Song of Souls by Raiyana

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Chapter 7

“The Orcs are in sight of the Stair Falls, Durin Uzbad!” the breathless messenger said, interrupting Durin’s greeting of the Elves who had had the task of keeping the foothills between the rivers from being overrun. Lord Erestor – Durin hadn’t thought the Elf a warrior, but he moved like one who was fully at home in his armour – whirled, staring across the milling warriors, the tall Elves and the stocky Dwarrow intermingling, nursing wounds and trying to get back towards the Mountains, make way for the reinforcements meant to hold the Gate of Stairs. Durin’s eyes, too, followed that path, but neither of the golden heads they were searching for were in view.

“We must close the Gate of Stairs and shore up our defences, my King!” his general implored, but Durin snarled wordlessly at her in reply. Erestor looked paler than the moonlight made him, his eyes frantically roving across the masses of soldiers. The civilians had all managed to get through; most were already inside Khazad-dûm and heading for their temporary lodgings – Durin was awaiting reports from the other side of his Realm, waiting for word from Amdir’s people as to whether the trees of Lindórinand had also been overrun.

“No!” he ordered, his booming voice making those around him look up sharply. “I will not trap my sister on the other side of our Gates unless I absolutely must. Send a small charge, and keep an eye out for her!”

In his chest, his heart beat frantically; he had tried to stop her going down there, but Narví was always too stubbornly impatient to sit at home when there was work to be done – and the Elves of Eregion were nearly family to her, he knew, though she had never said it… and he had never asked.

“Yes, my King,” Fabarâl Mori nodded respectfully, biting her lip, and Durin knew that she was right; closing the Gate of Stairs would see the enemy break upon their defences like waves upon a sea – he had seen the sea, once, many years ago, when they were younger and more foolish, he and Narví, and decided to go see ancient Nogrod’s ruins – but he could not give the order, though he knew he would be sacrificing many to save a few… to save one. Narví was little when Adad died, born late in life to the King, and their Amad stolen by her birth; it had always been his task to look after her, and failure had never seemed as imminent as it did in that very moment.

“They still live.” Erestor’s words were quiet, and only a minute and almost-imperceptible tremble gave away the fact that they were wishful thinking, not fact. Durin nodded tightly. “Glorfindel is with Lady Narví – they still live,” the elf repeated, his eyes continuing to roam the blood-spattered forces milling around them.

“Of course, they do,” he replied, keeping his own voice level through sheer will and wishing that he had gone with her, that he was the one standing with her – what will I do if she dies? How will I go on, knowing Narví was killed by these horrid creatures without me there to protect her? – staring across the mass of soldiers, hearing the far-off thuds of their ballistae at work, heaving heavy blocks of stone down upon the heads of his enemies. The last thing Adad asked him, ‘Protect her – she is too young to be without her parents, keep Narví safe with you, Durin, promise me.’ – Durin couldn’t help but feel that he had failed.

 

 

The icy water dragged her down, but Narví managed to keep her head, refusing to let her air escape her in a great gasp of cold surprise when she was instantly submerged, and began the hard work of moving across the Sirannon. She knew how to swim, yes, and her armour was not as heavy as it could have been, but it still took all her strength to achieve forward motion, her lungs burning with the need to breathe. Before her eyes, she saw a spectre of Khalebrimbur, waving her on – was he calling for her to join him, or cheering her on? – but Narví knew better than to allow beguiling memories to sweep away her focus.

 

Breaking through the surface with a harsh gasp, Narví nearly collapsed on the bank, gasping for air, as her tortured lungs slowly got used to the less-chilly surroundings and the presence of oxygen around her. Staring acros the Sirannon, she could make out the stout form of Harkon, battling an Orc almost twice his height as though it was a green recruit he was sparring against. Narví wheezed.

“We have to keep moving,” Glorfindel urged, just as wet and dripping as she was, his golden hair plastered against his skull. In his arms Khalebrimbur still rested, and the sight made Narví struggle to her feet, shuddering with the cold of her soaked clothes stuck to her skin.

“Let’s go,” she chattered, failing to keep her teeth from rattling like die in a cup. Getting a grip on her axe with frozen fingers was difficult, but she managed.

“The orcs are nearly upon us; some are already ahead of us,” Glorfindel cursed, making Narví whirl, staring into the darkness. A hissed Khuzdul profanity escaped her; she could see the same; there were at least twenty Orcs to fight their way through, but with more coming up from behind it might as well be two thousand, considering how limited her ability to protect herself was.

