Remembrance by ford_of_bruinen

Remembrance

Read Remembrance

The skies burn amid the stench of blood and iron, tangy sea-air and acrid smoke. We have fallen into darkness but we remain together, un-scattered, united.

 

Running between the ships, our torches high, we search for the dry timber where the flames will leap; only Maitimo stands aside and we scorn his weakness, calling him our mother’s son as we once more swear allegiance to our father, suppressing the fear of where he will lead us.

We gather, all save the eldest, to watch the fires of our betrayal, and in the sudden heat my heart freezes.

Where is Ambarussa?

~*~**~*~

Rumours spoke of the Twin-Lords of Estolad, tall and handsome with russet hair and cold blue eyes, the youngest of the Dispossessed. The youngest was gentle of heart and fair but spent most his days locked in his study in the dreary stone keep; the elder, by contrast, was rumoured to be harsh and quick of temper and it was under him, and his small group of trusted hunters, that most of the Sindar and Nandor of the great plains had been driven back into forest and mountain.

What few knew, a small group of warriors, the brothers to the north and east and none other, was that there was only one Lord of the plains: the younger had been the first victim of their kin on this side of the sea. They kept their secret well, the shame of a brother slain by either father or one of themselves, and carefully they had sown rumours of the difference between the twins, and in particular the self-isolation of the younger. And so at feasts the younger came, ever graceful, while the elder shunned festivities - and in the hunt or battle the elder only led the forces.

The Twin-Lords - or rather, the surviving twin - spent little time in the keep. The illusion of the missing brother was kept by one of his few trusted friends and companions, a cousin - grandson of Mahtan, who had come with them when the peace shattered. He was slighter of built than the remaining Ambarussa and his hair was closer to copper than russet, but aside from that he held enough of a likeness to play the part as long as he kept his distance from others. When closeness was required it was Amrod himself who acted his younger brother, his cold, hard face softening into smiles and laughter in a skilled mummery of feelings he himself had left behind on a cold night when the burning of the ships had maimed his soul.

The lights burnt brightly in the small library where Maedhros sat, regarding his cousin.

“He comes and leaves as he pleases. But he rarely stays away more than a week or two,” Ruscion said, attempting to break Maedhros’ silence. “He is a good Lord in his way.”

Maedhros sighed and nodded, draining the wine glass in his hand. “Yet he leave you to rule from the shadows more often than not, and our thanks to you for it.” Standing, he walked over to the window overlooking the courtyard. “How is my brother?”

Ruscion scratched his ear as he searched for an answer. “Same as ever,” he answered eventually, his voice neutral.

“Prone to rages, in other words,” Maedhros said dryly, turning his eerie gaze back on his younger cousin. “And trying to drown himself in wine when he is not bathing in the blood of his prey.”

Scratching on a spot of ink on his hand, Ruscion did not answer, taking the cautious choice of silence rather than angering either one of his cousins.

Maedhros nodded at his silence. “I am right then. I will stay until my brother returns and while we wait you and I can discuss trades and training. Himring still lacks a decent smith and I suspect Caranthir builds his fortune from keeping anything resembling luxuries to be traded in the north.” He refilled his wine. “And you can tell me, in private, how I can help my brother.”

~*~**~*~

The subtle scent of wild onions buried in coal and roasting venison wafted through the air. Nimloth’s stomach growled with hunger. Her feet ached with blisters after an entire day of walking, yet her uncle had shown no signs of slowing.

Lost in her own misery, she almost walked into the rump of the shaggy forest pony that carried their provisions before she realised they had stopped. Belatedly she saw the fire in front of them and heard the sound{s} of horses moving quietly in the darkness. Behind her someone murmured a curse.

Few crossed the plains of Estolad in these times. Craftsmen and traders used the old road and even then they travelled with a heavy guard. Away from the road only creatures of the dark and Noldor roamed, both cruel and dangerous. Her heart beat wildly in her chest as she imagined the horrors that dwelled in the light of the fire.

Her uncle gestured slowly, sliding his daggers out of their scabbards. The members of their company drew closer, nocking arrows and drawing their blades in wary anticipation. Quietly they started moving again, closer to the fire and the welcoming scent of food.

Her fingers curled tightly around the hilt of her belt-knife as, holding her breath, she moved with the rest, envisioning muscular, twisted figures of darkness; half elf - half wolf , laying in wait, luring them closer.

