A Tale of Beleriand

[~Theodred]

***A Tale of Beleriand***

Current Players and Characters

Theodred - Tarendur Atanion
Dracarys - Gethred son of Gundor
Vercingetorix - Hadolorn of Dor-Lomin
Barahir - Follnor Laurent
Finrod - Lónamir of the Noldor
Bregor Lord of Ladros - Barret Horn
Eowyn Elfsheen - Gloredhel daughter of Gethred
Arathorn III - Beregor son of Berenor
Snake35 - Fearohir of the Teleri
Arveleg - Caldárus Arscúveth
Aragil - Thinad "The Blind"

The Setting:

Chaos reigns supreme in Beleriand. Three months have passed since one of the bloodiest battles in the First Age, the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, or Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Melkor’s foul plan has laid waste to most of the Northern Lands:

"Great was the triumph of Morgoth, and his design was accomplished in a manner after his own heart; for Men took the lives of Men, and betrayed the Eldar, and fear and hatred were aroused among those that should have been united against him. From that day the hearts of the Elves were estranged from Men, save only those of the Three House of the Edain.

The realm of Fingon was no more; and the sons of Fëanor wandered as leaves before the wind. Their arms were scattered, and their league broken; and they took to a wild and woodland life beneath the feet of Ered Lindon, mingling with the Green-elves of Ossiriand, bereft of their power and glory of old. In Brethil some few of the Haladin yet dwelt in the protection of their woods, and Handir son of Haldir was their lord; but to Hithlum came back never one of Fingon’s host, nor any of the Men of Hador’s house, nor any tidings of the battle and the fate of their lords. But Morgoth sent thither the Easterlings that had served him, denying them the rich lands of Beleriand which they coveted; and he shut them in Hithlum and forbade them to leave it. Such was the reward he gave them for their treachery to Maedhros: to plunder and harass the old and the women and the children of Hador’s people. The remnant of the Eldar of Hithlum were taken to the mines of the north and laboured there are thralls, save some that eluded him and escaped into the wilds and the mountains."

- The Silmarillion


The Story:

There seemed to be no choice but submission for the good elves and men living in these times, however, some stood up strong to face Morgoth’s hordes. Outlaw bands like unto the one of Barahir son of Bregor in the days following the Dagor Bragollach gathered in the woods and secret places of the fallen Northern Realms to harry and openly defy the servants of the Dark Lord. Charismatic leaders were able to goad despairing men and elves into action against the forces of evil by using guerilla tactics to defend their homelands. The daring exploits of these leaders became known all around, and they themselves became the heroes of legends told for years afterward.

[~Theodred]

***Prologue***

The young elves entered the Hall of Fire, weary and exhausted. One lone figure sat quietly in a chair in the shadows, staring at the burning embers. In his lap lay a very old but beautiful harp, and he hummed softly to himself as he stared. His hair had once been black as night, but now it was streaked with gray. As the young elves came in, he looked up and smiled.

“How went the hunt?” the figure in the shadows asked.

“We pursued our quarry long, but the deer of Eriador are fleeter than even elves on foot,” answered one of the hunters ruefully. “The time seems fit to close out a wearisome day with a tale from days long past, Shadow Elf.”

“I see that you have become rather fond of my stories,” the Shadow Elf replied.

“Yes, we have,” responded one of the hunters fondly. “Tell us more of Gondolin, or of the fiery sons of Fëanor.”

“Or of Beren Erchamion and the quest for the silmarils!,” exclaimed another.

The Shadow Elf smiled again and leaned back in his chair. He picked up his harp and strummed it softly. “Many are the tales of noble deeds in the First Age,” he said wistfully. “However, tonight I will tell you a tale that you may not have heard before. There exists only one lay that tells it in full, and it is a long one. With your permission I will continue.”

“Yes, tell us more,” the young elves said in unison.

“After the bloody Nirnaeth Arnoediad, which is the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, the northern regions of Hithlum and Mithrim were in chaos. The dark forces had swept into these lands, destroying the good men and elves that dwelt there. Outlaw bands formed in the forests and secret places of these lands, with charismatic leaders daring them to contest the will of Morgoth."

“In the forests north of Brethil, in the lands that once belonged to the House of Hador, one such leader stood up against the Dark Lord’s presence. The story of this golden-haired scion of Marach and his band of outlaws is not as well known as the stories of Barahir and Turin, but it is just as great of an epic."

