Uphill, Downriver by swampdiamonds

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Chapter 1

It had been unseasonably warm the whole week before Lord Gwindor came back.

The snowmelt ran down the hillsides and over the rockfaces, where it froze into massive icicles every night. If the days weren't so short it would have felt like spring had come early. I was up on the northern borders with Celongil and Commander Ollovor, keeping watch. We had walked all night from the northeast watchtower and were just breaking our fast under the fading stars.

Celongil spotted them first: two figures in dark cloaks, picking their way along the Narog toward the eaves of the forest. The grass of the plain was matted down into low hillocks, and they showed up plain in the moonlight. As they drew closer we could see that one had black hair and a straggling beard, while the other's hair, where it showed beneath his hood, had begun to go mottled-gray. Men, then. The three of us exchanged looks. There had been no messengers from Dor-Cúarthol for some time now—would be no more, if the scouts were correct—and in any case they were coming from the wrong direction. And who was left in the North but spies and outlaws? Ollovor nodded, and we readied our bows.

We watched and waited while they followed the land as it sloped upward into the trees, one behind the other, drawing closer to where we hid. Ollovor raised his hand, signaling us to wait on his orders. Suddenly, Black-hair lurched forward, directly toward us. Celongil loosed his arrow. It flew past and lodged itself in a tree trunk, and Black-hair fell to the ground, his foot still tangled in the beech root that had tripped him.

“Hey!”

Gray-hair whipped around to stand protectively over his companion. “Hey, you! I know you’re up there!” he shouted.

This had never happened before. Gray-hair, his hood fallen to reveal his face, scanned the branches for us as black-hair got to his feet. They were both lean, but gray-hair's face, with its deep-sunken cheeks and eyes, was marked by more than an early winter. And, I could see now, he wasn't a Man. Which meant--

Celongil had gone pale but nocked another arrow. Ollovor motioned for us to hold.

“Border guards of Nargothrond!” Gray-hair shouted, “Is this how you treat one of your own returned to you? A shot in the back, without warning? That isn't how we did things when I walked these marches!”

Ollovor's brow creased in confusion. Gray-hair continued: “You may not know my face, but my name, at least, should be known to you. Lord Gwindor son of Guilin requests safe passage to the City."

Celongil's arrow clattered to the ground.

 

 

They stood close together as we came down from the trees and surrounded them. Gray-hair—Lord Gwindor—gripped his companion's arm with his right hand. His left, we could see now, was missing. His eyes flicked between us before focusing on Ollovor, who had gone even paler than Celongil.

"I am Lord Gwindor," he repeated. "I see you recognize the name, at least. We come peacefully with no enemies behind us. We will surrender our weapons—.”

Commander Ollovor blinked, still looking poleaxed. "Lord Gwindor. You. I, um. Who is this?" he said, turning toward the Man and grasping at the first obvious question to hand.

"His name should also be known to you," Lord Gwindor began. "He is the companion of Beleg of Doriath, called here, I believe--"

"My name is Agarwaen," the Man interrupted hoarsely, "son of Umarth."

Well.

Celongil shot me a look. Lord Gwindor shot a tightlipped glare at the Man, but did not contradict him. Ollovor spoke first. "Is that...supposed to be a joke?"

"No! …No," Lord Gwindor said. "He is--he is a very valiant Man, my trusted companion, and I will place my own good name against his character. Now as I said," he continued, tugging one-handed at the frayed rope that served him as a sword-belt, "we will surrender our weapons and submit to your escort to the City--."

“Sir, forgive me, but—you’ve come from the North," Ollovor said. "And the law—."

Lord Gwindor lifted his chin. “I remember the law--Ollovor, was it? I remember you, too. You’ve been promoted, I see--The King also knows the law, I presume. Take us to the City, and we will submit to his judgment.”

“Sir, I--I--."

I caught Celongil’s eye. We had never seen Ollovor at a loss for words like this. Then, we had never seen a senior officer return from the dead (or good as dead) like this, either.

