The Fall of Numenor

[Rosie Gamgee]

Amariel gasped and reached a hand out toward her brother, though he was too far away for her to touch him. Whipping her head around toward the sound of the voices- although the armored men (seven of them, she counted, all wearing black livery) were all round them- she tightened her arm around the two little gi.rls in her charge. Their small hands gripped her arm. The fear they felt was tangible as their breathing came quicker and louder.

“What is the meaning of this, soldier?” Demaethor asked the man who had cried out and drawn his sword. Amariel noted he had not drawn his. Her heart beat a little quicker.

“Demaethor, you are under arrest for treason!” the soldier shouted, indifferent to the captain’s tone. He made a signal, and the other soldiers began to advance upon Demaethor.

The captain held up his hand with authority. “Stay where you are, if you value your lives,” he commanded. “You will not assail a captain!”

“You are forthwith stripped of your rank!” the first soldier returned, although the others had indeed halted on Demaethor’s command. “You are a disgrace to your King, your army and your race.”

Demaethor did not flinch or blink, but Amariel could see the words stung him. But he remained where he was, daring any of them to attack him. His eyes seemed to bore into the soldier. “Is this how faithful service is to be rewarded?” he asked scornfully, and Amariel blinked in surprise. Demaethor turned a bit to gesture toward her and the children. “I have brought my King and your master the prizes they have sought these past days: the children of traitors; and now I am to be counted among them?” Amariel’s heart stopped and a clipped cry escaped her lips. Anardil had turned toward her, and his eyes cut into her soul. They were betrayed.

Demaethor did not heed her cry. “What say you?” he demanded harshly of the soldier, but Amariel did not hear the words. Her mind sought a way of escape, but all their routes were cut off. A fire entered her soul, rage and shame, thinking of how she had trusted the treacherous man, how she had cried on his shoulder, how she had even thought she could have lo.ved him.

“Wretch!” she shouted, and the soldiers started at her enraged tone. Demaethor turned to her, his face a mask.

“Silence!” the soldier before Demaethor shouted. His eyes turned back to Demaethor, and there was doubt now in his voice. “We are ordered to deliver you to Lord Sauron. The charge is one of high treason. Our source told us you had joined the Faithful.”

Demaethor laughed. “You mean Galdureth?” he asked. Amariel’s head shot up. He had known Galdureth was false. Bitter tears stung her eyes. He continued, “Galdureth was a fool. And as for the charge of treason, here is proof of my allegiance.” He nodded toward them again. “These are children of Sauron’s enemies, the Faithful. Their parents have been exterminated- now their offspring will not plague us any longer. If you wish to thwart me, you may take it up with Lord Sauron.” The soldier’s sword lowered and he moved toward Amariel and the children, inspecting them. Demaethor’s frown upon the man deepened. “Well?”

Amariel’s anger seethed against Demaethor. “Thou cursed betrayer!” she shouted, her voice shaking and shrill with rage. “May thy forked tongue be damned; may thy black heart fail thee in a dark hour!”

The soldier before her laughed, and glanced at Demaethor. “Oh, she’s a feisty one,” he said, and his eyes bent on her. “Comely, too.” Amariel recoiled as the man’s eyes wandered over her shape, studying her in a way all too familiar to her. The soldier glanced again at Demaethor. “Tell me; must she be delivered to Sauron immediately?” Amariel’s heart faltered and she felt sick. She looked back at the man she had trusted, but he scorned her gaze.

“Put that sword away, soldier,” Demaethor said, “And I may let you keep her.”

The soldier turned back toward Demaethor, making no move to sheath his blade. “You may let me keep her? My orders stand, Demaethor. You will be brought to Sauron, and I shall keep her regardless.” He took another step toward Demaethor and never got the chance to regret it.

Demaethor’s arm shot up and a little dagger buried itself in the soldier’s throat. He fell to the ground, gagging, blood flowing freely from his wound as the dagger was withdrawn. The other soldiers drew their swords and advanced upon Demaethor. He turned about quickly, his own sword ringing as he drew it. The first soldier to reach him did not last long. Their blades met twice. Demaethor’s gloved fist struck the other man across the chin and he fell back. Demaethor finished the deed just as another soldier leapt upon him from behind. The captain swung about forcefully and the other man stumbled away. Another came to his aid, though, and Demaethor stooped quickly to pluck up the fallen soldier’s sword. Wielding both, he slew the pair quickly. By this time two more were on him. They had seen the mistakes of their comrades and stayed outside the reach of Demaethor’s arm, clashing blades until they saw an advantage.

