The Light is Still There by Aldwen

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Chapter 7

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The fine weather we have had during the journey is spent. This morning dawns grey and overcast. It is strangely quiet, and the indistinct shapes of nearby ships loom eerily through chill veils of fog drifting by as we gather on the deck for departure. Eight hundred of us are to go, five hundred Vanyar and three hundred Noldor, lightly armed and on foot, not to draw excessive attention.

“Maybe you should have waited for the Valar, for their counsel and aid ere doing this,” Falmar muses ere we depart.

“Do you see any of them here?” Ingwil snaps at him. For the last few days, my cousin has been in a strange mood. He even seems to have forgotten my presence, at least as his preferred target of witty remarks, and now he shakes his head and says something that makes me widen my eyes in disbelief. An apology. “I am sorry, captain. But no, we cannot wait. Your ships need a proper harbour on mainland ere we march north. I do not want to delay that. And the Valar shall learn of our venture anyway, should they arrive sooner.”

Falmar merely nods. One of the ships has already left for the Isle of Balar with a message. The sailors lower the boats, we embark them, and in a few moments a thick blanket of fog encloses us. I look ahead into the milky haze where lies our destination, a sight portending the uncertain future awaiting us.

The grating of gravel against the boat’s keel heralds the shallows, and I freeze for a moment ere setting my foot on the land of Endórë. My brothers died here. The thought of death is still strange, for our only experience of it is Alqualondë, and many of those present now do not have even that. My former fears threaten to return, but I firmly wrap my fingers around the hilt of the sword. When time comes, I shall draw it without hesitation. To whom do I make this promise? I do not know. Maybe to the spirit of Súlion’s brother. Maybe to the spirits of Nolofinwë and Fëanáro.

The boats return to the ships, and we assemble on the shore. There is a passage over the cliffs encircling the bay. Súlion leads us.

“Be on your guard,” he says quietly ere we set out. “This fog is both good and treacherous. It conceals us, but it may also conceal our enemies. Under sunlight we could move with less caution, for the Orcs stay hidden during the day if the sky is clear. By this weather, though, they may be about.”

“How strong are these creatures?” asks one of the Noldorin archers. Most of the Eldar who came with ‘The White Wave’ have picked up enough Sindarin to hold a conversation.

“A lone Orc, even fully armed and armoured, is no match for an Elf,” Súlion replies. “Maybe not even two or three of those beasts. But beware when there are many. A host of them would tear you to pieces. Not at once, though, if they have time. After hours of cruel torture.” He turns towards the path without another look.

Dismayed by his blunt words, we follow. After ascending the cliffs we come to a plain, overgrown with long, soft grass. The ground is level at first, but after a few hours’ march it starts undulating, rising in low hillocks. Clusters of bushes appear, emerging from the fog like phantoms, half-floating in the pale whiteness; then we notice groves of trees, some of them so tall that their canopies fully disappear in the dense veils of mist overhead. We take a short rest by one of such thickets where three tall evergreens grow. All is quiet, save for droplets of water falling with a soft patter from the low-hanging branches on the dewy grass.

Artanar stands by the trees, measuring them with his gaze. Then resolutely he sets on the ground his weapons, save a short dagger at his belt. “I shall climb up, Aranya. To see what may be seen from above.”

“We must go on.” Displeasure is clear in Ingwil’s sharp voice. “We should not delay. It may be perilous; besides, this fog covers everything anyway.”

Artanar ignores him. Seizing one of the lower branches, he pulls himself up and disappears within the canopy. Ingwil glares at me, but I merely shrug.

The delay is brief. My herald returns swiftly, and when he lands lightly on the thick grass, his face is confused.

“What did you see, Artanar?”

“It is weird.” His frown deepens. “This fog. It only encompasses us, our host. Higher above and further away there is bright sunshine and cloudless sky.”

“So this fog shields us, and the weather beyond it drives our enemies into hiding.” I exchange glances with Ingwil and other captains who stand nearby. “Let us use it as best we may. Perhaps we have the goodwill and support of the Valar in this venture.”

Even Ingwil nods reluctantly. In no time we are ready to journey further, wrapped in the protection of the white veils, hidden from unfriendly eyes. Súlion leads us confidently by the signs only his sharp eyes notice, and I am glad he is with us. We would never make such speed if we relied solely on the map.

It may be shortly before midday when we approach the edge of the forest; it is hard to tell the hour in the all-encompassing fog. Instead of scattered thickets, a green wall looms ahead of us now, quiet and strangely ominous. Our guide motions us to halt.

