking its toll on him. His fingers moved feebly in attempts of reaching to something he could not find, eventually merely giving up, before Pityafinwë who sat nearby leant over to grasp the limp hand.

Telufinwë's expression was as blank as his face. His eyes still filled with empty terror flickered over from Carnistir to face me. "Where do we go?" he said, his voice dead steady.

"We'll keep on going East," I said. "I am sorry."

"East where?" he asked. "We cannot flee blindly as leaves before the wind. Where is our destination."

"We cannot go too far yet," Tyelkormo said, walking up to us with Curufinwë. He looked at us, idly pressing a bandage against his still wounded shoulder. Curufinwë stood beside him, quiet, his dark eyes fixed on some dot below my knees, but Tyelkormo spoke up: "The further we go... the harder it will be to return. Don't you see? We cannot abandon the battlefield. The enemy is at our heels and soon we will have to turn around to stop them."

I nodded, registering his words. Curufinwë said nothing, Telufinwë huffed. Tyelkormo persisted. "We have to keep on moving. Maitimo, you know it. Moreover, we need to get back out there as soon as possible."

"I know," I said. "But we don't have the forces to rejoin the battle. But whether-"

"Maitimo!" Tyelkormo interrupted me. He had a look of disbelief. "We are going? This war is not won yet."

"Tyelkormo..." Telufinwë began.

"This war," he insisted, "is not over until we have won." He looked at both of us, trying to persuade Curufinwë to be with him on this one as usually. But Curufinwë merely shook his head without a word, so he turned towards me again. "Maitimo, they are still fighting on the Western front, aren't they? What if they win and we won't be there?"

"They won't win."

"Maitimo!" He breathed heavily, his eyes kindled with a sheen I recognized all too well from the eyes of my father. "Maitimo... What if...what if they don't win, then... Findekáno is still there."

He looked at me and I looked back, but I knew he had made a point. My throat tightened again. Findekáno.

"As Maitimo said, we resolve our destination as is our plan. And then we fight back with renewed force." Curufinwë's eyes were dark. "Some fortress will do. When the enemy hunts us down, we will not stand like cowards on a line. We will have the power to trick them."

"Fighting back any more isn't-"

"I cannot believe you would leave Findekáno, out of all people, on the battlefield," Tyelkormo said with a tone of desperation. "Do you even know how he is?"

Tyelkormo is using this to persuade me. He doesn't care the slightest about how Findekáno is, I convinced myself bitterly. He uses this to get me return onto the battlefield and fight a fool's war. The little voice in my head was stubborn, but another tone added: You really were going to leave the battlefield and him on their own. So how is Findekáno? And I could not answer. I could not bear myself to think of the answer.

"I want us back on that field! Now! There are the enemies, there are the traitors, there are the ones we should be fighting!" Tyelkormo's strong voice shook, from anger or from tears and his fingers started unwrapping his bandage. "I want to kill them all-"

Kill them...

"We have to get a fortress to lure them to," Curufinwë insisted, putting a hand on Tyelkormo's shoulder to silence him down. "I am afraid... we are too few."

Too few to help Findekáno...

"We shall prevail! We are sons of Fëanáro. I will tell everyone that we will return to the battlefield as soon-"

"We cannot return." Pityafinwë stood up. His voice clear, he looked at us from behind the red, bloodied locks hanging before his eyes, more defiant than I had seen him, making all of us heed his words. "We cannot fight any more. They have beaten us... too hard. If we return in this state we will all die."

"We won't die. We have such a power -"

"Carnistir," Pityafinwë said loudly, "cannot return in this state."

Tyelkormo fell quiet, his hands hanging by his sides again. He shook his head wearily.

Macalaurë, still kneeling by our wounded brother did not even look up, but his words stung. "He's right. This wound is too severe. We have suffered too much. We have to know how to back away before we lose too much, such as losing..."

Tyelkormo's hands started shaking. "I said we won't die." Had he been one to weep he would have done so, but instead he kicked a stone out of pure anger and misery, groaned and fell down to his knees. Curufinwë's expression, on the other hand, didn't change the slightest. His eyes were just as dark as he spoke:

"We shall seek for a safe place. Will he make it there?"