“It is the story of one man’s seemingly futile quest to save his people from the terrors of a dark power far stronger than anything that has ever existed in Middle-earth. It is a tale of a great man, a bold man, and a noble man. It is the tale of Hadolorn of Dor-Lomin, and it begins on a night three months after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad with a large party of travelers, who with their enlisted guards were following the perilous South Road out of Hithlum…”

Slowly, the Shadow Elf began to play his harp and softly sing and the young hunters sat near him to listen.

*** A TALE OF BELERIAND: BOOK I ***

The breeze blew softly along the treetops, rustling through the autumn leaves on the cliffs of the Ered Wethrin. The mountain path lay undisturbed under the cloudy midnight sky. Night had fallen early, and the air was cool and crisp, for it was drawing nigh to winter, and in a few weeks time there would be snow on the ground. Nothing disturbed the serenity of the wild regions of Hithlum, only the light Northern winds. In the sky above, the scattering of clouds cleared, and the full moon shone brightly on everything below.

Suddenly, the peaceful stillness of the cliffs was broken by a slight creaking sound. It continued to grow louder and louder until it was recognizable as the creaking of axles on a wagon. Around a bend in the rocky walls lumbered four heavily laden, horse-drawn wagons with several people on board, walking alongside and in tow. There were close to seventy in all, a group number practically unheard of among these rocky heights. All were clad in forms of cold weather garments in case the temperature fell, and they walked steadily in silence without speaking with one another.

Nearly fifty men, women, and children were fleeing Dor-Lomin, the ancestral homeland of the house of Hador. The lands of Beleriand had witnessed one of the most disastrous battles in that age, the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, or Unnumbered Tears. The Elven armies of Fingon, Maedhros, and Turgon, including the forces of Hurin Thalion and Haldir son of Halmir were defeated by the terrible strength and sheer might of Morgoth’s armies, and the free peoples were on the run.

The Easterlings of Ulfang who had pledged their loyalty to Maedhros betrayed him on those dark days after Midsummer just three months earlier, forever sundering the relationship between elves and men except for the houses of the Edain. After the battle these swarthy men swept into Hithlum and Dor-Lomin at the bidding of Morgoth, wreaking havoc and destruction everywhere they went. Good and noble people were enslaved and subjugated by these lesser men, and forced to perform hard labor while the Easterlings got drunk from their wine in their halls. The realms of Hithlum and Dor-Lomin were no more; they were overrun; fallen to the malice of the Lord of Angband.

And so, the some fifty survivors of Dor-Lomin had fled southward from their various home locations, all having the common fear of the Easterling hordes. They had gathered in the small village known as Hamed-Harend at the foot of the Ered Wethrin and hoped to wait out the storm of invasion. However, even this village began to fear the approach of the sons of Ulfang, for Morgoth Bauglir had confined them to Hithlum, and they had begun to occupy all of the lands there.

A man of the noble house of Hador known to the refugees at Hamed-Harend only as “Heir” gave them inspiration by making it known that he was enlisting the aid of guards for a flight across the treacherous mountains, and they hastened to join him. A score of what could be termed “mercenaries” were hired to provide safeguard, and an expert guide to lead them through the mountain passes unharmed. And so these refugees of Dor-Lomin had packed what little possessions they had brought with them into four wagons and departed into the mountains seeking haven in the free realms that remained in Beleriand. They had left three days ago, traveling only by night as stealthily as was possible with such a large party. They had gone many miles already, leading them to their place here among the high clifftops of the Ered Wethrin.

***

The armed guards trudged silently forward in a formation that encircled the train of wagons. At first glance, there seemed to be nothing in common with them except that they were all clad in cloaks of drab grays and browns. They were of different races, different backgrounds, and different homes, united only by the fact that they were hired by Heir to guard this fleeing party over the mountains. Some were tall and thin, others were short and stocky; some were fair of face and others were grim to look upon; some were elves, others were men, and even dwarves. They performed their duty for various reasons as well; some just for the money, some because of their hatred for Morgoth and his servants, and some because they had no other place to go. All were strong and seasoned warriors who had been in the heat of battle and survived. It would be certain that these men could do well guarding against whatever evils lay lurking in the path before them.

One of the guards strode smoothly behind the last wagon, acting as the sole rearguard of the traveling party. His keen gray eyes scanned the way before him and behind him for the dangers of the wild, and his elven ears listened for trouble in the reaches of the darkness. The elf was tall and lithe, thin but still strong, the build of a swift runner. His dark, chestnut brown hair and fair facial features identified him to be one of the Sindar, the Teleri who had remained behind in Middle-earth. Underneath his gray traveling cloak he was clad in garments of forester green, and on his feet he wore special boots that would not hinder his speed. A pendant with the emblem of a swan was worn around his neck, and a small pouch in his cloak was full of lembas, the elven waybread. At his thighs he wore two short swords and on his back was slung an arrow quiver and a tall elvish longbow that he could fire with deadly accuracy. The elf was Tarendur son of Taerwë of Doriath, and he walked now silently trailing behind the wagons keeping watch.

