The Court of Ardor by AliceNWonder000137  

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Unnumbered Tears - Part 1

Well, if you know the Silmarillion, you knew this was coming.  We go back to the north to see Morelen and the riders prepare for the cataclysmic battle. 

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35)  Unnumbered Tears Part 1 - Year of the Sun 472 Lairë (Summer)

 

Morelen

 

The moment was electrifying.  The armies of the Noldor and their Edain and Dwarven allies were taking the field, glittering armor and spear tips rippling as they marched along the roads back to the wastes of Anfauglith, the ruined plains of what had once been green Ard Galen.  Colorful banners waved in the breeze and spirits were high as Fingon’s elite riders led the massive force.  Tintallo, the Captain of the Misë Company, along with Notaldo, the Captain of the Telepta and Lutano, Captain of the Morna, rode alongside of the High King, discussing strategy, morale and lines of supply.  Morelen and Líreno, now the lieutenants, led their respective squadrons, two columns of horse archers.

Four years ago, Maedhros, eldest son of Fëanor, proposed an all-encompassing league that came to be known as the Union of Maedhros.  When Beren and Lúthien took a Silmaril back from Morgoth, morale surged among the Noldor. Morelen thought back to the spectacle. “Morgoth is not unassailable!” Maedhros shouted to the gathered throngs of elves, men and dwarves, his auburn hair waving in the wind.  “We must go on the offense, else he destroy us, one by one,” he called to cheers.

High King Fingon was a close friend of the eldest son of Fëanor.  The High King had saved him from certain death as he hung by his wrist from an unbreakable chain after he was captured through the treachery of Morgoth. Riding atop the great eagle, Thorondor, Fingon severed Maedhros’ hand to free him.  Though he had claim to the High Kingship through his father, Maedhros renounced the title to Fingolfin.

On that fateful day, four years ago, Fingon stood in the crowd, cheering his cousin.  Morelen and Notaldo held hands, shouting their praise. There had been nothing but defeat for years after the Dagor Bragollach.  Bold strategy and the superiority of Noldorin arms wore the enemy down and many areas of Beleriand fell back to the elves.

Even as the offensives routed the orcs and the Union began to coalesce, there were many setbacks and defeats.  Sercë vanished in the years after the Bragollach.  Rumor had it that the demon vampire, Thuringwethil, had kidnapped her and her whole family.  What became of them was anyone’s guess.  Morelen searched for months, but the trail was cold, and duty called.  They were likely dead, but she never gave up hope. Then, Orodreth pulled Nargothrond out of the Union.  There was bad blood between he and the Sons of Fëanor after the death of his brother, Finrod Felagund.  Celegorm and Curufin attempted to seize power in Nargothrond and even tried to force a marriage between Celegorm and Lúthien.  The kingdom turned against them and drove the sons out.  So, only Gwindor and a company of elves sallied forth from the realm.  Though they loved the underground caverns, it was never quite the same for Morelen and Notaldo.  The rhythm of training, warfare and recovery had returned, but a sense of urgency reigned. There was even talk about children should the battle overthrow Morgoth.  Waiting seemed foolish.  They could understand the viewpoint and impatience of the humans.  The concepts of immortality and eternity now seemed quaint as the world erupted into war.

As the army marched to battle, Fingon’s company of riders moved to the rally point.  The Western Army swelled with troops and volunteers.  A company from Doriath joined on the march, led by Mablung and Beleg Cúthalion, great captains who served jealous Elu Thingol. After becoming High King, Fingon had gone from leading only his elite riders to commanding the entire army.  Morelen rose up in her stirrups to scan the entirety of the force.  Long columns of the Edain rode and marched alongside the elves.  “There,” she said to Notaldo and Líreno, “I see the banners of Húrin Thalion and Huor of the Edain of Dór Lomin.  And there, the banners of Haldir of Brethil.  Even the Sindar of Círdan over there.  I have never seen so many of us.  How can we lose?”

“Oh, we can still lose,” Líreno quipped, his characteristic half smile on his lips.  “Don’t take this for granted, Morelen.  You remember Glaurung and the balrogs, don’t you?”

A chill came over her body and she looked away as her stomach knotted.  “I can never forget it, Líreno.”  For years after the Bragollach, her heart had been in a vice of pain and regret.  The deaths of Angrod and Aegnor, Hurinon, Fingolfin and Rochallor still weighed heavily on her and images of their final moments would intrude into her thoughts.