The meat hung over the fire, cooked to a rich brown, and fat made soft hissing noises as it fell down into the flames. At the edge of the fire a large pot burbled with boiling water, else all was quiet. Deserted blankets and bedrolls lay spread on the ground and small wooden bowls lay scattered, some filled with still steaming water, but there was no life moving through this campsite, no Elves or Orcs getting ready for the night. It was as if whoever had set this fire had simply disappeared.

On the far edge of the light something moved. Something large and dark. Nimloth could feel herself trembling, her breathing coming in short gasps of fear as she watched the massive creature come closer, its large feet thumping against the ground.

A soft whinnying broke the silence and the heavy thuds became shuffling of hooves as several large, riderless horses stepped into the light. Her knees felt suddenly weak as she watched them come closer. Only horses, not goblins.

Her uncle sheathed one of his daggers, moving forward to run a hand along the thick neck of the closest horse. It was a great beast, powerful muscles moving beneath the black coat. “Noldor,” he said. “I know no others who ride steeds like these.”

“Indeed,” a soft drawl answered behind them, “and now you can throw down your weapons.”

Nimloth turned with a shriek, trying to see who had spoken.

Out from the darkness shapes materialised. Tall Elves in boiled leathers surrounded them with drawn swords.

Nimloth turned around and around, trying to see all of the strangers, and suddenly wished they had been Orcs. Maybe they would not have been so effectively trapped if the ones setting the trap were half animals; and part of her suspected that the goblins would have shown them more mercy than these fierce, cruel faced Noldor would.

Her uncle watched them carefully, counting their numbers, before he bent down and laid his knives on the ground. “We mean no harm,” he said in his soft melodic voice. “We are Sindar of Doriath travelling to visit kin in Ossiriand.”

The Noldor waited silently while, one by one, the Sindar placed their weapons on the ground. In the end only Nimloth still clutched her knife tightly in her hand.

Their leader smiled sardonically as he came closer. He was taller than his men, albeit not as tall as her great-uncle Elu. Shoulder length hair the colour of a fox’s coat gleamed warmly in the firelight, a sharp contrast to his cold ice-blue eyes.

“Your weapon,” he said, holding his hand out toward her. “Now.”

She tightened her grip around the hilt nervously. “You are one of the kinslayers,” she said, willing her voice not to tremble as she wondered if she could avenge her family’s betrayal on the far shores.

“Indeed,” he drawled in response. “And if you are thinking to redress justice you are mistaken.”

He moved fast, wrapping one of his large hands around her wrist and bending it backwards until she dropped the dagger with a gasp. “Better.”

Her uncle reached out, pulling her close. “I would thank you for keeping your hands off my niece,” he said, his voice frosty. Taking Nimloth’s wrist, he gingerly felt for damage in muscles and tendons. “You will bruise.”

“It would be polite,” one of the dark Noldor interrupted, “for the intruders to introduce themselves upon meeting Amrod of Estolad.”

Her uncle straightened, making a small, barely polite bow towards their leader. “I am Daeron of Doriath, kinsman of Elu Thingol, and this girl is Nimloth, my niece. We are, as previously stated, travelling to Ossiriand and would be grateful to share your fire.”

Another of the N}oldor spoke in their harsh, foreign language, bringing raucous laughter from the other warriors.

“Silence!” Their leader all but barked his command. He fixed his cold stare on Daeron. “Share our fire until dawn; if you dwell past the first hour of the day you will swear allegiance to me and mine.” He turned on his heel, walking over to the horses.

~*~**~*~

Uneasy silence hung between them as the night deepened. The roast venison was grudgingly shared, as were the sweet apples and the honeyed nuts of Doriath. The Noldor were a grim lot, quiet and storyless even during a night under the wonders of the stars, and all attempts at conversation between the two groups had failed.

Amrod sat on the far side of the fire, surrounded by his hunters, yet isolated in his own chilly silence. He had accepted the apples with no word of thanks and ignored the nuts. He looked focused, slowly carving elaborate pieces of art from his apple before popping them in his mouth.

Nimloth was certain she could see a cruel smirk each time his teeth crunched into the fruit. He was evil; she knew this. Her uncle's fingers ran rhythmically through her dark hair. She wondered who he was trying to reassure, her or himself. Despite her annoyance at being treated like a child she had to admit that it worked. She felt safe, even here, surrounded by Noldor and their maybe most infamous lord.

“I met you before,” Daeron eventually said, his mild melodic voice singing as he spoke. “At Mereth Aderthad when Fingolfin was crowned the King of your people. I had the honour to sing against your brother.”

Amrod threw the apple into the fire, the flames hissing furiously as they scorched the sweet flesh. “My twin, not me,” he replied shortly, burying his dagger deep into the ground.