As Tarendur continued forward, he began to ponder over the events that had wound his fate with those escaping the ruin of Hithlum. He had been born the only son of Taerwë, a march-warden and captain of Doriath and Alphedhel, a maiden formerly of Cirdan’s people a few days ere the rising of the moon. At a young age, he had immediately shown enthusiasm for the tracking and hunting, and his father had spent years educating him well in the skills of a woodsman, for he was one of Thingol’s best. He also learned the arts of healing from his mother, which gave him the ability to treat himself and others of any wounds he had sustained in the wild. In his early years, the threat of Morgoth was seemed very distant, but as he had gotten older, the shadow of Bauglir had lengthened, and the borders of peaceful Doriath began to feel the strength of his armies.

After news of the Dagor Aglareb reached Doriath, Tarendur’s woodsman training changed to the training of a warrior, for he wished to fight by his father’s side on the Northern Marches. He received the best instruction possible because of Taerwë’s friendship with many of Thingol’s great march wardens. He learned to wield the sword and axe from Mablung the Heavy-Handed, and he learned to shoot the bow from the great archer Beleg Cuthalion. He learned quickly, and in time, he was one of Doriath’s finest fighters. One day Beleg gave him a finely crafted longbow of yew wood saying that it was a bow worthy of his prowess. He joined his father on the borders beyond the Girdle of Melian, and fought the prowling orcs of the region. In time he achieved great renown in Thingol’s court, and he returned to Doriath to live in Thingol’s court in Menegroth.

Then, 455 years after Tarendur’s birth, there came the Dagor Bragollach. In sudden flames of destruction that turned Ard-Galen into the gasping dust of Anfauglith, the armies of the Northlands swept into Beleriand, laying waste to the realms of the Noldor, Sindar, and Edain alike. Beleg, Mablung, Taerwë, Tarendur and many others all rushed to defend the lands above Doriath from attack, even though Melian’s spells prevented evil from yet entering that realm. The march-wardens attempted to ward off their enemies in the lands of Halmir near Brethil, but they were unaware of the size of Morgoth’s army there. In the region near Teiglin, Taerwë fell during the heavy onslaught of an orc attack. The warriors of Beleg rallied and annihilated their foes, but they returned to Doriath in sorrow for their lost captain. Taerwë’s body was brought back and laid to rest by the River Esgalduin in the heart of Doriath, his beloved home.

After hearing of the death of her husband, Alphedhel was greatly distraught, and she resolved to return to her kin at Cirdan’s havens. Before leaving, she left her son with a pendant showing the emblem of the swan, saying that it would get him help from her kin if he was in need. Then she left Doriath, and returned never again.

Tarendur was now full grown, but the departure of his parents had a profound effect on him. Against the advice of his friends, he decided to lay aside his sword and begin anew the life of a woodsman. For seven years he wandered around in the wilds in the south of Beleriand, living off of whatever he could hunt down with his bow and find in the woods. He learned more woodlore by himself then any that he had ever learned from his father during his sojourn in the forests, and he became stronger and fleeter of foot. However, he soon grew weary of his lonely, rugged lifestyle, and he traveled northwards to the Forests of Brethil where his father was slain.

There, he befriended the Haladin and their brave lord Halmir and he came to live in their settlements and villages. But in this time, Morgoth had sent another great force over the mountains, and it began to move in to the passes of the Ered Wethrin. It was then, when Halmir dispatched a small force led by the warrior Badanir to come to the aid of Galdor at Eithel Sirion that Tarendur decided to once again to pick up his sword and go to war. In the defense of that fortress where Galdor fell, Tarendur fought valiantly with the men of the Edain to achieve victory, earning him the name “Atanion”. His skill in battle had been heightened by his years in the wild, and he was at his peak of physical prowess.

For the next three years, he continued to dwell with the Men of Brethil, but after that period of time, desired to return again to Doriath. Halmir had said that Brethil would always welcome him, and Tarendur had given him his hunting knife while Halmir had given him a new quiver for his arrows. Then had been them farewell and taken leave of them. When he had returned again one day to Doriath and the halls of Menegroth, Thingol welcomed him with gladness. He had feasted that evening with his friends Beleg and Mablung, and told them of the many adventures he had had over the last ten years. Tarendur sighed as he remembered that night, for it would be the last time that he had been united with his both of his good friends in a place of peace. The next day, Beleg and Mablung were gone again to battle in the Northern Marches, but he had remained behind in Thingol’s service at Menegroth.

