~ Chapter 43 ~

He sprang down the steps and away, leaping down the path.  'Alas! An ill fate is on me this day, and all that I do goes amiss."

TTT: The Departure of Boromir

~~oOo~

~ TA 3017, 5^th of Nénimë: Spared:  63 bushels of rye and barley.  None of wheat or oat.  

~oOo~

Headlong is our flight, though we are hindered in it. We duck beneath low-hanging eaves and charge through alleys, kicking up stones and dust, not daring more speed than safe passage will allow until at last we leave the houses of the Angle's square behind. Only then when the fallow fields open afore us, with the light from Ranger Mathil's torch passing swiftly upon the night, do we dare set the horses to full galloping. Yet still, by the heaving of Bachor's breast beneath my grip and the sounds that whip past my ears, I know him to be cursing for the slowness of our pace.

Once, lights bloomed at the foot of the hill as bright baubles upon a string. But now we cleave through the night air and the flames come nearer, grown so that their flickering tricks the eye to daylight and the heavy plumes of smoke winding above them are dark shadows against the orange clouds.

"Halt!" comes the cry and Bachor draws the mare up short, turning her roughly about. The gelding sidles about a ring of light, his nostrils blown and eyes wild, whinnying, for Mathil has leapt from behind Ranger Haldren and crouches low over a dim and shadowed thing lying upon the path. Haldren speaks sharply and pulls hard upon a rein so the gelding can do naught but turn about in circles until he wearies of the fight.

I need not the keen sense of the beasts, even I can smell it, yet some horrid fascination draws my eyes. So it must be for Bachor, for he knees my lord's mare forward.

"What is it?"

"Come no further!" calls Ranger Mathil and we halt.

Aye, I have no more wish to see, for the light of the torch he holds reveals enough. Merciful Nienna! 'Tis Pledgeholder Eradan and his blood spreads as a dark cloak about him on the path upon which he has fallen. There he lies plae adn devoid of all color, crumpled upon the cold, dark earth, heedless of the rising wind as it stirs the leaves and sere grass about him.

Mathil peers at the ground about the man, close in his search of both signs in the dirt on which he lies and the marks upon him. His fair face is grim when he rises. He grinds the torch into the dust, and we are plunged into a sudden darkness.

"We risk no light from here," says he.

No sooner have the words left the Ranger's mouth than Bachor turns my lord's mare swiftly about.

"Wait!" I cry and beat on his arm, but to no avail. With a great thrust of her hindquarters, the mare lunges forward. I clutch at Bachor, forgetting myself and cursing him. For in his haste, surely I shall be thrown upon the ground and there trampled by the Rangers in the dark.

I keep my seat despite my fears, and we run on paths known only for the flying of leaves or skittering of pebbles beneath the mare's hooves. Had I thought our progress swift afore? It was naught like, for now we fly as an arrow loosed from a hunter's bow. Bachor crouches low o'er the beast's neck, and I press my face to his back and pray my lord's Rangers may follow as quickly behind.

Ai! The air is foul so I would retch for it.

"Down!" Bachor cries.

At the gathering stench I have dared to peer o'er his shoulder, and ere I know the word for what it is, we duck beneath low-hanging boughs. The tips of their branches tear at my scarf and rake my cheek, but I do not feel the sting. Forsaking the path, we come swiftly upon Bachor's holdings. There, beyond the dark of the wooded croft, a frame of timbers burns as were the very sun itself trapped therein. We come swiftly upon the flames and he slows the mare from her headlong gallop.

'Tis Bachor's granaries. One burns with the white-hot heat of a forge, dripping flames as were the wood itself melting. A third shed stands yet untouched, but black clouds pour from beneath the eaves of a second as were it aflood with smoke.

For once, it is with gratitude I think upon Maurus' black forecasting, for ‘twas he who begged the Council to order the ploughing of great firebreaks about our homes and barns. And yet it seems even these measures shall be for naught. For spark and ash drift upon the rising breeze as were they lifted there upon small buzzing wings, and a larch whose old boughs once shaded the beasts in their yard is caught in the blaze. Fire climbs its limbs as were it a living beast. Bales of hay crawl with flame and the oxen within the shed bawl their fear and fury. Hens batter their wings against their coop and their roosters crow so that the air is sharp with the sound. Sheep huddle in the far corner of their yard, bleating and jostling for the furthest point away, no matter it be against a thick rock wall.