Notaldo waved his hand, taking the mantle of captain again.  “Let her be, Líreno.  We all remember that.  Let’s focus on the battle ahead.”

Morelen felt some relief, but there was still a cold pit in her stomach.  Others were always coming to her rescue.  “You’re still young,” her father would say.  “Your confidence will come in time.”  But how much time would that be?  She was well over Four-Hundred years old, many of the lifespans of the Edain. She and Laurre Menelrana were nearly the same age, but news from the south told her that he was far more mature and already a great leader in his own right.  She thought she was more like Lyrin, insecure and doubtful, but he seemed to have more of an entitled edge.

The sun was on its downward arc with heat waves shimmering in the distance ahead.  It looked like a vast ocean of water even though they knew it to be what remained of the plains.  The great mountain range of Ered Wethrin was to the west along with Barad Eithel and the jagged peaks of the Crissaegrim lay south along with Dorthonion.  Notaldo pointed out towards the mirage.  “I’m always reminded of looking out from the shores of Valinor to the Belegaer, the Sundering Sea.  The roar of the waves…the call of the gulls,” he said with a smile and then looked down.  “I miss that. I miss the sense of peace.”  He looked back at his friends.  “Perhaps one day again,” he added with a profound sense of sadness.

“What was it like?” Morelen asked them.  She had seen the visions from the music and song of the elves; the Gardens of Lórien, the magnificent city of Tirion, the shores of Elendë, the massive valley of Calacirya.  It was magical, eternal, graceful, but these were just visions, the edges blurry and distant.  Nothing could compare to being there.

Notaldo inhaled deeply. “It was…it was,” he began and then paused, his shoulders tensing under his armor.

Líreno sighed.  “We miss it dearly, lass.  Imagine the glory, the peace, the excitement, the passion…for all eternity.  Your heart is always full.  Your mind is always alive.  And then…and then came the darkness.  Morgoth was released, supposedly reformed.  He taught us things that no one had thought of.  He came to us with honeyed words of friendship.  And we, the Noldor, always curious, fell for it.  But to me, the Valar failed us.  Why didn’t Manwë-”

“Enough, lieutenant,” Notaldo chastised.  “We will not speak ill of the Valar.  Not in public.”

“But why didn’t he-”

“I said, enough.”  His eyes, fixed and stern, said that the matter was closed.

Líreno huffed.  “As you wish, captain.”  He shot Morelen a look that said that they would discuss it later.

Morelen simply nodded. Even after the death of Hurinon, conflict between them was rare.  The three were as tight as friends could be.  She sensed a deep sadness with Notaldo, some unresolved pain.  She had read the books, heard the tales and knew the history, but they were just words to her.  Fëanor drawing his sword on Fingolfin and being banished.  The death of Finwë and the Two Trees.  The theft of the Silmarils.  The terrible Oath of Fëanor.  The Kinslaying at Alqualondë.  The Host of Fingolfin crossing the Grinding Ice.  The Doom of Mandos.

Notaldo seemed to sense her thoughts.  “We can never return, you see.  We are forever banished from the Blessed Realm for our crimes.”  Líreno snorted his disapproval but said nothing.

A horn sounded, gathering the attention of the company.  Nandamo, Fingon’s herald, called out, “By order of the High King, we will camp here for the night.”  It was a defensible position with a river on one flank and a clear field of view all around. The company dismounted as riders set up hitching posts and rails for saddles.  Others scrambled around to set up tents and spikes.  Braziers were laid out and fires were lit.  It was the sounds and smells of dozens of campaigns.

Morelen undid the girth straps and pulled her saddle off of Lindarion and set it on the rail.  Next came the saddle pad and the bridle.  Unlike bridles used by humans, elven ones had no bit as their horses had deep emotional connections where they understood their rider’s wishes.  Some riders used no saddle or bridle at all, but she liked the stability it gave her to fire her bow.  She pulled an apple from her pack and fed it to Lindarion, who chomped happily.  She and Líreno then assisted other riders and directed the assembly of their squadrons.  “I want scouts out ahead of the camp and make sure the posts are far enough back from the river.  If it rains, we don’t want to get swamped,” she commanded, and a group of riders continued ahead while others grabbed posts and mallets.

Líreno pointed to another group.  “Latrine facilities over there!  Be quick about it, lads!”

