Chapter 7 – The Storm Breaks

The war whoops of the Dunlandings was enough to set anyone’s blood to freezing. Ever had it heralded the coming of the bane of Ceorl’s people. The Wild Men had torn through villages and towns burning homes, crops, women and children, killing the men outright before they could so much as lift a hand to stop them. Ceorl had never truly seen the stomach-churning carnage left after the wild men had passed through, but he knew that he would if he did not stand up and fulfill his oath.

He eagerly awaited commands, shaking slightly with fear, excitement and uncertainty. Fréa lay prone beside him, awaiting the charge. Ceorl could see him tremble, for the young stallion, though trained well, had never been in battle before either. He lay a comforting hand on the colt’s glossy shoulder. "Stille nu, faeste, Fréa," he said softly in his own tongue. The black horse seemed to calm at his touch and voice, laying his head back on the ground and heaving a great sigh.

"Hado i philinn!"

Ceorl watched in fascination as the elven archers let loose with the first volley, knocking down the front lines of the charging enemy as a rainstorm sweeps down grass in a field. Despite how many fell to the elven bows, it hardly lessened their numbers or their fury. They continued to charge headlong into the awaiting lines.

Ceorl crouched low to the ground, eagerly awaiting the call. Ever had his people been wont to ride unhesitatingly into battle, but this time Éomer King had decided to do things in a rather unorthodox manner. Ceorl shivered slightly in expectation, his stomach fluttering. Fréa, sensing his excitement, blew loudly, laid his ears back and swished his tail into Ceorl’s face in a manner which clearly said, Calm down, young master, our time will come.

Ceorl smiled and patted his horse gently again. "Good boy," he said softly into his mount’s ear. Ceorl spotted Belecthor farther down the line watching him. He smiled reassuringly to let his friend know that he would be there when this whole thing came to a head.

Suddenly the command came loud and clear, "Mount!"

Ceorl slid sideways onto Fréa as the destrier lay upon the ground. Slipping his right foot into the stirrup and leaving the left free, Ceorl urged his mount to its feet, sliding his left foot into place as they rose; just as all those around them were doing.

The following charge of well over twenty-five hundred riders nearly overwhelmed the attacking Dunlandings, merely because of the unexpectedness of it all. As far as they knew, if there had been any mounted Rohirrim, they would have begun the battle. As it was, they had suddenly sprung from the ground and attacked in full force, no holds barred.

The enemy charge quickly turned into a panic-stricken rout as the front line crumbled and collapsed back in on itself. The Rohirrim continued on through the lines, slaying those who fought back until they were opposed by a few quick-witted Dunlandings. They had concealed themselves until the last moment when they, in turn, jumped out, bows at the ready, and cut down the mounted soldiers in their path.

The Rohirrim were recalled behind their defenses as the elven archers again took up the fight, Legolas ever among them shouting orders to his own; "Tangado haid! Dartho! Hado ribed!" And so the day continued until ending in a draw. Both sides had lost a great deal of men, but no ground was gained by either side.

As he stripped the tack from Fréa, Ceorl felt exhaustion slowly set in, nearly crippling him. He stifled a groan as he bent down to place his saddle on a handy low tree branch. Fréa nudged him slightly with a grunt, picking at Ceorl’s sleeve with his lip. Ceorl turned to his mount and rubbed the ebon forehead with his fist, tousling his forelock.

He patted the glossy flank one last time before leaving him for the night. Ceorl had no fear of the young horse wandering off, for the colt had ever been herd shy, going nowhere without Ceorl or another horse.

He sat down wearily on his blankets for a moment, his head hanging, before slipping down into them. He had not even the strength to remove his boots. Within moments, he was asleep.

Aldor looked down as he passed, and smiled. He remembered his first battle. It had not been nearly so long nor so intense as the one today, and he was proud of his son. Bending down, he brushed a lock of golden hair back from his boy’s face before continuing on his way.

~*~*~*~

The next two days passed in much the same way. It was fight all day and sleep for only a short time at night. It showed on the face of every Man present while the Elves seemed little worse for wear, though understandably somewhat tense. And Ceorl could not blame them when he considered that those noble beings now faced sacrificing their immortality in a petty war of men that seemed in no way to impact the fate of their own people. Yet nowhere was there talk of desertion.

