The Fellowship of the Fourth Age (Part 1): A New Beginning RPG

[Durelin]

Khamir

It was like no rush Khamir had ever felt, as the trembling in his limbs matched the rumbling of hooves. He caught only glimpses of the riders before they were completely swallowed by the dust, squinting through a small gap in the cloth that protected his face. Blind, the fighters charged in, though he had to scream at Hadith to get the man’s legs working. He was not angry at the boy, nor did he think less of him. But he had to get him moving somehow. Hadith simply obeyed it like a command, and Khamir was grateful. Adnan remained at his right, and would guard the man’s armless side, if all went well. And the one-armed man would not let Adnan out of his sight, if not for that reason.

There were screams, human and not: for moments those were their only targets. But soon some came into view, in and around the collapsed tunnel were men and beasts sprawled out, still or struggling, trying to reorient themselves or simply try to stay alive. Khamir broke off to one side with the rest of those in the rear, to meet what lay in wait in the cloud of dirt. The sand stung his skin, little pinpricks of fire all over his body. He could almost feel it lashing against the arm that was not there, like an itch that would not go away. It had been years since he felt something like that...it renewed his anger. His long hunting knife was drawn, and his smaller throwing knives were at the ready.

Suddenly, as they reached the trenches, Adnan disappeared from his side. Khamir whipped around. The boy had been grabbed by the leg and pulled down. The slaver had let go of him in order to get up, but in a heartbeat Khamir was on him. He tackled the man, regardless of the pain it caused his mostly unprotected body on the armour, and struggled with him, using his legs to try and pin him just long enough... There was a flash of silver that came dangerously close to Khamir’s stomach, but it dropped with a clank as Adnan suddenly drove his knife into the Easterling’s arm that held it. With an angry growl, the slaver allowed his head to fall back as he tried to heave Khamir off, and the Southron saw his opening, sliding his blade across the man’s unprotected neck. Immediately rising to leave the body, Khamir found Adnan already on his feet again, staring down at the dead Easterling. The one-armed man thought he saw a smile in the younger man’s eyes, but he would not believe much of anything he saw in this wind.

But even in the low visibility, what he could see of the slavers and the trenches made him feel uneasy. They did not all fall to the trap. But there was no one on horseback in his line of sight. The count had been at least two-dozen. Where were they? A sudden, dreadful thought fell over him. These slavers, though proud, were not stupid. They had proved cunning enough the first night they attacked, whether or not the slaves had been an easy target. Their leader had to know that though they were technically outnumbered, they actually out-manned the slaves. And, if he had expected any sort of defense, he had to know they did not have enough to spread their forces. But he did...

“Fall back with me!” he called to those on this end of the trench and tunnel, but only three out of the six in the rear came to him, everyone’s eyes darting from left to right and back, watching each other’s backs. Khamir’s eyes darted around, but the thought of his own life or the lives of any present was quite out of his head. Now where had that boy gotten to? Something turned sour in his stomach, and his voice had lost its feeling of command. “Where is Adnan? Has anybody seen Adnan?”

“I think Tareef is gone, as well,” someone said, but Khamir did not really hear.

“I fear we have hardly won the battle. I think something is amiss, and I fear for the lives of the women and children.”

“You mean…” one of the men, Nasim, asked in a rush of air, “from behind?” Khamir nodded. “Come on!” Nasim shouted, and took off toward where he knew those who could not fight lay unprotected. The others followed him. Khamir’s heart was split in two. He trusted the other men, but he knew every man they could spare should return to the women and children. But he also did not know where Adnan was. After a moment of hesitation, he wound his way toward the tunnel, checking the ground and checking the bodies. His hopes were raised each time he saw one that was not Adnan.

Finally he found the boy, kneeling at the edge of the collapsed tunnel, near its end. He was digging. Immediately Khamir rushed towards him to grab him. The man was prepared to berate him when he noticed several gashes, one on his cheek, one on his chest, another on his wrist… When Adnan stopped digging for a moment to look at the older man, Khamir caught a glimpse of the boy’s hands, and he saw that blood mixed with the dirt on the left one. Two of his fingers were missing. The body of an Easterling behind the boy was explanation enough. Khamir could only stare, and he tore his eyes away from the boy only to find them glued to the dead body. Its throat, arms, hands, and face were all bloodied almost beyond recognition. The Southron man knew it had not been the struggle that had caused that.

Turning back to Adnan, his face grave, he found the young man digging again, and with another blink he was cognizant enough to see that he was digging up a body. A glimpse of red hair, and Khamir’s hands plunged into the dirt, as well. Vrór! What had he done? When the Dwarf was at least partially uncovered, Khamir and Adnan each grabbed one of his arms and pulled with all their might. Slowly he loosened from the earth, and from there they took their time dragging him out further.

Vrór was obviously unconscious, and once they had him almost completely out of the trench, Khamir began to fear the worst. He made sure the cloth covered the Dwarf’s face well, and tied it around his head to protect a wound to his head from even more sand and dust. Then, tearing off pieces from the ragged shirt that protected his torso from the elements, he proceeded to quickly wrap Adnan’s hand, and then roughly cover the worst of his other cuts. It was obvious the boy was in real pain, though he did not show it: he did not argue in the least as Khamir took care of him.

[Folwren]

Athwen regained her senses and her dignity quickly as Rôg struggled to say a few kindly words. He gently disentangled his sleeve from her clutching hand and she stepped back, suddenly self-conscious. “The wounded.....I don’t know what to say about that. Except that I know you will do the best you can until the circumstances change.”

“Yes,” she gasped quietly, taking the scarf he so kindly offered. “Yes, of course I will. Thank you.”

Aiwendil must have heard the exchange of words, and tears, for he suddenly appeared at her side. His touch and old, kind voice brought new courage to her as he led her quickly away. “If you have time before the wounded are brought in, you might talk with the mothers and have a look at a few of their children. From what I have seen some have suffered greatly at Nurn and could use the gentle hand of a healer. That may help them as much as potions or herbs.” She was introduced to one of these mothers and before she could turn back to Aiwendil to explain that there already was a man who there who needed her help with a wound, he had left. She turned back to the woman.

“Gwyn?” she said, repeating the name that Aiwendil had told her. The woman nodded. “I have a wounded man with me…I think his name is Hadith. Can you show me where the buckets of water have been kept? I have a horse with Hadith on him, can we get the horse there?”

“Yes, I think we can. Go and get him. I’ll wait for you.”

Athwen hurried away to fetch the horse and lead him back. As she went, she folded Rôg’s scarf into a triangle and tied it around her nose and mouth. When her hands were empty again, she had reached the horse, and she reached up to take the reins near the bit. He tossed his head a little at first but, after a reluctant first step, he followed her meekly as she led him towards Gwyn.

“Wait a moment,” Athwen said as she reached her. “I need to get my pack. Hold him.” She handed the horse to Gwyn and then ran lightly away to where she had stored away her things earlier. She came back with the pack of healing herbs and other necessary things.

Gwyn waited for her and when Athwen reached her, she silently handed back the reins and turned to show the way. The women, with their little children pressed close about their skirts, made as much way as possible as Athwen and the horse passed through them. At the very back of the gathering of women and children they came to the rocks that formed the shelter. Gwyn led Athwen directly to a large stone that was slightly hollowed out towards the bottom, forming a slightly convex shape beneath which the air was still. Four buckets of water sat there. Clothes covered them to keep out any stray sand or dirt that might happen to reach them.

Athwen’s eyes lighted up a little when she saw such a place, blocked from the wind and calm on account of it. She brought the horse forward as far as he would come and then she ran about to his side. “Here, Gwyn, help me lift him down, please.”

Gwyn came about and together, the two women pulled Hadith down from his place and to the best of their ability, slowed his downward movement to set him gently on the ground beneath the curved rock. A quite groan forced its way through Hadith’s mouth, proving that he wasn’t quite senseless. An exclamation of surprise broke from Gwyn’s lips when she saw the blood that soaked Hadith’s whole left side and the wound in his arm. She shivered and shrank back.

Athwen, without looking up from her patient, laid her hand gently on Gwyn’s arm. “Easy, Gwyn. Unless you think you can stay and help me, take the horse back out from here.” She paused for a moment. Her mind was not only thinking about what to do with the horse, but also trying to make up its mind if she should be happy about Hadith being almost half conscious or unhappy. If he were still partially awake, that meant that he hadn’t lost as much blood as it had first appeared. On the other hand, if he were out cold, he wouldn’t make anything difficult by struggling against the pain. She blinked and made up her mind about the horse.

“Ask Rôg where you can put him…or, no, Rôg is busy.” She looked up at the horse and then at Gwyn. “Take him out from among you. I don’t know how steady he will be with the winds and when the fighting comes. Tie him someplace to a bush.”

“I will,” Gwyn said, hurriedly getting to her feet and backing away towards the horse. She stopped as she bumped lightly into his shoulder. “Will he – will he be alright?”

