To Glory and the Grave

Barangolf was numb with shock as he stumbled into camp with the other survivors. Civilians crowded round, anxiously seeking out familiar faces. One by one the soldiers were spirited off by their loved ones, until only those awaiting the dead remained.

Barangolf’s gaze landed on Glanvir and Hwinnion, who stood apart from the crowd. Glanvir had one hand on Lognir’s shoulder. In the other, he held Mithuial’s hand while the little girl danced impatiently on her toes, straining to catch a glimpse of Anwiel.

Hwinnion cast a worried smile at Barangolf before his eyes lit up as he spied Torvrethil. He rushed forward with a cry of relief and the two snuck away to reassure one another that their reunion wasn’t an illusion.

Mithuial broke away from her father and flung her arms around Barangolf’s knees. “Where is Mama?” she demanded.

Barangolf stared down at her, his gray eyes filled with sorrow, but his tongue resisted speaking the words out loud. If he just refrained from saying it, then perhaps it would turn out not to be true.

“No!” Mithuial pushed herself away from her uncle. Her lower lip trembled. “Why would you leave her behind? Go back and get her!”

Lognir clenched and unclenched his fists. “I should have gone. I could have—”

“Perished with her,” Glanvir interrupted. He folded Mithuial into his arms. Her shoulders shook as she buried her face in his tunic.

Barangolf took a shaky breath. “You do not know what you wish for,” he says numbly. His vision blurred as his best friend’s death began to truly sink in.

Guilt stabbed at him, sharp as any crebain’s beak. It wasn’t fair that he lived and Anwiel didn’t; she was a seasoned member of the Woodland Guard. She had a husband and children. More people needed her.

And he’d failed Nengeldor. He should have argued his friend out of enlisting, not joined him. He should have been more aware of what they were doing out there in the marshes. He should have realized what was happening, pushed Nengeldor out of the way.

Lognir’s shoulders heaved as he glared first at his father, then at his uncle before abruptly turning on his heel and storming off in silence.

Tears shimmered on Glanvir’s cheeks. He made no move to brush them away. “I ought to go after him,” he murmured, watching his son’s departure. “Come, Mithuial.”

“No!” Mithuial pulled away. “Mama is coming back. She is! I’m going to wait for her right here.”

Glanvir started forward, but Barangolf settled onto the ground beside her. “I’ll wait with her,” he told his brother. “Go find Lognir.”

Mithuial turned her back on him, scowling. He busied himself picking up the petals she’d dropped. He wanted to comfort his niece, but he knew nothing could ease her grief.

She had cried herself to sleep on the trampled grass by the time night fell. Barangolf gingerly lifted her in his arms, intending to return her to Glanvir’s wagon.

He hadn’t made it five steps before he saw her–his rescuer.

The lack of armor gave her a deceptively fragile appearance. She still bore the marks of battle - scratches from crebain talons gouged her cheeks, and strands of hair had come loose from her braid.

She was accompanied by a towering, faintly glowing Elf. When she noticed Barangolf watching her she broke off the conversation she’d been having.

She approached with an expression of faint amazement. “I didn’t realize you were old enough to be a father, Wood-Elf.”

“I’m not,” he hastened to assure her, alarmed at the idea anyone might mistake Mithuial for his offspring. “Not a father, that is. Mithuial is my brother’s daughter. And my name isn’t Wood-Elf. I’m Barangolf, son of Daerchen.”

“Well met, Barangolf son of Daerchen. I am Dirthandeth, daughter of Orluthiel.” She gazed at the sleeping child with an inscrutable expression. “Is she orphaned?”

Barangolf’s throat tightened. “She lost her mother. Her father is here to assist the war efforts within the supply camp. He’s no fighter. And neither am I,” he admitted, his gray eyes clouding over in silent self-recrimination. “I would be dead if you had not come to my aid. I never properly thanked you for that.”

“Perhaps we shall all be dead before this war is through,” she mused, staring off into the distance as if she could see the future rising over the horizon and knew it was bleak.

“Perhaps,” he agreed uneasily. It wouldn’t take many more battles like the one today to wipe out the entire Woodland army. He stared down at the sleeping Elf-child in his arms, his mind filled with visions of what would happen to her if the army she’d accompanied was destroyed.

Dirthandeth followed his gaze. “May Mandos release our dead quickly from his halls,” she said. “But with one as young as she, what reason would he have to keep her? If we fail to hold Sauron at bay, she has greater hope of a quick rebirth than the rest of us.”

Barangolf angled his body away from her to hide the skepticism in his eyes.

The Wood-Elves knew of the Valar, of course, but they had no personal experience with the re-embodiment the Eldar spoke of. Not all of the younger among them believed it was true. None of their dead had ever returned from the West; surely if they could be reborn they would return to Middle-Earth rather than remain among the Eldar in the fabled Valinor. Especially those who had been slaughtered by the Kinslayers in Doriath; why would they willingly choose to live with those who had killed them? If they could have come back, they would have.

Perhaps that was why the Eldar were so cavalier about other people’s deaths; if he believed that Nengeldor would be reborn, would he grieve for him the way he now grieved? Or would the loss be easier to bear?

"Maybe there’s hope in that,” he murmured. His gaze shifted toward the star scattered skies above them. Somewhere up there it was said that the Vala Elbereth watched over the Elves, extending an invisible hand of protection during times of need. Barangolf wasn’t sure he believed that any more than he believed in rebirth, but hymns to Elbereth were a frequent source of comfort for the Wood-Elves during times of trouble. He cast a tentative glance over his shoulder. “Do you sing, Dirthandeth?”

“On occasion,” she said, watching him with unsettling intensity.

“Today my hope died,” he confessed haltingly. “I wondered if perhaps singing to Elbereth would lift my spirits. She’s said to watch us, is she not?”

Dirthandeth’s nod was almost imperceptible. “Let us sing.”

Their song was a mere whisper, at first, but as they began the second stanza their voices grew stronger. Deep voice and high twined together in harmony. The Elves seated around the nearest campfires joined in, and soon the song rippled across the supply camp.

Whether Elbereth listened, Barangolf didn’t know. The heavens were silent in the face of the Elve’s offering, giving no indication anyone listened beyond the borders of their camp.

But as their chorus swelled to fill the night sky hope reignited within his heart. He didn’t need a missive from some distant, faceless spirit. He had his people–greatly diminished in number, bereaved, poorly armed but as determined and valiant as ever.

And that was enough.