Macalaurë shrugged weakly. "I hope so," he said, his soft voice breaking halfway.

Curufinwë closed his eyes. "We will find a fortress. And only hope no one follows us. Content, Maitimo?" he asked, looking up at me.

How could I be content? Findekáno was lost somewhere, Carnistir was on the verge of death and everything we had planned for had run down in blood? But at least we would leave the nightmarish battlefield. This was the time for me to protect my brothers. I guessed I was as content as one could be in a situation like this, I thought as I knelt by Carnistir, taking his hand into my own.

He opened his eyes. I wasn't sure whether he was crying or just tired. "Nelyo," he said weakly.

"Let's go home," I said quietly and kissed his forehead.

"Where? Home... to Thargelion?" he whispered.

"Thargelion," I agreed. "Mount Dolmed has not been overrun, has it?"

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We set out as soon as we could. I sent a fast travelling group to ride for Himring and tell them that we were heading for Mount Dolmed, to one of Carnistir's smaller forts, and that they should be prepare themselves to join us there. Maybe later we would return to Himring, but for now the Sons of Fëanor and whoever foolish enough to follow them were doomed to fly from the battle like leaves before the wind, flying down south our forces so much smaller than when we had bravely set forth from Himring. I thought of the lives we had lost in the battlefield and whether Findekáno had been forced to flee as well. I could only guess, but it seemed as if the ultimate force of Morgoth had been too strong for even the High-King's troops to face. I had half wanted to go back - I wanted to do the right thing where we had failed earlier. There were so many things that had gone wrong. The attack, the dragon, Ulfang... Eventually I took my mind of the matter - thinking of Findekáno hurt and the ache in my right wrist had returned. For once the pain was welcome - it distracted me.

All the while we rode no one spoke. The summer landscapes, the green forests and their flowers, moss and fragrances multiplying the further we travelled from Anfauglith, even as the dark cloud on the northern sky remained seemed to mock us in our flight.

Mount Dolmed was nothing like home. And yet it was the only place where we could seek for refuge. It would be a long journey there. Summer would turn to fall, if we moved too slowly. And then indeed we would be like leaves before the wind, runaways without a dwelling.

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Some days after the arrival people who had stayed in Himring - most of them now widows or orphans or just broken-hearted - a small embassy paid us a visit. They were Dwarves from Belegost and I recognised many of them as ones that had stood beside the banners of Azaghál. King Azaghál was dead now, of course, and before they had come to Dolmed they had brought his body to the halls of his Fathers.

"Might you come to the burial," they said. "We are still allies after all, and now no less than before, if you wish to dwell this close to Gabilgathol."

I promised to honour their king who had aided me most valiantly. Indeed it would have been shameful not to be present at the burial of someone who had helped us escape by fighting until his last breath. My brothers and I thanked them and offered them whatever help they might want - and we might offer in our current state - and as some some food was brought in, they continued to tell of the end of the battle. They had followed us into retreat, they said, but they had kept a slower pace because of their King. No one had even dared to attack them and they had heard tidings of what had befallen after the Elves had left. They told that Bór was dead, thinking that I would like to know what had happened to "my last and only trustworthy ally of the kind of Men".

Lastly when all other things of importance had been told, the leader of the company glanced at each of us in turn before standing up solemnly.

"Perchance you already know of this, but - in spite of his brother joining the battle... your High-King is dead."

I did not even blink.

Macalaurë beside me put a hand on mine, but I did not even move. No word had yet come to Dolmed, for so many had died in the battle and the roads were still unsafe. Yet I felt as if I had already known of it, felt it all along, as if this was but a confirmation of the fear that had been growing in my heart ever since I saw the Balrogs leave the western half of the battlefield.

It had taken two - what a cowardly way - to surround the most valiant Elf I would ever know, the kindest friend I would ever love. But at the moment I could not react to the news in any way except for a small nod to show that I had heard them. Because if I had tried to speak I just might have wept.