And dimly through the smoke, against the shimmering night air twists the dark form of a woman, her curls pulled in tatters from her efforts and cloak thrown aside.  There with her eldest son she weeps and beats at the dirt with a sodden blanket. Smoke rises from the earth where sparks have set it aflame. It seems she has been at it some time. Charred rings dot the yard thereabout. 'Tis a battle not easily won, for the grass is dry and quickly set alight and smoke rises all about her.

"Matilde!" Bachor cries, his voice swallowed by the roaring of the fires.

He kicks at the mare, and though reluctant for the blazing heat of the burning granary, putting herself to a burst of speed she goes where commanded, the whites of her eye catching the fire and shining as a bright coin. Great panting breaths come from the beast and, crying out suddenly, she shies from flames as we pass.  Thus we plunge onto the croft.

It seems Matilde has heard neither her brother nor the mare, for she urges someone near and cries out.

"Hurry, take the bucket. You must be brave and go to the stream without me. Come!"

With that, through the curtain of smoke a young boy of no more than ten years runs, leaving his youngest brother screaming for him. Their mother had set her cloak deep in water and thrown it about Einiond and her sons.  There they huddled behind a bare swathe of earth where once had passed the plough and Einiond clutches the boy to him, refusing to let him follow.  His head ducked close and eyes squeezed tightly shut he weeps, and mutters, and rocks.

"Matilde!" comes Bachor's cry. He draws sharply upon the reins and the mare dances to a halt.

At his voice and the sight of the beast hurtling toward her, Matilde stands and stares dumbly upon us. The boy clutches at the bucket, joy rising in his face.

"Naneth!" cries the boy, shaking his mother's arm. "'Tis Uncle.  He is come as I said he would!"

Of a sudden Bachor is gone from the mare and I struggle to seize upon the reins so I might still her restlessness and let myself down from her back.

Dimly I hear the gelding's hooves pound into the yard and Haldren and Mathil's voices, for I see naught but Bachor wreathed about in smoke, his swift stride leading him to the youngest boy. There he throws off the sodden wool and picks him up, raising Einiond to his feet. Once I have alighted to the ground, he has all of them in his arms, brother and sister’s sons, and Matilde weeps for her relief and clings to him. About them, ash floats upon the air and their sheds and croft burn.

"My lady!"

With cold and stiff fingers, I struggle to unpin my cloak when comes the cry above the roar of the flames and bleating of the sheep. Ranger Mathil blinks and peers into the smoke, striding to me. Haldren is not to be seen, but the gelding they rode has been let loose. He trots to the mare who has come to a stand and blows anxiously as she paces and watches us from some safer distance from the flames.

"Mathil! Let loose the oxen!" I cry and have the cloak from about my shoulders. I need it not for warmth, and in Matilde's inattention, flames take a hold upon the dry grasses about us. "Water! We need water!"

"My lady!" cries Mathil, his own fingers upon the ties of his wrap, but I pay him no more heed. Dust and ash fly up from the ground where I beat it with my cloak. A strong hand comes upon my arm and twists me about. I have but a moment to see the Ranger's face, eyes narrowed and mouth grimly fixed, ere he beats upon the earth with his own cloak where once I stood and stamps at the sparks that fly up from his assault.

"Water must wait, my lady, until we know more what enemy we face," he says, the flames at my skirt now naught but a black scorched place in the grass. When I would protest, he nods to the brilliance that is the granary, where a dark figure that must be Haldren bends to the earth and searches about it. I wonder he can bear the heat.

"Are there others?" Mathil shouts, raising his voice so that Bachor loosens his tight hold upon his sister. "Or are all safe?"

"Sereg!" cries Bachor. His eyes widens at the thought. "Sereg!  Where is Sereg?  Has he gone for water?" But Matilde shakes her head.

"Bachor--," she begins, but he gives her little chance to speak. 'Twould be somewhat of pity and bitterness in her look, had I reason to think it, for she looks upon the granaries where they are bright with flame.

Tongues of fire feed upon the thatch of the second shed where once it billowed smoke and steam rises from the trees thereabout for the heat of the first.

"Ai! Matilde! Tell me he was not caught in the fire!" Bachor then thrusts her young son into her arms and turns away from them to the burning granaries.  “Stay here!” 