Elven infantry deployed ahead of them as pickets to warn of any attack as the armies of the Edain camped at the flanks.  No orc attack could possibly succeed.  Even a dragon would have difficulty.  Líreno moved in behind Morelen and tilted his head.  “I think you need to know this,” he said, looking around for anyone, a conspiratorial expression on his face.  She nodded.  “Who am I to speak,” he continued, “but why did the Valar even release Morgoth?  He was known for his lies and manipulation. Why couldn’t Manwë see through that?”

She pursed her lips, uncomfortable.  The Valar were sacrosanct, all knowing, all seeing.  They commanded the skies, the sea, the winds and the stars.  But what Líreno said made sense.  Could all of this have been prevented?  “They were brothers though, right?  Manwë and Melkor?  If they were family…,” she said, trying to justify the action.  

He shrugged.  “I don’t know.  I honestly don’t know.  Let’s just say that I don’t have the same faith in them as Notaldo does.”

Morelen nodded.  “I…I will think upon your words.”  She paused for a moment and then pointed to the tents being set up.  “Come, we best help with the preparations.  Notaldo will want a report soon for the High King.”  They immediately rushed to help erect the poles to one of the tents that would quarter the riders.  Morelen would work her hands raw to show that she deserved to be here…to lead them.

“Did you ever find out what happened to Sercë?” Líreno asked as he picked up a mallet and planted a tent stake.  “I know you searched for a long time.”

She shook her head as she strung the canvas sides to the tent poles.  “No.  The trail grew cold at Tol Sirion…I guess it’s called Tol-in-Gaurhoth now, the Isle of Werewolves.  I snuck in, had to slay a couple of werewolves and found evidence of her and her family being held there.  But they were gone, and I found no other clues.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice deep with regret.  “I should have helped you, really, I should have.”

“It’s in the past now. At least Thuringwethil is dead,” she said, forcing a smile as she placed the last panel on a tent.  “Let us focus on the coming battle.  Hopefully, it will be the last one.”  Together, they pulled the roof of the tent over the top and secured the straps.

The High King’s herald walked up to them.  He was already in his blue and silver robes, his black hair slicked back.  He had been a steady hand for the Noldor for ages, having served Fingolfin before and Fëanor before him.  “Fingon wishes a conference with his battle leaders.  We will assemble in his tent in two hours,” he said in a clear voice full of authority.

He turned to go, but Morelen spoke.  “Nandamo, do you know what we are facing?”

He made a curt, professional head nod.  “The High King shall reveal his battle plan at the conference,” he announced without expression.  Morelen opened her mouth to speak, but he turned and departed without another word. She didn’t know if this was a good thing or a bad thing and the lack of information was eating at her.  She looked back at the camp, riders rushing about, delivering messages, troops finishing the tents and defensive positions, cooks preparing the meals and knew that she missed Sercë, the only other woman in the company.  The void of her kidnapping was mixed with regret and some pride in that they had both earned their place as riders.  Sercë was a born leader, confident and intelligent.  Morelen was gifted; fast, strong and smart with nearly endless stamina.  She excelled in everything that she put her mind to.  But how would that fare against a balrog…a dragon, or any other horror that Morgoth could dream up.

The camp was complete and there was time to bathe and clean equipment.  The river was already full of soldiers splashing and laughing.  The air was full of excitement.  Some sat on the riverbanks, talking about what they’d do after the war.  Others played games in the river.  Morelen felt the urge to polish her armor and sharpen her sword, but that could come later. After centuries in the company of men, she removed her armor and clothing without a thought and dove into the river.  The cold water of the Sirion was refreshing and, when her head broke above the water she took a deep breath.  She swam back to the banks just as Líreno dove in with Notaldo right behind him. She stood as Notaldo tossed her a bar of soap and she started scrubbing her arms.

Líreno winked at her. “You needed that,” he quipped as he pinched his nose.  She kicked water at him and then noticed the Edain in the river staring at her.

Notaldo stood in front of her.  “Pay them no mind.  They are not used to seeing things like this,” he said.  “Come, let us finish and prepare for the conference.”  Morelen finished scrubbing and then sat in the water to rinse off.  As she strode out of the river, she glanced back at the Edain and smiled.  They were broad and hairy compared to the elves. And their…beards were still something that she was not used to.  The three picked up their armor and weapons and walked back to their tent.  Their quarters were simple with five cots and some basic amenities.  Two of the cots remained empty, one for Hurinon and one for Sercë.  The tent canvas was beige and trimmed in blue and silver with a placard of their rank along with a banner of Fingon’s house.  They donned sky blue and silver robes of the finest silk with deep blue sashes, formal clothing for the conference.

