Give Me Freedom, Give Me Fire by Fernstrike

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Give Me Freedom, Give Me Fire

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Ranuion drew his hands back from the heat of the fire, and blinked owlishly up at his mother. Her eyes glowed golden in the light, battling equal parts despair and weariness. The darkness of night made the bruises and burns on her hands look severe, though in truth, they had at last begun to fade. He looked down at his own palms, rosy from the warmth, and a little thrill stole up his spine. How strange it was, being so close to the dancing sparks, and yet not having to fear such proximity. He huddled closer to his mother, and she swept gentle, burned fingertips down the side of his small face.

"Are you warm enough, melya?"  she asked quietly.

He nodded. He could never be cold again.

He stared above the fire, peering at the soldiers beyond, their figures distorted by the waves of heat. Their armour glinted bright where the firelight caught the metal sheen. They held their cracked and dented helms in their hands, their countenances grim and their wounds dulled from the few days' respite they'd had. The Fens of Serech were several days behind them now, and with those marshes long out of sight, so too was the burning devastation of their depraved enemy.

The elfling blinked back sharp tears, as though the smoke from the burning brush was still stinging at his eyes. Their land had not been the grandest of the Noldorin host, but under the auspices of the throne in the valley beyond the Ered Wethrin, it had grown strong, strong enough to rival any of the larger settlements. It may have been prone to a little violence on the borders, the stray groups of dark creatures picked off by warden patrols, in the days before the sudden inferno. Nevertheless, it had been his home, and all he had known. The great lords, like gods and kings, had said this siege, this war, would give them freedom. All it had given them was fire.

His ears pricked at the far-off sound of bowstrings going taut, and he tensed - but the sound was swiftly followed by the exchange of a birdcall, and the archers in the distance relaxed their bows. Within a few moments, the hunting party, who’d been gone for several long hours, had come to the inner area, near the fire. Ranuion’s mother cast her eyes around, and let out a breath when she finally saw who she was looking for.

"Eliedir!" she called quietly, waving at one of the hunters. Ranuion turned his eyes to the grass as his father's brother looked their way, and gave them a reassuring smile. He laid down the deer slung round his shoulders, already gutted, and Ranuion's stomach grumbled at the prospect of the long-awaited evening meal. He had never had to struggle like this. They were fighting to eat out here in the wilderness, with little left unscathed by the fire and what remained being snapped up by the thousands of hungry, fleeing mouths. They'd gotten themselves into this, subjects of cruel fate as they were. It was foolish, perhaps - wondering whether they'd ever be free or of it. But whose fate were they caught up in, anyway?

“Thennil," Eliedir greeted, coming over to kiss Ranuion's mother on the forehead.

"Will you watch him a while?" she asked, gently raising Ranuion from where he was curled against her side. "I shall go help the others prepare the meal."

"Of course," he smiled, sitting down beside Ranuion, as Thennil rose and departed. “How have you kept, little one?”

The elfling did not reply; he was concerned with finding a way to look at Eliedir, without meeting his eyes. They were too much like those of his atar.

As if sensing it, Eliedir put an arm around him, absolving the need to look at one another. He smelled of the forest’s cool musk, and of ash and sweat, for none of them had had time to stop by streams longer than to fill their waterskins. It hid the faint scent of deer’s blood that still clung to him.

“We met some scouts in the woods,” Eliedir said. “They came from a group some miles ahead of us. Do you know that they said?”

“What?”

“They said that Finrod Felagund rode all the way from Nargothrond to fight the evil creatures at the Fens.”

“Finrod?” Ranuion mumbled, thinking of the stories he’d heard, about the great lord with golden hair gleaming like the sun.

Eliedir nodded. “And what’s more, when they were encircled, they were availed by the Men of Dorthonion. Their banners were flying as they broke through the enemy lines. Can you imagine it?”

Ranuion nodded, but did not otherwise reply. He could not bring himself to. He knew Eliedir was trying to bring his mind away from the fear and despair, to rid him of the images of his their home falling to fire, and replace them instead with visions of it being rescued by noble warriors. When he imagined banners and flags crashing through trees, though, he saw only one thing: his atar, riding away from them, one among many of their warriors that stayed behind to fend off the fell creatures assailing them. His blue flag had waved in the hot wind, going back, and back, receding into the wood as Ranuion was pulled farther and farther away. None of those who’d stayed behind had yet caught up to the group. If any were left at all, whispered an mutinous voice in his mind.

The sound of an argument reached his ears. He perked up, watching a soldier on the other side of the fire, whose right eye was bandaged. He spoke in swift, furious undertones to a companion, who was shaking his head. Ranuion looked up, and saw Eliedir was frowning, listening intently to the words.

“Ranuion, melya,” Thennil’s voice came from behind him. He turned as she cam to sit on his other side, balancing three wooden small bowls in her arms. She gave one to him, one to Eliedir, and kept one for herself. Ranuion inhaled the warm scent of the simply seared meat.

“No broth today?” Eliedir said, sounding a little surprised.

“We’re low on water,” Thennil said. “The rivers behind us have been poisoned since we’ve passed them.”