When the Dwarves had left, a silence took over the hall. Yet another one of the princes of Noldor - once the most prominent and esteemed house of the Eldalië of Valinor - had been taken to the Halls of Mandos. Already the battle, the fifth of those fought in Beleriand, was being referred to as the Battle of Tears Unnumbered according to the prophecy spoken by Mandos. But not an echo of our lamentation would pass over the mountains or be heeded by the Valar. I leant my head into my palms and did not move until a hand touched my shoulder tentatively. It was Tyelkormo.

"I am sorry," he said.

"For me? He was your cousin as well," I replied although I knew he had felt some bitterness ever since Nolofinwë and his line had been created High-King. Now his bitterness would be directed towards Turukáno, the new King. The title has so far done nothing good for anyone who earned it. I have merely given them a curse.

"I know," Tyelkormo replied, "but you and he were ever closer."

He had given me his regrets, but it did not help much unless his intent was to send me further into self pity. Much same with all my brothers. Macalaurë mumbled that I should not blame anything on myself, but how could I not? Curufinwë offered to for a while take over any of my duties I could not fill myself and Carnistir, who now had healed enough to manage by himself without assistance, asked whether I wanted to talk. It was more out of a sense of duty than out of thoughtfulness, I could sense, but I would not have felt like talking anyway. Somehow talking made it harder, because it was an option that did not leave me the alternative of pretending that everything was still as it should. And the only one I could ever talk freely to was the very one whose corpse had now been dragged and lumped on top of a hundred unknown persons and hidden beneath the cold dry dust of the Northern plains. They say it had all been buried; Elves, Men, Dwarves, steeds, Orcs, everything. Under a great mound. They say nothing will ever grow on it, on earth soaked by such bloodshed, torn by such grief. There would never be a day of triumph. No day the when the world would bathe in light or a day Arda would have peace.

How could something that is there no longer hurt so much? Yet, as pain goes away, it is the emptiness in the heart that never will.

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I knew I would never see him again in this life. Bodies get lost on the battlefield, never to be found. That's why we had that great stone on Himring, the one with all the names. It doesn't matter any more, though, not now that we have lost Himring as well. Besides, it would take so many stones to write down all the names of the dead.

But I felt he needed something, anything, some proper memorial that will forever mark that once upon a time there walked on this earth someone braver, someone kinder, someone dearer than anyone could ever be: a person whom none could replace. A new stone to mark the names of the dead.

Father taught me to write on paper. Mother taught me to write in stone. That's what I did. I wrote it on a block of hard, grey stone that shimmered blue in the light of dusk. When I finished my work I stand back to look at it.

I stood there in silence. For a moment I wished it read my name instead. I took out my sword. For a moment I watched its edge glimmer in the dim light and wonder how it would feel to have it pierced through my body. Then I let go of such thoughts and merely placed it on the foot of the stone, as if offering my service to my I would do could every repay what he had done to me. Preferably it would be your own sword that lies by your tomb, but given the circumstances, my own will have to do and I am all willing to give it to you. And so the sword lay beside his grave, but it was not even his grave, because he was not here and would never be. It is a shame. I think he would have liked the view from here, the summit of a hill far in the eastern mountains, the summer wind a dry gust with warmth from the forested lowlands, and when it was lit by the last light of the day it reminded me of that one last night we had sat together in some distant bliss of the past that now seems ages ago, though it was only briefly before we set out to war.

"I worry that something might go wrong after all, and I will not be there to prevent it," I had said and you had replied:

"Do not bear the burden on your shoulders. You, no matter how great you are, no matter how strong a warrior, no matter how best the cousin and friend you are... you are not omnipotent."

Failing to come to your aid is just a proof of that, I presume. And yet, you, my valiant dear friend, have saved my life. Have saved me more times than I could count.

My eyes burn and I close them, but it does not help my throat from being far too numb.

"Well..."

My voice cracks. It is but a couple of months later since we had ridden up the hill in Hithlum.

"...what do you think?"

But the only reply I receive is from the dry wind that kisses my blood-stained hands as autumn rolls in.

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Don't blame thyself for death
My dear, friend, lost in dark
I hope thou'll come to see that
We'll never truly part.

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Chapter End Notes

THE END Thank you for reading!