Morelen brushed her raven black hair out in front of a golden-framed mirror.  Notaldo’s arms circled her waist.  “You are truly stunning,” he said.  “The beauty of a Vala, if I might be so blasphemous.”

Líreno made a wry chuckle. “Oh, now you’re blasphemous to the Valar, huh?  You’re really complex, Notaldo.”

Notaldo nodded reluctantly. “My friend, I can’t disagree with what you wanted to say earlier, but I just didn’t think that Morelen or the others needed to hear it.”  He turned to her.  “For thousands of years, before the sun and the moon, our hope was in the Valar.  Their teaching and wisdom were like water to a thirsty man.  But we are on our own now and we don’t see any other way.  Revere the Valar, respect them, but know that they are not our salvation and that they are…fallible.”

Morelen thought for a moment, putting her finger to her lips.  “No, I need to hear this.  To me, the Valar and the Maiar are just paintings, songs, stories…characters in a book. We revere them as we worship Eru, the One.  But I have no concept of who they really are.  Do they marry?  Can they have children?  How are they different from us?”

“Yes, they marry. They are male and female as we are,” Notaldo said.  “Children? I believe so.  They are both of the spirit and of the flesh.  They feel as we feel; love, hate, joy, anger, jealousy and sadness.”

“I cannot imagine what horror Morgoth could spawn with his seed,” Morelen replied, her face wrinkled in disgust.  “Such a demon should be put down without question.”

Líreno shrugged and pursed his lips.  “I have to wonder.  Yes, the…things spawned in the depths of Angband are horrors, dragons, balrogs, werewolves and vampires, but what if…what if say there were some offspring of Morgoth who was raised with us.  Would this individual be inherently evil?  Would they be shaped by their environment, a product of how they were raised? I don’t have the answer to that, but I think it’s food for thought,” he said, taking a bite from a from a snack that the cooks had provided, roast chicken meat, thinly cut between slices of bread with a garnish of sauce and vegetables.  “What is this thing by the way?  It’s pretty tasty.”

Notaldo took one from the silver tray.  “It’s a human thing.  They call it a sandwich.”

Líreno pulled his face back, impressed.  “You know, I’m finding that I like human food, especially their chicken dishes.”

Morelen shrugged. “Yes, that I like, but the human concepts of time and…that money thing I find difficult.  I liked the elven ideas of economy where everyone shares, and no one goes without.  And the move to make the Sindarin calendar our way of keeping time?  Why the change?  Everything was working well.”  There was a hint of Noldorin superiority in her voice.

Notaldo handed them glasses of wine and sat down.  “Change is inevitable, my dear.  For the millennia that we lived in Valinor, we thought that things last forever. They don’t.  It has only been a few hundred years since we departed, and nothing is recognizable from who we were.  The humans are short lived.  They want a calendar that is…tighter, has more ways to separate shorter periods of time. One of the Valinorean Calendar’s years is One-Hundred and Forty-Four of their years.  So, essentially, they don’t even live to be one.  It will be strange, but we will adjust.  Take, for instance, Lairë or summer for the Noldor.  Our ‘month’ encompasses their Nórui, Cerveth and part of Urui.  To us, it’s the blink of an eye.  To them, it’s a fair portion of their lives,” he said and then took a bite.  He chewed, swallowed and continued, “And money…I found it strange at first, but both the men and dwarves use it, and they are our close allies.”  He took a long drink and then refilled his glass.  “Besides, I kind of like the clink of coins.”

Morelen sighed.  “I suppose you’re right.  It will take me a while to get used to it.”  The dominance of the Noldor had always been and always would be, but things were changing, and she felt an unease at the new balance of power.  She pursed her lips and twirled the end of her hair.

At that, Nandamo poked his head into the tent.  “The war conference is ready.  The High King awaits you,” he said in that deep, sonorous voice that brought him to the position.

Notaldo stood with the others.  “We’ll follow you.”  They walked with him to the next row of tents, gathering more of the captains. Tintallo fell in with them along with Lutano, the captain of the Morna.  They nodded greetings.