“And the next clean one is several hours from here,” Eliedir acceded. “I’ll tell my captain to send a group ahead to collect more. Do you and Ranuion have enough?”

“We’ll be alright.”

“Thennil.” Eliedir’s eyes flashed, and Ranuion looked down at his hands again, unable to bear the resemblance. “I swore I would look after the two of you. You need to tell me if anything is amiss - anything at all.”

“We’re fine,” Thennil insisted, her own voice hard with determination. “We are managing well enough. Thank you, Eliedir.”

“We should never have come to this cursed place!”

The three of them looked up, as the soldier with the bandaged eye threw his battered helm to the hard-packed ground in anger.

“Findur,” Eliedir cautioned, but the soldier’s anger would not be swayed.

“Where is our king?” Findur spits. “Why has he not come over the mountains to our aid?”

“The reports will have reached Fingolfin by now,” said the other soldier, his eyes glinting. “You can be certain he’ll ride out against the darkness before the next sun sets.”

“The king, perhaps. His lords will remain ensconced in their towers, hidden from the fire. The Sindar living among us were lucky they could flee south, away from all this.”

“Be careful what you say!” Eliedir warned, rising and striding over to the two elves. “Do not let your despair cloud your judgement. He is our lord - they all are - and we owe them allegiance.”

Findur rounded on him. “And why did you follow them, exactly? For glory? For righteousness? This is none of that. They brought us hollow promises, and now they’ve left us poor. We are the ones who fight their battles.”

“Yet they have never deceived us,” Eliedir said, his voice softer, appeasing. “Perhaps our lords are to blame, but they have never asked of us what we wouldn’t give.”

“In return, they do what they can to make us believers, and that ought to save us from despairing,” said the other soldier, placing a steadying hand on Findur’s shoulder.

“More importantly though, Findur,” Eliedir went on, his fist clenched in frustration, “Nobody said you had to come. I’m sorry if you ever believed you would find a resting peace in this land. Our lords never compelled you to leave the land, to cross the ice, to lay siege to Angband. They may have begun it, but you never had to follow.”

Findur shook his head, vehemently denying it. His clenched hands were shaking, and his eyes were watering. “So many wars, Eliedir. So many wars. These scores aren’t ours to settle.”

“Maybe not. But we agreed to be a part of them. I’m going to keep honouring that. I hope you will too.”

“Amya,” Ranuion mumbled clutching at his mother’s hand.

“Do not worry,” she whispered, only for him to hear. “That soldier is just afraid, as we all are. Eliedir can only try and make him see reason.”

As if on cue, he came over, his jaw clenched and suppressing annoyance. He sat down heavily beside Ranuion, and picked up his half-finished dinner bowl.

“They ought to be thankful they’re not marching with the Sons of Fëanor,” Eliedir said. “A friend of mine went with their host, you know.”

“What became of him?” Thennil asked, stroking Ranuion’s hair.

“I never heard from the fool again.”

"We must get ourselves beyond the mountains," the Thennil said, quiet but firm, and Eliedir nodded. “The children especially. We lost far too many on the first day.”

“I know.”

They had lost too many. Ranuion could count how many of his friends had survived on the fingers of one hand. He’d scampered away, out of the darkness, when the flames had finally reached them. Along with his mother and their kin and all the others living nears the Fens, he'd had come the farthest of all who'd fled. The journey had been harried, and hard - the hardest - but they had survived. The bleakness had not daunted his mother, gripping his torn tunic though her own burns were still red and raw, pulling him farther and farther from the fires that licked at the edges of the marshland, nestled in the heart of the fleeing group, guarded on all sides by their brave warriors. He could still hear their cries, as the arrows of the dark hordes whistled overhead.

"Accept no defeat!" they'd shouted to one another. "We retreat, but we do not surrender!"

They were champions - truly champions, ranging the fields as the forests thinned at the slopes of the mountains. A rush of pride filled the elfling inside. Those great blue banners, warding the edge of the camp, waving in the night wind - they defined them, made them noble, strong, and proud.

They’d been given freedom, they’d been given fire. Ranuion thinks of Eliedir’s words to his despairing brother-in-arms - words to reason him, to remind him to keep the faith. It would take patience, awaiting that fateful day. It seemed so far away now - so very, very far. It needn’t be, perhaps, if they were willing to keep fighting for it.

On the other side of the fire, somebody started up a soft, low song. His voice was ageless, forever young, singing a melody that had been in their ears and their minds in days beneath the sun, and now beneath a cool white moon.

One day, when he would be older, when he would be stronger, they might sing songs about him and his comrades. Their names would mingle, one great force of change, until the only thing to call them would be ‘freedom’. Freedom from the darkness, from fell creatures that set fire to homes and lives and lands, that rent the world until all was disharmony. Their blue banners would snap in the cool, clean air, trailing back into a land beyond, waving back and forth, unending.

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Chapter End Notes

I had to rush this, unfortunately, because university is burning up my spare time like dry leaves in high summer. I may revisit it one day to improve it, because I'm not 100% sold on its outcome.

This is also the first time I've used any Quenya at all in a fic and am far less familiar with it than with Sindarin. Any suggestions regarding errors or better phrasing would be very much appreciated!

Thank you for reading!