Before he could finish his thought, Lord Gwindor interrupted. “I didn’t come all this way to listen to your deliberations, March-ward. I intend to keep walking until I reach the City, so you may either take us to Orodreth, or shoot us now and let the consequences be on your head.”

At the mention of shooting, Lord Gwindor’s companion gave him a concerned glance, but said nothing. Lord Gwindor’s eyes did not leave the Commander’s face. Off away to the east, I could see the horizon going pale.

Finally, Ollovor sighed, looking resolved but deeply unhappy.

“Right. Here’s what we’re going to do,” he said, "Fereth and Celongil, you escort them straight to the City. You should make it by nightfall if you start now. If you meet any patrols, tell them you’re under orders to escort these prisoners directly to the King. Do not tell anyone who they are, and do not stop until you get there. This will be enough of a mess as it is without getting anyone else involved. I’ll stay here until the next shift comes and then make a full report at the watchtower. And then they can have my head if they like.”

"Very good, Sir," said Celongil, "but what about the Spyhill?"

Ollovor pursed his lips. He hadn't thought that far, evidently. Before he could make a decision, Lord Gwindor spoke.

"You're a routine patrol, yes? I mean, you're scheduled to be out here?"

We nodded cautiously.

"Then," he said, "There's no problem. They'll see us coming and send a signal to the Gate-wards, but we'd be stopped there regardless."

He turned to Ollovor, who looked discomfited but nodded. "Of course. Thank you, sir."

Ollovor cleared his throat and straightened. "Now, you said you would surrender your weapons, and protocol dictates that your hands be bound."

He took the rope from his belt and stepped toward Lord Gwindor. “Your blade, my lord—.”

Lord Gwindor jerked backward, tripped on the same root that had felled his companion, and went down with a clatter.

Everyone stared: he at us, or past us, with the look of a snared rabbit; the Man at him, sullenness melting instantly into concern; and us at the blue light now issuing from beneath his ragged cloak.

“Are you—,” said the Man.

“What is—,” said Ollovor.

“It’s a lamp,” said Lord Gwindor, blinking and pushing aside the folds of cloth with his good hand. It was, indeed: one of the lamps. I had only seen a few, but even wrapped in a filthy skin, with the fine chain net mended clumsily with wire, it was unmistakable.

“But how did you come by it?” asked Ollovor.

Lord Gwindor looked away this time, still lying awkwardly on the ground. He slid the skin back over the lamp. “We used them,” he said, “for work. I took one.”

He got his right elbow under him and began struggling to his feet. Before any of us could move to help him, the Man bent slowly, hands open and upraised, to lend an arm to Lord Gwindor. They rose together, slowly, with Gwindor leaning heavily on his companion. I could see him shaking as he shrugged out of the rope that served him as a swordbelt and handed his blade to Commander Ollovor. He accepted the blade, then turned to accept the Man’s sword and tie his hands. There was a pause as Ollovor looked at the rope in his hand, then back at Lord Gwindor, leaning on the Man’s arm with his one good hand. He put the rope back on his belt.

Ollovor handed the two confiscated swords to Celongil, who managed to fit them both at his side. They banged against one another when he moved. Celongil clanked his way to the front before stopping to readjust the swords. “Lead on, swordmaster,” I said. No one laughed.

I took Lord Gwindor by the arm—the one with a hand still attached to it, that is. He started at the touch, but didn’t shy away. He turned back to Ollovor. “Warden Commander Ollovor,” he said, “Thank you.”

Ollovor nodded shortly, looking away. “Good luck to you, my lord,” he said hoarsely.

 

 

We walked south. The sun rose through the trees, casting long shadows across our path.

The only sounds were the wind in the trees, the rush of the river, and the occasional clank from Celongil’s sword collection. I kept my hand around Lord Gwindor’s arm, though my grip loosened as the leagues wore on. We were picking our way up a ridge, the light filtering down through the trees, when he sat down so abruptly that I nearly stumbled over him. I called for Celongil, and he and the Man came hurrying back down, looking worried. Gwindor's eyes were unfocused and he was breathing hard, but he raised his right hand to wave us away. “A moment,” he mumbled.

Indeed, after a few moments he slowly and carefully got to his feet. His friend looked at him with concern. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked quietly.

