The Light is Still There by Aldwen

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Chapter 9

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At the entrance to the harbour, between the two rows of storage houses standing on both sides of the street, we have walked right into a trap. Deafening yells pierce the stillness, dark shapes pour from the seemingly empty buildings. In no time, the Orcs have surrounded us. These are not the terrified, shrieking beasts we defeated so easily two days ago. These are warriors, armed and armoured, and fierce, with hatred instead of fear flashing in their eyes. Their advance is swift and well-ordered.

“Draw weapons! Defend yourselves!”

The moment of our confusion is short. I take up Ingwil’s call, and then time is lost in a blur of sound and motion. So much happens at once. An Orc falls dead at my feet, and his severed head rolls some steps away. A fellow warrior sinks slowly to the ground beside me, his eyes wide in disbelief, a curved dagger protruding from his chest. The Orcs are not as strong as we are, I repeat to myself Súlion’s words as I raise my blade again and again. But they are many, so many. We are heavily outnumbered. Frantic yells ring in my ears. Soon the white pavestones are anything but white, and too much of the blood colouring them is red.

Seemingly hours later, I pull my sword free from the chest of an enemy, stagger back from the fallen body and raise my blade to counter the next assault. It does not come. I lower the sword and, struggling for breath, look around.

The fight is over. We have prevailed, but the victory is dearly bought: maybe but a half of our warriors is still on their feet, and some of them only barely. The clamour of battle fades, and suddenly it is very quiet, save for an occasional moan of pain. Fighting the terror rising in my heart I force myself to make a move.

“Set guards around the place in case more Orcs lurk somewhere! Search for the wounded!”

Surely, that cannot be my voice, so calm and steadfast when my hands shake and tears threaten to slide down my cheeks? But it breaks the standstill silence, and we search among the dead Orcs, where beside the black armour too often gleams silver and gold. My heart skips a beat when I discover Artanar beneath two fallen enemies. Is he…? I cannot even end the sentence. But as I shove the Orc-bodies aside he opens his eyes, and a loud sigh of relief escapes my lips.

“I am well.” Artanar struggles to his feet. “I lost my helmet, and one of the cursed creatures hit me on the head.”

He waves away my concern and, still slightly swaying, joins the search. Thankfully, there are enough of those with skills in healing, and they immediately turn to tending their fellow warriors.

On one of the piers I find Súlion. He lies nearly on the waterside, beside his shattered bow. His hand still clutches a dagger, bloodied up to the hilt. A long knife has pierced his chest, cunningly driven beneath the light breastplate, the only piece of armour he wears, and there is another gaping blade-wound in his side. He still lives; when I kneel beside him, he opens his eyes with a gasp of pain. His breath is shallow and laboured.

“King Finarfin…”

“Do not speak. Save your strength. The healers will be here in no time.” I take his hand, fighting tears. “Had you not refused the full armour…”

Súlion’s lips move as if he is attempting a smile, but it looks more like a grimace of pain. “I am a woodwright… not a warrior. I do not know how to wear one.”

His voice is lost in a fit of coughing; blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. Ere setting out we learned about different injuries that may occur on the battlefield, and I recognize the signs of a pierced lung.

“Do not speak,” I repeat. “The healers…”

“No… it is over,” he interrupts me. “The wounds… too deep… and poisoned… I have to leave. Let me.”

Even though his hand is hot to the touch, he is shivering.

His face fades to an indistinct blur. “Forgive us. Forgive our folly.”

Súlion’s squeeze of my hand is no stronger than that of a small child. “I forgive you. You did not know the true peril. How could you know? Do not lash at your cousin and yourself with reproach. Promise me you will not.” Exhausted by the effort, he falls silent, then gathers his strength again. “And promise… you will go on.”

“I promise,” I whisper. “I promise.”

His fingers relax. “You will win this war, King Finarfin. You will prevail… over Darkness.” Another fit of coughing interrupts him; this time there is more blood. “Please… stay with me until…”

“I will stay with you, my friend.” Tears are now flowing freely over my face.

Súlion notices this. “Grieve not. I could have died a worse death… than fighting for the city I once loved.” He falls silent for a few moments, then searches my eyes again. “Lord Ingwil… he…”

“Yes? What of him?”

“He is of your family. You… you should care for one another.”

Despite the stab of anger at Ingwil’s name, I cannot gainsay one who is dying. I merely nod and sit beside him in silence, holding his hand, listening to his breathing that grows more and more laboured and shallow. Suddenly the clouds over the Sea break. Patches of blue sky emerge, and rays of low evening Sun fall on the dark waters of the bay turning them into dazzling brightness. An arch of shimmering colours appears against the dark cloud in the distance.

“For this…” Súlion smiles, his voice little more than a whisper now. “For hope… it was worth it…”

The voice and the breath fade altogether. Súlion’s eyes stare unseeing at the sky, at the white shapes of seabirds against the scattering remains of grey clouds. I pass a trembling hand over his face, closing his eyes. Then I wipe away tears and rise unsteadily. We must go on. I promised.

I look around for Ingwil. I have not seen my kinsman after the battle. Despite my anger, I wish him to be unscathed, if only to bloody his arrogant face myself. I search for him in vain among the wounded. I walk along the row of bodies laid side by side on the white stones and do not see his ornate armour there. I find him just around the corner of one of the harbour houses, doubled over, leaning against the wall.

“Are you hurt?” My anger somewhat fades as I hurry towards him.

Ingwil shakes his head, straightens, but then collapses against the building again, and I realize that my cousin is very sick. He is struggling for breath, and his face is as white as the wall beside him. His hand fumbles for the water flask at his belt but finds it not.

“Here.” I give him mine.

Ingwil takes it and raises to his lips, but his hands shake so much that at least half of the water spills, and at last the flask falls to the ground.

“Sorry.” His voice is strangled. He avoids meeting my gaze.

“Look at me!” I seize him by the shoulders and shake. “Look at me, Ingwil!”

“It is my fault.” Slowly my cousin raises his head. “All of this.”

Pity wells up in my heart, but along with it returns the wave of cold fury.

“Yes, it is.” He flinches at my words, but I do not allow the pity to take over. “And that is why you shall do your duty and go back to your warriors. You shall not hide from the consequences of your choices!”

His eyes flash, and he tears free from my hold. “I will not hide!”

Ingwil turns and goes back to the others. His back is now straight and his steps firm. Something remotely akin to grudging respect enters my heart as I follow him. My cousin may be an arrogant fool, but he is certainly not a coward.