Let Them Sing Our Praises When We've Gone by Zdenka

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Chapter 1

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Emeldir stood on the watchtower, looking north. The Anfauglith stretched wide and bare into the distance, like a gash in the green land. A hawk flew in slow, lazy circles above the trees, but nothing moved below that she could see, neither her own people nor forces of the Enemy.

There were many reasons why her husband’s scouting party might be delayed; she would not assume the worst. She would rather have been out there with the hawk, riding at Barahir’s side and warding him with her shield; but since that night of battle and burning, they had agreed between them that the lord and lady of Dorthonion would not ride forth at the same time. Beren too would have been riding with his father, if he were not glumly nursing a sprained ankle at home. He said the tree roots had reached up from the ground to trip him; after what she had seen, she was inclined to believe him. Leaning her arms on the wooden railing, she looked down over the forest. The band of tangled, blackened trees was wider, reaching closer to the village than it had even a month ago. Emeldir exchanged nods with the sentry and descended.

Aradis was standing at the base of the tower, holding her daughter in her arms. “Valar guard you, lady.”

“And you, Aradis.” She looked at the child. “No greeting for me, Rían?” she asked teasingly. The girl turned away and shyly buried her face in her mother’s shoulder.

“She does not understand,” Aradis said wearily, “why things are so different.”

Emeldir thought she heard an edge to her voice. “Is anything amiss?”

“Another fire tree, behind the tanning shed.”

Emeldir sighed. “Another one? I’ll see to it. Thank you for spotting it.”

“It was Morwen who noticed this one. I left her guarding it so no one touched it accidentally.” The fire trees were so called both because they had sprung up after Dagor Bragollach, and because of the hair-like fibers on their leaves; the unwary one who brushed against them would have skin stinging and blistered for a week. “My lady, Belegund dug up the last one down to the roots,” Aradis continued, troubled, “and we burned it afterward. It had no chance to fruit or drop seeds. Where do they come from?”

Emeldir shrugged. “Perhaps the seeds are wind-borne,” she said. “When the wind blows from the north—” Both of them glanced northward involuntarily. The fire trees were far from the only thing encroaching from the north, and not the most troublesome.

“Morwen found it this time,” Aradis persisted, “and she was wise enough to recognize it and tell me. If it had been Rían, or one of the other young children—or perhaps one of the warriors made careless by weariness, not expecting danger here behind the walls – Tell me, Emeldir! Where will it end?”

“I cannot say,” Emeldir admitted. She knew it was not fear for herself that made Aradis speak sharply. “We could move all those who do not fight farther south again. Though Barahir would not like that.” Emeldir was silent for a moment. “There are reasons on both sides. Farther away from the border would be safer. Yet we cannot always stop ill things from coming through, and this way we can defend our dear ones at need. And it gives the warriors heart when they can return to their families. Would you remove farther off and leave Belegund behind?”

“For my own sake, no. For Rían’s sake—” Aradis looked troubled. “For Rían’s sake, I would.”

Emeldir sighed. “We have considered it,” she said, “many times. If no help comes, we must either stay, or retreat. To stay is perilous, yet to retreat is not sure safety. It may only shrink the ground we have to stand on, like ice in the lake at spring thaw.”

Aradis made no answer. She bowed her head, stroking her daughter’s hair.

“For Rían’s sake, and Morwen’s, and all of our sakes, I will consider it again,” Emeldir said gently. She did not blame Aradis for her anger and grief; it was her hand that healed so many of their people from Orc-wound and spider’s poison and the sickness that came from the dying land.

Once Aradis had gone her way, singing softly to her daughter, Emeldir took an axe and stout leather gloves and went to chop down the fire tree. She swung the axe in broad strokes as if it were Morgoth himself. The physical labor was a welcome distraction.

When at last the tree lay felled, she assigned two men to dig up the roots and burn it. She brushed off her clothing with her gloved hands, making sure that none of the stinging fibers clung to her, and cleaned her gloves carefully in turn.

As she went about what business needed to be done for her people, she tried not to glance northward too often or stop to listen for the neighing of horses and jingling of mail. It was nightfall before she received word that Barahir had returned.

She entered the house to find Barahir unpinning his heavy cloak. He was filthy, with the dust of Anfauglith caking his face and garments, but he seemed unhurt, and she felt a weight lift from her shoulders.

