The Light is Still There by Aldwen

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Chapter 10

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As we pass the line of the fallen soldiers on our way back, Ingwil’s steps falter, and for a moment he appears to be sick again. But then he draws a deep breath and slowly walks past the silent shapes on the ground. He looks closely at every one of them, as if to keep them all in memory. At the end of the line he halts and gazes long at Súlion’s lifeless face.

We have lost thirty-seven warriors, and four times as many are injured, some of them gravely. In the harbour house those most skilled in healing are tending the wounded, and as we approach the place, my cousin’s steps slow. I overtake him, assuming he would avoid approaching the others. But I am wrong. As I enter, he follows a few steps behind me.

“We lost three more, King Arafinwë.” The healer’s voice is hollow. His face is pale, his hands and garment covered in blood. “Several others linger on the threshold to Námo’s Halls. And most of the wounds are poisoned. Our medicines help, but, sadly, not enough.”

He speaks solely to me, without even looking at my cousin. Some others turn towards us, then avert their faces in icy silence. Some looks flash in open anger.

“We both have come to help. Will you allow us?”

At my words, Ingwil raises his eyes and looks at me with unreadable expression. The healer frowns; his gaze passes from me to Ingwil, then back. At last he nods. “Yes. We do need help.”

We set to work, to cleaning injuries and dressing them. At first, it takes all my resolve to steady my hands and keep working when confronted with the deep cuts, with limbs severed partly or entirely, but after a while the terror recedes before the urgency of saving lives. Ingwil fares likewise. I cast a glance at him as he is stitching close a long gash on a warrior’s arm. My cousin’s face is white as chalk, but his movements are sure and skilful. Still, some of those he tends turn away their faces. A few who can walk rise without a word and go to seek help elsewhere. Ingwil lowers his eyes; I notice a tear on his cheek, but he swiftly brushes it away.

The evening is already late when we stand by the mound, raised over our fallen people outside the city walls on a small hillock, beside a grove of evergreen trees. Should someone say something? But our grief is too deep for words, and every one of those present merely lays upon the mound a green branch, a wreath of vines, or a handful of flowers cut in the abandoned gardens.

We still stand in despondent silence when Ingwil takes a step forward. Faces turn towards him with the same cold reproach as before. My cousin squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath.

“I have led you to disaster.” His quiet voice carries through the icy silence. “My overconfidence and poorly weighed decisions have caused deaths that otherwise could have been avoided. For that, I shall stand trial before the Valar and, until I am judged, I lay down my authority as your commander. If you would consent, I would pass command to Arafinwë, King of the Noldor. Had I heeded his warning, we would not be standing before a grave-mound now.”

There are nods and whispers among those present. The captains of the Vanyar exchange looks. “We consent.”

“I am grateful.” Ingwil looks down, then raises his head and meets the eyes of the people again. “And… I regret. I do not ask you to forgive me. I do not deserve to be forgiven. But I regret with all my heart. Could I take back my choices that led to this, I would.”

He steps aside. There is no reply, but perhaps the silence after his words is slightly less hostile and the eyes directed towards him a little less cold.

Night falls, yet few of us sleep; maybe only those with wounds so grave that they flee to the realm of dreams for healing. The hours pass. I hold the hand of a wounded soldier who shivers in fever. Amid moans of pain he speaks, mostly incoherent words, but there is also a name he repeats again and again. Name of his spouse? Of his daughter? I ask but he does not hear me. His eyes turn glassy. Is there nothing we can do to take away his pain, to save him? To save the others? I look around for some hope, some encouragement. The healer meets my gaze, then shakes his head and looks away with tears in his eyes. The soldier’s breathing grows slower and slower. His palm in my hand turns cold. One last shallow breath… and then, stillness. Forgive me— But I cannot even finish the sentence. For I do not know his name. And I will never find out.

By midnight, four others pass to the Halls of Mandos. At last I cannot bear the presence of death and pain any longer. The Vanyarin archer I am now tending slips into uneasy sleep, and I rise from my seat beside him and stagger outside. The responsibility of command has added double weight to my burden of guilt. Ëarendil warned us of the poisoned weapons of the Orcs. We had knowledge of this peril, yet we chose to ignore it. Not only Ingwil. I chose to ignore it, too.

