[maikafanawen]

Fire engulfed the sky as dusk, the memory of war, conquered the day. All around the fields of Pelennor and these westward most lands of Gondor lay in red darkness. The foes who had not been slain ran, the fear of men in their hearts. The Southron and Easterlings scattered and the victors stood there on the fields, counting their survived and collecting their dead heroes.

Among them was found Tarannon, his body pierced with an orcist javelin and Rinoas, hands clasped still on his sword, but lifeless eyes held no purpose of function. The two rangers come with Islist were given to be buried and their things discharged to their families. Dûrvagor had reunited with Aravir and Islist who were all three unscathed. Later they came upon Sorlas who still held the reins of his steed.

“Unbelievable,” said Aravir, stroking Telepetal’s neck. “Pernolë survived as well.” He stepped back so that Sorlas could see the white show horse, following his master as he searched for comrades with an elevated sort of pride. He smiled.

“Did you find anyone yet?” he asked. Islist nodded, his expression somber as he told of Tarannon and Rinoas’ death. Dûrvagor also offered words of the sincerest condolences. Sorlas didn’t meet their eyes and his look was unreadable.

“And Elleraden and Herevion?”

“Missing,” said Aravir gravely. “How can one find one’s comrades in this mess?” Islist gasped suddenly as he stumbled upon a live man. He wiped dirt and caked blood away from the face so that the man could drink of Islist’s canteen. Being on his stomach with a shaft in his back, he could not get up. As Islist’s hand continued to clean his face off mechanically, the familiar features became distinguishable.

“Elleraden,” he whispered. Together the four rangers heaved their friend upon Pernolë after removing the arrow that, miraculously, had not been poisoned. He was quickly taken into the House of the Healing to have his wound evaluated and if possible, mended. The rest searched an hour yet for Herevion to no avail. By midnight, their torches extinguished and they made their way to the encampments that surrounded the city, waiting for news on Elleraden.

Dûrvagor sat by his self, chewing on his pipe and gazing wearily into the flames that cracked and danced around the pot of bland stew Aravir had set on. Beside him, Islist hummed a mournful tune as he sharpened his sword; the whetstone singing at each graceful swipe of the ranger’s calloused and bleeding.

He was so young and to have endured this much, Dûrvagor esteemed him. By his twenty fifth year, he had fought and survived the bloody battle on the fields of Pelennor. What a ranger he will come to be.

Taking his gaze away from the fatigued face of his companion, he took up his own weapons to clean and re-sharpen. One of his knives he had to dispose of for it had become bent and useless. Of his original fifty arrows, only twenty-two remained. His sword was blemished by black blood and the tint of firelight made it eerie to look at. He soon put it away and resumed his pipe.

“Words fail me,” Dûrvagor turned as a distant voice entered his thoughts.

“I'm sorry?” he said, peering to see who had said that.

“Words fail to describe this eve,” repeated the man. His face entered the faint ring of light that flickered over the small tent circle. His eyes had each its own color and his hair was long and graying. A scar ran down the length of his face from his widow’s peak to the unnatural cleft of his chin, dividing his deranged face in two. Dûrvagor flinched when he spoke, a raspy surreal sound. “Alas! It has come upon us and we have yet one battle left to fight.” Dûrvagor shot the man a quizzical look though he did not answer it. “Get your rest ranger, your sword is yet needed.”

“Well I’m dashed,” whispered Dûrvagor as the stranger walked away, a limp plaguing his left leg.

“An old friend?” asked Aravir coming to take a seat beside him. Dûrvagor chuckled in spite of the melancholy.

“I wonder. A grave message he had for me though. ‘We have one battle left to fight my friend,’ said he. ‘Do not put up your sword.’ I wonder.” He stoked the fire with the toe of his boot, shifting the log so that it snapped in the heat and sent a shower of sparks into the air. “I wonder...”

Morning came in a dull hue of gray, and a mist fell upon the land as if to begin the purge of evil. The stranger’s message seemed a joke as the field was cleared of noble men who were buried in honor while the foe was burned a league away from the city.

It was also known that Denethor, the Steward of Gondor, had taken his life by fire and was no more. Faramir yet lived in the House of Healing and Lord Aragorn gave his assistance. The news that Isildur’s heir lived much heartened the rangers and Dúnedain who camped without the city. Though their mood was hardly lifted, they wandered about in ease, anxious for more news.

Going about his musings, it was he who came upon Herevion. The man was one night dead, his own noble sword pierced him through. The sight took Durvagor hard by the throat and he was sick. It pained him to see his friend thusly, without attention and left to rot under a gorsebush. He summoned Aravir who also took the scene hard. Together they carried him and buried him beside his companions on the ride southwest to Pelennor. So now they had lost three and one was fading...

[ July 21, 2003: Message edited by: maikafanawen ]