"No, Bachor!" Matilde cries and grasps for her brother. But he is gone.

I draw breath to halt him, but Mathil is the quicker to act. In a motion too swift to follow, he springs as a yearling buck from my side and with both fists he grabs up the front of Bachor's coat and hauls him about.

"No!" he shouts and throws the man to the scorched ground where Bachor stares up at the Ranger lit by the flames. "Go no further!"

“Bachor, listen to me!”  With her son clinging to her, Matilde comes upon them and pulls at her brother’s hand.  "Did he not find you?"

He scuffles briefly in the dirt ere, with her help, he rises.  

“Bachor, I sent Eradan to you.”

‘Tis this brings Bachor up short. He halts and looks upon his sister as were he seeing her anew. "What is this you say?" he demands, his voice hoarse and low. 

"And what then of Sereg?"

This last is from Haldren whose face is bright with sweat and who smells strongly of singed hair and wool. "Was it he, then?" he goes on and wipes at his brow, leaving behind a trail of ash upon his skin.

"What is this?"  So great is Bachor's shock, he seems scarce to breathe.

"Bachor," I hear and it is Matilde, her voice low so that I must strain to hear it above that of the flames and bleating cattle. "I know not where Sereg is now, but 'twas he who set the fires, none other."

"Aye, and 'twas no orc blade that took Eradan's life."

For a brief moment, Bachor can do naught but stare at Mathil and then mutely take in the billowing smoke and white-hot heat that is his harvest and the hope of his kin and oathmen.  I think, mayhap, news of Sereg's death would not have caused him more suffering. I know not what he would next have done, but of a sudden the boy in Matilde’s arms shrieks and Einiond cries out as ash and flame swirl upon the wind.

Ai! The oxen scream, for the far wall of their shed crumbles upon itself beneath the weight of the flame, sending up a great cloud of smoke in the wake of its fall.

~oOo~

Ai! No!

So slow the coarse bag I carry tumbles from my arms it seems I could catch it midfall, but I fail the attempt. For I know not should it be for fury or fear but I shake so it slips from my grasp and the bag bursts its seams when it strikes the floor of the granary. Ah! Rye berries fall about my feet and scatter upon the stones set in the floor.

Sweat and smoke sting my eyes, but I dare not wipe at my brow, but drop to my knees and though the rough boards tears at my skin, scrape at the grain and scoop handfuls into the torn sack. Mayhap it can hold the rye for but long enough to carry it to safety. I have dampened my scarf and tied it about my nose and mouth, but it helps little for each breath is more bitter than the one afore. So short the time, each grain grows more precious for the moments passing.

"Leave that, my lady!"

I startle at the sight of the Ranger looming o'er my head. 'Tis Mathil. He, too, has wound a bit of cloth about his face and I can see naught of him but his eyes. He comes swiftly to kneel beside me and, despite his words, scrapes at the rye with me.

"Has it caught?" I ask.

His eyes say it has not.

"Any sign, my lady," he warns, but need speak no further. He is clearly indisposed to allow his chieftain's wife to continue hauling sacks and casks of grain should the granary in which they are stored catch afire.

"Aye." Taking up the sack, I abandon the last of the grain to the cracks between the wood, thrusting the burden into his arms. "But we have some time yet. Go!"

Being his lord's man, so he goes, and as swiftly as I might wish. For smoke seeps in through the thatch above his head and were the Ranger to stay much longer he would be sure to note it. The smoke twists in a slow dance in the dead air about the rafters. Should the roof be not yet afire, it shall soon be.

"Hiyah!" To the slap of leather and an ox's bellow, I stumble from the granary to a world that changed even ere I was within.

Ai! So little time has passed, moments, no more, and the one granary is dead. Stumps of timber shelter naught but smoke, glowing coals, and empty air. 'Tis the second that blazes as the heart of a furnace now. Aye, they are gone, no more the grain that would feed Master Bachor's house and those of the Angle who claim his care.

No more, too, the lowing of the cattle and baaing of the sheep, and the roosters' call has ceased. Whooping and striking at their flanks with withy branches, I had set the cattle and sheep loose upon the pasture. There the hens rose from their pens in a great flapping of wings and the cattle bounded across the fallow land. The sheep resisted my beating upon them and pressed all the tighter in a knot against the stone wall, for in their pen the gate faced upon the fire, the way out clouded in smoke and fear. I came nigh to despairing of freeing them when one ewe, either more bold than the rest or more weary of the sting of my rod about her knees, broke from the herd and, to my relief, the rest trotted after her. Now they have scattered into the darkness so as not to be seen.