Amariel remembered the one remaining soldier and wondered, too late, where he was. A gloved hand seized her wrist and dragged her down from the horse. The two little gi.rls screamed. Amariel landed on the ground hard, but the soldier dragged her to her feet. She screamed and fought him as he tried to haul her away. He ignored her and grabbed her other wrist. She brought her hand up and bit hard between his glove and gauntlet. The soldier shouted and let go of Amariel’s wrist, but only to bring his hand up and deliver a solid blow to her cheekbone. A bright white light popped inside her head and her face burned. She fell near-senseless while he seized her about the waist with one hand and grasped her by the hair with the other. The pain brought her back to consciousness somewhat.

“Stay away from her!” a little voice shouted. Anardil’s face came into Amariel’s hazy vision. He had a sword obviously to heavy for him in his hands and he whacked the soldier with it, only managing to dint his shin-guard.

“Anardil!” Amariel screamed as the soldier’s boot lashed out and kicked the boy savagely. He fell back with a pitiful cry. Amariel shouted and brought her fists up to pound futilely upon the man’s shoulder.

[Rosie Gamgee]

Suddenly the hilt of a sword came out of nowhere, striking the soldier’s face, smashing the nose-piece of his helmet down into his skull with a sickening sound. Blood spurted everywhere. The soldier fell and his grip took Amariel down with him. A pair of strong arms caught her before she hit the ground. Demaethor pulled her away, back toward the horses. “Anardil!” he called to the lad, who had righted himself and was staring at the bloody bodies of the dead men. “Make haste!”

Amariel noticed, as Demaethor set her on her horse, that several townsfolk- her former neighbors- had come out of their homes and were watching the proceedings with interest. Demaethor swung up into his own saddle and pulled Anardil up after him. “Let us go!” he cried, grabbing the reigns and turning his horse about. Too hurried to think about it, Amariel followed him as he dug his heels into his horses side and took off down the close street.

They clattered through the streets with all haste until they reached the outskirts of the city, where Demaethor checked his steed a moment to make sure Amariel had caught up. She came up beside him, and her thoughts were a tangle as she looked on his face. Demaethor’s hand came up to touch her cheek, just briefly. “It was a lie, Amariel,” he said breathlessly. He opened his mouth, as if to say more, but then shut it and looked away.

Amariel had pulled back at his touch, but now she saw his apologetic look. A wave of relief washed over her as she realized he was not about to betray them. “Whither now, lord?” she asked. “Lead, and I follow.”

Demaethor’s eyes smiled back at her. He looked out on the horizon. “To Romenna!” he said, and with that they sped away.

[Valandil]

ooc: Nice posts Rosie - and thank you! Somehow I didn't even notice those from the 16th until just now - I usually check in here when I log on, so I'm surpised I missed them. Nice work though!

I guess they didn't manage to sneak out of town quietly, huh?

[Rosie Gamgee]

ooc: Lol, thanks, Val. I told you I wanted to write some action!

[Rosie Gamgee]

They stopped a little ere the sun had reached its full height to rest the horses. They chose a spot overgrown with brush and weeds so as to stay out of sight. A little, choked beck provided enough water for the horses and their riders, and Amariel divided the last crumbly bits of some waybread of Demaethor's between the children. After they ate, Amariel put the children in the shade of a spreading tree and sat by while they napped. Demaethor sat further off, cleaning his sword.

Amariel watched his fingers slide the ragged cloth up and down the blade. The blood was dried now. He should have cleaned the blade before they rode away. Amariel glanced at her hand. Flecks of dried blood were there also, and they gave her a sickening feeling as she thought of Demaethor's sword smashing into that man's skull. She brought a hand up to her face, wincing as she touched her swollen cheek. No doubt a purple blotch had formed there where the soldier had struck her. Glancing back at Demaethor a spark of guilt touched her heart.

She rose from the ground noislessly after glancing at the sleeping children and stepped quietly to the general. He saw her approach and squinted up at her. 'My lord,' she said, quietly, 'I beg your pardon for my doubting you- back there, in Armenelos. You have been true and worthy, and I thought you false. These... these past days have been the most painful of my life- But that is not an excuse, merely an explanation. I am sorry.'

