Much Sorrow and Many Lives of Men by sallysavestheday

Much Sorrow and Many Lives of Men

Read Much Sorrow and Many Lives of Men

There is not enough wood.

The Lossoth have shared what they can, but the Men of Arnor are too many, and too unused to the cold, to last much longer on the little fire they have managed to preserve.

They are dying, and the winter does not end. The frigid air grips like a fist around their throats. Even the vessel from the Havens struggles in the ice, bobbing and creaking amid the floes. It is a dangerous gamble, to flee on such a fragile thing, when the pack ice has not yet broken and the weather is so sinister and strange.

Arvedui knows his history: he dares not propose to cannibalize Círdan’s great, white ship. But their stores of fuel run low, and not all the magic of the Elves can make trees grow overnight in the snowy wastes of Forochel.

There is not enough wood. They must take the risk, and be grateful for the rescue.

The Lossoth shake their heads, sniffing the wind and running their necklaces of bone and sinew through apprehensive fingers. The air tastes of danger, they say: of the killing breath of the Witch-king. The ice-filled sea is not yet safe from the reach of his long, cold hand. 

But there is not enough wood.

Arvedui has cut the same shape into the ice too many times, dulling the axe, carving with his own roughened hands grave after grave for those who could not bear the cold. He will not orphan all the children of his kingdom for fear of the winds of distant Angmar. Cirdan’s mariners ride the sea like pelagic birds, at home in the open ocean, at peace amid the breakers and the floes. Aboard the great vessel, the warriors of Arnor will be safe – as safe as anyone can be in these places and these times.

He begs the use of sleds to ferry their weakened forces to the ship, offering gems and gold and promises of honor. The eldest of the Lossoth picks through the treasures, some brought from Númenor, or from the foundered lands before. All the bright jewels are as pointless toys against the snow: they do not nourish, or heal, or warm.

The chieftain has eyes so narrowed by the light on the ice that their color can barely be perceived. But his gaze is keen, and knowing. He points to the ancient ring on Arvedui’s hand: twined serpents, the work of Finarfin in Valinor – gift of Felagund to Barahir, and the agent of that bright Elf’s death, so long ago.

A fair gift, and a binding one. The snakes clasp the old man’s weathered finger, a realm’s ransom given to the wind, to the interminable cold.

“Last-king,” he says, stroking the chilly scales, touching the diamond eyes. “Perhaps your father named you well.”

Arvedui shudders. He wishes for Araphant’s rough courage, for Círdan’s discernment, or even a wise word from his repudiating kinsmen in the South. But the decision must be his – his father is long dead, and the seeing stones will not pierce the veil of snow.

“To the ship,” he repeats, brushing the chieftain’s words aside. 

The old man shrugs, and shuffles off to smooth the ancient runners on his sledge. He leaves the heap of useless treasure lying in the snow. If the ship founders, there will be bounty in the waters. Wine, perhaps, and weapons.

And – equally useful – bones.