The air on the street is clean and fresh after the sharp reek of blood inside. It is long past midnight, and the sky is at its darkest, with no Moon and merely distant stars twinkling above veils of mist rising from the Sea. The seabirds are silent, but waves wash against the white stone docks with a soft sound as I stray aimlessly through the harbour. We have lit fires and torches on the streets and in the port, but the flickering lights give little cheer. Immersed in gloomy thoughts, I pay little heed to my surroundings.  Only when I reach the end of the long stone pier, I notice Ingwil standing in the shadow of a half-ruined low building, presumably built to house lights guiding the ships into haven. My cousin stands stone-still, looking in the distance, his arms wrapped around himself, as if he were cold. Yet he has noticed my presence.

“How does it feel, Arafinwë?” he asks in a hollow voice. “How does it feel to be right?”

“What?” I stare at him, uncertain whether I want to hit him or throw him in the dark water of the harbour, but then he turns toward the torchlight and my anger somewhat fades at the sight of raw grief in his eyes. “How can it feel? How do you think it should?”

My voice breaks, and Ingwil turns away, perhaps embarrassed.

“Terrible,” he whispers. “It should feel terrible.”

“So it does. Believe me.”

“Did someone else… die?” he asks hesitantly. When I speak of those who have passed away during the last hours, he flinches and hugs himself tighter.

I have no anger left for him.

“Súlion forgave us… ere he passed away,” I say quietly. “He made me promise we would go on and defeat Moringotto. If you want to honour his memory, you will make the same promise.” He stands still, face like chiselled from stone.  I lay my hand on his arm. “Ingwil, listen… I know…“

“You know nothing! Leave me alone!” He shoves me away. “I do not need your condescending pity! Leave me alone!” he shouts one more time over his shoulder as he strides away.

Seething in anger, I hit the wall of the half-ruined building with my fist.

At least back in the harbour house nothing has changed for the worst. None has passed away; those with poisoned injuries seem to have less difficulty breathing, and cautious hope appears in the healers’ eyes. When I am about to take my place again, they send me away.

“We believe the worst may be over, King Arafinwë,” one of them says. “Those who have survived so far – they will likely recover. Go and rest.”

Relieved that I do not have to remain inside, I sit down by the fire in the yard. The warmth and the light should be comforting, but whenever I look into the flames, disconnected scenes from the battle flash before my eyes again and again. I see faces of enemies, faces of our people. Glint of weapons. Stains of blood on armour, stains of blood on the pavestones. Despite the closeness to fire, I am cold.

Feeling somebody’s presence, I look up. Artanar’s head is bandaged, his eyes red rimmed. He takes seat on the uprooted tree trunk beside me, and we sit, sharing grief in silence until he speaks.

“Aranya—”

“Do not call me that!” I interrupt him and bury face in my hands, startled by my own fierceness. I have forfeited my title and position with my choices.

“Very well.” He sighs. “I will not.”

“Sorry.” My voice is strangled. “I did not mean to…”

“I know.”

Artanar stirs, and I open my eyes. He lays a sketchbook on my knees. Where has he found one? I did not take any with me.

“You did not take it,” Artanar answers my unspoken question. “I did. I thought you might want to draw something of what we see here. I did not think it would be… this.” He looks at me closely. “Still… Do it, Arafinwë. Draw. I know it helps you.”

Artanar knows. He is the only one who has seen my sketches of Alqualondë ere I burned them.

“Thank you.” I reach for the pencil he is holding.

Briefly he lays his hand on my shoulder, then leaves. I open the sketchbook and stare long at the blank page. But when I at last set the pencil to paper, I draw no battle scenes. I draw neither enemies, nor our warriors. I draw houses we saw on our way: not empty but inhabited, enclosed by well-tended, blossoming gardens, with light curtains flowing in open windows, with fountains sparkling in the courtyards. I draw people: children playing amid the flowerbeds, dancing couples, friends laughing together. I do not draw death. I draw life. I draw what this place once was. And maybe – what it can again become?