Demaethor shook his head. 'The fault is not yours, Amariel.' He might have said more, but at the moment Anardil stirred in his sleep and called out. Amariel went to him, and he woke sobbing of dead soldiers with bloody faces. She quieted him, and the little gi.rls did not wake.

'Amariel, where is Forthon? and Magwiel?' Anardil suddenly asked. His face was buried on Amariel's shoulder and his arms were around her neck. He pulled back a little to study her face when she hesitated. 'They are gone, aren't they?'

She nodded, biting her lip and feeling her eyes warm. 'Yes, Anardil. They are gone. We won't see them again.'

'So it is just you and me now?' he asked. His eyes searched hers and her own emptiness at the statement was reflected back to her.

She nodded, trying to smile. 'Just you and me,' she repeated hoarsely.

'And Demaethor and the gir.ls?' he prompted.

'And they, also.' Demaethor's voice was quite close to Amariel, and she started. She looked up to find him saddling the horses nearby. He was turned from her, and she wondered for a moment if he had said anything at all. But he turned and offered a small smile, and she looked away, not knowing what to think of it. Anardil seemed to mark the little exchange and smiled contendedly. Demaethor turned to Amariel once more. 'You should wake the gir.ls. We must keep going if we are to reach Romenna by nightfall.'

[Rosie Gamgee]

The late afternoon’s warmth floated lazily about, drifting on the wings of a breeze whose coolness foreboded the night to come. Amariel blinked drowsily even as her horse loped onward. They had been traversing an expanse of wide wold for some time now, and still it stretched ahead to the horizon. The rhythmic hoof-beats beneath Amariel were muted in the deep grass that slipped past her ankles. Together with the synchronized breathing of Silaewen and Olaewen, it was slowly putting her to sleep. The wind passing Amariel’s ears gusted stronger once or twice and blew her hair across her face. She blinked again, wondering if she had really been asleep, or only imagined waking. Save for the breeze and the gentle sound of the horses’ hooves, there was hardly a sound. No conversation passed between Amariel and her charges. She thought once or twice some time ago that she had heard Anardil’s little voice—and Demaethor’s solemn tones in return—up ahead of her. Amariel wondered what they spoke of.

One of the g irls stirred, and turned slightly to look up at Amariel. “Are we there yet?”
she asked. Amariel smiled. Pity wrung her heart at the sight of these motherless, fatherless children. The fact that she and Anardil were also so bereft did not move her to pity herself, but rather made her feel all the more protective of the two little ones.

She recalled the question and replied, “No. I am sorry. Try to endure a little longer.”

Silaewen made a face that might have made Amariel laugh once. She turned back and said something to her sister, but Amariel was not paying much attention anymore. Her heart had suddenly, inexplicably skipped a beat. She looked about quickly, but nothing seemed amiss. No beat of hooves or shout of hound in pursuit reached her ears. Still, she urged the horse up beside Demaethor’s.

The former captain looked deep in thought, pondering something. He looked up, almost startled, when she came near. Then he smiled. “Are you keeping up well?” he asked, his voice only loud enough to be heard over the gentle lope of the horses.

Amariel opened her mouth but a littler voice spoke first. “I have to go,” Olaewen said.

Demaethor looked mystified for a fraction of a second and then glanced up at Amariel with a look of realization on his face. Amariel put her hand on the child’s head. “A little while longer,” she said softly. “We shall stop to rest soon.” She looked back at Demaethor and saw plainly that he had not planned on making any stops between now and dark. Obviously he was not accustomed to young bladders. But his face took on an air of acquiescence. He nodded once.

“Soon. But quickly,” he allowed, and within a half-hour they had stopped to relieve themselves.

[Rosie Gamgee]

Amariel came back with Silaewen and Olaewen to find Demaethor checking the horses’ saddles, and Anardil standing by. “’Mariel,” the little lad said wearily and held his arms out to her. She smiled and lifted him into her arms, and marveled at how much heavier he had become in just a few months.

“Are you tired, Dilly?” she asked softly. She felt him nod on her shoulder.

Demaethor had looked up at the sound of her voice. “Are all of the women-folk ready to proceed?” he asked, and Amariel could not tell if he jested or if he was really perturbed at the break in their riding.

“Yes, my lord,” she said, bowing a little. Anardil squirmed a bit and she set him down.