The fighting had been fierce and long, a never-ceasing carnage for three days straight. The wounded had to make their own way back to safety as no soul brave enough to go after them appeared. Moans and cries for water came from the battle field from the wounded unable to move, torturing those helpless to aid them. Only this wore on the spirit of the Elves, they who could not stand the suffering of an innocent or a friend.

A band of men was gathered and sent out after nightfall to bring back as many wounded as they could, but they were met by a detachment of Wild Men who were out on a reconnaissance mission. The ensuing slaughter decided the Rohirric leaders against any more mercy missions. The risks were too great.

The men watched in agony as their friends and comrades slowly died a tortuous death on the field, the sun beating down upon them in all its glaring heat. Many of the soldiers behind the defenses needed another to hold them forcibly in place to keep them from running madly out to their own death in a foolhardy attempt to ease the suffering of their friends and family. Tempers grew short and arguments broke out over the smallest thing.

All watched in a strange mixture of relief and renewed heartache as the Dunlandings mercifully ended the sufferings of the wounded within their range by killing them outright. Cries of mourning rang through the camp and tears flowed freely for those lost. Slowly, all cries were silenced as one by one, the wounded let go all pain, suffering and life.

Ceorl’s body became slightly more used to the heavy toll asked of it and it became slowly easier for him to stand the wear of battle. Belecthor had found him unable to move the night of the second day and had pulled him up off the ground, forcing him to walk. It had been excruciating, but the stiffness had slowly worn off under his friend’s supervision.

Ceorl had also come to know Legolas a little better. There was not much time for visiting, but the kind Elf had dropped by every evening to see how his young charge and his father were getting along.

By the fourth day, Ceorl was well ready to finish the entire mess. Since the first battle, they had abandoned the surprise attack. Likely it would never work as well again as the element of surprise would be lacking. Therefore, they had returned to the traditional charge of the Rohirrim. Early in the morning, as they heard the attack of Dunlandings and orcs, the eager riders were sent out immediately to counter it. They slowly forced the weakening enemy back throughout the day. Ground was gained for the first time since the battle had begun.

It was but a small victory accompanied by the loss of a great many. Very few of those wounded remained alive as most had been trampled by the horses in the charge or ruthlessly slaughtered by the retreating enemy.

Ceorl felt his stomach turn at the sight of his comrades. He walked slowly through the carnage, feeling as one in a dream, searching for the face of anyone he knew. Was it possible that his friends from the ranks could well be here, dead in the prime of life?

He had passed through the center of the field, where the mass of the devastation lay, mentally noting all familiar faces. It was as he skirted the outer edge that he came across a face too familiar to suit him. It was Belecthor, lying among the slaughtered.

He was not dead, for he met Ceorl’s gaze with something akin to chagrin. "You have found me again, my friend," he said in a strong voice. "Only this time it is even less serious than before."

Ceorl was at his side in an instant, pulling the bodies of the dead gently off him. "What is the trouble, my Lord?" he asked worriedly, searching for any broken bones.

"Do not worry yourself, Ceorl, it is merely a scratch," Belecthor said, struggling to sit up.

Ceorl pushed him back to the ground. "Where is this ‘scratch’ of which you speak, my friend?" he asked. Belecthor self-consciously indicated his upper arm. Pulling back the torn sleeve, Ceorl revealed a deep gash in his friend’s arm. It was bleeding profusely, causing Ceorl to panic for a moment before remembering the bandaging that every Rohir was expected to carry.

It took only a moment to bind the wound temporarily, for Ceorl knew that the young Lord’s father would want a look at it, and no doubt so would Legolas.

He helped Belecthor to rise and they wound their way back to camp where they were met by a distraught Lord Narion. He pulled his son to him, once more a worried parent, not a soldier. "Belecthor, why do you persist in worrying your father?" he chided. He released his boy, only to notice the bloodstained bandage wrapped around his arm. "Belecthor! What . . .? Come with me."

He pulled Belecthor away to bind his arm, leaving Ceorl alone to find his own father. In the confusion he had lost all track of him. He was relieved to find him absentmindedly combing the tangles out of his courser’s mane and tail. "Ceorl, my boy, how are you?" he asked lightly, turning as Ceorl walked up.

"I am well, father. And you?"

"As well as can be expected on such an awful day. I am only thankful that your mother is not here. I cannot wait to see her again, the dear girl."

"I agree, father," he paused. "Lord Belecthor was wounded."

