Song of Souls by Raiyana

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Chapter 5

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Chapter 5 the battle

 

They would hold the Glanduin until they had evacuated as much and as many as could be saved from Ost-in Edhil. The civilians – Eregion could not be held, not even if reinforcements from Lindon arrived in time, Glorfindel had agreed with her – and the wagons currently being filled were loaded with everything the Elves could not bear to leave behind; the ancient road along the Sirannon was already filled with carts and Elves carrying as many possessions as they could salvage. It was at once a frantic scramble and an organized chaos, Narví thought, walking through the airy archways. She had sent Miri back to the mountain carrying a few of her own memories of Khalebrimbur – a hand-mirror he had once made that she had engraved with Dwarven runes to annoy him; a sketch he once drew of her working on the Doors; his favourite jeweller’s hammer – small things, really, but she had felt far too sentimental when she stood in his old rooms to allow herself to leave emptyhanded.

Erestor had estimated that it would take another fourteen hours to empty the city completely, so they would attempt to keep the Enemy at bay for fifteen as a minimum. Eregion did not possess many warriors, and Durin’s spare gangbûh had been marched as swiftly as possible to reinforce their numbers. Narví had faith that they could hold the land between Sirannon and Glanduin for at least half a day once they begun the retreat; the Elven bows would hopefully aid in keeping loss of life at a minimum, but none of the defenders had doubts that they might easily be facing their last hours in Middle-Earth. By the time the last of the rear-guard made it back to the Stair Falls, all the Elves ought to be safely inside Khazad-dûm, leaving only archers and those Dwarrow who would man the ballistae Durin had ordered constructed along the Gate Stream to protect their retreat. The gorge through which the Gate stream ran was narrow and easily defensible; they did not anticipate any enemy forces getting through all the way to the Doors for at least another day – if not more.  

“Can you hear them, Khalebrimbur?” Narví whispered, looking out of the window in the tower-room he had used as a conservatory, the sun slowly sinking behind her. “They are afraid – with good reason – but they have hope, now; can you hear them, wherever you are?” She tried not to wonder where exactly that was. His body could be anywhere, of course, and she had not heard his voice again since that day in the Mountain – was it really only three days hence? – but if the Valar were kind, it would have found its way to the Halls of Mandos. Narví hoped it had; the thought of his soul wandering the earth, lost and slowly forgetting all that it had once been… was unbearable. Even more unbearable than the knowledge that she would not see him again until the Remaking; at least, she had some hope she might find him again in the new world her kin would create, would see him once more, listen to the silly songs he made up when he was happy in his forge or watch him to that odd thing his people called dancing, all wavy limbs and twirling. Narví smiled to herself; that’s how she would think of him, think of him dancing with his friends and family in the Halls of Mandos – maybe he would be reborn, get to re-join his mother – think of him being happy.  

“My Lady,” Erestor interrupted her thoughts quietly. Narví turned. The Elf had dressed in full armour, a pair of twin blades – Narví recognised Khalebrimbur’s work, though the weapons looked old – strapped to his sides. On his shoulder, the star-and-holly sigil of Eregion had been fashioned into a cloak pin; she had a similar belt buckle at home, though her star was not the House of Fëanor’s symbol, but the collection of seven stars that heralded her own line.

“Erestor,” she replied, “I have told you to use my name.”

“Yes… Narví.” The Elf looked a little sheepish. Narví cast about for a different topic.

“I did not think you were a warrior?” she really hadn’t; Erestor had always been happier among scrolls and histories. He glanced out the window, looking at the wagons still being pulled towards the shelter of the Mountain.

“Not for many years, Lady Narví,” he admitted, Narví let the title slide; the Elf’s eyes seemed locked on something far away in both memory and distance. “It’s been many a summer since I last took up arms to fight the Enemy; but I shall do so once more… defend what I have cherished, even unto the end.”

“It is not the end, mellon,” Narví replied softly. “We will stand victorious.”

“So much faith, in such a small body,” he murmured, but Narví did not take offense; Erestor had always been a little peculiar that way, “though, perhaps you are right. Still, I do not think we shall ever see the like of Eregion again.”