Demaethor looked puzzled at her reaction, then smiled kindly. “I meant not to sound rough,” he said quietly. “The horses are also grateful for the rest.” Amariel smiled her thanks, but then her heart skipped again. Demaethor must have marked some change on her face. “What is it?”

Amariel shook her head. “Nothing, my lord.” At least that was what she was telling herself. “I am not accustomed to such riding, and my bones are weary, that is all,” she hoped.

Demaethor kept his eyes on her face a beat longer than she thought necessary—and she found a strange, warm sensation; she liked his gaze, his smile. He spoke. “I have seen before that look on your face.” Turning his eyes back toward the way they had come, he added, “The cause of it was far from ‘nothing’.”

She recalled, too, the earnest panic that had come upon her just before leaving the farmhouse. “When I was young,” she said, and Demaethor turned back to her as if this was the last thing he expected her to begin an explanation with. She went on, “seven or eight years old, our house caught fire. My sister Magwiel and I were in bed, and all the house was asleep save for me. A foreboding of evil had grabbed hold of my heart, but I did not leave the bed, wishing to protect my little sister and thinking that a monster or some other such childish fancy would appear out of the shadows of the room. Then the odor of smoke bit my senses, but in the city there is always the smell of fire and smoke. It was only when I saw the faint orange glow outside the door in the direction of the staircase that I ran to my father.” Amariel paused to remember. Her father had scooped her up into his strong arms and whisked her and her sister down the back staircase and outside. She hated the thought that he was gone now, her strong, kind father. “The neighbors awoke to help put out a fire that had started all because a servant had left a candle burning.” She finished the story, and turned back to Demaethor. “I have had this gift ever since—to know when danger draws nigh. I knew even before the soldiers came to take my parents away, even before Magwiel and I were separated from our siblings, that tragedy was to come upon us. Ever since that day I had lived in a cage of fear. My gift turned on me and became a curse, and never did the sense of impending horror subside, whilst horror visited me again and again...” Amariel turned away and hung her head.

[Rosie Gamgee]

A pair of warm, callused fingers found their way under her chin. Amariel’s eyes snapped open and came to rest on those of Demaethor. His hand dropped almost as quickly at it had stolen to her face, but there was no apology in his eyes. She blinked once.

“And now?” he asked gently, but urgently, calling back to her mind the subject upon which they’d been speaking. “Do you feel that some danger portends?”

“I do not know. Perhaps it is only that pursuit has set out to find the slayer of your attackers this morning.”

Demaethor looked away briefly. “Forgive me that. It was a foolish deed: killing eight soldiers in the heart of Armenelos in the presence of so many witnesses. Now I have put us in further jeopardy; but I could see no other way out of the city.”

Amariel shook her head, although her throat tightened. “What have you to be remorseful for? You have done your worthiest to protect us, though we bear no relation of kinship or friendship to you.”

“And to what cost has your trust been put in me? You have lost two of your brothers and your sister since meeting me. I am afraid that for all my good intentions I have been only the cause of disaster to you and your kin. If not for me both Forthon and Esteldûr would yet be alive.” The mention of their names choked her a little, and Amariel shook her head, not trusting herself to reply, and blinked away the thought of tears. Demaethor’s silence and distance spoke of his remorse. At length he said quietly, “We should go now.”

She nodded, then turned back. He paused at her gaze, and she drew a breath. “My lord, for all those deeds, even for the lives of my brothers, I forgive you. Forthon loved you whilst he lived, and I know he counts himself honoured to have died with you at his side. Esteldûr has met the death we all would have, were it not for your intervention; I trust he met it well.” Amariel kept her gaze steady, even if her voice was less than so. “As for you, you carry the weight of both of them, and I am partly to blame for that. I placed blame where it was not due. I am sorry. Do not carry any longer the burden of the dead. It is a weighty load, and one you do not deserve to bear.”

Demaethor stood a space longer. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Your words are a deep comfort to me, and my heart is lighter for them. But,” he added, looking into her eyes, “You yourself do not heed the lesson of your own words. The weight you carry is also undeserved. Will you not let the deaths of your kin rest on the shoulders of their Slayer, instead of your own?”

Amariel looked at him a moment, her heart yearning to believe him. It is not your fault, he was telling her, but all her spirit shouted the opposite. For a moment guilt and release battled in her heart. Eventually the guilt won out. Amariel shook her head with finality, wishing to speak of it no more. “Let us away-” she began to say, but a distant sound cut her off.