It was the first he had spoken since we set out. Lord Gwindor nodded. “I’m fine; I just needed to catch my breath. Come on, the sooner we get to the City, the sooner we can rest.”

Too true, my lord,” said Celongil.

We plodded on.

Lord Gwindor had to sit down twice more before we left the forest, and was leaning heavily on me by the time we came to the first hedgerow. The Man looked nearly as exhausted as he did, but managed to keep his feet under him even with his hands tied. I was helping Gwindor over a stile on the edge of an orchard when we heard voices hailing us. Celongil swore. We had managed so far without running into a single patrol, but I should have known that our luck wouldn’t hold. We turned to see two women approaching us through the trees, dressed in wool cloaks and buckskin leggings. They both wore furry hats with earflaps. One had two rabbits draped over her shoulder, and the other swung a stoat in one hand. The farmer and her daughter, then, out checking the snares. As they drew closer they hailed us again.

“Heyo! What news from the Marches? Who have you got there?”

“No news,” I said, “we’re on the King’s business.”

This was not strictly true, nor exactly per Ollovor’s instructions, but I reasoned that it would be his business soon enough if we ever got to the City.

“So who are they, then?” asked the one with the stoat, eying Lord Gwindor and the Man with curiosity. She gestured with the stoat in their direction.

“How come he’s tied up? Are they prisoners? How come you let them in?”

“King’s business,” answered Celongil, apparently agreeing with my line of reasoning, “and we’re under orders not to tarry.”

They exchanged a glance, but nodded. “We’ll not keep you, then. Carry on.”

Celongil swore again as soon as we were out of earshot. “Blood and death—these gossipy bumpkins! News flows downstream with the river around here; it’ll be all over the City before we reach the gates.”

“Hey!” I said. “Remember who you’re talking to, city boy!”

“Sorry, sorry, I forgot that you’re a bumpkin, too. But you know how anything the least bit interesting spreads around here, and it’s obvious we’ve got a Man and a—,” he gave a guilty glance to Lord Gwindor and trailed off.

I shrugged. “I know, but what can we do? We can’t take them on the rope-crossing anyway, so we’ll have to go the long way ‘round to the ferry. And that’s another two leagues, and I don’t think they can go much faster.”

We looked at our prisoners. The man stood with his hands tied, looking dull and tired and withdrawn. Lord Gwindor was leaning on me again, swaying slightly. Despite his obvious exhaustion, he was rapt, gazing out at the patchwork of fields and woods sloping down toward the river gorge.

“Come on,” he said. “We’ll be fine. I want to go home.”

 

 

As Celongil had predicted, the news—or some version of it—had reached the City before us, and no sooner had we set foot across the threshold than we were pulled aside by the Royal Guard.

“King’s orders,” they said as they escorted us to a waiting room, divested us of our prisoners and told us to stay put and not talk to anyone.

We were happy enough to sit and rest. It’s a long hike down from the marches, even when you haven't been on patrol the whole day and night before. The hourbells had just chimed for the second time when Celongil stopped rosining his bow and asked, “What do you think they’ll do?”

I opened my eyes and sat up. “I don’t know,” I said. “I suppose the King wanted to interview them in private, and then he’ll want to talk to us. And Commander Ollovor, once he makes his report. Then he’ll have to decide.”

I guess that was pretty much what the King had planned to do, as it happens, once the signal from the Spyhill reached him. But the runner from the village made double-time to the gates and then stopped to chat with everyone she passed on the way to the King, and by the time we arrived the news was all over the City and everyone was out hoping to get a glimpse of the mysterious, probably dangerous prisoners.

Meanwhile, I was beginning to wonder if Celongil and I had been forgotten.

"Lord Gwindor," Celongil said, after a time, "he certainly looked bad."

I shrugged. "I never knew him to look at before, only the name," I said, "but yes. You did know him, then?"

Celongil nodded. "Yes. Well, sort of. We all did, in the City, in those days. I forgot that you didn't join up until after. King Orodreth was in over his head and everyone knew it. But here was this young knight in his glittering armor at his right hand, betrothed to the princess, leading us in battle: we would have followed him anywhere."