“Khalebrimbur would scold you if he heard you say so,” Narví said, narrowing her eyes at him and moved towards the stairway. Erestor fell into step beside her. “Renewal is the Elven way, I have always thought,” she added philosophically. “You will build a better Eregion, one that is more defensible than this one, because you will be less naïve in its construction; you will know that the Enemy has not been defeated.” Moving down the stairs, she barely heard Erestor’s sigh, but when she looked up at him once more, the Elf was smiling faintly. Narví shook her head; Erestor might be pompous and somewhat pessimistic, but he had loved Khalebrimbur dearly, and she knew how much it hurt the Elves who had settled here to abandon this land where they had been happy for almost a thousand years.

“As my Lady commands,” he swore, bowing to her, and Narví heard the ring of an oath in the words. “Then let us draw steel together, Narví,” Erestor said, something like fondness in his eyes, “in the name of Eregion.” Turning on his heel, Erestor strode from the tower, heading towards the golden shimmer that was Glorfindel, still in the courtyard giving orders.

 

“You’re sending Erestor to the foothills?” Narví asked; that had not been the plan earlier, but looking at the maps Glorfindel had spread out on a table in the middle of the courtyard, pointing out the positions to his captains, Erestor’s marker had been moved.

“No!” Erestor replied, staring at Glorfindel, who looked up briefly, piercing Narví’s soul with the strength of his gaze.

“Yes, Erestor,” he said and Narví wondered when she had become so skilled at reading Elves as to notice that his calm demeanour was a screen for deep anxiety, “I need you to command our forces there, stop the Orcs from crossing the mountainsides and getting behind our lines.”

“Don’t-” Erestor began to protest, but Glorfindel held up a hand, silencing him. Narví kept her mouth shut.

“You’re taking the flank, Erestor,” he continued, running the tips of his fingers over Erestor’s fist where it lay clenched on the table. “Please.” Erestor pulled away violently.

“He would stay with you,” Narví murmured, watching Erestor stride off in what was not quite a run, “I though you meant to keep him at your side.”

“He will be safer in the flank,” Glorfindel replied quietly. “Erestor is a good fighter, I know, but I can’t…”

“You can’t bear to see him hurt, watch him fight for his life without trying to get between him and his enemy, aye, I know, Lord Elf.” Narví did not look up when the Elf gasped, keeping her eyes on Erestor’s lithe form, mounting his horse with ease. The dark-haired elf did not look back as he set off. “For your love is as plain as the gold in your hair.”

“You are perceptive, Princess,” Glorfindel murmured. Narví shook her head.

“No, Glorfindel, though I perchance read Elves better than most of my kin,” she chuckled, “but you look at him the way my brother used to look at his wife when he still believed her beyond his reach.”

“It is… uncommon… among my kind, to love someone of your own sex,” Glorfindel continued, still staring after Erestor. “I did not expect to find such love when I was sent back from Valinor.”

“When did you arrive here?” she asked, turning to face the despondent elf.

“In Middle-Earth? Near a century ago. In Eregion? Only two decades,” he admitted.

“And you have not told Erestor what dwells in your heart, I wager,” Narví added, slightly charmed by the glow that appeared in the Elf’s cheeks, staining the tips of his ears pink.

“No,” Glorfindel sighed.

“You will.” Narví laced her voice with command, as though she were speaking to a recalcitrant noble. Glorfindel chuckled. “Promise me.”

“You never …” he began, but she interrupted him easily.

“No…” Narví sighed, “but I know what it is to wish you had said something. Before it was too late.” Giving him a shrewd look, she smiled gently, trying to mitigate the sudden fear in his ancient eyes. “You have fewer obstacles in your path than I had… And Erestor… he loves you, too.” The golden-haired elf seemed frozen beside her, a sudden breeze blowing his long hair into his face. Narví sighed. Blind – they were both blind. Shaking her head at herself – how blind had he not been, to miss the way she felt for him? Oh, Khalebrimbur, what should I do? She had been cowardly, she thought, and now it was too late… but not too late for them.