Many more years passed by, until it was well nigh to the Union of Maedhros. Many events had changed Beleriand, including Beren and Luthien’s capture of a silmaril from Morgoth’s Iron Crown. Fëanor’s eldest son deemed that the time was ripe to challenge the Dark Lord’s might yet again, and he sent summons to the leaders of all the free races of Beleriand to help raise an army capable of assaulting Angband. The summons had come to Elu Thingol deep in the Thousand Caves of Menegroth, but the Sindar king was loath to send any of his forces to fight for the union of a son of Fëanor. They had been demanding the silmaril that Beren had wrested to win Luthien, but Thingol would not surrender the sparkling jewel, for he had become too fond of it and such was the power that it had over him. And so he at first, he did not heed the summons, and he sent none of his elven warriors to join Maedhros’ army save Beleg and Mablung, and only if they fought under the banner of Fingon and not a son of Fëanor’s. Before Beleg and Mablung departed, they gave Tarendur a new hunting knife and a newly forged pair of short swords that he had become accustomed to fighting with.

Several days later, after his prideful anger had subsided, Thingol learned that there were close to fifty other Sindarin warriors that wished to join the battle as well. He realized that this battle would be the greatest fought in Beleriand since the wars fought between the Valar and Melkor, and so he reluctantly gave these warriors consent to go too, but only if they traveled in secret to fight with Fingon. Tarendur was one of these elves, for he wished to take part in this great endeavor with his comrades-in-arms. Of the fifty who would secretly depart, Thingol had elected Tarendur to take a fast horse quickly to Fingon’s camp in Hithlum to tell only him to await the coming of the warriors of Doriath. This was necessary because the days were drawing near to Midsummer, the date chosen for the battle to begin, and Fingon was ready to march forth.

Tarendur had been pleased that Thingol trusted him enough to give him this important errand, and he quickly gathered his supplies and rode the many long miles to Fingon’s encampment. However, when he finally arrived, Fingon’s great army was already on the move. He caught up to the High King a few hours later after riding his horse to the brink of death and then running the rest of the way. He was sad that he had pushed his beast so hard, but he had deemed that bringing his message was necessary. When Fingon heard his news, he thought it generous that Thingol would send warriors, but he also thought it unnecessary to wait for them, since his army had numbered in the thousands. After delivering his message, Tarendur sought out Beleg and Mablung in the vast advance column, and though he had been weary, he marched for the rest of the day with them.

The fifty elite warriors that had hastened to join Fingon’s army never arrived. Somewhere in the lands between Thingol’s domain and the plains of Anfauglith they had simply disappeared without a trace. Perhaps Morgoth’s orcs had ambushed them and slain them all, he did not know. Tarendur had learned of their disappearance much later, after he had survived the five nightmarish days of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, in which much blood was spilled and many good elves, men, and dwarves died. He had been there when the battle began after Gelmir had been executed before the sight of Gwindor; he had fought with ferocity as Fingon’s force charged right to the gates of Angband; he watched comrades die as the force retreated. He had felt a stirring of hope as the armies of Gondolin and Maedhros arrived, and then a feeling of dread as he saw that the Easterlings had turned on them. He had been separated from Beleg and Mablung in the maelstrom of struggling bodies, and he had been pushed aside by the driving phalanx of the Balrogs as they made for Lord Fingon. He had watched the High King fall; he had seen him pounded into the dust, the blue and silver banner stained with his blood.

Tarendur suddenly wrenched himself from his dark thoughts and found that he had been sweating profusely. He had been thinking of his past for nigh upon half an hour, and he had neglected his duty of being the company rearguard. Calming himself with stable breaths, he once again began to stare into the shadows for movement and strain his ears for sounds inaudible to most. But his mind once again began to venture toward thoughts of that terrible battle, horrifying images that he had still not gotten over.

After the slaying of Fingon and the routing of the Noldor, Tarendur had done all that he could to stay alive. He had fled into the Fens of Serech with many others and there treated their many wounds, as well as his own. When the retreating host of Turgon passed by, they took these wounded men and elves with them. They gave him their thanks, and asked him to come with them, but Tarendur refused to go, for his goal was to return home to Doriath alive. He would regret that decision, because for two weeks he hid out in the Fens, utilizing all of the survival skills he had ever learned to stay alive. He lived off of reed plants and water tainted with blood for those fourteen days, until the orc activity in the area had decreased.

