The Light is Still There by Aldwen

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Chapter 17

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The darkness dissolves into a twilight, and then I discern the grey fabric of the tent above me, the familiar feeling of my bed beneath me. How have I come here? I cannot remember. I was outside. I was carrying someone over the stony plain. My fingers were sticky with half-dried blood; it was not my blood…  I blink. No more blood and dust on my hands now, and I am no longer in attire of war but in clean clothes. How can this be? Why did I not feel them carrying me, washing me…?

Slowly I turn my head. A single burning lamp dispels the dusk. Ingwil sits beside the bed on the edge of a chair, head bowed, hands clasped, fingers locked tightly together. He senses me stirring and raises his eyes.

“Blessed be the Light of this World, you are awake!”

The true relief in his voice and his eyes surprises me.

“One might almost think you care for me, cousin.”

Ingwil considers me closely. “When Artanar carried you back senseless, we were all afraid, even the Valar. Lady Estë tended you. Do you remember what happened?”

“Of course, I remember.”

“Indeed? What do you recall?”

I look at him with narrowed eyes. Is it one of his jests, like before? But there is no mockery on his face.

“I remember the battle. Fire. Dragons. Ëarendil slew Ancalagon. We had victory.”

“And then?”

“Then…?”

“After the battle, cousin. What happened then?”

The genuine concern in his voice surprises and alarms me. There must be something else. Something… Yes, there was. Tunnels. Torches. Despair. 

“Angamando!” I sit up with a start. I remember. “We searched the fortress. For captives.” My cousin heaves a relieved sigh and nods. Scene after scene of the rescue comes back to my memory. “That last prisoner… Did he…” My voice breaks ere I finish the sentence.

“He will live.” Ingwil lays his hand on my shoulder.

“How long did I sleep?”

“Throughout the night and the whole next day. It is long past midnight now.”

“So I cannot withstand even a little darkness,” I murmur under my breath, but not softly enough.

“A little darkness, Arafinwë? You faced it longer than anybody else, save Artanar. But Artanar did not take the decisions you took.” I realize immediately of what he speaks, bite my lip and turn away, hoping he will have enough tact or sympathy to fall silent. But he continues. “What you did in that Warg-pit, Arafinwë… for that Man… And… how many you delivered later?”

Tears spring to my eyes. “Three,” I whisper hoarsely, covering my face with a trembling hand. “Three more. In that last passage… None of them would have lived to see the healers, and the pain they were in… I could not leave them in such anguish.”

Visions of torture chambers again flicker before my eyes, screams and pleas for release from pain ring in my ears, and my restraint shatters to pieces. I no longer care how weak and broken I might appear in my cousin’s eyes. I weep aloud, and then Ingwil does something entirely unexpected. He draws me in embrace and holds me as I sob against his shoulder.

“That was brave, Arafinwë,” he says quietly. “The others had no such courage. Not even me. Some of the captives died as we carried them towards the gates. We freed them, yes. And then we bestowed upon them those last moments of agony.” His voice is bitter.

I raise my head only when I feel certain that my voice will no longer be drowned in tears. Ingwil looks past me with unseeing eyes.

“Still, they did not die alone in the dark. They died in the arms of their kinsmen, on the way to freedom,” I say to comfort him. To comfort myself.

Ingwil releases me, sighs and draws his hand over his face. “Yes. Anyhow, that is already in the past. We have to think of the present now. And of the future.”

“We do. Where did you…”

A noise outside interrupts my question – distant shouting, clamour of steel. We look at each other in dismay. I spring to my feet and seize my sword. We run towards the frightening sounds.

Within moments, we are near the tent where the Silmarils have been kept under guard. Before it, many people stand around something in the middle; many have weapons. I push through the crowd and freeze at the sight. Two Elves are standing back-to-back amid the circle, a dark-haired and a red-haired one. They are armed; a sword and a long dagger are dripping with blood. The dark-haired one holds to his chest a wooden casket.

“Maitimo, Makalaurë, stop this madness!” Despite an attempt to keep my voice steady, it breaks anyway. 

My brother’s eldest son turns his head. Torchlight casts a red glow upon his face and hair. When he meets my gaze, his lips move to speak, but no words come. And his eyes… Regret and shame, despair and self-loathing. Eyes of one who has nothing left to lose anymore.

The ring of people draws tight around them, angry voices ring out, demanding that they drop the weapons and surrender the Silmarils. Instead, they raise their blades higher, ready for the hopeless battle that draws nigh.

“Stop! Please, stop!” I stand between them and the enraged crowd with outspread arms, in a futile attempt to protect… who and from what? My brother’s sons from death? The others from staining their hands with the blood of their kinsfolk again?

“Step back, all of you!” A commanding voice suddenly rings out. The crowd parts, and Eönwë strides in the open space. “You shall not spill another drop of blood for this! None of you! Step back!” People back off slowly. Eönwë turns towards my brother’s sons. “Did I not say to you that your right to your father’s treasures is rendered void by your own wrongdoings? Repent of your crimes and return the jewels!”

For a fleeting moment it seems they might surrender the Silmarils to Manwë’s herald. But then they shove aside those who stand on their way and vanish in the night. Many, including me, turn to follow.

“None is to go after them!” Eönwë’s voice rings again, and the Eldar halt.

I do not. I back away in the shadows in silence, even though a scream is building up in my chest. Why? Why this? We vanquished the enemy, we won the war; why this madness, this new bloodshed now? And these are my brother’s children! I must go after them, I must speak with them! In haste and weariness that still chain me I stumble and nearly fall but then steady myself again. Surely, I can find them and make them listen to reason!

Suddenly a strong arm grips my shoulder. “You will not follow them.”

With a start I turn. “You will not tell me what I should or should not do!”

Ingwil does not release his grip, and I struggle, attempting to free myself. When my efforts prove futile, blind anger descends.

“Let go of me! Let me go!” I shout to his face.

“You command people, Arafinwë, you cannot yourself disobey commands! And you are not fit to go anywhere!”

Both are true, but that only makes me angrier. Curse him! Why does he of all people has to be right?! Somehow I find the strength to fight him. Ingwil fends off my blows dealing none in return, but at length he seizes both my arms and holds me still.

“You are not going anywhere, cousin. You cannot help them. They are past any aid. Gone. There has been enough madness already. I will not allow you to go; I will carry you back in bonds if needed.”

Ingwil’s voice is calm, but it sounds like he means every word he says. At last I cease struggling, partly because he is right, and partly because my strength is at an end. My cousin releases his grip, and I sway, so he must support me. Some of my blows have been well-aimed and blood is seeping from the corner of his mouth, but I do not feel any regret now. All I feel is numb and complete exhaustion.

Ingwil leads me to my tent. There I collapse on the bed and turn my back. “Go away.” He covers me with a blanket. My attempt of yelling at him fails miserably, my voice fades to a whisper. “Leave me.”

He stays; I hear him pulling a chair. Irritation flashes and fades again in the fog of exhaustion. Yet sleep flees from me, or maybe I flee from it, so I linger on the edge between a dreary dream and weary wakefulness. I do not know how much time passes like this. At one moment I hear steps and a soft conversation. I cannot discern the words but recognize Artanar’s voice, grieved and distressed. I should get up and ask what is amiss, but I cannot move. My limbs are too heavy for lifting them even fraction of an inch. I cannot even turn. At last, sleep takes over.