Ranger Mathil has stuffed the sack into the top of a basket, the grains spilling forth when he forced the lid atop it all. For the rye lies scattered upon the blackened ground and he and basket are gone. He carries his loads far beyond the firebreak to a pile of baskets, sacks and rings of grain upon the lawn of Master Bachor's house. I set yet another basket at my feet where it shall await his return, dropping it heavily to the ground for the numbness of my limbs. Swiftly does the Ranger stride upon the croft, and yet still too slowly does the pile of grain grow there far from the reach of the fire. For the distance between fire and cool shadow is necessarily great and there is naught but the one of us to travel it.

Aye, the one, for Master Bachor, himself, drives a pair of his oxen across the uneven earth. It is he whose voice cries out and whose oxen bawl their complaint of his commands. Their great ungainly heads loll about as they bellow and strain against the yoke. A stranger to the task, Bachor is slower about it than he might wish, I think, for he curses and, stumbling, cracks his whip about their withers. Fire, we had expected, but had not thought it to be set in our midst, and so, abandoning the attempt to put out the fire when it alights upon the grasses, we let it burn and Bachor labors to extend the firebreaks so the flames shall be starved of fodder upon the path to his house and hay sheds. We pray the fire then might die for its hunger. But should it not, his brother and Matilde and her sons, Master Bachor has sent to the earthen fort under Ranger Haldren's care.

In their stead comes the shouting of men, and when I turn about to enter the granary again, it is to find a bright line of fire as a snake winding its way far off upon the pasture to the north. Like a deer it has leaped the firebreak and runs upon the dry grass afore the wind. Men run, ungainly hunters laden with blankets and rugs and their own clothing and attempt to outflank its course. Should it run true, it shall sweep over us soon enough and put our labors to naught. And even that shall little matter, for should it run true, the blaze shall race across the pasture and to the heart of the Angle itself.

All about is dark with the pall of smoke and for the cracking of timber and roar of fire. Ai! What is this melancholy? I have been too long idle!  I shake myself free of the sight of wheels of fire spinning to the heavens and the ghastly light upon Bachor's lurching form and Ranger Mathil's face, bright as the moon against the trees in the glare of the burning sheds.

Valar forbid!

'Tis not the Ranger's face, nor is it his eyes that peer upon us.

There in the flickering light, he comes slowly out from the shadowed verge, his hands afore him the better to be plainly seen.

"Bachor," he calls, though I hear not the sound.

He does not once look upon the ruins of granaries nor the fire that consumes them still. And though he has eyes for naught else but the master of the house that once provided him comfort, he has not yet been perceived in return. Indeed, the blade of the plough has lodged itself against some impediment and Bachor is much occupied with it.

"Ho!" Bachor calls to the oxen to slow them.  Grimacing with vexation, he jerks at the plough's long handles.

Sereg lifts his palms and comes soon upon the man struggling with the plough.

Ah, no! Should he be taken unawares!

Sereg's hands, stained darkly as they are by the fire, seem to rush upon the man and the sight brings a strange stillness upon the air.

The knot is firm and the linen stretched tight, but I tear the cloth from about my face. "Bachor!"

At this, he ceases his efforts for but a moment and follows the line of my pointing. The plough falls upon its side, the oxen stumbling in the sudden shift of their load, and Bachor throws off the reins. I cannot see his face and know not his mood, but as a hare startled by some fleeting shadow, Sereg halts, his look pleading and his breast rising with shortened breath as had he been running.

"You!" says Bachor, his voice harsh.  Swiftly does he march across the croft and three steps, four, five, no more, and he shall be upon the ploughman.

"Bachor!  Listen to me.  Will you not now shake off their yoke?" Sereg calls. He raises an arm as in warding and backs away from the man who rushes upon him.

Ai! And Ranger Mathil far beyond hearing!  My feet are in motion, though I recall not my thoughts giving them their command.

Bachor snarls at the man, his features stripped of their fairness by toil and rage. "By all the Valar, Sereg! You would have had them burn!"

"No! I swear it!" Sereg would then turn to flee, but Bachor is the faster and all intent of flight is too late. He clutches upon the man's cloak as he turns and throws him to the ground.