Then, he had escaped the detection of the orcs by crawling low through the swamp and covering his tracks as he fled for the mountains of Mithrim. He had spent another two weeks traveling from those moutains across Mithrim and Northern Hithlum on foot, seeking shelter from the Noldorin elves that no longer dwelt there. In time, he had circled around and made his way southward into Dor-Lomin. There he had learned of the harsh occupation of the Easterlings, and he felt great sorrow thinking that the race of men that he loved so well had betrayed the elves. But the Edain had remained faithful, and as he journeyed, he asisted them whenever he could.

It was 2 months and a fortnight before Tarendur Atanion had arrived at the village of Hamed-Harend at the foot of Ered Wethrin. He had originally decided to cross the mountains by himself, but upon learning of Heir and his need for fighting men to guard his passage into Southern Beleriand, he happily decided to aid him. He had welcomed the prospect of company, but thus far, the other guards, or more appropriately “mercenaries,” had remained aloof and not talkative, and he had as well.

Tarendur again caught his mind wandering, and desperately strove to concentrate on his task. He was weary, for he and two others had kept the last watch that afternoon, since the company was resting by day and traveling by night. However, he had been awake for much longer periods of time than this, so he could certainly handle the exhaustion. He resumed his duties at the end of the column, exploring the high mountain scenery around him. “It is a beautiful night,” he thought to himself. “But I would rather be experiencing it at home right now than anywhere else.”

***

The front of the lead wagon also held a man that was deep in thought. He was golden-haired and blue eyed, and noble in appearance, but he was also aging, and his brow was creased by wrinkles and his mouth was deep-set with many lines. He was the man known to all of the mercenaries and most of the refugees as Heir. Only those of his household knew that Heir was really Gethred son of Gundor, an heir of the house of Hador. His path to Hamed-Harend had also been a long one, and a tragic one as well, and as the wagon’s advanced forward, he dwelled upon those memories of the past.

He had been born as the son of Gundor, the younger son of Hador Lorindol. When he was only nineteen years of age, Gundor and his grandfather had died defending the fortress of Eithel Sirion during the Dagor Bragollach. His young mother and he had fled to the homestead of her kinsman Vared Edheron in Dor-Lomin. She let no one know that she had been the wife of Gundor, and so it was widely assumed that his wife and child were dead. Gethred quickly became friends with Vared’s son Vanrahar who was two years younger, and the two learned more of their weapons training from the elves of Fingon in Hithlum who dwelt nearby.

That same year, Gethred fell in love with Nirhael, a young healer in the homestead. The two had immediately fallen in love, and they were married the next year. Vanrahar also married young, and in time he had a son. The son of Gundor was happy in his new home.

However, their peace was short-lived. A foul wind swept down to the homestead from the north, infecting and killing the people. In that pestilence, Vanrahar’s wife and child, and Gethred’s mother perished. Afterwards, the two friends no longer desired to live with Vared, and taking a large number of their kinsfolk with them, they journeyed northwards and established their own homesteads in the rolling hills near central Hithlum. There they would live for many years.

A few months after they had relocated, Nirhael gave birth to a golden-haired daughter. She was named Glóredhel for this reason, and also after Gethred's aunt. It was three years before Nirhael gave birth again, but it was a difficult birth that resulted in her death. Gethred grieved for his wife for many days, and afterwards chose never to speak of her again. The memories hurt far too much for him to do so. Just thinking about her made tears well up in his eyes, but he brushed them quickly away and tried to forget. The son born that day was named Tathras. Gethred did not blame him for his mother’s death; instead he loved him the most, for he believed that her spirit had gone to him.

At ages twenty-four and twenty-two, Gethred and Vanrahar had taken part in their first battle, participating in an ambush that destroyed a whole party of orcs venturing near their homestead. Both were no longer just fighters, but grim avenging warriors. This victory over mortal foes had a profound effect on them, and they began to venture forth to waylay any orcs passing through the region.

Though younger, Vanrahar proved to be the better warrior by far, for he had the best weapon skill of all the warriors on the homestead. He could use almost any weapon to his advantage, whether it be sword, knife, bow, or pike, and that made him extremely deadly to enemy, but Gethred was by no means a poor fighter, for he could wield a battle-axe with deadly strength.