“Maybe we can finally put this thing to rest, eh?” Tintallo said in his usual confident manner.  “What do you think, Lutano?”

The other elf, a broad-shouldered man with dark brown hair, nodded.  “Exactly.  I think as you do.”  Tintallo had always been the center of attention in the company, and he liked having followers.  He was very popular with the ladies of Barad Eithel and Nargothrond and loved to indulge, but no one could question his leadership.  His courage and quick thinking turned many a battle.

Tintallo drew his dagger and made a stabbing motion into the air.  “Straight into Morgoth’s gullet.  I say, we are dining in the halls of Angband in a fortnight.”

Líreno gently elbowed Morelen in the ribs and gave her a doubtful look, one eyebrow raised.  “I’m not a pessimist, but a realist,” he whispered. “But I would be happy knowing that Morgoth won’t be dining in Nargothrond in a fortnight.”

Nandamo held the tent flap open into the High King’s quarters.  Many of the captains of the army were already assembled in the huge structure.  Maps and diagrams were pinned to the walls and on the central oak table.  The cavalry officers pushed forward and Morelen could see maps of Anfauglith with various figures and numbers drawn on them, many of them estimates of Morgoth’s strength.  Nandamo raised his staff.  “The High King will join us shortly.”

Morelen stood beside a stocky man with rippling muscles under his robes.  His hair and beard were light brown to dirty blond and neatly trimmed. His sigil on his chest was that of the House of Dor-Lómin.  This had to be Húrin Thalion, the steadfast.  After his father, Galdor, was slain on the steps of Barad Eithel, Húrin rallied the Edain and drove the orcs back with his double-bladed axe.  A legendary feat.  Beside him was his younger brother, Huor, taller and leaner.

Morelen bowed to them. She was curious about the Edain.  She had met their father and grandfather during the Bragollach.  “Greetings, lords of Dor-Lómin, I am Morelen, daughter of Fëatur, rider of Fingon.”

They bowed in return. “I am Húrin and this is my brother, Huor.  We…saw you at the river.  We are honored to meet you.”

She pointed to the other Telepta officers.  “That is Notaldo, my captain and my husband and that is Líreno, the other lieutenant. I…uhhh…met your grandfather, father and uncle during the Dagor Bragollach.  They were courageous and I am sorry for their loss.”

“Thank you for your kind words, Morelen.  At first, you seemed too young to have met them, but I remember that you are immortal,” Húrin added.  “Our lives must seem brief to you.  I already have two children, Túrin and Nienor and Huor will have a son, Tuor.”

“We have none yet, but when this war is won, I believe that we will.  Your children must be a blessing.”

“They are.  Alas, we lost one, Lalaith, when she was young. It was the plague.”

Morelen’s gasped.  “I am so sorry.  I cannot imagine what it is to lose a child,” she said and then cocked her head, narrowing her eyes.  “The plague? I am not familiar with that.”

“A disease…a sickness. I forget myself.  Elves are not afflicted by illnesses of the body.”  He looked down for a moment as if in thought and then looked back at her with a broad smile.  “That is in the past.  I am pleased that my brother will have a strong son, and I wish you many happy children, Morelen.  You are lovely like my wife, Morwen.  Notaldo is a lucky man.”

She was about to say something when Nandamo pounded his staff on the ground.  “Hail to the High King!”

The room went quiet, and everyone stood straight as Fingon entered.  “Thank you for your patience,” he said and pushed his hands downward. “Please, be at ease.  I was surveying the battle lines and we are secure. We will link up with the forces of Maedhros tomorrow along with their allies, the Easterlings under Bór and Ulfang and the Dwarves of Belegost under Azaghȃl.  We have a formidable army though I wish Orodreth of Nargothrond would have remained in the league.  Such is the…drama of some of the Sons of Fëanor,” he said, and angry sighs of agreement were heard around the room.  “We will march tomorrow and prepare fortifications.  Our strategy is to entice Morgoth to attack first.  We are stronger on the defense.  Within our fortifications we will have the means to contain dragon fire, and we can channel the balrogs into pits where they can be killed.  With them defeated, the orcs will be no problem.  We then counterattack, and together, we force him into a pincer between the armies.”

There were murmurs of approval and spirits were high.  Fingon scanned the room.  “What are your questions.  I welcome your insights.”  No one spoke up.  “Very well. Should you have any, my tent is open.” The crowd began to disperse and Notaldo turned back to the Edain.