"Get up!" shouts Bachor, standing over him, his fists raised and ready. "Should there be aught in you that remains yet a man, get up!"

I think then, it shall come to naught but a battle of hand against hand.  I stumble o'er the furrows newly hewn into the earth. I have learned well the lesson taught by wading into blows that fly between men and mayhap it is best should I then take up the plough. But then some fey light comes upon Sereg's eyes. They glitter, I know not should it be with the fire or a fever of his mind. He springs of a sudden to his feet and leaps upon Bachor.

Ai!  Where had he the knife? It springs into his hand as had he plucked it from the air.

There they grapple in shadow and tortured light of the flames and I know not which man cries out, but only that Bachor's face twists in pain.

"No!" I scream.

Alas! I would tear my hair from my head by its very roots were it but a weapon. I have naught! The oxen bellow and I clutch at the handles of the plough. There! 'Tis the whip, I know it, coiled about the feet of the oxen as it were a serpent. Trampled in the mire, it is, and slippery. I snatch it up and come nigh to falling to the ground, for the ox has stamped about and holds the leather tight beneath its hoof.

"Hiyah! Move!" I shout and strike at the animal's flank with naught but my open hand. And then it is free.

They are not men, but a kind of beast with faces too terrible to behold. There they spit and gasp for want of air. Blood blooms upon the cloth of Bachor's breeches there upon his hip.  He grapples with Sereg’s wrist, for the man has him about the throat and, forcing him to lean upon his lame leg, seeks to thrust his blade to the Elder’s breast.

No! Thou shalt not!

There they jerk and cry out, Bachor's hands slipping upon Sereg's skin made slick by sweat. In my haste, I have caught both of them in the lash and they stumble apart. Where is he? Where is the knife?

The whip whistles above my head and I strike again, hitting only the ground, and I falter for the shock. Ah! Where is he? There! The leather catches Sereg about the arm and I listen not to his cries nor look upon the bright wheals that start up on his flesh, but draw upon the leather again and again. I strike at him, heedless in my fury, so that he writhes and twists upon himself, stumbling back, unable to either repel the lash or slip out from beneath its bite. Dimly do I see Bachor, restless outside the reach of the whistling leather, his arms warding off its sting.

"Nienelen!" he cries and in the moment I hear his voice and know the fear in it, my arm is all but pulled free of its socket.

Hands clutch and twist and bind my limbs, and though I flail and kick, I am pressed tight against a heaving breast. There the man's breath comes harsh, its edge against my neck as keen against the skin as the blade thrust there.

"Sereg!  No!" comes Bachor's cry and he strikes at the ground and would take up the whip in my stead. But he is slow and drags his leg behind him.

"Halt!" Sereg cries and presses the blade so its edge bites upon me. "Come no further!"

The beating of my heart is as a drum. I know little of what he speaks, for in my ears I hear naught but the roar of the flames and the rushing of my own blood.

"Come no further, I say!"

"What do you, Sereg? Was not Eradan enough and you would have more blood upon your hands? She is of the House and your Lady. Let her go!"

A sound comes from Sereg, a mix of disgust and pity both. "You are as sheep!  What is this House, eh?  Is it not as you, yourself have said?  What are they but Elven pretenders, with their high speech and fostering of their children in the Hidden Vale?  What care they for the lives of Men?  Have not you, yourself, labored to remove their hand from about our necks?”

“She is no threat to you,” Bachor begins, his eyes glancing upon me briefly, but Sereg laughs bitterly.  Behind us, the timbers of the granary crack and, with a roar, tumble in upon themselves. Smoke swirls upon the heavens and drifts about us. 

“Think you she will extend her hand to you?” he cries and laughs again.  “She would not labor to bring us beneath the House’s heel had the blood of the clans of the northern hills run true in her, no matter her dark look. Her forefathers had little use for the Mighty of Númenor in Umbar and their lick spittles.  But she knows naught of her own kin and has turned her back upon them.  Even her pity is but to the House’s advantage. Each gift but brings the sons of Isildur more power. Now there is naught for you to do but lay down as a dog beneath their boot or rise up as your forefathers did in Umbar.

Bachor stares at him, more lost than e’er I had seen him afore, the firelight behind us playing in his eyes.