Heir smiled thinking of the times long ago with Vanrahar hunting orcs as if they were only deer. He had been rash and immature in those days, driven to destroy any enemy in sight to fill the emptiness of his lost love. He now he realized that his exploits had been dangerous and foolhardy. He and Vanrahar were still overcoming their own griefs at the time, making their attacks audaciously as youths would do. He shuddered to think what would have happened had he died and his children had been left alone.

When Gethred was twenty-seven, he and Vanrahar left home to join the forces of the Edain and Noldor to the south. Gloredhel had begged to come along, and Tathras had cried for hours after their father announced that he would be leaving them for some time. In those years, the avenging warrior in him had still not departed, and he felt it was his duty to his people to fight, even if it meant forsaking his young son and daughter. Gethred had already begun to receive renown for being a wise and just lord, and rumors were already circulating that he was indeed a member of the House of Hador. He felt sickened again, thinking about how easy it had been to leave his children behind in the care of his kinsmen.

His cousin Galdor the Tall was the captain of the forces of Dor-Lomin. When Gethred had told only him that they were related, he had rejoiced and welcomed them to his retinue. Galdor led them into battle against the legions of orcs who had been harassing the mountain passages once again. At Eithel Sirion, there was another great battle, and Gethred and Vanrahar had been there when Galdor fell, pierced by a deadly shaft. The friends had learned that war was no longer fun and games as their friends died around them. The army of the Edain triumphed that day, but Gethred was wounded almost to the point of death, by the weapons of the enemy. Vanrahar had desperately sent for a healer, and one came and did his best to aid him. However, it had seemed very doubtful that he would live.

Gethred shuddered, his body feeling chill because of the mountain air. He still was in awe that his spirit had not wavered and departed to the realm of death that day. He had survived. The elven healers had borne him away, leaving the others wondering at his disappearance. It was said that they had known that Gethred was meant for great things, and so they used their greatest arts and skill to save him. Afterward, he had spent a few months in a beautiful and magical realm that his mind still longingly dwelt upon. However, bad consequences usually follow surviving grievous wounds, and his body was like that of an old man in the years to come. He would no longer be able to fight in the battles against the enemy, for his warrior’s stamina had deserted him.

A few months later, the healers who had kindly brought him to that hidden land returned him to the world of men. Vanrahar, who had believed that Gethred had died and been burned was overjoyed when he almost miraculously returned. He eagerly wished to know where Gethred had been, and though he continually pressed Gethred in the days that followed, the son of Gundor did not tell him. He would never tell him, even though he suspected that Vanrahar could guess. At least, Vanrahar never questioned him afterward.

When he had become able to walk, Vanrahar had slowly escorted him back to his homestead, vowing that he would not go to war again until Gethred did. The day they left was the last he ever saw of that magical realm.The near fatal injuries that the son of Gundor had received changed him. His fiery spirit settled, and all thoughts of war now sickened him. He settled in to raising Gloredhel and Tathras, the greatest joys in his life.

Gethred loved both of his children very much, and they loved him back. He had given them the best of everything that he could afford. The fame of an heir of Hador living in the north of Dor-Lomin caused many of the Edain to flock to his homestead, and he had become wealthy and prosperous as an owner of cattle. And so, he was able to by them the best jewelry and weapons, horses and hunting gear. The children of Gethred son of Gundor were both alike in many ways. They were both free-willed spirits, and in their childhood they were the best of friends. They both shared a love for the forests and nature, though Glóredhel just enjoyed the peaceful environment while Tathras enjoyed the hunt. Vanrahar trained the children in the use of weapons, though Tathras favored the long sword and Glóredhel the knife. Vanrahar had given his friend’s daughter his own pair of throwing knives, since he no longer used them.

Gethred’s children grew up fair and strong, and much loved among the people of the homestead. Tathras was known as a clever and capable warrior, and Glóredhel was an intelligent and beautiful healer like her mother, though also capible of fighting, at need. They were Gethred’s pride and joy, and his love for them had only grown over the years. Gethred’s eyes again began to water as he thought of those happy times that seemed as if they were in a distant past.

Finally, the year came of battle of Unnumbered Tears, as the Union of Maedhros sought a decisive victory over Morgoth. Messengers came from Hurin, Gethred’s kinsman, asking for men who would fight under his banner. The increasingly cold winters of Northern Beleriand had had a bad effect on their lord, and he had been recently ill. Tathras volunteered to go in his place, because he had turned fourteen and he was a strong warrior. Gethred and Glóredhel had vainly tried to stop him from going, but he did not listen, for he felt that the time was ripe for decisive action against the hated foe. Tathras was too strong-willed to restrain, and he went to war against his father's will.