“I don’t know,” Athwen said honestly, looking up to meet Gwyn’s eyes. She nodded towards the horse. “Take him along now, before he does something.” Gwyn nodded, her eyes very large and round in her face, and she turned swiftly and taking the reins, led the horse quickly away and through the women and children again.

Athwen sighed and turned back towards Hadith. She wasted no time at all to roll her sleeves up to her elbows and carefully pull one of the buckets of water towards herself. Then she gently set to work clearing away the torn and ragged cloth of his shirt from the bloody mess of his shoulder. A sort of shudder passed through Hadith’s body as she worked and whenever her hand touched the bleeding limb. She pursed her lips at the mangled and savagely wounded arm. As she finished pulling the last, rough bit of material from the wound, she shook her head in wonder.

“My dear fellow,” she muttered between her teeth, “you were one lucky man today.” She reached out for her pack and set to work staunching the blood and examining what sort of damage was actually done.

The sword of the slaver had cut just beneath the collar bone. It sliced deep within the flesh there, cut beneath the bone of the shoulder and Athwen, as she sponged away the blood, could see the white bone of his arm. She knew she did not have long to work before fighting in the grove would break her short time of piece, or before more wounded people were brought in. She grasped for her pack again and drew out a long, sharp needle and thread.

The work was quick and precise. Hadith tried to move and he often uttered a weak moan. Athwen kept on, knowing she could do nothing for the pain at present. She had the wound stitched and bandaged quickly, though, and when it was over, he could rest much more comfortably.

When she had finished, she quietly rearranged her bag and moved it back towards the water. She replaced the bucket and then walked back out towards the open and the wind.

----------------------------------

Tevildo's post

Tom had fallen asleep in Rôg's arms, his head nestled securely within the shapechanger's cloak. The girl trotted alongside her rescuer as the little party of three hurried back towards the grove where the women and children were waiting. Azhar's heart pulsed with a strange excitement. So much had happened since the morning that she barely knew how to make sense of it all. Even now, she was having trouble getting her bearings. In all the tumult and shock, she'd forgotten about the war, her fear of losing Tom, her inability to hold her shape, and even her repulsion at seeing the slavers' bodies lying dead and mangled on the ground. Her head was filled with jumbled images of great bears and flashing dragons, creatures of incredible might who could lash out and in a single instant command the attention of all around them.

The girl's entire life had been mired in fear. She had feared the whips of the orc overlords and the sneering grins of the Easterlings. For the first time since leaving the plantation, Azhar sensed the enticing possibility of leaving that experience behind her. If she could learn to control these abilities, if she could take on the bear form whenever it suited her, then she would be as strong as any Orc chieftain....even stronger. Part of her wished that she had come into her powers many years ago. She imagined swooping down on a band of slaveholders and taking them out with a single blow. The other part wanted to change into bear form and clamber up onto a pile of rocks so everyone could see and admire her mighty muscles and claws.

A brief smile slipped over Azhar's face. Kwell had said that women couldn't fight. She would have loved to see his face when she casually changed her form and slipped up behind him with a loud and menacing growl.

Azhar glanced nervously over at Rôg and wondered. The man was enormously kind; he seemed so mild mannered and unassuming. He meekly acceded to the requests of Lindir and even the elderly Aiwendil, yet he was clearly a better fighter than either of them! If Azhar had been Rôg, she would have slipped into dragon form and glided out over the open plain in full daylight, attacking and decimating the band of slavers before they ever even reached the camp. Why, she wondered, didn't he do that? Then they wouldn't have had to go through this terrible battle. At the very least, she would have made sure that all her companions knew and understood exactly who she was. But it seemed as if Rôg was very quiet about these things, keeping everything to himself.

Azhar would have loved to ply Rôg with a whole string of questions. At the same time, she wondered whether she would have the chance to see the dragon again should the slavers attack their little grove. Unfortunately, this did not seem to be the right time or place to be asking Rôg such hard questions. And she had better keep her own mind on what was going on around her or she would end up dead before she ever had the time to learn how to hold and manage her other shape.

With a sigh, Azhar said her hasty goodbyes to Rôg, thanking him for all his help and promising to look out after the children. She and Tom went back to where the women were waiting, only this time two of the mothers whisked the little boy and his sisters away and reassured her that they could manage to care for the three children. Too nervous to stay hidden in one place, Azhar wandered back to where the older children were waiting. She looked around for Kwell but he still was not back. Then she stared out and saw where Athwen was caring for the sick and wounded. The woman seemed to be having quite a time of it. Darting from boulder to boulder, she came up to the healer and asked, "Do you need any help?"

[Durelin]

It was a struggle for them to try and move the Dwarf, Khamir with only one hand and Adnan with only one that was very usable. They more often all but dragged him than carried him, and though they winced each time the dropped him down to the ground, they knew that it was no good to leave him on the battlefield, even for the time being. They did not fully understand what kind of injuries he might have, and so they were rushing him toward someone that hopefully would. From time to time Khamir would have Adnan stop and they'd check Vrór’s pulse and listen to his breathing for a moment, and after each time the number of minutes between each check would grow smaller.

Khamir thought his breathing was shallow, and that worried him deeply. His heart felt torn to pieces, as he looked from the Dwarf to the boy and then thought of Shae and Hadith and... He had never cared for so many people in his life, and never so deeply even for any one. It made him feel so helpless, so without control. He did not even know where Shae was. He had not seen her for hours. He had not seen Hadith since the beginning of the battle. Adnan had disappeared on him in a matter of moments, and when he found the young man again, he was covered in blood and missing his two middle fingers. And now Vrór, who he had barely known of for more than a day, lay unconscious before him.

“Khamir?” the voice sounded rougher than he remembered it, but it still certainly belonged to Adnan. It was the first time the boy had spoken in some time, and it startled the one-armed man so that he almost dropped the hold his left hand had on Dwarf’s wrists. His shoulder ached, and the slight disruption was enough to cause the arms to slowly slide out of his grip, no matter how he tried to hold them up.

“Drop him!” he said in a strained voice. Adnan obeyed, and they rest Vrór on the ground together. Sliding the chainmail from his left shoulder with a groan, Khamir asked, “What is it, Adnan?” a little more sharply than he meant to. The boy did not seem affected, though. It was strange. Likely he would have at least faltered at such a tone just a day earlier, perhaps even simply an hour ago.

“What are we doing? If we’re worried about the slavers getting to the women and children, what is the point of bringing the Dwarf to where they are?”

Khamir knew he had a good point, but he felt anger rise in him, and the ache of his body clouded his mind. His senses were not around to protect him from himself, and he snapped at the boy. “Do you value his life so little? Do you not have any idea what he has done for us?”

Adnan snapped back at him immediately. He had changed. “No, I don’t have any idea. And you think you do? He just showed up last night!”

“I do know that he had much more to sacrifice than any of us have ever had,” the older man spat, and both of them grew silent.

Khamir growled from frustration directed at practically everything around him. “What are we doing?” is a better question to ask now, he thought bitterly. But he did not know the answer, regardless of when or how it was asked. He did not know what to do. He had always been the one with ideas, people had looked to him to follow him…and he had hated that they did. When he lost that, he hated that it was gone.

Now he was completely lost.

“We just have to get there. For Vrór, and for the others. They’ll need all the help they can get.”

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

Nasim was cradling a younger man named Zaki in his arms when Khamir and Adnan found him. Gamal, a man who appeared older than Khamir stood beside him. Blood covered his shirt, but he appeared fine. Nasim had received a gash on his leg, but he paid it no mind as he looked down into the lifeless face of Zaki. His tears mingled with the blood on the dead man’s forehead. They had found freedom together, but they had not seen a new beginning together.

They pulled Nasim away from his friend, and the going was easier with the help of two more men to carry Vrór. No one spoke as they moved, but each of their minds were filled with the same fears. As they carried the Dwarf as a precious cargo toward the rocks, they carried a comrade, not a stranger from a strange land, and repeatedly glanced at his still form with bated breath.

[Firefoot]

Whether she liked it or not, whether she wanted to be there or not, a battle was going on and she was in the middle of it. Johari wished she knew what was happening. Were they winning? Had their plans worked? The sounds of fighting seemed to call to her: the ringing of swords and knives, impassioned shouts, cries of pain.

The question kept coming back to her: why had she decided to sit around uselessly as one of those who could not or had no means to fight? She had been given a knife, after all, and she felt guilty every time she recalled this. It was true she had not wanted to get involved, but it was too late for that. Somehow she had become intrinsically caught up in the affairs of all these people about whom she did not really care. She did not want to fight for them… but as it was, she was letting people fight for her. That rankled.

The battle must be practically over, though! What good in joining now? Perhaps there would be something.

Feeling disoriented and rather absurd (what was she doing, anyway?) she began walking off towards the fighting, or where she thought there was fighting. It was so hard to see in this cursed sandstorm!