“Bachor!  Must you wait until the very hosts of Mordor are upon us?  Umbar, Eriador, or the Southlands, so it is with the great Houses of Númenor, no matter where they settle. They are all alike.  They will build steps of our bones in their climb to the seat of the mighty and think naught of it!"

"Sereg—" I plead and then fall still, for at my voice the blade bites more deeply still. 

Bachor starts forward, his hand lifted in warning and his eyes fixed upon the knife that rides the rise and fall of my breath. "You harm her, Sereg, and it shall matter little to you whose hand guides the Angle.  Naught awaits you but your own death. They will hunt you down wherever you may find to hide. Let her go!"

"Not should you do as a man should and protect your own. Strike the blow now, ere it is too late!  They need not know,” says Sereg.  “Ah!  Say it was an orc that chanced upon her or, Eradan who went mad ere you found him. You are her nearest of kin, are you not?  Have you not your own blood of the clans in your veins?  You could raise him aright.  Were she gone, with our lord away, where else would the boy go?"

In this moment, I know myself lost.  I can only pray the wretchedness upon Bachor's face speaks of his unwillingness to make my children his pawns. His look is sickened, as had he thought he must steel himself against what is next to come and knows he had a hand in its making.

"Sereg," he says and then halts.

Sereg's grip upon me tightens and I dare not breathe for the sting of his knife and the tickle of blood raised by it.

"Ah!" he exclaims, "Bachor!  Art thou naught but a thrall and Southron or art thou as thou hast claimed -"

But then the ground rises up hard and swift beneath me. Too soon to feel the pain of it or know the flight of wood and feather that had skimmed so close to my ear its passing echoes there still, I know only I have been torn loose of Sereg's grip and thrown aside. A shadow has fallen upon Sereg and there they roll about the ground, cloaks tangling and fingers deep in the other's flesh. 'Tis Mathil, all the more deadly for his silence, and he clutches at Sereg’s hand bearing the blade.

Then, too, rings out a great cry. He emerges from the twisting cloud of smoke, a towering dark form with sword upraised and the color of fire. He has thrown his cloak afore his face as a guard against the sting of the smoke, but I know him. How he has come so swiftly here I cannot tell. ‘Tis Halbarad and he leaps free of the clutch of the fire. Behind him, too, upon my lord's mare rides Ranger Haldren, standing tall in the stirrups and putting another bolt to the string of his bow. I have but the time to hear his shout and the Ranger pulls the nock to his cheek and sights long down the shaft of wood.

But he is too late, for a sudden flash of the blade and with a grunt of pain Mathil clutches at his arm, and the arrow clatters upon the stones and dust where once had been the man. Sereg has risen and now flees. And though blood drips from his sleeve Mathil is quickly after him. Both are lost to the shadows beneath the forest's eaves even as my lord's mare pounds after them.

"My lady?"

‘Tis Bachor in the midst of men and beast milling about. He stands above me, offering his hand. With his help, I rise from the dust.

“Are you unharmed?” he asks but I cannot answer and must let him assess my state for himself.

He must be satisfied with what he sees, for he does not press me, though his arm lingers about me still as I tremble. There we lean upon each other. Men and horses pour upon the croft. Halbarad pulls his mount about and looks upon me, his eyes wide as he assesses my state.

"The fire runs wild to the north!" I cry and he nods briskly.

Wheeling his horse about, he shouts to his men, though I know not his words. Some of the host then scatter upon the field, following the line of the fire, others fly quickly about the verge of wooded land in which Sereg runs, others still leap from their horses and set to beating out the fires and taking up the plough.

"Master!" A Ranger I do not know comes upon us. "You are hurt," he says and only now does Bachor grimace and look upon his hip. Long and deep the gash is, and bleeding still.  ‘Tis only then he seems to feel it, for he swallows and wavers upon his feet. 

"My pardon, my lady." The Ranger, tall and with a mind firmly set to it, takes Bachor’s arm from about me and settles him to the ground.

"Hold still, now," he says, and I leave them then, though I thought mayhap I heard Bachor calling to me ere he hisses in pain.

Strange how far had seemed the path from the granary to where Sereg had appeared upon the croft when indeed it takes me so little time to travel it now. The men's cries seem a distant thing and yet the crackling of flames in the trees and upon the thatch of the last granary sound no nearer.  Ah, but I have not the time to ponder it further. For I have been too long away from my task of bearing the grain from out the shed. Smoke drifts from the granary door, lit as it is from within, and all about the heat presses upon me and steals my breath.