“I hear rumor that you have been to the hidden city of Gondolin,” he said respectfully, his voice full of curiosity.

The brothers grinned and looked at each other.  “We have,” Húrin said with a nod.  “It was a long time ago.  I was Seventeen and Huor was just Fourteen but for we Edain, we can fight at that age. Our company of scouts was ambushed by orcs, and we were separated and pursued.  Then, a miracle happened…the Vala Ulmo wove a mist along the river to hide us, and we were rescued by Thorondor, King of the Great Eagles.  It is something that I will never forget,” he said as the elves around him gasped.  All eyes were upon him and his brother.

“We were flown over the mountains to the hidden city, called Ondolindë in your tongue,” Huor said, his face in an expression of wonder.  “The city itself is built on the hill of Amon Gwared, white walls over the green hill and plains.”

Morelen’s eyes opened wide with amazement.  “Tell us more.  Please. I have long dreamed of seeing Gondolin.”

Huor’s wide grin returned, and he raised his hands to help him describe it.  “Now the wide streets of Gondolin are paved with stone and curbed with marble, and fair houses and courts amid gardens of bright flowers that were set about the ways.  And many towers of great slenderness and beauty built of white marble and carved most marvelously that rise to the heavens,” he said to murmurs of approval.

Húrin continued, “Squares there were, lit with fountains and the home of birds that sang amid the branches of their aged trees.  But of all these the greatest was that place where stood the King’s palace, and the tower thereof was the loftiest in the city, and the fountains that played before the doors shot twenty fathoms and seven into the air and fell in a singing rain of crystal.  Therein did the sun glitter splendidly by day, and the moon most magically shimmered by night.  The birds that dwelt there were of the whiteness of snow and their voices sweeter than a lullaby of music.”      

Morelen caught herself with her mouth hanging open.  She could see the fair city in her mind and hear the birds.  Could it compare with Nargothrond?  She would have to see it to know.  “Lord Turgon rules the city, does he not?”

High King Fingon approached, and they all bowed.  “Did I hear my brother’s name?”

“Indeed, High King,” Huor said with reverence.  “Lord Turgon greeted us with open arms, having received a message from Ulmo about our coming.  Our house has faithfully served the Noldor, and we were treated as one of them.  We remained for a year, learning under Lord Turgon.”

Fingon’s face was full of anticipation.  “How is my brother and our sister, Aredhel?  And what of his daughter, Idril?  Long have I awaited news of them.”

“Lord Turgon is well, but I am sorry to say that your sister has passed,” Húrin said sadly as Fingon gasped.  “She was slain by a dark elf, Eöl, who was cast from the walls of Gondolin for the King’s justice.  His daughter, Idril Celebrindal, as she is called, is a joy in the city.  As wise as her father and as beautiful as a sunrise.”

A darkness came over the High King for a moment, but then it passed.  He nodded slowly.  “Aredhel was always restless,” he said with an edge of pain and regret.  “I hope she finds the peace she needs in the Halls of Mandos.  Still, I am glad of the news of my brother and niece.  I thank you for your words.  The House of Hador is critical to the war against darkness and your people hold a place of high esteem in our kingdoms.  Please, enjoy the hospitality of the Noldor.”

The group bowed again. “Thank you, High King,” they said in unison.  Notaldo, Líreno and Morelen then bowed to the Edain, thanking them and wishing them success in the coming battle.

Walking into the evening sky, the three retired to their tent, walking past groups of elves and men talking and drinking.  The air was alive with discussions of what would come after Morgoth’s defeat. Smiles were on lips, and music rose from the camp.  Other groups were somber, some praying to the Valar, faces nervous or even afraid. Come what may, the battle would be fierce, and many would not return home.  Notaldo led them to a group that seemed anxious, staring at their meal and silent.

“Greetings,” he said and then gestured to a log near the campfire.  “May we sit with you?”

One of the elves nodded and they sat.  A human pointed to the pot over the fire where a pungent stew was simmering.  “Please help yourselves.”  They grabbed tin bowls and filled them, taking bites of meat, potatoes and carrots.

Notaldo glanced around, seeing the long faces.  “I share your fear…your anxiety.  This will be a hard battle.  We will all be at risk.  The horrors that Morgoth has at his command are deadly.  Their hate for us is beyond imagining.”