She nearly passed right by him. Indeed, for a few moments she thought he was dead from the blood on his clothes and her breath caught in her throat. But her better sense took over and she noticed the bandaging that covered his shoulder; he had been injured, not killed, and already tended. And he had just been left lying here against the rocks; plenty of women and children were around, but no one was paying any attention to him anymore.

“Hadith?”

Did his head turn slightly towards her? Was that quiet moan in response or just from pain? Forgetting her recent resolve to join the battle after all, Johari knelt down beside him. What had happened to him? And would he be all right? Seeing him so helpless like this seemed to evoke another memory just at the edge of consciousness, but she didn’t know which, and she was pretty sure she didn’t want to remember. The thought was quickly driven from her mind.

“You had better not die, Hadith,” she told him, though he didn’t look that near death. She didn’t even know if he could hear her. "You'd better not." I won't let you.

[Durelin]

Khamir noticed Adnan’s steps were becoming heavier and clumsier by the minute, and redoubled his efforts to try and lighten the boy’s load even more. With the four of them to carry the Dwarf, it was not difficult going, but the young man was in horrible shape. Adnan refused to speak a word about his pains, and Khamir respected his wish to push on with them and to try to hide them. He breathed a sigh of relief when they neared where those who could not fight were hidden among the rocks. As they came, women smiled at them, children gazed at them with wonder in their eyes, and the old men nodded approvingly to them. Everyone gave a concerned look to Vrór and then to Adnan.

Nasim and Khamir’s eyes were searching for Athwen, with hopes that she was not too busy with other wounded. They had no idea what sort of devestation had befallen their own ranks, and they were afraid to find out. And they both were uncertain regarding Vrór’s fate. The Dwarf had not moved – not even twitched an eye – and his breathing came and went in the same, slow, shallow rhythm.

When they found the woman, they called out to her almost simultaneously.

“Mistress Athwen,” Khamir called her as she caught sight of them and began to approach them; he remembered such titles from his brief education as a young man destined to follow in his father’s footsteps in a very successful trade. They kept moving, as well. They all silently agreed not to stop carrying Vrór until he could be placed safely before her. The woman was already giving orders, though, and soon at least a couple blankets were thrown down on which the Dwarf’s body could be rested.

“The tunnel collapsed on him,” Khamir said, “I do not know what is wrong, but he has not moved at all. He is breathing, but not so well…”

Athwen nodded curtly, her focus all on the Dwarf, her face furrowed with worry. Khamir glanced at Adnan, who still managed to stand on his own two feet, though he seemed to sway a little. Vrór first, he thought, though he must sit down. He placed the fifteen-year-old down on the ground where he could lean against a rock, and was surprised at how easy it was to put the boy down, regardless of how bad he had thought his condition was.

Khamir joined the other worried faces all around him, standing near Athwen as she tilted the Dwarf’s head back slightly. He had a feeling she was as unsure as he was what to do for Vrór, though she likely had a better understanding as to why things were so uncertain for him.

~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~

Perhaps Imak and his men had underestimated the slaves – and they certainly had not expected to find strange people from the West among them – but the Easterlings were soldiers of a sort, if not the same as those found in Gondor or Rohan. They were in particular accustomed to trapping men like rats and burning them out of their holes, and though most did not put up such a fight, they hardly felt set back. The slaves had focused their attention on one avenue of attack, and though they had successfully led practically half the force into their traps, they had allowed their victory to rest on such an uncertainty.

With both their men and their tricks focused in one direction, the slaves’ rear was left wide open, and Imak knew there were a number of women, children, and elders that would not be able to fight. And where would they find them? Behind their brave defenders, hiding away, just waiting for Imak and his men to pry them out from under their rock. The Easterlings nearly felt prepared to slaughter them all rather than bother with rounding them up alive. They were furious due to their losses, though more for the loss of pride than the loss of lives.

The slaves, mostly women, children, the old, and the wounded, lay in hiding among the rocks, some shaking with fear with the new knowledge that the slavers might indeed be on their way toward them, which had trickled through them all quickly from what one heard for the old man. Some felt themselves begin to grow resigned to the idea of slavery again, but most would cling to their so far short-lived freedom till the end. Aiwendil seemed of little help when they looked at him, but he inspired strength in them, simply from his goodness and his strength of mind and character. He bustled about, and his busyness was somehow reassuring.

They tried to console themselves and each other, saying that the fighters would stop them. Word had reached them that the traps had worked since wounded had begun to arrive, and they felt more secure in the idea that most of the enemy had already been taken out. They knew it likely was not true, and with every wounded person brought in they felt their hopes die a little, but they kept themselves from panic only through lying to themselves, and watching Aiwendil and his friend, a Southern man – which had surprised the slaves – on the move while they sat in dread.

Few warriors arrived other than some wounded, and some of the women and old men began looking for what they could use to defend themselves and their children.

Then they came, with the crashing of hooves seemingly from nowhere transforming into fear on horseback, shining golden like the sun. Most found themselves unable to move, others were prepared to stand their ground, and a few scattered, running for their lives and forgetting about their freedom.

Khamir leapt immediately into action. He had not sat down for more than a second since he and the others had brought Vrór to Athwen, and adrenaline still coursed through him, leftover from earlier battle. He glanced at Adnan, and, not to his surprise, saw the boy trying to get up. “You should not!” the one-armed man said roughly to him, but turned away from him almost immediately. It was the boy’s decision to make, and he was not the only one Khamir had to protect.

[Folwren]

Only a few minutes after Athwen had finished bandaged Hadith, she was called back to her duty. She spotted Khamir and his two companions drawing near, carrying between all three of them the figure of the Dwarf. Athwen’s eyes widened with a sudden feeling of fear and she started forward even before the one armed man called out to her.

She ran quickly before them and prepared a place for the Vrór to be laid. As the three of them set him down, Khamir explained, to the best of this ability, what was wrong. “The tunnel collapsed on him. I do not know what is wrong, but he has not moved at all. He is breathing but not so well...”

Athwen’s mind was already racing. She could only spare Khamir a nod and that was even given without looking up at him. Then her attention fell only to the dwarf. The dear old fellow, usually so vibrant and full of life, usually merry. She couldn’t help but remember their journey together even as she searched for some way to help him.

She didn’t know how to tend someone buried alive. She knew only a little of saving someone half drowned. Remembering that knowledge, she tipped his head back a little. His mouth opened slightly. Her fingers sought for a pulse in his neck, pressing against the vein by his throat. She felt the blood pass slowly once, and again, and consistently, though slowly, his heart still beat. With a slight sigh of relief, she dropped his hand and tended to the gash in his head. In a few minutes, she had done what she could.

“He still breaths and lives,” she said, looking up. “I do not know what else to do for him!” It was both an apology and despair mixed with hope. “I will try to help him more later,” she added, looking back down. “There are others that are in more danger and who I will be able to help.” For in the few breif minutes that she had spent checking Vrór, others had been helped back to her.

Her eyes went first to Adnan who had sat silently a little to her right. He had been one of those who carried Vrór in. She gave him as encouraging a smile as she could muster. “You aren’t in any condition to have carried in Vrór,” she said as she moved over towards him. He made no reply, but moved his eyes towards her. Athwen lifted her hand and turned his face slightly to look at the bloody cheek, and then her eyes dropped towards his chest where blood had seeped through his shirt.

“Let me get water. Can you take off your shirt?” She half turned to get a bucket, but stopped abruptly as Adnan silently lifted his hands to try to undo the buttons. “Good heavens, boy!” she exclaimed as here eyes spotted the mangled hand. “Stop it!” She reached out and gently took the clumsily bandaged hand. Adnan did not struggle as Athwen undid the bandage from his fingers and his wrist. “Sit still,” Athwen commanded when she had seen the damage. “Don’t do anything.”

She turned away and went to move some water and her pack to Adnan. Her hand reached out to take the pack when someone came and stopped by her side.

“Can I help?”

Athwen looked up. It was Azhar, standing with her hands clasped behind her back and her large eyes looking solemnly into Athwen’s face. Athwen smiled a little and as she straightened up, put her hand on the girl’s arm.

“Maybe. We’ll find out and see. How are you doing yourself? Do you still feel badly?” She looked at Azhar’s face and touched her forehead. The flush of fever had gone from her cheeks, her eyes were clear, and no heat came from her face to Athwen’s hands.

“I am well,” Azhar said. “I would like to help you.”

“Very well, then. Come with me.”

She turned and led the way back to Adnan, but before she could say anything at all to either of them, cries broke out, and the sound of pounding hooves faintly reached their ears. Khamir started up to his feet and even Adnan struggled to rise.

“You should not,” Khamir said to him, turning only long enough to say that. Then he went out, leaving Adnan with Athwen and Azhar, as well as all the others who had been brought in. Adnan continued to rise, but Athwen grabbed his unharmed wrist and tugged at him.

“No! What do you think you can do out there, except finish getting yourself killed? Sit down and let me fix you up. Please!”