Both Demaethor and Amariel froze, listening. There it came again: hoof-beats, galloping hard, floated from where they had been. They shook themselves free of the surprise, and their eyes met for a brief moment. “That,” Demaethor said in a hurried, wry tone, as he finished tightening the girth of his horse’s saddle, “marks the last time I underestimate one of your intuitions, my lady.” He did not wait for a reaction, but motioned for Anardil-

“Anardil!” Amariel shouted; she practically screamed it. Neither the boy nor their other two charges were in sight. He was just here! The tall grass waved around them, and Amariel caught the sight of dark, moving dots on the horizon behind.

Demaethor’s hand caught her arm. “Your voice, woman! Keep your voice down,” he hissed. Then, only a little louder, in a commanding tone, “Anardil!” He gave Amariel a look, and she supplied him with the g irl’s names. He called them also, and Olaewen stepped out from behind a large tree, which the only obstruction in this open meadow save a small bank of bracken.

“Where is your sister?” Amariel asked her. “Where is Anardil?”

The poor g irl looked puzzled, and explained that they had “only been playing at hiding. The others are here somewhere,” and inquired as to the hoof-beats and whinnies drawing nearer even as they spoke.

Demaethor had already waded past her into the tall grass, calling for the children. Silaewen popped up at the same time from the other side of the horses, calling, “I’m here!”

Amariel’s heart-beat quickened, and she prayed quickly for her brother while grabbing the two g irls near. “Anardil.” The name escaped her trembling lips repeatedly as they waited for what seemed like an eternity. It was really only a few seconds later that Anardil shouted, “I’m here; what is it?”, and Demaethor plucked him up and brought him to the horses.

Demaethor set the children on the horses’ backs, speaking hurriedly. “Understand, Amariel, that we move on only because this open field is no place to fight a troop of trained soldiers in day-light. But neither shall we be able to out-run them.” He pointed out toward the distant horizon. “That thicket there is where we will stop. We shall reign the horses in, and you and the children will conceal them, and yourselves, in the deepest part of the bracken. When they get reach us,” he cast a glance over his shoulder at the approaching blobs, which had grown to horses with sable-clad riders, “I will attempt to...” His voice trailed away. In lieu of words, he knelt and knit his fingers together over his knee, offering her a boost up on her mount. She stepped up wordlessly, and looked down at him once seated. “If I am slain or captured,” he said quickly, making a pretense of checking her stirrup, “keep hidden until sun-down.” He moved toward his own horse. “Then continue on to Romenna as best as you can.” He gave her no time to answer, but swung up onto his horse behind Anardil, and it seemed that before he even rested in the saddle they sped onward.

[Rosie Gamgee]

They came swiftly to the spot Demaethor had named. No words were spoken; all that needed to be said had been, already. Demaethor decended from his horse in one quick movement, armor and all. His eyes were already surveying the landscape he had chosen. He helped Anardil down from his horse, then went to Amariel and did the same for her and her two charges. Bringing the horses around, he pointed into the bracken wordlessly, directing them in.

Amariel told the children to walk in front of her and grabbed the bridles of the horses with her two hands. “Amariel.” She looked back. Demaethor strode up to her. “Take this,” he said. In his hand was a long dagger. “All this way you have gone weaponless. Now you may have need of one.”

She took it from him with a look of thanks, and he stepped aside to let her go. A sharp twang bit the air, and a whistle. The horses jumped as an arrow buried itself in the ground near Demaethor’s feet.

Demaethor’s reaction was swift, but he knew not where the arrow had come from. A voice rang out from the trees. “That was a warning, knight. I can kill you if I wish. Answer me: are you for us, or for our enemies?”

Amariel quailed and silently put her arms around the children, grabbing her brother near. Demaethor looked indignant. “How shall I answer you if I know not who you are? If you were for my enemies, surely you would have killed me. If you were friends, you might recognize my plight and aid me. But you have done neither. Perhaps you are but rabble of the forest; lawless men who have not been delivered to the jailers for the simple reason that even the jailers themselves are now lawless.”

“We are not rabble, nor are we lawless, save that we do not follow that foul traitor, Sauron. But any law made in favour of Him is not law or justice, but a mockery of it. So answer this: are you loyal to Sauron?”

“Nay! I am foe to Him and all His murderous followers,” shouted Demaethor. “If you will not hinder me, in less than an hour’s time I will have writ this declaration on enough of their crests, and with this pen.” He held aloft his axe.