He turned at her approach. “Emeldir.”

“Welcome home to us, my lord.”

He folded the cloak carefully, his movements stiff with weariness. “I should bathe. We went beyond the border tracking an Orc-band.” They had learned by hard experience that it was not well to leave the dust of Anfauglith on one’s body.

Emeldir helped him unbuckle his armor and put it aside. “Did you catch them?”

Barahir smiled grimly. “We still know the land better than they do. We caught them in ambush and killed the greater part. The rest fled. I would have preferred to catch them, but we could not."

It seemed to her that something troubled him, beyond the usual. “Were any wounded?”

“Arthad took an arrow in the arm. His brother is bringing him to Aradis.” He sat down to clean his armor and weapons. As his hands worked, he continued, “Before we found the Orcs, I went to some of the farms that were abandoned after the battle. I wanted to see if the land had healed from the burning, if there was anything there we could use.”

“Was there?”

She knew the answer from his face before he spoke. “We dug up some vegetables. They were black and rotted, or sprouting strange growths. Better not to eat them, unless we’re starving.”

“Perhaps not even then.”

He nodded grimly. “I think the dust from Anfauglith has been blowing over the ridge when we get those dust storms. It settles down over everything and the poison leaches into the soil.” He was silent for a moment. “And what used to be the plain, where the High King’s folk grazed their horses – not a sign of healing. It will be barren for generations.”

“We expected as much,” Emeldir said carefully.

“Aye. But still I hoped.”

He hung his sword in its place on the wall and pulled off his clothing. Emeldir let her eyes run over his body as he stood stripped for the bath. Now approaching his sixtieth year, he no longer moved with the lightness of youth and his dark hair was streaked with grey, but he still seemed goodly to look upon in her sight. She knew the shape of his body, every line and every scar, the weight and warmth of him in her arms.

Barahir sank into the water with a sigh. “Emeldir, have you been lately to the land near the ruin of the hill-fort?”

“I know the place.”

“We were pursuing the survivors,” he said quietly, “and we rode incautiously into a grove of those black trees – it was my fault, I led them in. My mind was heated from the battle and I could not bear the thought that even one Orc should go back to Morgoth after defiling our land. The shape of the trees grew more twisted and awry as we went on, and I pitied them as if they were in pain. Does that seem fanciful to you?”

Emeldir shook her head. “When last I rode by them, it seemed to me a fell place. We all felt a growing sense of dread and heaviness – as if something fearful were about to leap out at us. If there had been any enemy, we would have stayed to do battle, but there was nothing to be seen or heard. The horses were frightened also, and we could barely urge them past the grove. But perhaps that sense of terror itself was an enemy, some sending of Morgoth.”

“It was not terror for us, or at least not at first.” He shifted uneasily, making the water ripple. “It seemed the rustling of the dead leaves became a soft voice, and as I listened, trying to make out the words, there came into my mind a sense of the power and majesty of Morgoth, that he would surely offer honor and glory to the valiant captain who served him. My mind rejected the thought in horror. And then it seemed the voice sang of defeat, terrible and inevitable, and that it was better to lie down on the dark earth and sleep forever than to see what would come.”

Emeldir shuddered. “Did the others hear it?”

Barahir nodded. “When I came back to myself they were staring wildly about them or shaking their heads as if woken suddenly from sleep, although they were reluctant to speak of what they heard. Gorlim, beside me, was in some waking dream. I had to shake him, or I think he would have fallen from the saddle.” He was silent for a moment. “And Ragnor said: ‘Lord, let us turn back. We cannot fight this thing with weapons.’ I looked at them, and I knew they all would have gone forward if I had ordered it. But the Orcs had escaped while we were spell-bound, and it would have been only for pride.”

Emeldir reached out to grip his shoulder. “You did right to turn back,” she said. “The Eldar may have means of fighting such enchantments, but we do not. I counsel you not to ride among those trees unless you must; and if you must, pause to strengthen your heart first. It may not take hold as easily if you are prepared.”

“You say well.” He ducked his head under water, working his fingers through his hair. When he emerged: “Did anything happen here?”

“Another fire tree in the village.”

“Here?”

“I cut it down.” She was silent for a moment. “Aradis thinks we should move the families farther south.”

Barahir stiffened.

“I told her only that we would consider it.”

