Blue Days and Fair
For three years the Wood-Elves prepared for war: Stockpiling supplies, training recruits, crafting weapons, and exchanging missives with Lord Elrond and King Elendil.
And then the message came. Elendil and Gil-Galad would wait no longer. The armies were to meet in the Vale of Anduin.
Bears and lynxes, thrushes and eagles, bats and hedgehogs and all manner of other wild beasts swelled the ranks of the woodland army during that long, slow march through the forest. The Elven army even picked up a few Woodmen who resided in the Eaves of the forest. They had no King around whom to rally but desired to take up arms against Sauron and the threat of thralldom.
Now the armies of the Free People camped within sight of the Morannon.
Barangolf wound his way arm in arm with Nengeldor towards the baggage caravan at the back of the camp, Nimdog trotting at their heels.
Colorful pavilions gave way to sturdy wagons and tumbrils, as well as the simpler sleds of the Wood-Elves. The smell of manure intensified. Grooms lathered down pack dogs while other Elves and bearded Woodmen ferried provisions and supplies across the camp.
As they passed a group of bearded Dwarves tending pack ponies, Nengeldor stared avidly. “I’ve always wanted to meet–”
He broke off as a small elf-girl leaped out at them from behind a nearby stack of crates.
Barangolf caught her one armed, but the force of her attack toppled all three of them to the ground. “Hullo, Mithuial,” he said from his place on the ground. “Does your father know you’re waylaying innocent travelers?”
Nengeldor pushed himself gingerly to his feet. “Never mind armies. We ought to send little girls to defeat Sauron’s forces.”
The girl slipped a flower crown over Barangolf’s dark hair, taking great pains to adjust it until she was satisfied. Only once she had finished decorating him did she answer.
“Papa and Lognir are fishing. Lognir didn’t want to go,” She whispered conspiratorially into her uncle’s ear. Her older brother made no secret that he wished to march with the soldiers rather than remain confined to the baggage train.
Barangolf glanced towards the river. The dark silhouettes of rafts bobbed in the river and shadowy figures dangled fishing lines into the water. “They’ll never catch anything with all those ships about.”
“Papa is the best fisher in the whole world,” Mithuial puffed out her chest in proud confidence in her father’s abilities. “Even better than Uncle Torvrethil. Where is Uncle Torvrethil?” She peered over Barangolf’s shoulder intently as if she could will her other uncle into materializing.
“He’s with Hwinnion.” Barangolf answered promptly. The lack of privacy on the march South hadn’t suited the couple at all, and he was sure they’d slipped away in the vain hopes of being undisturbed.
Mithuial wiggled out of Barangolf’s arms and bounded behind the crates once more, only to emerge holding a basket of flower crowns. “But I wanted to give him his present. Nengeldor, would you like one?” She plucked a crown from the basket and held it out to Nengeldor, who quickly placed it atop his silver hair. Then she looped a flower crown around Nimdog’s neck. The hound licked her face. She pushed his muzzle away, giggling.
Barangolf bent over to inspect her handiwork more closely. “You’ve been busy.”
But before she could answer her attention was drawn toward two dark figures trudging up the path from the shore, each holding the end of a large wicker basket. The contents gleamed like silver, but the odor that emanated from them was undeniably that of freshly caught fish.
Glanvir grunted as he and his son lowered the basket to the ground. “Ah! Barangolf! I thought I heard your voice. Mithuial, love, help me and Lognir gut these fish.”
“Her talents are wasted gutting fish,” Barangolf said. He couldn’t help feeling sympathy for Mithuial and Lognir; he was, after all, only ten years out of his own childhood, and he remembered quite well his youthful rebellion against chores. His niece flashed him a grateful smile over the top of her basket and began to creep away.
He looped his arm back through Nengeldor’s and tugged his friend nearer. “If Lognir and Mithuial will find kindling for the fire, I’ll help with the fish.”
Lognir’s glare remained firmly in place as he skulked away to collect sticks for their campfire. Mithuial’s sulkiness, however, vanished at once into a grateful smile and she skipped after her brother, whistling.