“We should be off, too, my lady,” Glorfindel murmured, breaking the silence by picking up his helmet and securing his hair beneath it. Casting one last look at the house where she had spent so many happy days, Narví nodded.

“Aye, so we should,” she agreed, accepting the hand that helped her onto his great stallion.

 

 

Standing on the hastily constructed earthworks they intended to use as barricades, Narví felt proud of her kinsmen. They hadn’t had much time, but these mounds of earth they had built along the south bank of the Glanduin stretched all the way to the foothills where the river cascaded down from the snowmelt of the Silvertine and made a natural barrier; the orcs would not be able to cross the rocky crags to get behind the line of defenders. Reinforced with sharpened young trees – she had sent a silent apology to Khalebrimbur when she ordered them to cut down as much wood as they needed from around Ost-in-Edhil, but Narví knew he would have approved – the earthworks now stood chest-high to an elf, and by the time the first volleys had been fired, the archers could take position behind the Dwarven vanguard and continue firing, while the axes hewed down the foes determined enough to get over the walls.

“Baruk Khazâd!” someone called, bowing to her when he recognised her.

“Khazâd ai-izdnu!” Narví replied, to great cheer. Beside her, Glorfindel pretended not to be listening, but she had caught the impressed look on his face when he saw the battlements they had managed to create in such short time. “It is our war-cry,” she explained. “In battle, we believe in prophesizing to our enemies.”

Looking up, it was obvious that the Elf did not understand. Narví smiled. Khalebrimbur had once explained how Elves called upon names – either those of a higher power or heroes of the past – for courage in battle, but her people had never believed in such things.

“Baruk Khazâd,” she explained, twirling her broad-axe with one hand and watching the way the late afternoon sun glinted off the sharpened edge, “the Axes of the Dwarrow.” Gesturing at the bearded soldiers who bowed respectfully at her when she passed, she smiled. “Khazâd ai-menu; the Dwarrow are upon you.”

Nodding at the soldiers they passed on their way to their position, Narví repeated the words several times before they got there. Glorfindel remained silent, exchanging a few nods with his own people in passing.

“Of course, our enemies do not understand our tongue,” Narví continued, looking out from the small ledge where the Dwarven warriors would stand to get better reach once the Enemy’s footsoldiers came in range, “for the words are sacred and created by the Maker.” Pausing, she turned her head, giving the golden Elf a cheeky grin: “But it is a terribly impolite way to address someone in our language.”

Glorfindel chuckled.

 

 

Night had fallen. Swiftly and seemingly from one moment to the next, they were under cover of unnatural darkness, dwarven eyes staring wildly at the roiling mass of bodies they would be facing. Narví did not understand why they hesitated, why they waited, why the Orcs did not attack…

And then she saw it.

“No!” she didn’t hear herself cry out, her eyes wide, one hand helplessly reaching towards the grisly sight moving ever-closer. “KHALEBRIMBUR!” she screamed, but Glorfindel’s hands held her back, stopped her running off and hewing down the fiends that had dared treat her elf like that.

Like a horrifying parody of a banner, pale flesh had been pierced by long spears and raised up above the advancing enemy. Dark hair hung in snarls, lank and lifeless, half-way obscuring the face she knew so well. Blood had dried in streaks from wounds too numerous to count, rivulets outlining the muscles and sinew. The head lolled on the neck, boneless, broken, and Narví stuffed her fist in her mouth to stop herself screaming, the metallic taste of copper strong in her mouth as she tried not to sick up, staring at the evidence of old torture. Some of the wounds were scars, she could see, stark white and bright pink, injuries that had healed over well before whatever final blow struck his life from this earth.

“Khalebrimbur…” she whimpered, wanting to close her eyes, wanting to hide from this vision and pretend it had not happened, pretend he had died in his sleep, like her father, full of days well-lived and surrounded by kin and loved ones.

Around her, Dwarrow and Elves alike were snarling; if the Enemy – she would never again dignify him with a name – had thought to strike fear in their hearts with his ‘banner’, he had managed only to fan the flames of righteous fury.