Gethred gave leave for Vanrahar to return to battle as well, for he knew that he had wished to be a part of it. He claimed that Vanrahar’s going forth was not breaking his oath, as his son went in his stead. His last request of Vanrahar before he left was that he would watch over young Tathras. And so thirty men including Tathras and the now grizzled veteran Vanrahar set forth from Gethred’s homestead to fight in one of the greatest battles of the age. None ever returned. Gethred had grieved long for the loss of his only son and best friend.

News of the disastrous battle was soon followed by invasion by the Easterlings; the sons of Ulfang who betrayed their race by fighting under Morgoth’s banner. Gethred loved his home very much, but he knew that the sons of Ulfang would show him no mercy if he remained to face the attack. He had recovered from his illness by this time, and he made the important decision to quickly flee his before the Easterlings arrived. Quickly, he and his household packed as much as they could into a few wagons and set of in the middle of the night, exactly one month after the catastrophic battle took place. Some villagers remained behind, and when the Easterlings came, they made them their thralls. His herds were all slaughtered in the fields for a great celebration feast.

Gethred, Glóredhel, and the few others with them fled south to Hurin and Huor’s homestead to find that the Easterlings had occupied it as well. However, Morwen gave supplies to her husband’s kinsman in secret, and Gethred continued to flee southward before the cruel men of the East knew that he had visited. Finally, the household took lodgings in a small village known as Hamed-Harend. He found this place to be a safe place to stay, though during his sojourn there he did not reveal his true name, for he feared the spies of Morgoth. He went only by the vague title “Heir”, and the townspeople did not question him further on his real identity.

The village lay near the point where the Ered Wethrin met the Mountains of Mithrim, and Morgoth’s hand had not reached it as of yet. But that did not remain true for long, for the Easterlings continued their advanced southward, pillaging settlements and enslaving the people. The only hope of safety would be to cross the dangerous mountains and seek look for a haven among the elves, or among other men, as of Doriath. Orcs were known to prowl the mountains, and dangerous outlaws as well, so he began enlisting the aid of any good warrior to pass through the village for protection on the dangerous journey that he soon would have to make.

At first, the hope of finding anyone to provide safeguard seemed very bleak, and Gethred had hired one of those that he was fleeing to be a mercenary guard. He looked out of the back of the wagon, taking a long look at a stocky, swarthy-faced man clad in dark brown that was sullenly walking behind everyone. He was Steirna, one of the sons of Bor, an Easterling. Gethred deeply regretted hiring him, but at the time there seemed to be no one else who could help them. However three days after Steirna had ambled into town, Hamed-Harend was flooded with travelers; people who had been displaced by the recent invasions of Ulfang’s sons. Within a few hours, the son of Gundor had enlisted the aid of a wandering band of seven Noldorin elves, led by a brash young elf by the name of Iridon Staredal. The following day, he had signed three men who had fled from western Hithlum and a quiet elf with a harp who had ridden in on a beautiful white horse. There was also a quiet, green-eyed warrior of Brethil, clad in black and driven by demons unknown to the son of Gundor.

The day after brought the arrival of three more men and two more elves. The men were all wanderers of the Haladin, and they were of similar appearance and personality. The two elves were more notable: a proud looking one with a mighty spear and a breastplate emblazoned with an emblem of the sun, the other a gray-eyed, brown-haired Sindarin woodsman clad in green who bore a tall elvish longbow. Gethred had recognized this elf from someone, but he could not place it at the time.

Things had settled down after the days of arriving people. The town had become very overcrowded, and Gethred feared that the dark forces would soon take notice. Therefore he hurried his preparations for departure, desperately seeking a guide who knew the Ered Wethrin region. Luck soon came with the arrival of one of the House of Bëor who had recently spent time in those perilous mountains. When Beregor son of Berenor had been hired as a guide, the household of Gethred began to set forth into the mountains with one wagon that had survived the journey from Hurin’s homestead many miles to the north. But the news of a party departing over the mountains spread fast among the people of Hamed-Harend, and soon three other wagons were hastening to follow a group with a military escort. Gethred had had too much kindness in his heart to make them go back, for the opportunity for escape was ripe.

As Gethred’s wagon had led the way out of town, he came across a man and a dwarf heading in the opposite direction. The man seemed had both a noble and sad demeanor at the same time, so he had stopped the wagon to question him.

"What is your name, and why do you proceed toward this town with such noble sorrow?" Gethred had asked him.

"I am Follnor Laurent and my companion is Barret Horn. I may show sorrow because I have survived many hardships and faced bitter tragedy in the cruel wilds of this land," said the man. "I care no longer the direction my feet take me, and with my companion ever I wander over these Northern Lands doing what I can to stymie the evil of Morgoth. And what name would you go by who questions me now?"