"But you didn't," I said, regretting it instantly.

"No. I didn't," he said, distantly.

His father died at Serech. His brother went with the King. I felt like a fool. But he continued as if I hadn't spoken: "I was a Gate-ward, then; I never actually served under him. Ollovor did, though, on the border patrol."

I nodded, having figured as much. "It must be a terrible shock," I said cautiously.

"That it is, Fereth."

I glanced at the door, which remained resolutely closed. "I wonder how they're doing out there," I said.

He gave me a thoughtful look. "That's the funny thing. He looked bad, sure enough, but he seemed very...lucid. Normal. Considering, I mean."

I thought of him pulling rank on us, and smiled. "He certainly told Commander Ollovor what was what."

Celongil snorted. "Ollovor--excuse me, Commander Ollovor--"

I never got to hear whatever it was he was going to say. The door opened, and two royal guards stepped in. We both looked up expectantly.

They were not the same guards who had escorted us here. They looked, in fact, surprised to see us.

"What are you doing here?" asked one, after an awkward pause.

"Waiting," I said. "That's what we were told to do."

"Some time ago," added Celongil.

They looked at one another. It seemed we had been forgotten after all.

“Are they the ones the King wanted to question?” said one to the other. He turned to us. “You’re the two who brought in Lord Gwindor, yes?”

Before we could do more than nod, guard number two answered. “That’s what Commander said. I thought Gorveth was going to fetch them, though.”

“No, Gorveth went to have her dinner break,” said Number One.

"Oh, did she! Well, how nice for her," said Number Two, turning to us with a put-upon sigh. "I suppose you're our responsibility now.”

“Here, look,” said Number One. “There’ve been enough foul-ups today, so let’s not take any chances. I’ll go and find Commander and ask her, and you stay here with them.”

Number One left on his errand. Number Two, recognizing an opportunity when he saw one, pulled off his satchel, sat down across from us, and put his feet up.

“I hope you don’t mind if I take my own dinner break,” he said, retrieving a small loaf from the satchel and tearing off a piece, “since there’s no telling when I’ll get a chance otherwise.”

“No, no, go ahead,” I said, thinking longingly of the last meal I had eaten. Dawn seemed an age ago.

“Well,” he said, between bites, “This is bound to make some waves in certain quarters, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t,” said Celongil.

The guard leaned forward conspiratorially. “ You know,” he said, “this business of following King Thingol in every particular. Oh, I know they’re our allies and all, but it’s hardly—look, I was part of that contingent petitioning to send troops to Dor-Cúarthol, you remember?”

“I heard about it,” I said. Celongil only nodded.

“So, and here’s Lord Gwindor come back! –Did he tell you how he broke out, by the way? There’ve been some saying it was a coordination effort, that the Bow and Helm got somebody on the inside somehow, and that’s why the reports stopped—anyway, he would have been all for it in the old days, although he hardly seems fit for it, but who knows? They say Lord Maedhros—.”

“You know as much as we do,” interrupted Celongil. “Or more, it seems, at least in the area of hearsay.”

He crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall.

“I was only trying to make conversation,” said the guard.

I did my best to herd them onto safer ground. “So…what happened out there? Celongil’s right, we don’t know anything. Where are Lord Gwindor and his friend?”

“Sound asleep in Lord Guilin’s house, I imagine, by now,” he said. “They both looked dead on their feet. Did you really march them all the way down from the border without a rest?”

“So the King did let them in?” I said, choosing to ignore the question. “I mean, I figured as much, but—just like that?”

“You didn’t hear?” he said.

“Er, no. We’ve been here.”

“Oh, he gave a grand speech, before the King and everyone!”

“A speech?” This from Celongil, who couldn’t resist rejoining the conversation.

“Well, he had a good deal to say, certainly. The King could scarcely get a word in, if you can believe it!”

“I think I can,” said Celongil blandly.