Around her, Narví saw vengeance shining in eyes that had been darkened by fear and doubt, saw the need for revenge rally those who had not thought war would ever touch them again.

“A Eruchîn, ú-dano i faelas a hyn an uben tanatha le faelas[1]!” Glorfindel called, as a single voice began singing. Narví did not understand the words, but the Elves around her seemed to stand straighter.

“Baruk Khazâd!” she cried, hearing her call to arms echo along the line, until the Dwarven army was chanting with one voice, a sound that she could feel rumble through the earth beneath her feet. “Khazâd ai-menu!”

“Tangado a chadad![2]” Glorfindel added, and the archers raised their bows as one; Narví felt distantly impressed with their coordination, even as her eyes remained glued to the corpse of Khalebrimbur. “Hado i philinn![3]” Glorfindel’s arm fell, a blur of gilded steel in the corner of her eye and Narví felt the rush of air as the arrows sped past her. A few of her own kin had crossbows, but they were not as swift to reload as the Elves, whose continuous firing was quickly dropping scores of Orcs.

 

 

He heard her scream. There had been no words in his nothingness for some time, and the sound cut through his soul like knives of fire had once bit into his flesh. This was the sound of heartache, the sound of despair, and he almost did not dare consider what would have made Narví cry out such a denial.

“Khalebrimbur!” His name. It echoed in the void around him, like wolves howling in deepest winter. She was crying out for him?

“Narví!” He called, trying to reach her again, trying to tell her that he would be there, that he would make it better somehow, take away whatever hurt she was feeling and make her smile again. No sound escaped him, and the scream continued to sound around him, battering his ears like the ringing of bells and growing louder with every repetition.

 

 

Glorfindel had stopped her leaping past their defences, stopped her going directly for the standard-bearer with his grisly trophy, but by the time the orcs reached their barrier and began to break upon the blades of the defenders like waves upon the shore, the Elf was right there with her.

“Baruk Khazâd!” Narví bellowed, fury in every syllable; her cry echoed by those around and behind her. “KHAZÂD AI-MENU!!”

In her hands, her axe was a living thing, hacking at flesh and biting through armour like it was mere scrap metal. Narví smiled grimly. Behind her, her personal guard were dealing out death like there was no tomorrow, and beside her, Glorfindel shone golden, as though the sun had lifted her head to pierce the night and the Enemy’s clouds just to catch in his hair. The Orcs recoiled from the sight, as much as they did from his sword, which seemed to be an extension of his arm, of his will to see them all pay for what had been done to his friend. As he swung, he sang, words Narví did not understand, but which filled her with curious joy, as though his light was touching her soul. It did not abate her fury, did not soothe her rage, her utter despair and agony unceasing as she felled orc after orc, cut down foes without counting.

Taking the standard-bearer’s head was satisfying, Narví’s teeth bared in a visceral snarl as she hacked the spears to pieces, yanking every spike of metal from the body of her Elf, barely even noticing that Glorfindel was killing every orc that got in range, keeping her safe as he had promised.

Picking up the corpse in her arms, her axe clutched in her hand as she carried him bridal-style back towards their earthworks, trusting the golden elf and her guards to watch her back and clear a path for their retreat, Narví didn’t even hear herself whispering soothing words into ears that could not hear her, telling him that it would all be alright, she would take care of him, keep him safe.

Narví’s tears did not fall, her anger burning too hotly for grief to become water in her eyes.

 

“It’s alright, Izgilê,” her voice murmured, “I’ve got you, everything will be fine. I am here, I’ve got you.”

Celebrimbor would have sworn he could feel a metal-covered hand stroking his hair, as he listened to the sound of her voice; it would have been soothing, he thought, if not for the knowledge of what she was carrying, the knowledge that she would see all that had been done to him; the image of his last years as a physical being also the last image she would have of him.

Weeping with eyes that conjured no water, Celebrimbor sank down onto the floor, wrapping his arms around his knees and hiding his face.

Please don’t remember me like that, my Narví, he whispered, but the plea made no ripple in the void.

 

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[1] O Children of Eru, Show them no mercy, for you shall receive none!

[2] Prepare to fire!

[3] Release arrows!