"My lady! What are you doing?"  

I shake my head, for dimly across the croft comes the sound as I walk.  The ground tilts beneath me and I am uncertain where to put my feet.

"Lady Nienelen!"

A hand takes a hold of my wrist.  I feel naught but a knife upon my neck and hear naught but a voice in my ear.  Ai!  No, no!  I flail and kick out and he grunts when the sole of my boot strikes him upon the knee.

"Let me go!" I scream.

Ere I know it, the wind is knocked from me and the ground falls away.  For I have been taken about the arm and legs in a strong grip and thrown aloft his shoulder. My throat burns with my cursing and my hands ache with where I beat at his back with my fists.  My legs are pinned against his broad breast with naught but bands of iron.  Ai! The ground spins about his moving feet.

"My lady, I am happy you are unharmed, but be still –" he says, but then the air explodes in light and sound. Bright as the coming of the Valar and as loud as Manwë’s thunder, the sun bursts upon the croft.

Stunned I lie still and wonder at the great weight upon me that pins me to the ground so I scarce can breathe. 'Tis Halbarad who lies as he was thrown upon me, as stunned as I, and I gasp at the sight of his face.  How is it he?  How had I not known him?

Halbarad shakes his head sharply, and with a grunt, he forces himself to roll upon his side. There, propped upon our arms, we lie and look upon the wreck of timber that was once the granary. Its beams thrust as blackened bones from the earth, dark against the restless bright beast that has come to settle in their embrace. The flames are strangely quiet, nigh a thing of beauty in a world of smoke and silence. Slowly, but slowly does the sound of men and flame grow about me.

"My lady," I hear faintly against the ringing in my ears and turn to find Halbarad looking upon me with a face that is both weary and grim. Begrimed by soot and sweat, his skin shines with the heat of the flames. "You shall leave this place, now!"

Only then do I look up to find Ranger Haldren's silver head towering o’er me. With that, Halbarad thrusts himself from the ground and strides away, and I can do naught but take the Ranger's hand offered me.

Haldren takes up the reins of my lord's mare, finding her biddable and willing to come at his call where the gelding has long ago fled. She, too, I think is weary, and no longer protests the slowness of the Ranger's pace. Dark shadows of men advance upon the towers of flame, beating upon the earth and rushing about with pails of water. The heat has beaten them back and fire sparks along a ridge of trees.

"My lady."

My lord's Ranger stands ready, waiting for me, one hand upon the mare's halter and the other raised to clasp my hand. But I do not take it.

"Your flask, Haldren."

A moment and his look upon me is intent. But then, some understanding grows in the softening of his glance, and he digs deep in his coat and draws it forth. He surrenders it to me and it is as I thought. The liquor it holds is potent and burns all it touches.

"I am ready."

~oOo~

'Tis not the sudden sound of the latch of the great door that awakens me, nor the footsteps that approach the hearth, but the sound of rain rustling in the thatch and striking the shutters to be heard after his steps stilled. My head jerks of itself from the pillow of my limbs.

He is marred by soot and smells of smoke and wet wool. His head bowed to his hands, he scrubs slowly at his face, the fingers of one hand wrapped in a soiled scrap of his cloak. My lord's kin says naught when I awake nor when I arise and, taking up a cup from the morning's Council meeting, ladle water into it from the barrel by the hearth. I leave him drinking deeply. When I return from the parlor, I bear a small stone jar and fresh linens.

"Let me see to that," I say as I sit beside him, nodding to his hand.

He surrenders to my touch and I begin by unwinding the filthy rag and tossing it into the hearth. There it lets off a foul smell when the fire catches upon it. The skin of his fingers is an angry red and blisters blackly at the edges of his wounds. He hisses when I lave water upon them, gentle though I try to be, and then falls silent. I have dabbed the salve upon his skin and am slowly winding the thin strips of cloth about his fingers when he speaks.

"What tales do your lists tell, my lady?" He nods at the scattered leaves of parchment where they litter the floor.

"One I believe you know without their reading."

He does not answer. Indeed, he need not.

"You believe it their intent from the beginning?"

He nods. "Not even a handful of orc were they.  ‘Twas a feint, a test of our defenses.  A feint, no more, as have they all been. 'Twas well-played and cost our Enemy precious little."