Opening her mouth to demand Khalebrimbur’s body once more, Narví was surprised to see the Elf already holding it – him – towards her. Exchanging a tight nod with her tall companion, Narví grit her teeth. Khalebrimbur was too tall to sling over her shoulder comfortably, but Narví did it anyway, keeping one hand free to grip her weapon; it was made for two hands, but she could swing it with one if she had to… and she was not leaving Khalebrimbur behind after all they had already lost trying to save him. Narví didn’t really know why it mattered so much to her that Khalebrimbur’s body be brought back – by anyone’s logic, his soul was long-since fled, had even said goodbye to her on the way to Mandos – but Narví was nothing if not stubborn and she knew she could never live with herself if she had left it out there for whatever games of torture the Orcs had not already thought of playing with it.

“Baruk Khazâd,” she murmured to herself more than anything, “Khazâd ai-menu.”

Glorfindel’s smile was a white slash in his pale face as he gripped his sword once again.

Together, they stepped out from behind the bushes that had sheltered them from the Orcs’ view and prepared to battle their way towards the Gates, a measly distance of fifteen Khuzdsiginarnâg[1] that might as well have been a whole mountain range.

 

 

 

The Dwarf-King had tried to make him fall back, tend to his wounds, do anything besides standing and staring towards the Stair Gate, but Erestor felt frozen to the ground. Beside him, the dark-haired King was equally still, though he roused himself to respond when his subordinates asked him things. Erestor simply felt numb. Please be alive, he called, biting his lip to keep from screaming it across the valley. His eyes were the only part of him moving, constantly darting from one side of their defensive position to the other, hoping that the one he was searching for had simply been hidden from view.

 

 

 

“Come along then, Lord Elf,” Durin said brusquely, catching Erestor’s armoured elbow when the Elf didn’t seem to hear him. Erestor startled, giving his shorter companion a confused look. Durin sighed. “We’re giving a charge, Lord Elf, pushing the Enemy back in case Narví is close enough to meet us with whatever guard she still has.”

“Du bekar!” came the cry, when Durin moved towards the Gate – they had built barricades beyond the Gate itself, which remained open – his elite warriors lining up behind him, ready to spear into the face of their foes.

“DU BEKAR!” Durin bellowed, raising his red axe high. “BARUK KHAZÂD! KHAZÂD AI-MENU!” With that, they charged.

Erestor found himself swept along without deciding to do so, the twin blades in his hand hacking at any foe in reach.

 

 

 

He heard her again, and Celebrimbor felt like weeping in relief. Then the words registered, the quiet voice uttering a war cry in a way he recognised from his own days as a soldier and commander in war as that of a person almost at their limit trying for one last burst of courage. The voice of a last stand.

“Please, Aulë,” he whispered into the void, not even caring that he had no voice to speak the plea, “let her live.”

 

 

 

They heard them before they saw them, and Narví felt a sudden wave of dizzying hope fill her.

“DU BEKAR!”

She would know her brother’s voice anywhere, had heard it in every mood and occasion imaginable, but heard in it now a new thread of despair she could not remember hearing before.

“BARUK KHAZÂD! KHAZÂD AI-MENU!”

And then they were spotted by the Orcs, and she didn’t have time to worry about anything but parrying the blows coming for her.

 

 

 

He saw them, amidst a roiling mass of darkly armoured orcs, two golden heads shining dully in the light of the few dwarven lamps that had not been cowed by the Enemy’s darkness. One tall and lean, one short and stocky, and both surrounded by these fiends that were begging for his axe to cleave their skulls from their miserable bodies. Durin smiled grimly, the red blade of his axe already dripping dark with blood.

The Dwarven charge split easily when it reached the two combatants, surrounding them swiftly as the fresh fighters made short work of the orcs, retreating slowly back towards the Stair Gate once Narví and Glorfindel had been placed behind a protective barrier of Dwarven steel and mail.

 

 

 

He hardly recognised Erestor, the dark blue accents of his steel armour as foreign now as they had been the first time he realised that the Lord Advisor intended to fight in the upcoming battles. Glorfindel stared. The dark-haired elf’s face was twisted in a hateful snarl, his sword flashing through the air with unbridled fury that seemed incongruous with his image of Erestor, who was among the most peaceful – some called him boring, but Glorfindel did not think so – Elves he had met in his long existence. He shivered. Beside him, Narví’s blue eyes were also taking in the sight, sharing this moment of stillness with him in the midst of battle, as they allowed themselves to breathe, relieved that they had made it.