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Before Carl had gone more than a dozen paces, Kwell called out to him. And turning around the hobbit saw that the boy’s outstretched hands held Hamin’s sword by the hilt. “Take it,” Kwell shouted, his voice muted by the wind. “It’s too awkward for me, but someone else will trade you for it.” Carl knew that the thing would be cumbersome to carry, but responding to the young man’s attempt to better equip him, he jogged back. Taking the weapon with thanks, he paused a moment, suddenly thinking himself cruel to send him off alone. But it was a short lived notion, for in a flash he had dismissed the thought as sentimental. No, Kwell would be better off without him. If the lad wanted company, let him station himself with Lindir or one of the bigger folk who had a chance at defending him.

Parting ways, Carl retraced his steps hunting for arrows. The precious few he found he picked up, trying not to think of their uselessness in the gale. Working his way toward the earthworks, he hoped to find them more readily. But rather than coming across a bountiful crop of arrows, the hobbit found a riderless horse near the collapsed tunnel’s edge, and cautiously crept toward the beast. By all it trappings, it was a slaver’s mount, with quite outlandish gear. And Carl thought that if by chance he could manage to win the horse’s confidence, it would serve to provide a bit of cover for him out on the plain.

Carl looked about him, for a sign of the horse’s master. And the wind, which had been growing more erratic, lulled a moment. In a glance Carl saw that the horse was alone on the littered field, quite the picture of patient misery. Speaking soothingly and confidently to the creature, who tossed his head at the approaching hobbit, Carl pulled off his handkerchief, and wiping the dust from the horse’s face, took the reins loosely, quickly discovering that the horse was surprisingly good tempered. It did not take much coaxing for him to be led along the rim of tunnel.

As the wind shifted Carl saw the crumbled heaps of fallen men before him. Noting that they were slavers, he gave them wide berth and had almost passed them by, when a flash of light lit their clothing bright orange, and a pained wailing carried by the wind soon followed. A chill ran down Carl’s spine, and the horse suddenly reared up. And as the hobbit struggled to calm the animal, whose body and sharp hooves rose over him, he spied an archer half hidden behind one of the corpses, taking aim at him from the other side. “Whoa, Whoa there Dirand!” He shouted at the top of his voice. “Take care, over there! It’s just Carl you’re looking to drop!”

Grim and graying, the fellow slowly stood up muttering. “Whoa yourself! What were you thinking? You ought not hide behind the enemy’s horse if you’re not one of them!” He stalked over, quickly catching the horse’s bridle.

"Well, at least your hearing is sound!" Carl returned. "But what was that flash? Did you see it?"

"Aye, a burst of fire, from over that way," Durand said, nodding toward the back of the camp.

“It weren’t no firecracker, I’ll be bound. Must mean trouble,” Carl said.

Just then yet another archer appeared climbing over the rim of the collapsed tunnel, for he also had emptied his quiver and had sought to replenish his stock from the spend arrows lying around the trench and tunnel. After the two men exchanged a few words in a foreign tongue, the old man seemed reluctant to look back at the hobbit. And Carl was suddenly filled with foreboding as he saw the other archer weighing something in his mind. A hand came to rest on the hobbit’s shoulder. “I’m afraid I’ve bad news for you,” the younger of the two told him softly, so that the hobbit could barely hear him. “We saw your friend with the orange bearded one, carried off by Khamir and Adnan a little while ago. He was in poor shape by the look of things.”

“Not dead though, I’ll wager,” Dirand quickly added, seeing Carl’s stunned expression. “I don’t think they’d bother to move him if he were.”

But the hobbit’s mind had gone numb as the news sank in. “Where did go with him?” he asked. But before he had his answer the three heard the thunder of hooves break out at the back of the camp.

“I think they were taking him toward the shelter over there,” Dirand said frowning, for all three realized that this lay nearby the location now under attack. And the younger of the two archers, not hesitating, immediately sprinted off toward the fray leaving the two others by the side of the tunnel.

Carl handed the old man Hamin’s sword, which until now had been trailing in the dust behind him. Turning his attention back to the horse, he rapidly shortened the stirrup beside him. “What do you want me to do with this?” the man said.

“Use it well,” Carl said. “We are going to ride this horse and fight like we never fought before. Have you ever used a sword?”

“Wait… no! And I volunteered for archery not horses. I don’t know anything about horses… or swords!”

“Don’t worry about the horse,” Carl said moving to the other stirrup. “I’ll do the steering; you just swing that sword with all your strength.”

“But it’s a slaver’s horse!”

“It’s not his fault, you know. And that’s a slaver’s sword as well.”

“You missed my point…”

But Carl had already scrabbled up onto the horse’s back. “Are you coming or not?” he asked as the horse shuffled sideways under him.


“Aye, I’ll come, I’ll come,” the old man said, “Though I think it foolhardy.”

As soon as Dirand, had found his way onto the horse, it lurched forward, and the grizzled man grabbed Carl to keep from falling off. Together they rode into the wind.

[Firefoot]

It did not take long for Grask to grow bored at the bottom of the pit. He scratched idly in the dirt with his fingernails, but other than that there was little else to do than think. For the first time since they had broken away from the large camp, he wondered where they were going and what they would do there – what he would do there. He was, of course, the youngest of the group, and that made him something of an outcast without companionship or use to the rest of the group. It was rather lonely, really. So why was he here?

The questions disturbed him, and though he tried not to think about them, they kept coming back bearing no new answers.

As it started to grow darker outside, the wind howled less and the sand seemed to be settling. Grask slung his pack back over his shoulder and happily began to climb out of the pit, using the rope that the Men had left, but even with that, the climb up was considerably more difficult than it had been to go down and he wished he had thought of it before deciding to wait the storm out down there.

With a grunt and a last surge of effort, Grask hauled himself over the edge of the pit. A glance around showed a few other Orcs milling about the camp, but closest to him was Ishkur. Grask felt blessed enough by the Orc leaders' earlier good will; no use pushing his luck, and he began to walk in the opposite direction until Ishkur's call stopped him short: "Wait, Grask."

What did he want now? Grask knew he hadn't done anything wrong... they hadn't decided he had taken too much ale earlier? Ishkur didn't sound angry though - the opposite, even. So Grask turned around and stepped forward to meet Ishkur who had walked after him. Grask's curious gaze was drawn first to Ishkur's face, then to his hand inside his pocket, then back to his face. He had never been sought out like this before and wondered what to expect.

[Durelin]

Khamir

Once he, Nasim, and Gamal had finished off their second Easterling, Khamir found his mind torn, and for a moment he faltered. The others were prepared immediately to go help Beloan, but though Beloan was Khamir’s friend, the one-armed man found himself more concerned with another. He had not seen Shae since well before the battle, and he could not stand the pain and the fear of more pain any longer.

“Go help Beloan, I must help someone else,” he said quickly, and took off away from the grove and back toward the trench and tunnel, the first place. That woman always did some of the craziest things, as if she had something to prove, and yet she had always come back alive...so far. He wished she would stop risking her life, at least as he saw it, needlessly. There were plenty of able-bodied men, and getting herself killed wouldn’t accomplish anything. She had nothing to prove, she did not have to remind everyone of her bravery...

Maybe it was the Gondorian in her: the self-righteousness that required she prove to others over and over that she had a courageous heart. And apparently that made her feel like sacrificing her life, dying in battle, defending a cause, was worth it, regardless of whether or not her death could be avoided. He would not have this…he could not…he would…

He heard a woman’s enraged scream and the crash of metal just before he saw Shae surrounded by two slavers. She was alive and kicking. All of Khamir’s worries and fears suddenly turned into guilt as he realized that there had been nor reason for him to assume the worst, and certainly not belittle her abilities as a warrior. He still wanted to be furious at her for the heroics that likely got her into this mess, but he found it difficult.

Before Shae had even seen him coming, he launched his still bloodied throwing knife to land firmly one of the rider’s thighs. The horse was startled, and Khamir leapt forward to slice small but stinging cuts across both the horse’s thighs on the side facing him. The horse, frightened and in pain, did its best to drop its rider, who was too busy trying to get the knife out of his leg to hold on very well. He dropped to the ground.

Shae had pulled the other slaver down, and was wrestling with him on the ground. Khamir began feeling a need for urgency again, which grew with every second. His concerns elsewhere, his instincts did not fail him, and he thrust his hunting knife into the Easterling’s exposed throat before the man could recover from his fall. Then the one-armed man whirled around and leapt forward to help Shae; it appeared to him that she couldn’t tear away from the slaver’s grip…the man would run her through in a moment if Khamir didn’t…

But the Southron stopped in his tracks. The slaver was not moving.

The woman yanked her shirtsleeve from where it had been caught in the golden armour, tearing a small piece of it in the process. She looked a bit flustered, and she was wounded, but she stood steadily. She gave Khamir an incredulous look, as the man could only stare in wonder at her for a moment.

“You’ve wounded your leg,” she remarked, bringing his thoughts back to earth. She did not appear concerned, except for something in her eyes. The Southron looked down to see a gash across his right lower leg, and could not remember if he already had that wound before he had come to find Shae or not.