Aye, he has turned us against each other, and it shall weaken us greatly until he has exacted many times over the payment he expended in the effort.  He but bides his time.  Soon he will know our lack of offensive movements upon them for what it is.  Then they will come in force.

Halbarad watches as I unwind a strip of linen and fold it upon itself to make of it a pad for his palm.

"We have Sereg," he says after some time.

I halt and search his face but find naught there but shadows from the hearth and a long night of wearisome toil. "Dead?"

"Alive," he says grimly, "and now under Elder Tanaes' care."

“And his kin?”

“Gone, in haste and left much behind.”

The look he gives me next is one of some concern and I daresay I may yet deserve it upon the morrow. While the Valar have taken pity upon us and put his family out of our reach, mayhap it would have been a kinder fate for all of us had Master Sereg not survived the night. I doubt he shall reveal whatever secret shadows his heart, though there be those who shall surely wish to make the attempt to force it from him, natheless. For Sereg, man of the Dúnedain of the North, is all but dead and he can do naught for it. What is left then but for the House to order the manner of it and see it done where the Angle might know of it?

"Shall you go to the children?" Halbarad then asks, but I shake my head and pick up my binding where I left off.

"I have been there. They are safe. My awakening them would only serve to frighten them."

He watches me wind the strips of linen about his hand, considering this for some time, I think.

“I have the men,” he says at length and I know it is come. “Mithrandir may have been unable to wait for me to recall them.  But they are here, now.  And Mathil has offered, yet again.  He, Haldren, a few of the others, they could take you and the children ere I reassign them. Edainion is well-recovered.  The journey would not tax him unnecessarily.  Take Elesinda with you, should she be willing. You could leave on the morrow.”

“No,” I say, and he releases a loud, vexed noise and rubs at his face with his free hand. 

“Can you tell me from wither came this attack?  Can you even assure me of our welcome should we reach the Hidden Vale?” I ask and turn aside to take up the last piece of linen when he sighs. 

“You know I cannot, on either account.”

“Then no,” I say, and lay the linen about his palms and wind it toward his wrist to secure it. I go on when he shakes his head.  “I will not risk sending my children on a journey of nigh unto a month upon the Wild with little assurance of succor at the end of it, not when our Enemy has just taken pains to show us how easily he may come upon us where we have no defense and spend so little effort doing it.”

"Even so, you should not risk yourself so, my lady. The men under Master Bachor’s pledge are the loudest in their complaints.  As near Haldren can tell, they are the source of rumors against the House and the petty mischiefs we have suffered.  I understand your desire to aid all those under our care, my lady, but there is little to be gained by putting yourself alone in their midst.”

"'Twas no great matter." I tuck in the ends of the cloth.

"Aragorn would not say so."

"It hardly matters now that--"

He cuts me off with some heat, "I care not one whit what Mistress Nesta had to say and neither would he!"

I think him, too, stunned by the force of his own words, for he falls silent for a moment and shifts upon the bench as it were harder than its usual wont. He does not look upon me and I cannot speak. When he again fills the silence between us, his voice is low and strained.

"Forgive me. May I remind you, my lady, it is not to you or I to decide when the Lord of the Dúnedain has no more need of our service.  He holds our oaths to him.  You may not seek to end them of your own will."

Mayhap only now has he caught sight of my face, for he looks away and, taking up his cup and rubbing his thumb against its rim, mutters, "Tis not to us to decide," and says no more.

When I can again speak and have quit with my tears, I rise and take up the jar of salve. With more care than it requires, I replace its lid. "Then I shall have this argument with him when he returns."

Halbarad sighs at this and works his hand, grimacing at the pain, and then rises from his seat. I step over my abandoned lists and make my way to the stairs leading to the solar.

"Well, then, should you not retire to the hill, then best I stay and see you undisturbed." He downs the last of the water and, with a thud, sets his cup upon the bench.

Mayhap it is just as well I have no wish to seek shelter behind the palisades, for my lord's kin seems too weary to move much further beyond the hearth than the settle where he sleeps. There he lets himself down with a soft groan, foregoing blanket and pillow for the rain-sodden and burned wool of his cloak and grimed leather of his gear. His face is shadowed for the arm he has flung across his eyes and I cannot read what lies hidden there.

"Bid you good rest, my lady," he calls across the dark hall.

"And to you, Halbarad."

~oOo~