Daeron bent his head in reply. “Of course. My pardon, you carry a great likeness.”

“Are you always so rude? My great uncle would have your tongue were you to speak so to us in his halls!” Nimloth seethed with anger. Not only was he cruel, he also had no manners.

“That would be why he hides in his forest, ruled by his witch, rather than meeting the enemy as a man,” Amrod answered sardonically.

Nimloth stared at him, her mouth open. She could not believe he had just said that. Elu Thingol was no coward nor was Melian a witch! She struggled to find words before she furiously picked up an apple, throwing it hard at Amrod. He was impossible, and she hoped the apple would hurt him.

“Nimloth!” her uncle said, grabbing her arm. “Apologise. Now. We are guests.” His voice was stern and unforgiving.

Amrod deftly caught the apple out of the air, giving her an icy smile before he bit into it. “Your other great-uncle learned the price of insolence at Alqualondë, child. Perhaps his kin needs another lesson.”

Around him the Noldor smiled, the first sign of amusement she had seen from them all evening. The camp had fallen quiet now, her own people tense and wary as they eyed the warriors around them.

“I have many brothers yet unmarried,” Amrod continued. “Perhaps an alliance with your craven king will one day prove of use to us.”

Daeron tugged Nimloth down beside him again. “We apologise for rudeness,” he said, his voice tense and coldly polite.

Amrod merely snorted in reply.

One of the Noldor refilled their kettle with water and fresh mint before pushing it back into the fire. Watching him move, she wondered of he had been there, at Alqualondë. She had heard the stories of blood and fire and imagined the rivers and lakes of Doriath red with blood as the trees burned. Glancing at the kettle Nimloth shifted slowly moved closer. Her heart beat rapidly in her chest as she found the hidden pouch sown into the hem of her dress. To use in emergencies only, she had promised.

She bent down to their own kettle, pouring the hot refreshing rosehip tea into her mug, fumbling as she emptied the contents of her pouch into the boiling water beside her. Emergencies. There would never be another Alqualondë.

~*~**~*~

Lost in thought, he stared into the fire. The lingering stench of roast venison turned his stomach. The Sindar had finally fallen quiet and rolled up in their blankets. Ambarussa had loved nights like this, when the stars at the edge of what had then seemed like the entire world were large and almost seemed close enough to touch. Wrapping his hands tighter around the cup of mint tea, he tried to force the memories back. Ambarussa was gone, his body burned with wood and cloth and riches they had deemed unnecessary. Yet again he struggled to remember, to know. Who had carried the torch that left nothing of Ambarussa to be found - their father, one of his brothers, himself? The only one innocent of his death was Maedhros.

The sound of retching brought him back to the present. Turning to see from whom the sound came made the world spin. Grasping his dagger, he struggled to pull it out of the unyielding earth.

Around him the Sindar slept peacefully. Only the girl sat up, watching them with her bright eyes and smug smile. His men lay around the fire, some wrapped up in their blankets, others slumped on the ground. Faron was no more than a few steps away, struggling to vomit before he too collapsed on the ground.

“Treachery!” he croaked, feeling the weakness spread through him. “We have been…betrayed…” And the world went dark.

~*~**~*~

Daeron sat up quickly as Amrod fell to the ground, his half-slumber broken by sudden alarm. Most of his people lay sleeping in their bedrolls and blankets but Nimloth was still awake, watching the Noldor with shining eyes.

A few of the Noldor lay in their own blankets but most had slumped where they sat, and some had crawled towards the small river at the bottom of the encampment. Amrod lay dangerously close to the fire, his left hand only inches from the flames, his right hand still wrapped around the dagger in the ground.

Cursing, he flew up from his own blankets, pulling Amrod away from the danger of the flames.

“Awake!” he called, allowing his voice to ring loudly in the night. “I need all hands. Care for the sick.”

Around him the Sindar woke, confused and tired as they sat up, rubbing sleep out of their eyes. None of the Noldor stirred.

Striding over across to Nimloth, he grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her up to face him. “What did you give them?” he asked, his voice tense.

Nimloth bit her lip, looking like a sulking child of five. “I do not know what you mean,” she started.

He shook her. “Answer me, child, what did you give them? I do not have time to deal with your temper or injured pride at this moment!”

Nimloth pushed her bottom lip out further. “I do not know. Aunt Melian gave it to me.”

Daeron gave her a disgusted look. “Sit down where I can keep an eye on you.”

