It tasted like mud. Maybe it was. It certainly looked like it, black as tar, and with what appeared to be flecks of dirt floating in it. But the Man had offered it so generously, from his little pot, all beaten and worn and barely able to stay supported over his fire, and he seemed to genuinely enjoy it. Coffee, she thought he had said - to keep them both awake. It certainly did that, at least - the more the Man drank, the more lively he became, though his voice never raised above a dull murmur to allow his companions to remain asleep. There was little other movement that she could make out across this desolate plain. Campfires here and there, dotted among the tents of Men and Elves to keep the pre-dawn shadows at bay. Sentries, keeping an eye on the great blackness of the Morannon, and of the host of the enemy in its camp before those gates. And then, lone figures unable to sleep, like Nínimil, or like the Man, Aeragar, who she had found poking at his battered and scorched pot as she had wandered.
“Now! Where was I? Ahhh, yes - my sons, wasn’t it? It did my heart proud to see them both recognised as they were; both sergeants, like their father, but at half the age he was when he had his first command! I need not tell you I have faith in them, either. When the time comes, they will prove themselves. They are Dúnedain, and they are my blood. True, they both spend more time in the taverns than I would like, but I can tell you...”
As the Man spoke, Nínimil played idly with a silver pin in her hair, half-listening with a grin at Aeragar’s infectious spirit, and half-distracted with the thought of her own father, Caladhir, asleep back at camp. That little ornament, made by him when she was only a child, and wrought to look like a stem and flower of aeglos, had become a focus for her restless hands ever since they had left the Greenwood. Her mother had worried to see them both go, but relented at her father’s reassurances. Her father, for his part, had been a constant presence since they left, but a reassuring one. For every reminder about duty to their Lord, or to the soldiers under their command, there was a tinge of pride. For every admonishment about maintaining armour that she, used to lighter gear, found too noisy and uncomfortable, there was a note of respect. And for every query about her scouts, and how she was leading them, there was an air of fatherly concern. Aeragar, with his winding stories and jokes, was in his own way faintly similar. Two fathers, concerned with their children even as they stood on the blighted, dusty plains of Dagorlad, before the gates of the Great Enemy.
“Híril!”
The voice caused both to turn sharply, and Nínimil saw a young Silvan Elf-maid approaching them at a sprint, clutching her bow. Originally of the Golden Wood, she had only recently been assigned as one of the archers under Nínimil’s own modest command when the two parties had seen fit to combine their scouting and skirmishing forces. Her expression, a mixture of nervous excitement and worry, had the Sindar rising even before she spoke. “There you are, my lady! You wandered off - I feared you were lost… There is movement among the enemy! Lord Oropher and Lord Amdír have sent the word that we should make ready!”
The words were no sooner out of her mouth before they were affirmed by a distant cry from a sentry, echoed by another, and another, until the clamour began to become general. Aeragar dumped out what remained of his pot of coffee and scooped up his helmet, giving the Elves a wan, tired smile of reassurance. “Get goin’ now, both of you. Likely it’ll just be a skirmish for now, but you’ll need to be ready. Off, and remember, stay close to your comrades. Do not get hasty. And when all else fails, look for the banners! May we meet again, little híril - and this time, to celebrate with my sons!"
The Elves were already running as Aeragar's laugh broke through the shadows. In the distance, as the sun rose, fell horns began to sound. In reply, the horns of the Great Alliance blew to marshall their soldiers, commanders surveying the battlefield and making preparations. Again, Nínimil found her hand coming up to touch the silvery aeglos hairpin as she recalled the reassurances her father gave to her mother, and began to wonder at what lay ahead.
I will bring her home. However long it takes, I will bring her home.
~~~
It tasted like ash. What little was left in the wineskin was bitter and unpleasant on her tongue as Nínimil sat and looked over the small hillock of earth in front of her . She was grateful for it, nevertheless; upon hearing where she was going, that same young Silvan had scrounged it up from somewhere, caught up to her, and pressed it into her hands, knowing even before Nínimil did that she would need it. It wasn’t the wine’s fault - wherever its origins - that it now tasted so unpleasant. It was the fault of this barren, treeless place. It was the fault of the brutal, bloody battle that had raged for what felt like months before it ended. It was the fault of this lonely, unfinished mound, in which now rested her father’s body.
One death, out of so many countless losses. It would fall to others, in the coming days, to bury them all, if any could even be spared; likely, great pits would be needed. Some would never be buried; Amdír, and fully half of his army had been driven into the foul marshes, where their bodies were all but lost along with those of the yrch and Men they had slain in that desperate battle. But Caladhir, fallen near his lord Oropher, she had found and brought here herself, unwilling to leave it to others, or to risk never knowing where his body lay.
As she took another sip, her eyes began to sting. The wind, she told herself was the cause. The wind and the dust. Silently, she cursed the blighted plain of Dagorlad. It wasn’t right that he should be buried here. It wasn’t right that any of her people should be buried here, in this land almost wholly devoid of life, where no trees grew, and the only green was the sick and faded colour of the reeds in the marshes. But for her father especially - for the same father that had walked her over every inch of Eryn Galen, taught her the trees, the birds, the beasts… The father who had chased along as she grew, and began running through the forest, climbing and leaping… The father who had, along with her mother, instilled in her a sense of respect for the beauty of the world, and of the need to serve and preserve it… The father who had taught her to fight to defend that world, and told her, time and again, of the duty that came with her place in their Lord’s realm.
It wasn’t right that he never leave this lonely and desolate place.
“Híril…?”
The voice spilled into her thoughts, pulling Nínimil back to the present. She turned, and regarded the young elleth from before, standing off at a distance and leaning on her spear as she fidgeted with it, either nervous or impatient. “My lady,” the Silvan began again, “I didn’t mean to… Lord Thranduil has said we are to make ready to move through the Morannon, soon. They are asking for scouts. I’m not sure how many of us are left, but...”
Lord Thranduil. Nínimil lifted herself wordlessly from the ground as she thought about that. With Oropher buried, and Amdír lost, he was all that remained, to lead all that remained, of the Silvan host. And all around them, the armies of Men and Elves would find that tale repeated, albeit in smaller scale, as they took stock of their losses, and soldiers looked for guidance in the absence of their captains, sargeants, veterans. Faintly, she thought of Aeragar, with his greying beard and his two young sons. How he had been so certain that they would prove themselves to be the champions he saw them as.
She thought of her father too, and of his lessons. Turning, the Elf-maid regarded Caladhir’s grave one final time, committing it and its location to memory. His duty was complete; he had followed his Lord, and protected those under his care until his last. Now, as she turned to look at the fidgety young soldier with her, Nínimil absorbed the weight of his example, and his lessons, one last time. The words were not coming at first, but she pressed on a wan, tired smile of reassurance as she beckoned the Silvan over. After handing back the wineskin, she bent down to remove her silver hairpin and place it on her father’s breast - one small piece of the forest, to go with him. When she rose again, her voice returned; it sounded far-off to her ears, but steady, as she pushed everything else aside.
“Gather who you can find and who isn’t injured, and tell them to prepare. Make certain we have ample water and food, and have someone send word to Lord Thranduil that we stand ready. I expect us to move soon after nightfall, so have everyone rest as much as they can, once you’ve seen to these things. I will return to the camp as soon as I have finished here.”
I will bring you home. However long it takes, I will bring you all home.