He frowned as his eyes scoured her body. “And you have two wounds.”

Shae laughed, though weakly, and shook her head. They were both trying to catch their breath. She did not bother telling him he had two cuts on his cheek. Suddenly she began walking away from him. Khamir stood for a moment in confusion, and then ran several paces to catch up with her and grab her by the arm. She looked up at him with frustration, and pulled away. He tried to settle himself, but found his mind wondering how much pain she was in, if she had been afraid she might die… Then he followed her stare down to a body just a few paces ahead of her.

Reagonn…

“He…” Khamir breathed. Images of Adnan and Vrór flashed through his head, and of Hadith who he still had not seen, and looked at Shae, remembering what it felt like to think her dead…and then he stared at Reagonn’s still body, and froze the picture in his mind. So many he…loved. He felt tears come to his eyes, and one fell as he turned his blurry eyes to see Syth, another comrade, fallen. It seemed Shae wanted to cry, but she was too exhausted. Khamir was so exhausted that he could not stop himself.

You child of Mordor…

How could there be so much love in this place?

It had been easier when he was alone, when his number one and only care was himself, his survival. Or it would have been easier, if he had not hated it.

And that was what Shae was prepared to die for, wasn’t it? Protecting, defending what and who she loved. She would die before she was alone. He would have been alone before he died, and died alone…

Khamir stared at Shae as his eyes cleared, but looked away as soon as their gazes met. No, he did not want to be alone.

[Tevildo]

Azhar had picked her way through the crowded grove searching for Rowenna. She had scurried from one small group to the next asking the women and children if they had seen the midwife. No one had been able to answer her. Every step brought her nearer the ring of stones that marked the entry to the small haven where the women and children had retreated. So far, none of the slavers had been able to force their way into that inner ring. Through the dust and haze, Azhar could make out the faces of several of the men who fought no more than fifteen feet in front of her; Rôg and Aiwendil, Carl and Dirand, Nasim, Gamal, and so many others were still locked in battle with about half a dozen slavers. For an instant, Azhar stood still and simply stared out, wondering how and when the bloodshed was going to end and whether the protective ring would continue to hold.

An insistent cry rose from just behind her: not a sound of battle but more like a woman caught in the throes of a tearing pain. Scrambling over to the source of that sound, Azhar ducked down and crawled through the opening of a thick hedge, an entrance almost hidden from outside view. She was surprised to find the midwife Rowenna. On the ground beside her lay another woman who was in the middle of giving birth. The woman's eyes were wild with pain, her hair matted, and her skin rimmed with sweat. The birthing was not going well, but what else could one expect in the middle of this nightmare?

Scarcely more than a girl, Azhar stumbled out of the enclosure, unable to deal with the full meaning of that scene. But before she could turn back to speak with Rowenna, there was a terrible roar and a shaking of the earth. A number of slavers still mounted on horses had broken through the border of stones and were advancing at a gallop, racing straight across the inner encampment where all the women and children lay hidden. As that realization sunk in, Azhar felt her blood run cold.

The freed slaves and members of the fellowship who were still fighting came running towards the rocks, but their feet could not match the swiftness of the horses. A single horseman halted and, glimpsing Azhar, swung his mount about and headed for the hedge. The young girl tried to spring out of the way but was tossed to the side by the impact of the horse as it raced by her; Rowenna and the woman giving birth were not so lucky. An instant later, both women lay silent amid the ruined hedge, their bodies woven in a tangled heap as blood soaked into the ground.

Azhar cried out in horror. Even her life on the plantation had not prepared her for this. She caught a quick glimpse of Aiwendil and Rôg who were running side-by-side, part of the crowd of fighters all surging forward in a vain attempt to reach the horsemen and stop them. Her eyes rivetted on the tall southerner. Words of anger and frustration poured from her mouth, "Rôg! Why don't you do something? They are too fast. Someone must stop them, or all the women and children will die."

What happened next was not what Azhar had expected. One minute Aiwendil was standing next to Rôg, and the next minute he was gone. In his place was a
shaggy wild boar , weighing at least two hundred and fifty pounds and sporting two pairs of curving tusks, one on top of the other. The boar swung his tail, pawed viciously at the soil, ground together his tusks and gave a loud snort, taking aim at the horseman who was running just ahead.

[Folwren]

Athwen worked as quickly as she possibly could under the circumstances. Azhar helped where she could, and even with the girl knowing nothing, she was still able to save Athwen a great deal of time and energy. But it wasn’t enough time nor enough energy. She felt her strength lagging and there were still so many to tend to. It was then that she asked Azhar to go fetch help. She must have help or men would die.

Azhar hurried away in obedience of Athwen’s request. Athwen heaved a sigh and brushed a stray strand of hair from her eyes. Her fingers left a streak of blood on her forehead over her right eye. She turned to the next patient.

Patient? Athwen grimaced to herself as she set to work on the wounded man. This was like no set of patients she had ever known. Never had there been one after another of cases wherein the patient was half dead. Of course, not all of these men were half dead – there were some cases of broken bones, slashed arms, or knocked heads – but there was a great deal of blood. Even Athwen, with her hardened nerves to such things, had found herself a few times that day shuddering at the sight of some twisted mess of blood, bone, and ligament.

Sometimes she could not save the victim, and she knew it. These were the most difficult to tend to. She hated to leave them in their misery, but what else could she do? To ease their pain would mean spending precious material on a hopeless cause. She didn’t know what to do with them and she longed to ask Dorran what a surgeon on the field of battle would do.

After a time, Athwen began to think that Azhar and the midwife were long in coming. She finished binding a wound and stood up to look out towards the fighting. What happened out there, she wondered? Where were all of her friends? She hoped that they were safe, and at the same time, she hoped that they were killing the slavers.

“Interesting, Athwen,” she told herself, turning with a sigh towards her work. “You, who are here to save lives, hoping that others are destroyed.” It never struck her that she should think it strange that she, being so exhausted and working, should still have time to consider her own thinking.

[Folwren]

Kwell felt drained of all strength by the time the last living slaver took to his heels. The world was dim, but not as dark as it had been when night first fell. The clouds that had covered the stars were slowly being torn apart and were sliding quietly away in tatters and shreds. The wind below had dropped and the sand and dirt stayed in its rightful place - on the ground. Kwell drew a deep breath - the first in seemed since that morning - and slumped down on a rock.

He was not allowed to sit thus for long. Someone passing soon urged him to his feet and he was given a bucket to go fetch water for the healer. He was kept busy for a while, with other random and small tasks. Soon, the only duties left to be done were gathering the dead, helping with the wounded, or searching and bringing back whatever wood or brush they could find. Kwell set out with some others and began to search for dead bracken, bushes, or trees.

During this simple bit of work, though his hands were busy with the wood, his mind was free to roam. The territory it walked over was not kind to him. His thoughts were darkened with guilt and self-loathing. He could not help but think that at least some of the deaths among the women and children might have been prevented if he had been there.

He came back to the place of the battle and as he laid his load of fuel, he looked at the dead that had already been gathered near. Lindir was there now, setting the limp body of a child down. Kwell looked at the little boy’s face and then slowly lifted his eyes to the elf’s. Lindir was not looking at him. Kwell thought he might not even be aware of his presence. The two of them were fairly alone - the others worked at a small distance. Kwell wanted to speak to him. He had to approach him, he had to apologize, and above all, he must know what Lindir thought now. Kwell was more ashamed now than he ever had been before. Ashamed and not a little apprehensive of what the elf might do when addressed. But Kwell must speak, he must.

He slowly came about the pile of wood. His feet moved slowly and uncertainly, his heart thumping loudly in his chest. Lindir did not turn or make a movement or sign of being aware of him until Kwell was just a few feet away. Then he turned his head and looked down at the boy.

Kwell stopped his feet abruptly, shut his half open lips and looked back at the elf’s eyes. “Sir,” he finally managed to bring himself to say. “I am. . .I am sorry for leaving the glade. You told me to stay and. . .” he looked down towards the ground as he felt his heart sinking. “I didn’t stay. I went down to try to meet the battle down at the camp.” He was too miserable to try to say anything else and he shut his mouth and waited with his head bowed.

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Kwell? That is your name, I think." The boy's sense of guilt and shame was written clearly on his face. "At first I wondered where you'd gotten to. Then I saw you fighting beside the trench but it was not the time to speak. Ah. lad.....how do I put this?" Lindir stopped for a moment and turned away from the boy, staring at the great byre on which the bodies were laid. He continued staring at the byre as he talked, "You are a lad caught up in things that should not be: things that are hard even for a full grown man or Elf to deal with. No, you should not have left without speaking to me or at least to Aiwendil, who was in charge of defending the grove. If you had explained what you wanted to do, I would have thought hard on your words and very likely agreed. That way, I would have known where you'd gotten to. A man fights best where his heart lies but it is also important that those in charge know where their people are."