“And then,” the guard continued, warming to the subject, “that little service door off the dais—you know the one—well, anyway, it’s right by the throne, and it flies open with a noise like a thunderclap, and who should come running out but the Princess herself! And she stops dead like she’s had the biggest shock of her life (which I suppose she had), and then she falls into his arms—or he into hers, I think, actually, I couldn’t really see. But it was a touching reunion. The stuff of songs!”

He paused for breath, looking satisfied.

As if to illustrate his story, the door banged open and number one reappeared, looking exasperated. “Nobody’s where they’re supposed to be! I had to go all the way to Lord Guilin’s to find the Commander, and she thought this had all been taken care of hours ago—somebody’s going to feel the heat for this, rest assured—and she said that the King is absolutely not to be disturbed now, but—,” he straightened and his voice flattened into recitation, “—they are to report to the Royal Offices tomorrow morning no later than the seventh bell. Until then they have freedom of the city, provided they do not leave it.”

 

 

It was late enough that Eirien was most likely to be at home, so that was where I went first. The door was unlocked, and I let myself in. By the light of the brazier I could see her sitting in her chair, wrapped in an old blanket and cutting nibs into goose-quills. She looked up in surprise. "Fereth! I heard it was the northern march-wards who picked them up, but I had no idea it was you!"

She stood, scattering goose-quills and shavings, and came to give me a spine-cracking hug. She leaned in for a kiss, then held me out at arm's length. "You look exhausted. Come sit by the fire with me. Have you eaten? There's some cheese on the sideboard, you should have some. Were you in the throne room? I didn't see you."

I set down my kit and made my way to the sideboard, where there was indeed a wedge of cheese. There was some bread and half a carafe of wine, as well, which I helped myself to. "To your first question, no, and thank you, I will; to your second, no, but I take it you were?"

She nodded. "Way far in the back. I couldn't see much, but I could hear. And they called in Healer Ereth, and she called me to run down to her office for supplies. What a day!"

"Too true. So, did Lord Gwindor really faint in the Princess' arms?"

"Not quite," she said. "He made it out to the antechamber, then his legs gave out. That's when they sent for Ereth. There was a great muddle: she was trying to take his pulse, but he kept mumbling something and trying to stand, and the Princess was there holding his hand and sobbing her eyes out, and then his parents came running and they started crying, and meanwhile that Agarwaen fellow was wobbling like his legs were going to give out, too. That's when Ereth gave me her keys and sent me to go fetch supplies."

She looked at me seriously. "He looks very bad. If I were the princess, I would hardly have known him. Ereth says it's a wonder he made it here on his own feet."

"I wondered myself, on the way down," I said. "But I've been shut in a guardroom with Celongil all evening: tell me the rest! Did the King really readmit him just like that, on the Princess' word? And the Man, too?"

She reached over and pilfered a bit of cheese from me. "It wasn't just like that. But you tell me your story, and I'll tell you mine."

We were curled under the covers in Eirien's bed, drifting off toward a few hours' rest, when I remembered.

"Eirien," I said, giving her a shake, "I have to talk to the King in the morning!"

"Very good," she said muzzily, "you can tell him he ought to do something about the price of lamp oil these days."

"No, I mean, I've never talked to a king before."

She turned to face me. "You pledged him your fealty when you joined the border guard, didn't you?"

"Yes, but that doesn't count! And that's the only time I've been near him. You've talked to him--what do I say?"

"I said, 'Good morning, Your Majesty' when he came by the healers' ward that once."

"Well, and what did he say back?"

"He nodded as he walked past the desk. I don't think he was in much of a conversational mood; he was there to interview some of the lot from Tol Sirion after--you know."

I did know. After a time, Eirien broke the silence. "Well, look. Here's my advice: don't pick your teeth or spit on the carpet."

I put my cold foot against her leg and she squirmed. "Really, though, Fereth: he let them in the City, so he won't be accosting you for bringing enemies within the borders. And you were following orders. Just answer his questions; what's the worst that can happen?"

I sighed. "You know you should never ask that. But I suppose you're right."

"Of course I'm right," she said, burying her face in the crook of my shoulder, "Now stop talking. I have to go to work in a few hours, and you have an appointment with His Majesty, the Lord of Narog."