"Seriously?"

"No, merely a gash in his right arm. He will, no doubt, be forced to leave off fighting tomorrow."

"That is not good," his father muttered under his breath. "Every man will be needed tomorrow. The enemy is weakened and close to breaking. Tomorrow or the next day will be the last day, I am sure."

Ceorl, although cheered by the news, could not help but remember his mother’s feeling of doom. Would he die in the coming fight? Would Belecthor? Lord Narion? His father? Battle was a time of unanswerable questions, and lots of them. He shook his head impatiently and walked off to care for Fréa. He had forgotten his mount in the aftermath of battle, something no Rohir should ever do, and he knew that should his father discover the error he would be punished, though not severely.

He found none other than Prince Legolas talking softly to the black horse, rubbing his face tenderly. Ceorl, although terribly embarrassed, walked up to them. Legolas looked up as he approached. "He is a wonderful horse, mellon nîn," he said quietly.

"Thank you, my Lord," Ceorl said proudly. "He was given me as a colt who had lost his mother and was not worth the trouble he would cause his owner."

"Men," the Elf said deridingly. "Belain thaedo hain. Only a Man could give away such a wonderful beast for convenience’s sake."

They remained together, caring for the young steed until the sun had set and the evening star had appeared. "It has been a most enjoyable evening, my Lord," Ceorl said, turning to his friend, "but I am not as tireless as the elves and must take my rest."

"Of course, Ceorl, I am sorry; I shall see you in the morning. Dhû mán, mellon nîn."

"Good night, my Lord," Ceorl answered, merely guessing at the true meaning of his friend’s last statement.

~*~*~*~*~

Morning arrived far too early for Ceorl. He was still unused to the long schedule of war. Get up early; go to bed late. He prayed that, when this agony was over, his mother and his commander would allow him three days to simply sleep. There was nothing he wanted more.

It was as he thought this that Hirilian leapt, unbidden, into his mind. There was something more he wanted, he corrected himself. He climbed from his blankets, contemplating her lovely face and she remained there, lodged firmly in his mind, until, again, they were ordered to charge as the Dunlandings rose from the ground and attacked. It was back to the business at hand.

Ceorl was placed near the back in the ranks and he was forced to watched as those riders in front of him were cut down and slaughtered, even as they cleared the path for their comrades in the rear. Then he was in the fray, his sword mercilessly cutting down the enemy of his people, taking the life of someone else’s son, brother, father or husband.

He banished the thought from his mind, focusing on the innocent lives he was saving. He charged through the battle, Fréa’s quick movements and reflexes standing him in good stead. He lost all track of time, direction, his father, his friends, and simply concentrated on his blade.

In the heat of battle he hardly noticed as his foe retreated, fleeing Death in all her bare ugliness. Ceorl was swept along in the tide of Riders; the army was in pursuit of its foe, chasing the Wild Men over small hills, through shallow gullies, their horses’ hooves throwing dust in the air until all was clouded and confused. Suddenly, the enemy archers sprung from the ground, affronting the Rohirrim and forcing them back.

The Rohirrim had gained more ground, nearly a mile, in the short time of battle, but they had lost well over a hundred men. Ceorl rode his horse slowly back to camp, his head hanging with weariness, his eyes taking in the faces of the Rohirrim lying below him on the ground.

It was in this manner that he found his father. With a cry of anguish, Ceorl leapt from his horse and fell to his knees by his father’s side, removing his helmet. A lance, broken by his fall, had buried itself in his chest, mere inches from his heart.

Aldor slowly opened his eyes to slits, closed them again and smiled wearily up at his son. "Ceorl," he said in a soft, husky voice followed by coughing; a foam of blood formed on his lips. "Ceorl," he began again, opening his eyes, "care for your dear mother for me," a hacking cough interrupted him and rendered him unable to speak before subsiding. "You have made be proud in the last days, my son. You are a man now, and you no longer need my guidance." Again he was overcome with coughing, his shoulders jerking painfully. "I am sorry. My time is upon me. Farewell, dearest boy." Aldor, Captain of the Riddermark, coughed twice more, then took one last deep breath and his eyes closed forever.