Moving back towards the mountain, he lost sight of Erestor for a moment – he would have believed it impossible; Erestor might be shorter than him, but he was still much taller than a Dwarf – but turning back he caught sight of him once more and allowed himself to be pulled towards the Stair Gate by Narví.

A distant part of him wondered if they might be able to find something dry to wear; Elves might be almost impervious to cold, but he did not relish being soaked through nonetheless. The larger part of him, however, wondered how he would find the courage to fulfil the promise he had made to the Dwarf beside him, whose arms were once more cradling the empty hröa of his old friend.

“You will,” she murmured, making him realise that he had spoken the words aloud. “I have faith in you, Master Elf, and that is no small thing for one of my kind to say.” Looking up at him, Glorfindel was amazed by the soft smile playing around Narví’s mouth; the way she had screamed when she first saw the body she now carried would ring in his ears for years to come, he feared, her grief as heart-felt as any elleth he had seen receive news of her loved one’s demise. He nodded to her, feeling more respect for her strength of spirit than he would have believed he could feel for a Dwarf – certainly more than he had expected when Erestor had greeted her as a Princess.

“Le fêl, Narví,” he murmured.

“Follow me,” she replied, once they were behind the fortifications, above the Stair Falls that drowned out any hope of conversation as they passed the white waterfall. “My… squire,” Glorfindel hid a smile at the way she had to search for the word; her Sindarin was better than most of the Edain and yet she seemed uncertain when she used it, “should have some dry clothes for me, at least, and we could probably find something dry for you, too.” A practical soul, he thought, well-matched to the Elf who had stolen her heart – had Celebrimbor known what he held in such a gift? – as he continued to walk beside her, silently vowing that he would ensure that Erestor knew the answer to that question no matter what the Loremaster’s feelings turned out to be. Glorfindel wanted to hope that Narví’s perceptions were correct, but he hardly dared.

 

Someone – Glorfindel bet it was Erestor – had ensured that a change of clothes for him had been packed with the crates destined for their interim camp along the valley leading to the Doors of Durin and soon he was both dry and dressed in a familiar green tunic, stitched with a border of golden flowers that brought a melancholy smile to his face when he saw them. Narví had disappeared at some point, entering a tent that could only belong to her brother by its decorations, and Glorfindel turned around to look for Erestor, wanting to reassure himself that his lovely Loremaster hadn’t been hurt in the fighting.

Erestor found him first, though it took Glorfindel a while to realise that the person who had slammed into his chest and was now trembling violently against him was Erestor.

“I am here, Erestor,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around the slender body. His armour was gone, as well as his swords, replaced by a dark blue tunic with silver stitching. Erestor did not respond, and Glorfindel did not know what to say, so he simply wrapped his arms tighter around the trembling body, resting his cheek on Erestor’s hair and enjoying the softness against his face, the subtle scent of apple-blossoms that clung to the strands even through the scent of dark blood that had not been completely washed away. “I am always here for you.”

“I thought you had died again,” Erestor whispered, his face still hidden from view, but the roughened voice and the slight dampness soaking through his clothes spoke plainly of his fear and relief.

“No, Erestor,” Glorfindel sighed, hardly even aware of the way he was pressed against the shorter ellon, never wanting to let go, “I am here, safe and sound, I promise.” Erestor sighed into his throat, tension leaving him with the expelled air. “Are you well, mellon?” Glorfindel asked, the moniker tripping off his tongue with familiar ease. Erestor stiffened. Pushing himself away from Glorfindel, he took a step back, nodding decisively. Glorfindel’s arms felt suddenly empty.

“I am unhurt, my Lord,” he murmured. “Excuse me, I should check on… excuse me.” With that, Erestor whirled and Glorfindel uttered a low curse at his own apparent cowardice.

“Erestor!” he called, but though he paused, the other ellon did not turn around. “Please… forgive me for causing you fear.” Glorfindel wasn’t used to uttering pleas, but he wasn’t sure that his overwhelming impulse to spin the shorter ellon back into his hold until he felt satisfied enough by the contact to let him go was a good plan either.

“I forgive you,” Erestor sighed, his shoulders slumped. He began moving again, and something reckless rose up in Glorfindel’s chest.