He turned from the byre and gazed down at the boy. "The important thing is that you are alive and well and did everything possible you could. No one could fault your conduct in battle. Others have mentioned to me that they were amazed anyone so young could fight like a grown man. Next time, just ask. I wish I could tell you there would be no "next time" but I can not.

"We all regret some of our decisions....things we wish we could change. When I look at what happened in this grove, I wonder if we should have told the women and children to march out last night from this place so they would have been far away when the fighting occurred. Or we might have sent more men out on the plain for a surprise attack on the slavers before they ever got to the camp. Questions like those are eating away at me. If anyone bears responsibility for what happened here, it is not you, Kwell, but those in charge."

Lindir put his hand on Kwell's shoulder before going on, "You will never forget what happened here. No man or elf forgets his first battle. But when you think on these things, also remember this. No battle is completely "good", even with victory. Victory can not bring back those who died. Their loss pulls at the heart no matter whether you are the one in charge or not. I too wonder if I should have done some things differently. But I am only an elf, not one of the powers on high who understands the music. So the only thing left for us to do is go on and live our lives in a way that brings some meaning to their loss. I do not know if you or I could have prevented deaths by doing anything differently. But I am very sure this battle was worth fighting, even if the price was high."

"Kwell, you are young. Decide differently next time. But do not let your grieving stop you from doing something even more important.....learning how to live with your mistakes, if mistakes they be, and going on from there. I am afraid both of us have spent too much time dwelling on things set in stone and not enough time thinking about what we can and must do next. What say you, boy? Will you help me out? Run through the camp and deliver a message to each of those who can make it to the spot where the central campfire burned last night. We must decide what to do next if we are to keep this group safe and go forward to the north. Looking on the ruins of battle can only tear at a man's heart. We must begin thinking about tomorrow....."

************

Folwren's post for Kwell


The elf was gentle in his reply. Kwell had expected anything – anything except this response. The elf seemed to understand, and where he could not understand, he forgave. At first, even Lindir’s gentle words could not clear away the shame and regret Kwell felt. But as he went on, Kwell’s head began to lift a little more, and he felt he could look Lindir in the face.

Kwell promised himself that next time (for Lindir thought there must be another time), he would do better. He must do better, for he felt he had to deserve this elf’s trust and his forgiveness. He didn’t deserve them now. He had never done anything to deserve any such kindness, and the thought made his head droop again.
" If anyone bears responsibility for what happened here, it is not you, Kwell, but those in charge." It was not the deaths Kwell mourned, though. He knew so few people. It was own guilt. Yet, maybe Lindir knew that. Kwell felt Lindir’s hand rest on his shoulder. "You will never forget what happened here."

It was then that the tears first entered Kwell’s eyes. He swallowed, but for some reason, he did not feel the usual anger at crying like a maid. There were reasons to cry now. Forget what happened? The images of his companions who had died, and even of the men he had killed, rose before his mind’s eye, even his physical eyes were blurred beyond vision. He listened in silence to the rest of what Lindir said.

“I am afraid both of us have spent too much time dwelling on the thing set in stone and not enough time thinking about what we can and must do next. What say you boy? Will you help me?” Kwell’s head began to come up once more. “Run through camp and deliver a message to each of those who can make it to the spot where the central campfire burned last night. We must decide what to do next if we are going to keep this group safe and go forward to the north. Looking on the ruins of battle can only tear at a man’s heart. We must begin thinking about tomorrow.”

Kwell reached forward impulsively and grasped the elf’s hands. “Yes. Yes, I will, sir! Thank you, thank you so much!” He could say no more. His voice choked, and he let go of Lindir’s hand as he turned to rush away and take his message to every able man and woman.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Once the immediate threat of the slavers' was dispersed, the heavy cost of the battle made itself keenly felt, and Carl walked about the camp stunned by what he saw, as all were trying to recover a sense of equanimity. He searched for his friends only to find them missing, or injured. So few were unscathed. But most distressing it was to learn that Vŕor had spent the initial assault buried in the tunnel, while he himself had stood just a few yards away, absorbed as he was in leading his handful of archers. Oh how his mind fixed on the fact, as so many regrets rose to his mind while his thoughts drifted.

But when Lindir spied the hobbit's aimless meandering, for Dirand had by now left him to look after his own friends, the elf had quickly set Carl to work with the others who could still heave and carry. Together they gathered all the dead, along with the shields and weapons they found strewn about the camp. And a morbid debate quickly broke out over whether they should distribute the such items as the dead slavers' boots or tunics. The hobbit shuttered, shying away from speaking his thoughts on the matter. And he quickly left, seeing the young man in whose care he had left his pony Stumps. But the dark haired fellow could not look the hobbit in the eye, for he had lost track of the animal through no fault of his own. And the sad tale soon spilled from him. Very early on in the battle, the confusion proved too much for the docile natured beast, and he had been so nervous that the man admitted, he could not afford to ride him, and so had dismounted. Terrified Stumps, once free of his burden had fled toward the east.

Carl closed his eyes and hung his head for a moment, before lifting them again to meet the young man's apologies. Quickly dismissing the former slave's acceptance of responsibility, the hobbit declared it his own fault. He should have reckoned on the old farm horse not taking well to battle. Frankly, he felt as if Stumps was not the only representative of the Shire to be of that disposition today. Walking slowly back to were the pyres now blazed in the dim light of dawn, he stood watching the flames, as he fingered the stone in his pocket. He should never have assumed any of them would have been safe. Taking out his replica of the old woman's stone, he looked at it, his heart brimming with bitter sorrow. Just then he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“What are you doing with one of Brenna's stones?” Dirand asked gently.

“I don't know anything anymore” Carl answered. And moving forward he laid the stone that he had made when sitting beside a cheerier blaze, in the embers at the base of the pyre before turning to his new friend again. “I had hoped that I could have learned about her and why she made such a stones. Any chance that you know why she did?”

“No, not really,” the old man mused, shaking his head. “Perhaps out of some sadness?”

Carl nodded mutely, and after a moment he spoke again, “You were good Dirand, to try to help those children even when the bones of your arm had gone so awry.”

“Nay Carl. I'm not so good. And is any one of us, when it comes down to it? After all who as else is there to look after me in my old age, but those self same children.” And as the hobbit stared up at him in disbelief, Dirand's sober expression bloomed into a mischievous smile, and he winked at the farmer.

Carl smiled weakly. “I think you are a far site kinder than you pretend to be, Dirand. And you'd make someone a good gaffer some day, though I have my suspicions you'd act all unwilling at the start! You're as soft as a downy chick, you are!”

"Well, you can think what you like about me, today. But don't say I haven't be straight forward with you. And if you think that I'm all that soft, then I think you the most simple soul I have met in a long while. No offence, mind. It is a good thing, by all acounts."

[Folwren]

Athwen and Dorran were still speaking quietly together when Athwen heard a call from one of her patients. “Athwen! Mistress Athwen! Somebody! It’s Vrór!”

“Vror,” Athwen whispered, looking up. She glanced down at Dorran. “I’ll be back when I can. I’ve been hoping he’d wake up.” Dorran nodded and Athwen quickly got up and moved towards the dwarf and Adnan, who sat near him. The young man looked up at her as she came, looking anxious and excited.

“I heard him groaning or something and he moved,” Adnan said.

Athwen gave him a smile and met his eyes briefly before kneeling beside Vrór. “Vrór?” The dwarf was silent, but there was a pinched and contained look on his face. He just might be half conscience... “Vrór?” she said again.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

When Carl walked up to him, Lindir appeared as though he was looking past him, so lost in thought he was. And honestly Carl marveled at how the elf was able to keep his mind clear, getting everyone organized despite all that had befallen them. Those eyes must have seen a good deal of this before, if what he'd heard about elves was true, Yet Carl smiled to think that they overlooked the hobbit in front of them. Clearing his throat, he shifted his weight.

“Ah, Carl,” Lindir said without looking at him. It took only a moment for the hobbit's weary brain to realize it had been ridiculous of him to think Lindir hadn't noticed. To be sure he noticed. He was an elf after all, even though he really didn't seem the same sort of elf Sam had gone on about. He didn't seem the sort to sing. But just as Carl's mind was beginning to ramble off into those curious corners it frequented when he was most tired, Lindir brought him round again. “How is that arm of yours doing?”

The hobbit looked down at the dried blood that streaked his arm, and grasped it lightly with the other. “It stings a bit, not too bad though, but that is what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“About your arm?” Lindir asked.

“No, not really. I'm not hurt bad you know? Like a lot of these folk here are. And I'm no good at sitting around fussing with bandages, mopping foreheads and what not, when there are provisions out there to be got that might make them feel easier.” The elf nodded as he listened to Carl. “What I mean is,” the hobbit began again, trying to be more direct, “I'd like to go with you to the slaver's camp. I can heft a stack of corn as good as the next man, and this scratch won't keep me from it.”

“Yes, but it seems you have lost your pony. Would you be willing to ride the slaver's horse into the camp when it is quite likely slavers might greet us there?” the elf ventured.