The Sindar worked tirelessly, their eyes turned away from Nimloth. Water was boiled, then cooled and carefully trickled into the mouths of the living, who had been laid by the fire for warmth. The longer they worked the further the line of the dead stretched until, by dawn, only a handful of the Noldor still lived, and none of them either strong or conscious. The rest had been lost to seizures or slipped into the long sleep, never having woken.

Straighening Daeron gathered his hair in a tight braid. “Return to Doriath,” he said shortly to his company. “Keep Nimloth under a close eye and leave what supplies you can spare. I do not know how long you have before anyone comes looking for them.”

Nimloth stared at him. “You must come,” she said. “They will kill you if they find you here.”

Daeron met her eyes squarely. “I am staying here and caring for those who are still alive. Perhaps, if I can save even Amrod it will spare Doriath from the wrath of his brothers.”

“Let them come,” she replied sullenly. “No one can enter Doriath unbidden.”

“Trees still burn and rivers can be poisoned. I have no wish to see the sons of Fëanor turn their attentions from the north.” He sighed. “He was seeking to provoke you, Nimloth; his amusement was less at the death of our kin and more at your reaction. I know you are angry, that you were scared, but this... How does one kinslaying justify another? Elu will decide what to do with you.” He turned away again, grabbing their own kettle on his way to the small river. They would need more clean water if any were to survive. He wondered if Nimloth had fully understood what she had wrought, if she had realised what would happen if Amrod was to die here, poisoned at the hands of Sindar from Doriath.

When he returned they had already departed, the pony left behind for faster travel. He watched them for a minute before placing the kettle on the fire. It would be a long, hard fight to keep the remaining Noldor breathing and to bury the dead.

When the water had boiled he again trickled the liquid into the mouths of the unconscious, rubbing their throats to force them to swallow. He wrapped them in warm blankets, removing soiled clothes and washing them as well as he could. It was hard work and before the sun had reached its zenith yet another had fallen prey to the poison. His entire body ached from lack of sleep and lifting bodies and he still had not managed to start burying the dead.

Making a decision as the night once more started to fall, he hunted for firewood. He would send them back to the earth in the old way, on a pyre, sending their spirits back to the west and their judgement. It was close to midnight again when the pyre was finally burning and the stench of scorched flesh choked the air.

A retching cough alerted him that someone had woken.

Amrod lay on his side, his knees pulled up against his chest as he tried to vomit.

Daeron sat down, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, easing him up. “You need something to drink,” he said softly. “Take it easy.”

“Have you seen Ambarussa, Atar? I cannot find him.” Amrod's voice was faint and his eyes glossy and lost in something only he could see. The retching grew worse as he started to struggle against Daeron. “Ambarussa!” His tormented scream tore through the night.

Daeron held him closer, rocking him slightly as he would soothe a small child and sang, one of the few lullabies he knew of the old language, close enough to Quenya to soothe the struggling Noldo.

He sang as the night deepened further, only pausing to change the blankets around his patients and to force some water down their parched throats. He wondered if the sons of Fëanor had a stronger constitution than most or if Amrod had simply ingested less of the poison that was slowly killing the others.

During the days that followed his charges grew weaker and, one by one, they succumbed until only Amrod remained. Night after night he built a pyre to burn the dead and every night Amrod woke, raving and feverish, lost in whatever nightmare trapped him. And slowly he started to puzzle out an idea of what haunted his only living patient.

A week had passed when Daeron woke to find Amrod looking at him, his gaunt face carefully devoid of emotions.

“You poisoned us. Why are you still here?” His voice was faint and raw.

Daeron shook his head as he sat. “I did not, nor would I have had the poison been in my possession. I am wise enough to see the difference between teasing a spoiled child and true cruelty. My niece overreacted and she will be severely punished.”

Amrod pushed himself up to sit. “The others?”

“I saw it safest to send my own people away on the night it happened. Of yours I am afraid only you remain.”

“They were good men,” he said quietly. “They had followed me a long time.”

Daeron moved around the small fire, lifting Amrod to lean against him as he held a goblet of broth to his lips. “I am sure they were.”

Amrod kept his mouth closed, trying to pull away from the soup.

“Do not be ridiculous. Had I wanted you dead I would not have stayed to nurse you back to health this past week,” Daeron said impatiently. “Drink.”

A few more moments of hesitation passed before Amrod closed his eyes, carefully sipping the warm liquid. “Thank you.”

Daeron smiled slightly. “You are welcome. Now rest.”

Tiredly Amrod closed his eyes and fell asleep again, curling up like a small child.

With a tenderness that surprised himself, Daeron smoothed the blankets over Amrod and left him to sleep.