“Be wary, more than before,” he says gravely. “The city is not far, and Orcs sometimes hunt in this woodland. The bright weather beyond the shield of fog has maybe confined them to their hideouts, but some may still be about. So advance very, very quietly.”

He dives soundlessly into the forest. We follow, and our feet make almost no noise. Merely an occasional soft rustle of leaves or dewdrops dripping from branches break the stillness under the canopy.

We have entered a forest of old, large trees. Their stems are of great girth, their tops fade in the fog, lichen hangs from their branches. Soft, springy moss covers the ground, and here and there thickets of undergrowth bar our way, so that we must seek a path around. I like the place. It has a solemn air to it, an untamed loveliness, the kind of which in Valinórë is found only on the steep slopes of the Pelóri. I walk side by side with Súlion, and when I catch his gaze I whisper in a low voice, “Beautiful.”

Súlion smiles and nods, but his smile is sad. He lightly passes his hand over the bark of a large fir-tree we are passing; his palm lingers for a moment.

“The forest is empty of foes, for now,” he softly says.

I wonder whether he can converse with the trees. Some of the Eldar can; in Aman they usually become foresters, gardeners or healers. But here the ability to understand the speech of the growing things is maybe not only a source of delight but also a necessity, a way to survive.

The woodland becomes patchy, thickets alternate with glades. And in one of such glades we suddenly halt, terrified.

Remains of animals litter it; several deer have been slaughtered here. Blood stains the grass, entrails hang on the low bushes, shreds of pelts and bloody bones lie about. Three roughly severed heads are impaled on the lowest branches of fir-trees lining the glade; animals’ glassy eyes stare at us with terror and pain of their last moments.

“Who would hunt in such a fashion?” hoarsely asks one of the Vanyar. His face is sickly pale at the awful sight.

“The Orcs,” Súlion replies shortly. He removes the heads from the trees and lays them reverently on the soft moss among the roots. Then he looks at us, his eyes glinting coldly. “This is another reminder to be on our guard. They do not hunt only beasts in this manner.”

We dare not ask more but, silent and stricken, advance into the thicket ahead. The passage through the woodland shows increasingly frequent signs of devastation - burnt patches, trampled plants, trees hewn down and left to rot on the ground, deep cuts made in the bark of still living firs. Dismay turns into rage. I clench my fists. Cursed creatures! A sharply drawn breath, an angry whisper reveal the fury seething in others.

We emerge from the forest and the fog late in the afternoon. Beyond the low-branching trees on the fringe of the woodland stretches a vast plain, overgrown with tall grass and solitary bushes. Further away gleam white walls of the city and a patch of blue – waters of the bay, reflecting the sky and sunlight. All is still, and we briefly halt, getting ready for our first battle.

Like shadows we cross the plain, fading in the grass and in the shapes of the scattered bushes. Like shadows we advance, up to the very walls of Brithombar and, as we come closer, the desolation opens before our eyes. The city is half-ruined; its walls are partly down, its once-proud towers have toppled, houses are crumbling, white walls are smeared with foul signs. My fingers firmly close around the hilt of the sword. We will free this land from Moringotto’s filth! They shall pay a bitter price for terror and destruction they have wrought!

The enemies are at ease; they clearly do not expect an attack. Only few guards doze in the shadows hiding from the Sun, and when we sweep over the ruined walls and through the broken gates and along the streets of the city, the creatures of Moringotto dart here and there, dismayed and confused.

The Orcs are hideous. Everything about them speaks of evil: their looks, their voices, their clothing and gear. It makes killing them easy – merely a hunt of vile beasts. Still, when they turn and flee shrieking towards the river that flows past the southern gate of the city, I raise my hand and shout a command to the Noldor not to chase them. Further away, I see Ingwil giving the same order to the Vanyar.

“King Finarfin, will you not follow and destroy them?”

I turn. Súlion gazes at me, full of disbelief.

“Do you want us to kill retreating foes in cold blood?”

“You do that with Orcs, yes,” he replies impatiently.

“No.” I shake my head. “No, we cannot do that. Should we add to the slaughter and cruelty that has already taken place?” His eyes glint, and I sigh. “Look, my friend, I understand. You have suffered from them. You want to avenge your brother. I understand that. But—”

“No,” Súlion cuts me off. “You clearly do not understand.”

He turns and walks swiftly away. I remain amid the square, paved with flagstones, once white and smooth, but now cracked and broken. Bodies of dead Orcs litter the ground, their black blood stains the stone. Fifty enemies at least lie here, most of them pierced by our arrows. There has been almost no close combat, and none of us has sustained more than scratches. We have freed the city with little effort, and there is a harbour for our ships now; messengers already hasten north, to pass the news. I should be glad of the outcome of this first battle. I should be.