 

 

I must have slept. I remember hearing footsteps in the hall outside, and whispers echoing off the stone, and water dripping, and dripping, and then Eirien was shaking me awake. I rose to splash water on my face and borrow Eirien’s hairbrush to make my hair presentable. I was reporting in my capacity as a border guard, I told myself as I shrugged on my tunic and leathers, not attending a festival. Still, I would have liked a chance to scrub off the mud stains.

“You should have thought of that last night,” said Eirien, catching the drift of my thought as she came to collect her hairbrush and the hand-mirror. “But I’m certain the King won’t be offended by a bit of mud.

“Will I see you again before you go?” she asked, running the brush through her own hair.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think so. They’re always short at the northern border, and I’m not due any more leave this season.”

“We’d better say goodbye now, then,” she said, very considerately taking pains not to muss up my hair.

 

 

Celongil was already there when I was escorted into the antechamber to wait. “Good morning,” I said, taking a seat at his side.

He snorted. "Maybe for some", he said, rubbing at his eye, “You had a nice quiet evening with Eirien, I'm sure, whereas I was detailing our exploits to a house full of relations near and distant. And then people started dropping by! They kept coming up with folks who had known Lord Gwindor, or his brother, or his father, and they all had something to say, of course…”

I gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "Well, take heart. We'll talk to the king, and perhaps if we're lucky someone will give us some breakfast, and then it's back to our lonely life on the marches."

"I hope so," he said darkly. I would have asked him what he meant, but the doors opened and I was summoned for my appointment.

 

 

“So,” said the King, his fingers interlaced in front of him, “I am given to understand that you are one of the march-wards who escorted Lord Gwindor and his companion to the City yesterday.”

“Yes, sir—sire,” I said. “Celongil and I. We intercepted them on the east bank of the Narog at the edge of the plains."

"At your commander's orders? Commander--," he consulted the paper on his desk, "--Ollovor?"

"Yes, sire," I said. "He sent us back with the prisoners while he finished the shift. You should be receiving his report shortly."

"Hm." The king unfolded his hands and made a note on the paper. He looked tired, but not angry. That was good.

A man in the livery of House Finarfin entered without knocking and handed a paper to the king. He glanced at it and nodded, then turned it over and jotted something on the other side. He handed it back, saying, "Will you see that this gets to Finduilas? Thank you."

The man left and the king turned back to me. "My apologies for the interruption; I find I have a great deal of business to attend to this morning. In advance of your commander's report, would you be so kind as to give me a précis of the essential facts? I'm afraid the accounts I've received so far have been a bit, ah, muddled."

 

 

"Well, looks like we still have jobs," said Celongil, taking a bite of pastry. We did get our breakfast in the end, and now we were kitted up and on our way up the footpath from the gates. "I've always admired your positive outlook," I said, swallowing the last of my pastry.

"It isn't funny," he said. "We did bring a potential enemy agent into the City."

I stopped and gave him a look. "Oh, come now! You don't really think that he could be--?"

He spread his hands. "Think about it! How would we know?"

"You didn't seem too concerned about this yesterday."

Then it hit me. "You've been talking to your grandmother."

Celongil's grandmother was from one of the Northern tribes. She had opinions about everything the Noldor did, and wasn't shy about sharing them.

"Well, yes," he said. "But you know, she did live up there for ages, so she ought to know."

I shrugged. "I'm sure she does. But he remembered Ollovor, and knew all about the patrols, and anyway--"

"That's how they do it, though! She told me!" He really did look distressed. "They get in your mind, and they, they take all your memories, and knowledge, and--"

"And anyway," I cut him off, "as I was saying, if he was sent by the enemy, wouldn't he show up alone, and not with some sullen, mysterious young Man who won't give his right name and wants us to call him ‘Bloodstained’? I mean, how foolish do you think the enemy thinks we are, really!"

That got a smile, at least. "I hope you're right, Fereth," he said.

"I know I'm right," I said. "Now come on. It's a long way back, and we have to go up the valley this time."

It was snowing now, just a little, too light to stick. I pulled up my hood, and we walked North.

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