Another elf looked at him quizzically.  “You three seem fearless.  I saw you during the Bragollach.  I…I had no idea.”

Morelen nodded, looking around at the group.  “I came face to face with Glaurung.  I fought during the invasion of Hithlum.  Nearly every battle I was terrified.  Glaurung was the worst.  My captain was killed, and I fled like a deer.  I am not a brave person…but I am dutiful.”

The first elf extended his hand.  “Celumeno,” he said in introduction as the three shook his hand.  “Olordo,” he added for the other elf.  “And Girion,” he said for the man.  “We all have families and, to be honest, we’re terrified as well.  Will we see our families again?  We keep playing this in our heads, over and over.”

Notaldo took a long drink of this beverage the humans called beer.  It was similar to the dwarven ales, dark and frothy.  “I cannot guarantee that we will all make it home. All I know is that we must fight hard. We must secure a long and lasting peace for our people and Morgoth will not stop until we are all destroyed or enslaved.  We must all do our part for this.”

Morelen was proud of who her husband had become.  Both he and Líreno had grown from immature Coron Mittarion players to true leaders, though she did love the immature sportsmen.  Love?  Was this what love was?  A feeling of deep respect and devotion to someone above all others?  She knew that she was prone to overthinking things.  She drank a mug of beer, which was actually decent though she much preferred the wines that came from Dorthonion.  Come what may, she would make her father proud and report to him about their great victory in the north.  Maybe then she could go south and help him defeat the Court of Ardor.

Girion nodded and put on his best forced smile.  “I see the wisdom of your words, sir,” he said to Notaldo.  “But my heart is still full of fear.  Regardless, I will fight bravely under the banner of Húrin.”

The three stood up and bowed.  “We look forward to drinking with you again after,” Notaldo said.  He raised his mug and downed the last of the beer.  “To our victory, our safety and to our families who wait for us.”

Olordo raised his mug. “Thank you, Captain Notaldo, Lieutenants Líreno and Morelen.  We appreciate your company.”

 

Girion chuckled.  “Quenya names are such tongue twisters.  Sindarin names are so much easier to pronounce,” he said with a humorous edge.  “Anyway, sleep well and stay safe.”  They seemed to be in better spirits and Morelen understood how important morale was.  You could not be a great leader and remain aloof.

Morelen was about to say something about the slight to Quenya, but Notaldo pulled her away.  Quenya was the language that she was raised with, and it was the speech of the Valar.  Things were changing…perhaps too fast for her.  “We all have to endure change, love,” he said to her.  “And besides, Quenya is difficult for non-native speakers,” he said with a humorous edge and a wink.

They reached their tent as the stars shone bright overhead.  Morelen looked up and admired their beauty.  She couldn’t quite remember the names of the constellations. They weren’t as important to her as her horse and bow.  She thought of how her father lectured her on the designs of the Court of Ardor.  They wanted a sky with only the stars.  Their fanatical leader, Ardana, wanted to destroy the sun and moon, so devoted was she to the restoration of the heavens as they were with the Two Trees.  Ardana had been a loyal follower of Varda.  What happened?  What caused her to devolve onto a path of such evil?  How would it even be possible to destroy the sun and moon?

Her thoughts were interrupted by Notaldo wrapping his arms around her waist and she cooed with satisfaction, leaning her head back into the crook of his neck.  He looked up into the sky with her.  “One day, we’ll be able to lay back and just watch the stars.” She murmured approval.  “I can just imagine our family at home in Nargothrond in a world of peace.”

Líreno cleared his throat. “I like that image.  I’ll be over there, writing to my family.  My wife is not a warrior like you, so she is back home at Barad Eithel.”

Morelen smiled.  “Say hello to Telirien for us.  And to your daughter, Idhrendiel.”  Then she chuckled.  “And you say Quenya names are difficult.  Sindarin can be a mouthful too.”

“Hah!  You’ll learn, Morelen.  The world is changing, and we need to change with it,” he said with a wave and then walked back towards the camp.

Notaldo eased her into the tent and undid the ties to her robes.  “I first thought we should wait to start a family, but there is no time like the present.”

She leaned up to kiss him. The world was changing, and she realized that she needed to keep up.  It was a very unelven thing to say, but there was no time like the present.

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Chapter End Notes

I want to look at the preparations for the battle, take a glimpse into the Edain and the dynamics of leadership.