“I suppose you’re volunteering me for fish duty, as well,” Nengeldor said, but he made no move to leave.
Barangolf grinned at him without answering, then turned toward his brother. “This was a good haul. All those ships didn’t scare the fish away?”
“I had a bit of help.” Glanvir jerked his head towards the edge of the river, where the dark outline of a bear was just barely visible.
“One of the skin-changers?” Barangolf dropped his voice to a whisper, even though the bear wasn’t near enough to hear any of their exchange.
“Should I know that?” Glanvir grunted. His attention remained on the knife in his hands.
Barangolf gave up his attempted conversation and instead sang to himself as he beheaded silver scaled fish. At first he sang beneath his breath, but before long he was singing at full volume, with no concern for those camping around them. Only a few notes in and Nengeldor’s voice joined the harmony.
They sang all the way until supper, and resumed again as they cleared away their dishes.
“I ought to have known it’d be the two of you singing your way to the grave,” The raspy voice of Captain Laerorn grunted from behind them.
“Don’t be so gloomy, Captain,” Barangolf laughed, one arm flung round Nengeldor’s shoulder affectionately.
Her one eye transfixed him with a disapproving look. “We fared ill against the kinslayers, and they are our own kind. Sauron is greater still at the arts of war.”
This was not at all reassuring, but Barangolf did his best to pretend he was unbothered. “All the more reason to sing while we may!”
Nengeldor disentangled himself from his friend and held out a hand to the captain with a flourish. “Even you can’t be serious all the time, Captain. Dance with me.”
Her frown deepened at the invitation and one hand strayed to the hilt of her sword. “I will not.”
“Oh! Laerorn! You should have one, too!” Mithuial edged past Barangolf and Nengeldor, her arms encircling a basketful flower crowns. She set the basket down beside her father and then scooped the crowns from the top into her arms. “They’re for good luck,” she explained as she held one out to Laerorn.
To Barangolf’s surprise the captain lowered her head, allowing Mithuial to crown her. “May your well wishes bring us fortune tomorrow.” She inclined her head at the little girl and departed.
They had been dancing for so long that the campfire had blown out and the children had been sent to bed when a bark of warning drew their attention. The Wood-Elves looked round, startled, and saw a tall Elf approaching. Her long, honey brown braid hung almost to her waist. Her gleaming turquoise and green steel armor and the sword buckled at her hip made it abundantly clear she had accompanied some other Elven army.
The Wood-Elves scrutinized the strange Elf warily. Anwiel fingered the knife at her hip, her expression unfriendly. Barangolf and Nengeldor continued with their music until the silence around them grew too great to ignore. Barangolf’s singing trailed off and he offered the newcomer an uncertain smile.
The stranger bent down to offer Nimdog a hand. The hound licked her fingers.
“What a good boy,” She cooed. “And such a wee little thing.” She looked up at the Wood-Elves, smiling. “Is he a pack-dog?”
“He’s a scent hound,” Nengeldor informed her, placing a hand on Nimdog’s head with a challenging glare.
She looked again at the hound, her smile vanishing. “And you brought him with you to war? You’ll send him to his death. We brought warhounds, but they have armor, and have been trained for–”
“Well we know the use the Kinslayers put their hounds. Those tales are not yet forgotten by us.” Barangolf warned, the smile now gone from his face.
“Kinslayers?” The Elf woman’s eyes flashed in anger. “You slander–”
Anwiel leapt to her feet, looking all too eager for blood. “Is it slander? My mother was there, she saw your hounds drag infants from their mothers arms.”
The other woman blanched but remained defiantly facing her accuser. “Yes, slander! Do you think Lord Elrond a Kinslayer because he was raised by them? He knows better than most the cost of allowing old grievances to come between allies.”
Glanvir placed himself between his wife and the High Elf. “Let us save fighting for our common foe.” he urged. Anwiel’s expression made it clear he would hear about this betrayal later.
“I Only wanted to greet the hound,” the High Elf said, turning abruptly. “I had no intention of fighting.”
But as she departed, the hostile eyes of the Wood-Elves remained trained upon her as if she were the foe they would meet in battle on the morrow.