“Then you are indeed among friends,” the voice said. All at once a half-dozen men emerged from behind rocks and bushes. They wore jerkins and cloaks of greens and browns, a rag-tag assortment of men and boys. All of them bore odd tokens of the King’s army: bucklers, bows, helms. A seventh fellow hopped lightly to the ground and strode with ease to Demaethor. “Here are a remnant of the Faithful.”

Demaethor looked about him, amazement on his face. “Soldiers of the King?” he asked, in a bemused voice. “Deserters?”

The fellow before him, who was young and sprightly, although a shrewd light shone in his eyes, smiled and said, “Indeed; traitors and renegades every one of us. As you are also, I see. Although I must tell you, if you are indeed among the Faithful, you would do well to step out of the livery of the army.”

“Well said. But no time have I to amend the situation.” Demaethor looked about him again. “Have you no lookout? Know you not that a troop of Sauron’s personal soldiers ride hard by? Indeed, they are almost upon you.”

The fellow’s eyebrows went up. “It is my watch. From my perch I saw you approach our resting place, but I marked no troop of soldiers.”

“Then you would do better to have your ear to the ground than your eye to the wind,” Demaethor told him mercilessly. He gestured then to Amariel. “This lady and children are my charges. We were to make for Romenna, but that is impossible with such pursuers nigh. Have you no place she and they may conceal themselves?”

He seemed to guess Demaethor’s plan and said, “The bracken runs deep that way.” He pointed. “There our horses rest. But we ourselves make for Romenna, and have sojourned here only since this morning, and have no fortifications nor keep.”

“It will serve,” Demathor said, as if the battle might be won by the force of his will. He turned to Amariel, and bade her and the children to go and conceal themselves. At a nod from their leader, one of the men came forward to lead Amariel. As they walked away, Amariel could hear Demaethor begin to give orders to the other men. Her heart jumped to her throat as the soft, menacing whisper of their pursuers' hoof-beats smote her ears.

[Rosie Gamgee]

It grew quieter as Amariel followed the man deeper into the bracken. The brush became thicker, and the branches of trees now cluttered out the sky. It did not matter much: the sky was clouding up once again. It seemed the storm that had cleared briefly the night before seemed to be returning.

They continued to pick a path through the brush, but here and there branches and thorns had to be pushed aside to make way for them. Amariel’s dress was snagged on more than one occasion. She carried her little brother, and the g.rls walked ahead. They kept turning about, asking questions. Amariel shushed them, bidding them to hurry on. Soon she heard the snickering and stamping of more horses, and they came to a small clearing. Seven or eight of the animals stood or walked about slowly. A few of them turned their heads with mild curiosity toward the group. The soldier let loose the horses he had led and they trotted nervously about, aquainting themselves with the others.

“Stay here,” the soldier said brusquely, but compassion was in his eyes when he looked on the children. He turned and contemplated Amariel for a moment. Fair-haired and broad shouldered, Amariel saw he was younger than she had first thought. She wondered what he thought of her, as his face betrayed nothing of his thoughts. Perhaps he only wondered how she had come to be with Demaethor, as it seemed obvious that she was not his wife. Or maybe, perhaps, something about her reminded him of a sister or a mother, a memory of a home never to be returned to.

He seemed to come out of his thoughts, whatever they were. “If you have need,” he said in the same rough tone, “the sorrel and the dappled grey are the fastest.” He pointed out two of the horses. Amariel stared after him as he turned and left.

“I am hungry,” Anardil said suddenly. At the word Amariel became aware of her own hunger. Distant clanks and rustlings made her keenly aware of what was going on outside the sheltered clearing, made her heart beat a little faster. Still, she glanced about her and set to gathering a few herbs for the children to eat. They tried again to ask her questions, to find out what was happening, to understand what they could not.

“Sit down,” she bade them. “Don’t move.” She walked a few nervous paces, plucking leaves here and there. The ground beneath her feet began to vibrate almost imperceptibly. Above the trees, the clouds grew thicker, more boding. Her hands shook as a low rumble built. It seemed to make every other sound fade. Amariel’s stomach tensed painfully. She forced herself to move, putting the herbs she picked into her dress and moving back toward her charges.

The children looked up at her coming, fear filling their eyes. “Are we going to be killed?” one of the g.rls asked. As they rode and as they had walked, they had been trying to ask questions. Now it was only Amariel and them, and all the queries had boiled down to just that one.

