And better, and better is peace by Himring

And better, and better is peace

Read And better, and better is peace

At first, they are just walking—Men, mostly young, some of them in their early middle age, some with light wounds mostly healed. The older, slower, more seriously wounded are not yet among them. They walk companionably, in loose and somewhat fluid groupings, no longer in uniforms, no longer soldiers in military order.

They have been disbanded, released from the great barracks in Pelargir, streaming westwards, returning now to their homes in the settlements along the coast of Belfalas after the end of the War of Last Alliance, released from the war against Mordor that ate up far too large a chunk of their lives, plunging the end of their adolescence into seemingly never-ending horrors.

They seem a large group, seen walking like this along the sands with the sea sparkling in the sun in behind them, but far too many of them lie dead on Dagorlad. There are gaps here, too many who will never go home, and ghosts walk among them. Nevertheless, these are the ones that have survived, made their escape, and are still, at present, sharing this moment with comrades who have endured with them, before they split up and try to fit back into their old daily lives.

It is not clear what starts them off. Someone in one of the groups starts running, then another, farther away, as if they had been simultaneously inspired. Others, whole groups, are caught up in the impetus that spreads through them in ripples, like breakers and backwash in a sea, and then almost all of them are sprinting along the firm sands, toes and heels sinking in a little, loosening into that speed, in sun and sea breeze.

For a while it seems almost like a race, as if the leaders are running flat out to be the first to arrive at the end of the beach, but the competitiveness of that moment dissolves again. The front runners relax their speed, others catch up, and then they are all running as a group, not in lock-step, but achieving a more natural, easier rhythm.

‘It is peace,’ one of them hollers suddenly. ‘Peace,’ another takes up the call. And then they are singing, singing together, as they thunder together up the beach towards freedom.

The Sinda watching them discreetly from a hide-out in the coastal dunes sighs.

‘Do you remember,’ she asks her companion, ‘how, when Morgoth was cast out, we thought war and evil would be ended forever, and yet it was not so?’

‘And yet,’ he answers, ‘it could still be peace for them now, all their lives for these Men.’

‘Let us hope it shall be so!’

They dust themselves off and make their way more quietly and sedately to Edhellond.

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Chapter End Notes

Some inspiration, including the title, also from the final sequence in Karl Jenkins' The Armed Man: A Mass for Peace.

Although, as I said, this was not inspired directly by the plot of Chariots of Fire, I was still had in mind themes of solidarity and peace, which are linked both to the film and to the original idea of the Olympics.

The female Sinda may be a recurring OFC of mine (Huntress); if not she is someone with similar experiences. She is a northern Sinda who was among the original settlers of Edhellond (founded by Sindar near the later location of Dol Amroth), but she no longer permanently lives there at the time this is set.

Also, when I was still considering where to set this, there was discussion on the SWG Discord about the early populations of the Dol Amroth area, including pre-Numenorean elements. I didn't end up putting in any of that into the piece (partly because the watching Sindar have local knowledge and so would take this as a given), but it occurred to me retrospectively that there might be readers who would like to know that the runners described here aren't meant to be all Numenoreans of unmixed descent.