"Father?" Ceorl called, tears choking him. "Father?" He bent over his deceased parent, sobbing helplessly; hopelessly. Tearfully, he kissed his father’s forehead in the farewell of a devoted son. Heartbroken, his body racked with sobs, Ceorl gently lifted Aldor and carried him back to the camp, Fréa following. He was met by Prince Elfwine, who slowly removed his helm in tribute to the fallen Captain. "I am sorry," he said softly before bowing slightly and turning to go. He had felt the pain of death before and knew that all Ceorl needed now was the right person, and Elfwine knew just where to find him.

Legolas found Ceorl sitting on the ground, his father’s head in his lap, gently washing the blood from the pale face. The prince walked softly up to his bereaved young friend. Elfwine had told him of the tragedy and Legolas had come to pay his respects to the dead. After all, having sworn to support the boy’s mother, he felt it his duty.

Ceorl looked up from his place on the ground, tears coursing down his grim young face; tears of which he was not ashamed. "He died in battle," he said quietly, his voice choked with emotion. "It was what he always wanted. Still, I cannot help grieving over him, for he was more than a father to me."

Legolas put his hand on the grieving youth’s shoulder and looked deeply into the tear-filled, ice-blue depths. "Make no apology," he began softly, "for not all tears are an evil. But remember, son of Aldor; the world is thy ship, not thy home. The things of this world pass like the clouds from the sky, but your soul and the soul of your father will live on. His parting from you will be but temporary ere you meet again." He smiled encouragingly, released his hold on Ceorl’s shoulder and left the boy to his mourning.

~*~*~*~*~

The next morning, before even the sun awoke, the Riders of Rohan were mounted, awaiting battle in the early dawn; the chill air biting through their armor, their horses stirring restlessly beneath them as electric currents crackled through their manes. Today would be the last day. They could feel it in air.

A storm was brewing on the horizon, and the rumble of thunder growled in the distance, hardly loud enough to be heard, but potent in its implications. It would be the last day, but it would also be a stormy one.

Ceorl sat grimly facing his enemy, anger boiling in his heart. His father had been slain, and for that, someone must pay. His friends had tried to pacify him, but their efforts had been in vain. The boy’s blood was up and only through action or even death would he be brought rest. Eorl had tried even recalling the lovely face of Hirilian to restrain his impetuous friend, but the memory and the knowledge of what would become of her should they fail in their mission here caused Ceorl to become only the more determined in his goal.

Son of Aldor, a firm elven voice echoed again through his anger, when today you stain your sword, be it not in vengeance. Turn away from such unholy thoughts before they consume you. What would your father have to say in the face of such reckless hate? Turning, Ceorl could see that Legolas still watched him from afar, his fair face grim in silent admonition. ‘Tis a friend’s place to rebuke a friend’s folly . . .

It was as the sun stretched its tentative first rays into the morning sky that the order came; "Charge!" The Rohirrim had been set loose, and victory or total defeat were all that could stop them. They charged, voices raised in the cry of war, their horses’ hooves drumming upon the earth until it shook. The enemy had time only to gather up their weapons before the Riders were upon them, cutting, slashing and destroying. Orcs screeched in pain and surprise; Dunlandings and the Men of Rohan cried out as they were cut down, never to rise again.

Ceorl charged valiantly, near the front this time, slaying his enemy one by one until he was caught in the left shoulder by an orcish arrow. It forced him around, the pain lancing through him like a jagged knife, but he remained in his saddle, tightly clutching the reins. He continued the fight, his wound burning, feeling his blood rush through his veins and down his arm. The pain quickly stiffened his left arm, forcing him to drop the reins as he lost almost all use of his left hand.

He was thrown from his horse as an orc lunged up at him from the ground. They landed on the opposite side of Fréa, rolling on the ground in a fierce battle for survival, wrenching and breaking short the arrow shaft still buried in Ceorl’s shoulder. He cried out in pain as his wound was enlarged in the tussle. The hooves of frightened horses grazed them as they fought. It ended only as Ceorl pulled his knife from its sheath and jammed it brutally into his foe, tearing the life from him.

He crawled out from under the odorous corpse and surveyed the battle around him, his pain slowly returning as his adrenaline wore off. He watched painfully as Lord Narion’s horse reared and was pierced by an arrow, felling it and pinning the lord’s leg beneath its great hulk. He saw Eorl fighting desperately with two large Uruk-hai, his left hand bleeding profusely as he fought.