“No,” Amariel said. She sat quickly. The sound of hoof-beats was now too loud to be ignored, and her hands continued to shake as she dealt out the herbs.

A sharp whinny rang out against the trees from where they had been. Amariel’s heart froze. She forgot what she was doing. The horses about them startled. A whistle sounded, and then another. More whinnies bit the air, and shouts. Loud clunks punctuated the whistle and twang of bows and arrows. A cold breeze moved by eerily, and a drop of rain touched Amariel’s cheek. Someone screamed.

Amariel’s arms closed about Anardil as he crept into her lap, burying his face on her neck. She could feel his little body tremble. The g.rls had begun to weep silently. They huddled close. More shouts reached their ears, the sounds of swords and armor, cries of men. Someone was yelling something: a muffled, indiscernible cry. It was silenced abruptly. Amariel’s hand found the dagger that Demaethor had given her, and she gripped it tightly, almost painfully, channelling all her fear into a white-knuckled fist.

The sounds seemed to shrink, but they were getting nearer. Shouts were perceivable: traitor!, dog! and even mercy! pierced the air, rang off of the trees. Brutal shouts of exertion coupled with cries of pain. Amariel’s ears sought the heavy sound of an axe finding its mark amid the ringing of swords. The breeze picked up, blowing cold air into her face, sharpening the sound of the fight.

Amariel started as sharp noise began to come closer. Someone was crashing toward them, screaming curses. The clinking of mail against armor echoed inside her brain, her dry throat. She caught the fear-filled gazes of the g.rls as they gasped in terror.

A sable-clad soldier crashed into the clearing but a few paces from them. His image imprinted itself immediately in Amariel’s mind: bare-headed, wide-eyed from pain, mouth twisted in grim distress, sword hanging limply from a gore-stained hand. Blood soaked his livery, streaming from a crimson rent across his shoulder. He was drawing a ragged breath, a joyless chuckle spilling from his throat at the sight of the horses that had jumped and skipped at his sudden appearance.

Amariel’s heart delivered rapid blows to her chest. Her sense of feeling, touch, closed around her heart and her grip on her dagger. She could barely breathe as for a second or two the soldier was unaware of them. Then one of the children whimpered.

The solder turned sharply, his sword springing up as if under its own power. His bloodied face went though a series of changes as he saw them. One great stride had him on top of them.

Amariel’s scream turned into a wild cry as she rose, shoving the dagger between the soldier’s breastplate and the mail about his neck. Blood spurted, flecking her face. She was up to her wrist in the hot, sticky liquid as the blade buried itself in the man’s throat. The sickening sound wrenched her insides. The soldier’s eyes grabbed hers. Pain, fear, understanding and confusion fused all at once in his hazel gaze. She could not take her eyes away from his as he sank to his knees, gagging, choking, flailing stiffly as if drowning in a frigid sea. At last he fell against her feet, raggedly choking on his last convulsive breath. As strangled noise escaped her as his body sagged with finality.

The sounds of battle ceased.



Demaethor came into the clearing, taking in the scene before him rapidly. The children had backed away from her. The horses, as well, stood apart, wild-eyed and skittish. A puddle of blood surrounded her feet, stained the ground, her face, her dress. One hand was still extended out, open and bloodied. Standing over the gory body of some wretch, Amariel looked like a statue, motionless and aloof.

Dropping his axe and sword, Demaethor stepped quietly to her. She stared at the crumpled body before her, as if unaware of him, until her eyes flitted to his for an instant, then lowered again. Demaethor grabbed her hand, dragging her away from the bloody mess at her feet. Her arm began to shake within his grip.

She stopped walking and tugged her hand away from his. “Is it over?” she asked in a calm voice, but she was trembling visibly.

“Yes,” he said. A shudder passed over her. She looked away from him, back toward the man she’d obviously killed. Shakily she lowered herself to the ground, closing her eyes. “Are you well?” he asked gently.

She nodded, swallowing hard. As if she had been holding it back, a sigh forced its way out of her. She still trembled. “I’ve never killed a man before,” she said.

Demaethor looked upon her handiwork grimly, and contemplated his own bloody hands. “It is, unfortunately, all too easy.” He turned to the children. “Anardil, g.rls; come. All is well. You are safe now.” Anardil tripped to his sister and the two shared an embrace.

[Valandil]

*bump* for Beor...