He made a resigned gesture without speaking and stood to climb out of the tub.

“For myself, I do not wish to go,” she said, as he quickly dried himself with a towel.

“We will speak of it later. But leave it be, for tonight.” He reached for her and she went willingly into his arms. Barahir leaned forward to kiss her and she returned it fiercely, defying Morgoth, defying Orc and Balrog and the twisted land and anything that would seek to keep her husband from returning here to her embrace. When they broke off, he sighed and leaned against her. She slid her hands over his naked back, enjoying the feel of his skin and the warm solidity of him. They stood thus for a few moments, before she kissed him again and released him. She suspected they were both too weary for aught else tonight.

Emeldir found a clean shirt and tossed it to him, then changed into her own nightclothes. She turned around to see him sitting on the bed in his shirt, smiling at her. “You are the most beautiful thing I have seen this day.”

Emeldir smiled despite herself. “The most beautiful? Did you see no hawk soaring aloft, nor the blue of the sky that stands above all our troubles, or some wild flower that has survived the burning?”

“I saw all of these,” he agreed, “and yet I abide by my words.”

“Foolish man,” she said with affection. Strong-featured rather than Elvish-delicate, broad-shouldered and muscular from her work with sword and axe, she had not been thought beautiful even in her youth; now with age coming upon her, she did not think any but her husband would call her so.

She came to bed herself and Barahir blew the candle out. They slid beneath the covers, their bodies fitting around each other with the ease of long practice. His hand gently stroked against her shoulder. “Do you remember when we first met?” he asked quietly in the darkness.

“By Tarn Aeluin.”

“You were coming from the north with your brothers, in men’s clothing like them—and my brother was cocky enough to challenge the three of you to a sparring match.”

“You should have seen your stunned expression when I pulled off my helmet, and you knew the one who had beaten you was a woman.”

She could feel his soft laughter vibrating through his chest. “I was smitten immediately.”

“And yet it took you more than a year to speak of it, my lord.”

“Your father had an intimidating reputation. And I thought that perhaps he would not welcome a younger son.”

“He had well-night given up hope of seeing me wedded, I think. I refused what suitors I had, and I told him plainly that if I could not find one who suited me, I would remain unwedded.”

“And yet you accepted me.”

“You suited me well,” Emeldir said comfortably.

“I am fortunate,” he said quietly. “I have always thought so.” His hand sought hers under the covers, and their fingers twined together. “We have had a good life.”

“And so we have, my lord. Though it is not ended yet.” He gripped her hand more tightly but did not answer.

Morning would bring the return of duty and peril: Orcs, perhaps, or black trees with greedily grasping branches, and always trying to do too much with too little. But for now – she was fiercely protective of the peace of this room, of their bed. She wrapped her free arm around Barahir and stroked his back until his breathing evened out and she could tell that he was asleep. Emeldir leaned gratefully against his solid warm shape, breathing in the scent of him. As drowsiness came to claim her, she thought of Tarn Aeluin and its waters that seemed to hold the light more brightly and longer than anywhere else. And before long, she slept.

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Chapter End Notes

Sorry for making Beren Sir Not Appearing in This Fic. I just couldn't find a way to work him in.

Rían's mother is not named in any of the sources as far as I know. Barahir’s age (and the ages of some of the other characters) is based on the birth dates given in HOME XI: The War of the Jewels.

The Silmarillion says of Dorthonion after the Dagor Bragollach: “The trees that grew there after the burning were black and grim, and their roots were tangled, groping in the dark like claws; and those who strayed among them became lost and blind, and were strangled or pursued to madness by phantoms of terror.” (“Of the Ruin of Beleriand”) “The Grey Annals” in The War of the Jewels says that Morgoth “sent Sauron against them; and all the forest of the northward slopes of that land was turned into a region of dread and dark enchantment . . .” The Silmarillion doesn't specifically link Sauron with what was happening to Dorothonion, but it seems plausible, since he is the one who later traps Barahir and his men. Hence the whispers of the trees that were meant to resemble the temptations of the Ring in The Lord of the Rings or Sauron’s song-duel in The Lays of Beleriand.

Tarn Aeluin: According to the Silmarillion, "it was said that Melian herself had hallowed that water in days of old"; because of that protective power, Barahir and his band of outlaws were able to take refuge there for a time after the rest of Dorthonion fell to Morgoth.