Then another combatant, a large and hairy Dunlanding, was upon him, and Ceorl had to fight for his own life, adrenaline once more taking command. His unwounded arm beginning to weary under the constant strain of thrust, parry, thrust, Ceorl felt his opponent’s blade sink into his side and he swung frantically, slaying the Wild Man. Ceorl collapsed to the ground, his shoulder smarting and throbbing painfully, excruciatingly; his side burning fiercely. He watched Éomer King ride bravely through the fray, defying the enemy’s arrows until one grazed his neck, barely missing the great vein containing his life’s blood.

He was pulled, still fighting, from the battle by his son Elfwine and back to camp for care. The wounding of their king terrified the Rohirrim and they began to loose ground, pulling slowly back. The cries of the Wild Men grew to a higher pitch as they sensed victory.

A great roll of thunder shook the plains and the sun was covered by a great cloud, darkening the field of battle. The first few large drops fell as the Wild Men of the West closed in on the Riders of Rohan, preparing for a mortal blow. One that would decide the fate of Rohan.

The heavens were split and the plains lit brightly by a large lightening bolt which reached with spidery fingers across the sky, followed closely by a sharp crack of thunder which reverberated from the nearby mountains, rolling back over the raging battle, shaking the very ground itself. Then it was as if the heavens could hold back no more and the clouds were torn asunder, releasing the rain. Ceorl watched in despair, water clouding his vision, as his comrades were pushed back and slowly beaten. The Dunlandings were wild with joy, therefore unprepared for the sudden rising of an army of mounted Elves from behind Rohan’s defenses. Left behind in the initial charge, they had felt defeat approaching and had taken action.

"Gurth a chyth vín!"

Legolas at their head, the Elves of Ithilien charged with a roar of defiance and fury, swords gleaming in the half-light, their faces drenched by the pouring rain, their fearsome war-horses screaming a challenge. The unbridled wrath of the Lasgalenath was terrible, and they swept through their foes like a flood, crumbling the front lines and destroying what formation the enemy had. They were scattered, divided; running in madness through the darkened, rain-swept countryside, many of their number slipping helplessly in the mud before picking themselves up and rushing after their fleeing comrades. The battle was over and, thanks to the Elves of Thranduil, Rohan still stood.

Ceorl smiled slightly and chuckled in giddy happiness, then grimaced in pain as his side smarted violently. Glancing down, he noted the dangerous flow of blood from his wounds; he grabbed handfuls of mud and slapped them against his side and shoulder to stop the blood. It stung, but he smiled through the pain. His father’s death had not been in vain. He remembered their last long talk before leaving home. What his father had told him was true after all. Those who stood in the right had prevailed. He suddenly doubled over as a shot of pain lanced through his side. He slowly fell forward in the mire and lay prostrate in a shallow puddle. Much had been lost, but Rohan still stood.

He was still prone when Legolas found him. The Elf quickly but gently gathered Ceorl up and bore him into camp where he tended the young Rohir himself. He made three athelas compresses and bound them tightly over his wounds; one for his side and one for each side of his shoulder. Legolas had removed as much of the splintered arrow as he could by pushing it through and removing the head before extracting what remained of the shaft through the entry wound, but he knew that there were, no doubt, still fragments left in the young man’s shoulder. They would just have to stay, despite the danger of infection, for Legolas felt that anymore digging around in the youth’s shoulder would cause more pain and damage than was good for the boy.

"Forgive me, Ceorl," he said gently. "I too have suffered this."

Ceorl lay rigid under the Elf’s attentions, biting his lip until it bled to stifle his screams of agony as the kind prince removed the arrow and skillfully stopped the wound with pledgets. He was glad when Legolas gently lay him on the ground and covered him in blankets. Within moments, he was fast asleep.

~*~*~*~

Stille nu, faeste, Fréa ~ Quiet now, steady, Fréa.

Dhû mán, mellon nîn ~ Good night, my friend.

The world is thy ship, not thy home ~ taken from The Story of a Soul the autobiography of St. Therese of Lisieux

Many thanks to Coriel for her assistance in regards to Legolas. Without your help his part would have been completely dry and uninteresting. Still, I wish you would translate all those Elvish lines, thêl nîn.

I wish also to send out a God Bless to Éomer of Eastfold for his wonderful beta work. I will be forever grateful for your help in improving this chapter.

Also, thanks for all the feedback from Grey Wonderer, Lisbeth K and Amaniel. Thanks a lot, guys, for all the encouragement!