“Erestor!” he called again, louder, and when the Loremaster stopped this time, he caught him by the arm, using the advantage of surprise to spin him around once more. “Forgive me this, too,” Glorfindel murmured, cupping his face and raising it so he could look into those grey eyes. Erestor stared back, his eyes a little frightened, but he did not move away from the touch, which made Glorfindel smile. “But I could not let it go undone any longer.” Seeing no reluctance in his face, Glorfindel dipped his head slowly, stealing the softest of kisses from those lips, the dark hair tickling his fingertips. Erestor seemed frozen, reaching up to grip Glorfindel’s forearms tightly. Suddenly fearful, the golden warrior pulled back.

“What…” Erestor’s words petered out, his grey eyes large as he stared up at Glorfindel, who was beginning to curse himself for a fool. Erestor shook his head. “You…” but the words died out once more. Glorfindel winced. Closing his eyes, he waited for Erestor’s reproach, his palm still resting along his well-formed jaw while Erestor’s fingers were curled around his own wrists. “Why…?” Erestor finally breathed, the tiny gust of air playing across Glorfindel’s lips in a way that made him want to kiss Erestor again and damn the consequences.

“My heart,” he murmured instead, keeping his eyes closed so he wouldn’t have to see the possible disgust on Erestor’s face. “Do you truly not know how it beats for you?” Erestor’s gasp was loud and damning to Glorfindel’s mind. He sighed, beginning to pull away. With a murmur of protest, Erestor’s fingers tightened their grip, keeping him in place. Glorfindel’s eyes flew open, in time to see Erestor’s face galvanise into determination as one hand abandoned his wrist in favour of tangling in his hair and pulling him back to that mouth, swallowing his groan in a kiss that was a thousand times sweeter than the first one. Glorfindel’s fingertips were still stroking along Erestor’s jaw and up to his ear, but his free arm wrapped itself around his back once more, pulling him in close as the kiss continued.

“Meleth,” Erestor whispered between kisses, his long fingers tangled in Glorfindel’s golden locks; he wondered why having his hair pulled was so pleasurable, but he didn’t want to break the kiss to ask.

“Marry me,” he gasped instead, as his own fingers clutched at any part of Erestor he could reach.

“Yes.” Glorfindel pulled back, almost surprised at the ready acceptance, but Erestor simply smiled at him.

“Well, it’s been a while since I’ve performed a battle-field marriage, but I think we all remember how it goes,” someone said drily, and Glorfindel recognised the watery version of laughter that followed as Narví’s.

“I stand to witness!” she cried, and Glorfindel thought that his face might have caught fire, as heat not unlike that of a Balrog suffused his cheeks. Erestor, too, was blushing, and the sight was fascinating beyond belief. Narví’s call was repeated by the Dwarrow around them, until it was a rhythmical chant.

“With the Maker below, the Star-Kindler above, and the Life-giver among us, to witness your oaths, I do call these two… married!” Durin bellowed, the volume necessary to be heard over the chanting and stomping Dwarrow.

Glorfindel stared. Erestor seemed paralyzed in his arms. He whirled, glaring at Durin as those closest began to sing a song he thought he might be quite pleased not to know the meaning of, if the accompanying ‘helpful’ gestures from the two Dwarrow closest to he and Erestor were any clue.

Beside her brother, Narví was smiling, looking more alive than he had seen her since the terrible moment on the barricade. Taking Erestor by the hand, Glorfindel led him towards the two royal Dwarrow. Durin was grinning smugly, while Narví gave him a proud smile that didn’t relieve his fears that this was some sort of joke at all.

“What just happened?” Erestor asked, sounding dazed. Narví reached out to pat his hand.

“Battle-field marriage. It’s a Dwarven custom, Erestor,” she explained.

“We’re… married?” Erestor still seemed slightly lost. Narví nodded. From further away, they could still hear the sounds of battle, but Narví had been right when she told him that the Stair Gate would hold for a good long while, and Glorfindel didn’t worry about the Orcs in that moment at all.

“In the eyes of my people, yes,” she agreed. Glorfindel felt slightly dumbstruck, standing next to his… hervenn… the title filled him with a shivery sort of satisfaction. Erestor simply gaped at her. “Congratulations.”

“May I kiss you again… hervenn?” Glorfindel heard himself asking, the sound of his voice seemingly shocking Erestor out of his stupor. The Loremaster flinched, and Glorfindel worked very hard not to be hurt by that, but then Erestor’s fingers wrapped tightly around his, and then Erestor smiled at him. Glorfindel’s heart sang, and he didn’t even need to see the nod of consent before he had pulled Erestor back into his arms, kissing him with all the fervour he could muster while the sound of Dwarven cheering faded into the background.

[1] Dwarf-length measuring unit roughly equal to 1.4m

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