The days that followed continued according to the same pattern. Amrod had brief moments of consciousness but conversation was sparse and each day he still tried to refuse the nourishing broth that Daeron offered. It became a routine, the token protest, the impatient denial of poisonous intentions, the veiled and fading distrust between Sinda and Noldo. They spoke of nothing save the repeated words of the established argument. Daeron stayed closer to the fire again, giving up hunting and making the broth from the wild herbs and vegetables that he could find, and slowly Amrod's protests lessened.

“Why did you stay?”

Daeron looked up from the vegetable stew he was making and smiled slightly. “I do not support death or suffering. I could help, so I stayed.”

Amrod was looking at the small piece of wood he was carving. “Most of your people would not have.”

“No,” Daeron admitted. “Not after Alqualondë, but I remember the suffering of the long journey and I remember Finwë. The need to care for the injured or dying was established then. You needed me, that was enough.”

“Did you bury them?”

Daeron shook his head. “There were too many for me to bury them and still look after you. I set a pyre, as in the old days.”

Amrod shuddered, looking paler. “You burned them?”

“I did. Every night I built a pyre... and every night you screamed in your sleep.” Daeron gave Amrod a penetrating look.

Amrod froze, his entire body tensing, seeking the strength to spring at Daeron. “What do y0u mean?” His voice was cold and distant.

“You had... nightmares... during the nights when I burned the dead. I know enough Quenya to understand the things you said...and screamed...during those nights. Your twin, he burned at Losgar, did he not, when your father set fire to the ships stolen from my kin?”

Closing his eyes, Amrod nodded. “A cousin and I act his part in public now. We paid for those ships with more blood then we took at Alqualondë. Uinen's wrath took many and the ice took its toll on my uncle's people. My brother too, fell to the curse of the ships.”

Daeron's voice was quiet. “I remember my uncle well. I am glad you paid for what you took, but I regret every life lost all the same. Your twin, he was gentler than you? Or is that an invention of latter times?”

Amrod's voice softened. “He was livelier, more passionate, but his temper was calmer and he was a fairer man then I. I do my best, when I have to, to try to find him within me, but I lack the love for life that made him special.”

Daeron rested a hand lightly on Amrod's shoulder. “The twin I met at Mereth Aderthad was special as well. Do not keep others so much at a distance; you miss out not only on friends but also other possibilities. Your brothers are marrying one by one; will you be the only one unwed?”

“I will not wed.” Amrod's voice was quiet as he looked into the fire. “I am half a man, with no patience for female softness or wiles. I will fight and hunt and die.” He looked at Daeron. “Are you wed? You never mention a wife or child.”

Wry amusement fleeted over Daeron's face. “No, I am not wed. I have...unnatural desires towards men... Maybe that is my reason for not judging others.”

Amrod gave him an uneasy look, shifting slightly further away, and once more silence stretched between them.

~*~**~*~

Slowly, Amrod grew stronger of body again, putting more and more distance between himself and Daeron as he started walking around the camp and eventually hunting. Nearly a month had passed since the poisoning and the wary friendship they had started to build had been pushed back behind polite walls. Daeron often regretted his honesty that had to all appearances lost him what may have been a great and unusual friendship.

They spoke little as Amrod gathered the supplies he would need for the journey back to his own keep.

Daeron woke one morning, finding the fire quenched and the camp empty. He ran a hand through his hair as he sat up. The group of horses had gone and so had the swords and bows that the fallen Noldor had left behind them. The shaggy Sindarin pony was happily munching away on the long grass, no longer needing to share its feeding ground.

With an odd, hollow feeling aching in his throat Daeron packed up what few supplies he still had and shouldered his pack. His time in Estolad was over with no words of thanks or farewells. Looking out over the plain, he started walking, the pony trailing behind him. Doriath was no more than two days' walk.

He had not come far when he saw the rider approaching in the distance. The large, roan horse flew across the grass, his rider moving with him in a powerful display of strength. Admiring the horse and man, he stopped and waited.

The sun shone on the the russet hair as Amrod reined his horse in, only inches away, looking down at his saviour.

Daeron smiled, pushing the silver hair of Elwë's house out of his eyes.

“You are not the only one,” Amrod said, his voice rough. “Unnatural desires run among the Noldor as well as the Sindar.” Leaning down until he looked as if he might almost overbalance from the horse, he brushed his lips against Daeron's. “We will meet again, Daeron of Doriath.” Straightening gracefully, he whirled his horse around and began his journey home.

Daeron watched as Amrod disappeared into the distance. “Until next time, son of Fëanor,” he whispered to himself as he started walking again. “Until next time.”