Left Behind by Himring

Chapter 2

One Easterling woman--barely escaped from a death sentence, two Easterling children--abandoned in the chaos after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.
What to do next and how to survive?

'Follow them? West?'

Ulrica considered. Of course, the children would want to follow, to try and rejoin their families. And maybe, just maybe she would be allowed to live, if her tribe decided she had saved the children and brought them back. Also, maybe her chief tormentors were dead, fallen in battle.

Maybe her chief tormentors were dead. The people had not been offered explanations, Polfast had said, but from the various remarks and jeers it was clear the battle had not gone altogether well for the tribe and none of the war leaders, nobody from the Ul family, had been in evidence. None of them! So maybe Ulwarth and Ulfast were dead. But maybe Uldor was dead, too...

She would not think about him. She had thought about him too much already. The battle was the important thing. 

It had been a big battle, a really big one, and Morgoth had won. Her tribe, whichever side they had fought on, were clearly not in control. Morgoth was--which meant that orcs and trolls--and who knew what else--were freely roaming across Anfauglith all the way into Lothlann. If they tried to follow, they would be heading right into all that, and she doubted that shaky new allegiance of theirs would protect three vulnerable stragglers.

They had lost so much time already, too. If Lorren had just grabbed little Polfast and run straight after, maybe they would have caught up, provided they had managed not to run straight into an orc band. But they had waited for her--and she had recovered enough to walk, but not very fast nor very far. The pain in her head came and went, her bones ached with the strain--and as for her bruises, oh, best not even think about them.

'I think we should go south,' she said.

And maybe she was entirely wrong about that. South, into Thargelion, had been the safest  direction before all this happened. It might no longer be now, when no direction was safe anymore. Maybe they should attempt to climb the mountains instead but the mountains were a danger in themselves, for the three of them.

'South', she said again, trying to sound confident.

She was a no-name nobody, under suspended sentence of death. It should have been Lorren who was in charge. Even little Polfast had more status than her. But in this upheaval that had overthrown the order of all established things in less than a day, they were children clinging to her authority simpy because she was older.

She had expected protest. There was none. She had not actually seen the servants of Morgoth as they drove off the rest of the tribe, but they had terrified Polfast; that was very palpable. There was that.

They went south.

***

'Orcs!' shouted Caranthir, very loudly. 'Green Elves! Easterlings! You would think I could at least be spared any more Easterlings!'

It was really rather interesting, mused Ulrica, that those who feared and distrusted the elves among her tribe tended to call them the "whitefiends", but this particular elf, the one they had called the worst of the whitefiends, actually turned bright red when he was angry--which he reputedly was very often.  He certainly was so now.

Things had been going so well, too, or so she had believed. She had been congratulating herself on having made it so far,  herself and the two children, without being spitted by an arrow or eaten by wolf or orc. Moving slowly and cautiously farther south in order to escape the threat of oncoming  winter, they had with some difficulty managed to ford another river--when the Green Elves, who probably had known where they were for some time, apparently decided that this was a river too far. The Green Elves had scooped them up from the river bank  and unceremoniously deposited them in Amon Ereb, quite literally  on Caranthir's doorstep.

Caranthir did not seem to appreciate the gift at all. He was glaring at them ferociously. Lorren was doing her best to stand straight and not huddle against her, but Ulrica could feel her flinch. Polfast was unashamedly hiding behind Ulrica's skirts.

'So,' asked one of Caranthir's retainers, a tired-looking man with half-healed burn marks on his face and neck, 'do you want us to execute the traitors?'

He sounded nonplussed as if he felt overtaxed by the situation rather than as if he was thirsting for vengeance, but  Ulrica thought he would do precisely that, if ordered. Lorren clearly thought so, too. Ulrica felt her tremble.

'Traitors?!' yelled Caranthir, turning even redder, if possible. 'Three children?!'

Ulrica inadvertently frowned a little, even knowing it was most unwise. Caranthir caught her eye.

'One woman, two children,' he corrected himself, in calmer tones. "We are not executing anybody.'

 Somehow,  Ulrica wasn't even surprised when afterwards, in the dark winding corridor, Caranthir abruptly picked up Polfast as he stumbled with weariness and carried him the rest of the way.

The room in which they were locked for safe-keeping was clean, the bedstraw fresh, a chamber-pot provided. The three of them clung close together for comfort nevertheless.