“I'd much rather have Stumps and that's the truth, and I hope the poor beast is found, for Mordor's a foul place to wander off. But until then, I must ride the slaver's horse, for good or bad.”

“Ah right then, we'll have one more to ride out with us!”

“Thank you, Sir! I just want to keep busy, if you know what I mean. Thinking too much, just sitting here like this.”

“Yes, I do,” Lindir replied, “though we might require you to think as well. But in the mean time, we need more hands to help carry food to those who can't get it for themselves.”

“Aye Sir, I'll see to it,” Carl said, relieved that he was to set out again soon.

[Durelin]

His mind was prepared to slip back into the empty darkness when one sound broke through a myriad of noises, muddled together and distant, and emerged clear and focused in his ears. Vrór recognized it as a voice, and though he did not really hear what it actually said, he associated himself with the sound. Something was calling to him, and his vision slid back into focus.

Awareness came crashing down on him, and he blinked. He knew that voice… Vrór… She was calling his name…Athwen.

“Athwen,” he tried the name on his lips, but it came out a muddled “Ah-win.”

“He is awake,” came another voice, male, but young. Vrór could not place that one, not yet. Maybe with time…with time…now he had to rest….

“Vrór.”

The Dwarf’s tired and ragged body and mind wanted him to fall back into a long sleep, but as he was snapped back and reminded of the pain in his body that came along with the rest of his awareness, his mind was forced to cling to reality. He groaned. Reality hurt.

Why did it hurt so bad; why did he hurt so bad? His memory flashed back to the tunnel, and soon he found it difficult to focus. There was not much there to remember. He had been checking it, to make sure it would work, make final adjustments, because it could not fail…

“Did it work?” Vrór asked, with considerable urgency, particularly for how weak his breath and voice still was, naturally expecting fully that Athwen would know exactly what he was talking about.

[Folwren]

Vrór’s head moved slightly and Athwen saw his eyelids flutter. His lips opened, and weakly, a sound came out. “Ah-wen.” She smiled a little and pressed her hand against his hot forehead.

“He is awake!” Adnan cried from behind her. The smile slowly left her face, though. Now that he was awake, the dwarf was clearly in pain. His whole body seemed rigid and his face didn’t relax, nor did the tightness in his jaw. He strained to open his eyes - Athwen saw the grey of his irises - but then shut them again quickly.

“Did it work?” he asked suddenly. Athwen’s hands paused in the air. Her eyebrows drew slightly together. Then they relaxed and her lips twitched a little at the corners.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, it worked perfectly, Vrór,” with the utmost gentleness. Perhaps it hadn’t stopped all of the slavers, but it had done its job as best it could. “You did a good job. What were you doing under there? Never mind,” she added quickly. “Vrór, are you in pain? What can I do to help?”

[Durelin]

“Yes, it worked perfectly, Vrór…”

Vrór was so pleased to hear those words that he almost forgot his pain for a moment, and the corners of his lips twitched up slightly into a semblance of a smile. It had worked, and they had won, as he knew they would. He had known it… He tried to focus on the rest of Athwen’s words, though he found himself imagining the rumbling in his ears that he remembered as one of the last sounds before…

“Vrór, are you in pain? What can I do to help?”

Pain, yes…the real aching came mostly from his left arm, though most of his body felt sore. It felt like he had been beaten, though he knew that was not right. He tried moving his left arm, but found himself wincing in pain when he attempted to pull it up at all. His upper arm, maybe his shoulder, was on fire. Vrór then tried to move his other arm, and with a little more force than he knew typically necessary, it rose from the ground an inch or two without much difficulty.

“My arm…left one…it’s probably broken somewhere,” he muttered, “the upper part and shoulder really hurts.” He sounded very curt, as for some reason talking just did not feel good, and he was unsure why. He felt disoriented, staring up at the dark sky. But the stars…oh, the stars…they were so beautiful…the stars even in Mordor were so beautiful…

Vrór found it a little difficult to focus again, like when he was imagining the rumbling in his ears that he remembered as one of the last sounds before…the tunnel had caved in. The tunnel had worked, hadn’t it! The tunnel trap had worked, right?

“Did the tunnel work?” he asked Athwen fervently.

[Folwren]

He asked again if the tunnel worked. Perhaps he thought she hadn’t understood. A shadow crossed Athwen’s face. Her hands had immediately flown to his tunic to see if she could get to the left arm, but her fingers froze as her eyes darted again to Vrór’s face.

“Yes, Vrór, yes. The tunnel worked just fine. I told you just now, you know.” She couldn’t get the tunic loose enough, so she reached for her knife and carefully went at the shoulder seem. “The slavers on their horses followed me right up to it and when I stopped my horse, they went right on and down they went, plunging right into it.” She opened the seam and realized that she had another difficulty. His mail hauberk lay between her and the damaged arm.

“Vrór. Do you think you can get up and let me help you take this off?”

[Brinniel]

Shae managed to hold back the two slavers so far, but she knew it would not last for long. She was relieved when help finally came, and was especially pleased when it had come from Khamir of all people. She had not seen him since before the battle and had wondered of his whereabouts. The one-armed man had endured much and she was confident he would survive tonight...but then again, she had thought the same for Reagonn.

As Khamir took one slaver by surprise, Shae was able to throw the other off his horse. He lunged at her, but she was ready. Before he even reached the woman, he ran into her sword. The opponent collapsed on top of her, and momentarily Shae was trapped underneath the heavy man. She tore herself free and stood up, her eyes meeting Khamir's.

Was that a look of concern?

Shae observed the man standing across from her, noticing he was just as much of a mess as she was. Khamir still stared at her, almost in wonder. "You've wounded your leg," she remarked casually. His eyes shifted down to discover his new injury.

Shae eyed the man curiously. He had come to her aid alone. Even more, he had come to her away from the camp where the battle was still going. Had he actually come specifically to find her? That thought seemed impossible. Since Joren's death, it mattered to no one whether Shae lived or died. For years, she had accepted that fact. Yet, Khamir's expression just now read otherwise.

"And you have two wounds." The man's words interrupted her thoughts and the woman was brought back to attention. Staring down at her very swollen wrist, she gave a slight laugh at his obvious statement. The laugh was cut short by a sharp pain against her ribs. Shae held her breath, waiting for the pain to subside. She turned away from Khamir quickly, not wanting him to see she was hurting. He grabbed her arm gently, but she pulled away, more afraid than anything.

"He..." the man whispered suddenly, and Shae knew whom he was talking about. She also stared at the bloodied corpse of Reagonn in the distance, still feeling bitter about his death. The two stood for a moment in silence. Then she turned around, surprised to find Khamir's cheeks stained with tears.
"He was a good man," the woman consoled. "He...saved my life...as you just did." She smiled at Khamir in gratitude. The man looked back at her, this time his expression undecipherable. Khamir had always been rather mysterious to her. After eight years, she still knew very little about him and his past. It was something few ex-slaves spoke of- their lives before escape. Shae had always believed that the man's rough life had left him cold and distant...and yet...in these last few days, he had somehow changed... And now, more than ever, the woman couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking about.

The sharp pain on her left side returned, and Shae doubled over dropping to her knees. With the combination of the dried blood, the sweat, and her tired limbs, she had never felt so heavy, and she allowed her body to sink into itself.
Immediately, Khamir was at her side. "Are you all right?" he asked, his tone sincere.
Blinking back tears, the woman replied, "I'm fine," her voice gutteral, but determined.
The pain soon eased, replaced by a dull ache, and Shae struggled to stand. Her good hand was met by Khamir's, and he helped pull her to her feet. The two stared at one another, their faces inches apart. Shae closed her eyes, exhausted. Feeling Khamir's breath against her forehead, short and hot, she realized he was just as tired.

"You're not fine," the man finally said. "You should go see Athwen. She'll take care of you."
"Athwen? She's okay?" The healer had volunteered for a dangerous task, to lure the slavers in, and Shae was pleased to hear she had made it out alive. "Well...I'm sure she has plenty of patients right now who are in much worse condition. ...Don't look at me like that, Khamir. I refuse to rest until this is over."
Khamir frowned. "You just don't know when to give it up, do you? Even when it's for your own good."
"Look who's talking." The man couldn't help but laugh at her comment.

Shae shifted her eyes towards the camp, where shouting still clearly rang into the air. She wondered what other lives had been lost tonight. What had happened to the halfling Carl? And the elf Lindir? She thought about the woman she had given the knife to during a night that seemed ages ago. Had she needed to use it yet? What had become of their companion Beloan? And what of the two children that had only been rescued the previous night? There were so many Shae wondered about, yet she realized there was no time for concern. There was still a bloody battle going and certainly nothing would be accomplished by simply standing around.

Finding what remained of her strength, Shae turned back to Khamir and said to him, "C'mon....let's go find the rest of those scum."

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil's talents were modest when compared with those of the other Maier who had accompanied him to Arda. His companions displayed greater depths of wisdom, understood more about the nature of men and elves, and enjoyed a mastery over natural elements or crafts that he had simply lacked. His own duties in Aman had been humbler than theirs: quietly nurturing the flowers and fruits that graced the gardens of Yavanna. But in this one area alone--the ability to take on a rainbow assortment of shapes and colors and forms--the istar had excelled beyond all others of his rank. He had once been able to take on the form of every living thing in Arda, both plants and beasts, and other fantastical shapes.

Sometimes Aiwendil wondered why and how he had been granted this singular gift. It was not due to any merit on his part. Perhaps it had been the plea of Yavanna. The Lady had always been able to look into his heart and sense that her good hearted, bumbling servant who could be so withdrawn and awkward would require a special measure of protection and grace.

Aiwendil had sometimes fallen back on these skills to escape from those he was trying to avoid. Since his sailing across the Sea, he had provided what minor shapeshifting services he could for both Gandalf and Saruman while living in the area that was then called Mirkwood. Most of the time, he had staked out his own path and tried to stand clear of the troubling times. Somewhere, amidst all that isolation and pulling back, he had managed to lose a large chunk of himself, including his memories of what Manwe had originally instructed him to do and his ability to shift shapes.

Only in recent years had some of those memories and skills returned. During his stay in Harad, he had finally regained his ability to take on the shapes of at least some natural creatures in Middle-earth as well as the will to stand up and fight. Aiwendil suspected that his friendship with Rôg had something to do with this change. He still had not figured out what the Lord of Aman wanted by having him stay on in Arda after all the other istari had departed or long ago deserted their cause. But he had instinctively known that going to Mordor had been the right thing.

Now in the midst of a fierce battle, watching as the last remnent of the slavers swept down on the grove intent on doing damage to the women and children, the istar knew he must act quickly. He needed to take on the form of some everyday creature, making sure not to break the rules about the limitations placed on an istar's actions in a world properly dominated by man. One time, he admitted, he had stretched those limits a bit. He could not promise that he would never do that again, but now was not the time or place. Still, it would have to be a creature with enough clout and size to try and stem the bloodshed that was about to fall on the heads of dozens of innocent people who had little means of defending themselves.

With the poor eyesight typical of boars, Aiwendil could barely make out one hazy figure just ahead: a man mounted on horseback who had hurried towards a rock-filled enclosure shielded by a ring of bracken and tangled bushes. He could see a young woman standing near the entrance. She looked familiar, although he could no longer remember her name. Aiwendil's attention was totally fixed on the ruffian on horseback who darted into the enclosure and, without dismounting, tossed the standing woman to one side. Reaching out and down, he ran his sword through the two figures huddled together on the ground with a single swift motion. The man pulled back on the reins, jerked his mount around, and sprinted towards another group of retreating figures, this one composed of several young boys.

Covering the rocky turf with surprising speed for such a large and stiff gaited animal, the boar ruffled his bristles so that they stood straight up like hackles and let out a series of enraged grunts and snorts to warn the offending upstart that he should back off the territory. As sheer rage flooded in, foam slobbered out of the boar's open mouth, the rivulets running down his jowels and chest. Aiwendil lowered his shoulders and head and, coming close to the the attacker, slammed his head and tusks upward directly into the horse's legs and flanks a number of times, leaving a series of bloody trails and filthy slobber. The man reached down with his outstretched sword taking aim at the boar's shoulders, but the blow met a shield of thick cartilage and slid harmlessly off.

With a heavy thud, his horse toppled to the ground, sending the slaver sprawling over to the side. The boys who had been under attack immediately fled. Noise and confusion ran wild, as women and children pushed outward from the grove, struggling to find new shelter. Aiwendil could hear horrible shrieks coming from different parts of the grove. A stong whiff of blood confirmed his uneasy instinct that the two other slavers had also found victims and were dispatching them with speed. His own attention was more limited, like that of the beast whose body he had chosen. Ignoring the cries coming from other victims, the boar focused on the man who was scrambling up from the ground, taking off on foot in an easterly direction. Aiwendil raced off after him across the camp and then out into the plain....

[Folwren]

The wind storm had barely slackened at all as Kwell turned his feet back in the direction of the grove. The wind buffeted him as he pushed his way back. It was difficult to tell if he was traveling in the correct direction. Occasionally, however, the wind dropped and the sand was let down from the air long enough for him to spot the clump of rocks that marked the place. He quickened his pace and his hand grasped at the hilt of his dagger.

As he rushed forward, it seemed to his racing brain that he was traveling slowly. The minutes stretched themselves into unimaginable lengths of time. Precious seconds slipped by as he forced his feet to go faster than a walk.

When he finally reached the glade, his breath was short and he gasped for air. He drew the knife, his only weapon, when he saw ahead of him the struggling figures of the recently escaped slaves and the men who hunted them. He hurried on, his heart beating violently, and searched for someone to fight with.

Ahead of him he could see three men fighting. Two of them were ones that Kwell recognized, escaped men who the slaves that had recently run away met up with. The attacking one was a slaver. The slaver had a heavy staff in his left hand, and a sword in his right, and the two others were attacking with what makeshift weapons they had.

Kwell sprang forward, forgetting his short breath and tiring limbs. He approached the slaver from behind, but as he ran up, he realized that he could not do any good with the dagger from where he attacked. Instead, then, he sheathed the knife again and made the last few leaps forward and reached out his hand to catch the cudgel.

The slaver swung back his arm and Kwell took the chance to grasp it. One hand grabbed it long enough for his left hand to grasp it as well. He clung to it, nearly wrapping all of both his arms about it to keep it down. The man, confused and struggling for a moment with the sudden, extra weight, turned towards him. The two others took the given chance and dodged into his sword range. They tackled the man to the ground and Kwell was knocked to the side and off his feet.

He struggled up onto his knees, his hand reaching for his knife. He crawled over towards the struggling mass of the three men. He scrambled up halfway to his feet and then threw himself at the man’s head, bringing the knife towards his throat.

The slaver quit struggling abruptly. He was dead. The two men fighting him, stopped and backed up. They glanced at each other and Kwell, catching their breath briefly. Then, without a word, one jerked his head towards others fighting, and the three turned to find another man to take down.

[Durelin]

Khamir

“C’mon....let’s go find the rest of those scum.”

A smile passed between them, and Shae’s face became frozen in Khamir’s mind: her brown hair in disarray, blood smeared across her tan forehead, her eyes bright green…he had seen her a thousand times before, in a million different glances, but this time was different. She smiled. He finally realized he had seen her smile. More than once? He thought so… Through his eyes, there was a glow about her. There was a power in her eyes and in her voice, and a bravery he knew he would never understand. Khamir could not stand to remember how he had treated her at times in the past. Perhaps he would have seen what he saw now in her sooner if she had more reason to smile. Or more likely he should have looked.

Shae took off immediately, and Khamir followed after a moment, catching up to her as best as he could. He could feel pain coursing through his leg, though, and it crept up to his thigh, wrapping around his calf and enveloping his knee as it spread. Looking at Shae’s wrist, and listening to her breaths, which were as ragged as his, he wondered what good they would do back by the grove. They had been extremely lucky to bring two men down, and likely was only made possible by his catching them by surprise. Now he had a more serious wound, and it was clear that Shae, though he knew she would not give up nor stop fighting with ferocity, was definitely feeling the pain in her wrist.

But his concern for Shae was perhaps too much. He began to lag behind, though he did his best to keep up. The pain was maddening, and though he fought through it as best he could, as he had fought through so much pain before, he found himself feeling weaker than ever and watched the ground beneath his feet slow in its passing. Khamir had worse wounds before, but he had never been in a battle such as this, where he had not had more than a few moments respite. He had been on the move since the beginning, so many names and faces spinning round in his head – he wanted to help them all. Now he felt he could do little to help himself.

“Shae…” he said, and she slowed as she turned her head to look at him, “I’m sorry, but…I can’t…I can’t move as fast as you right now…” he spoke amongst his heavy breathing.

The woman stopped, and after a brief moment of surprise, she asked, “Do you need help?” She glanced at his leg.

“No,” Khamir responded quickly, as if a reflex. Shae shook her head, but did not move on. She looked at him, waiting.

“I just need you to move a little slower,” the one-armed man stated as quickly as he could. He would not call it help. “Neither of us will do any good on our own,” he added.

“Maybe, but I’d say you’d do worse,” she remarked. Khamir grunted in assent, and the two took off again at a slower pace.

As they neared the grove, it appeared to them that chaos was making the situation more dangerous. The number of slaver bodies they ran into made them feel bits of relief amongst their concern for those they loved and those they barely knew, but it seemed the destruction was not over.

“We should find Lindir,” Shae said. And though Khamir agreed that Lindir, who he had learned was an Elf – an immortal! – would be able to assess the situation (and he was fairly certain in his belief that this Elf would not have been killed by mere Men of the East), the Southron could not simply tell Shae that.

“Or Beloan,” he suggested stubbornly.