"I am known as Heir for at this moment," answered Gethred. "I deem you to be a good and worthy man, and if you and your companion wish to provide your services as guards for my traveling group, I would be greatly pleased."

Glóredhel had supported her father’s proposition by smiling kindly down at him from atop her steed, and Follnor Laurent of the House of Bëor accepted on his own behalf and that of his companion the offer to be guards of Heir. They quickly changed direction and joined in with the company, as the wagons moved again toward the mountains. There would be close to seventy of them, in all, which was a number pushing the limits of caution, but the son of Gundor had faith in the men he had hired.

Overall, there were twenty strong fighting men enlisted to guard the four wagons of close to that were fleeing Hithlum. Gethred knew that if he made it safely through the mountains he would have only a small sum of the riches he had brought with him left, but he considered safety to be of utmost importance at the time. Now, though, it was three days later, and the traveling company had not run across any danger as of yet. Some of the men of his household had begun to question his decision to bring along so many 'mercenaries,' but he still believed that all twenty-one of them would be needed at some point. It might have been that the presence of his guards had prevented danger thus far because they had passed by known highwaymen posts unmolested.

Gethred looked far ahead from his position in the wagon, spying Beregor the guide. He had originally been hired as a fighter, but upon learning of his skill in pathfinding and knowledge of the mountains, Gethred had appointed him as the guide for finding a reliable route through the Ered Wethrin. He had done an excellent job so far, leading them off the main South Road onto the less-traveled side trail that wound around the clifftops that they were on now. The son of Gundor hoped that Beregor would continue to guide them well and lead them carefully through this treacherous terrain.

Just as Gethred finished his musings, the wagons rounded another bend and began to slowly descend. They traveled downward for close to an hour, and as they did, the path got narrower, and everyone except for the guards boarded the wagons from the lack of walking room. Finally, the descent ended, and the company of Heir arrived at a large pine-glade. Beregor retreated from his lead position to confer with Gethred.

"There is a small spring on the eastern fringe of this glade," said the scion of Bëor casually; the first words he had spoken since the party had left its previous camp at sunset. "I suggest we rest and water the horses here before continuing up another slope."

"Very well, that sounds good," replied Gethred, pleased at the opportunity to stretch. His joints were not in the shape they were in twenty years ago, and sitting for long periods of time often made him stiff. "We shall rest here for an hour."

[~Barahir]

Soon the four laden wagons had been pulled to a stop, and the travelers began to set up a small temporary encampment. Servants ran about carrying out orders and the guards sharpened their swords and carried on about past battles, and glory, and about their loved ones, living or dead. Many different races and kinds had been gathered there, and Follnor wondered much at this. But more on his mind, at the present was what exactly was going on here, and whom the man was, who wished to be known only as "Heir."

Follnor Laurent told his dwarf friend, Barret that he was going for a drink, and to see what this caravan was all about.

"I'll not be long,” he said. "Just long enough to fill my wine sack. It is nearly empty."

He offered to fill the dwarf's bottle, and his companion gave it up to him, his being nearly empty as well. Walking leisurely toward the spring, he passed many different folk. Some seemed fair, but others seemed hardened, and one, in particular gave him a cold look through his narrow eyes. Quickly passing, he soon came to the spring, and filled two canteens. Though Follnor's was fairly small and lightweight, being made from leather, Barret Horn's canteen was large and cumbersome, being made of wood, and could hold over three pints.

Follnor finished filling the containers, and knelt down to splash some of the water in his face, and wash clean the dirt. He had a deep cut on his left arm, which he had simply bandaged up, hoping to be able to get it better taken care of in a nearby village. This he washed, also, and then after having cleaned it, bandaged it up anew.

Just then, in the water's clear reflection, he caught sight of someone behind him. Standing to greet this person he turned to find the woman that he had seen when he was ... "What is the word?' he thought. "Enlisted." It was the lady Gloredhel. Slightly startled, he pushed back his shoulder-length hair, which had fallen over his face, partially.

"Hello, fair lady." he respectfully greeted her. "I am Follnor Laurent. Who might you be? Did I not see you when I was... picked up off of the road?"

"Indeed you did," she responded, looking at his arm, "and my name is Gloredhel. I am the daughter of the one whom you would call 'Heir.' Pardon me for asking, but in what manner did you receive that cut on your arm? Do you require my aid?"

"I'll be fine," said Follnor. "I learned skills in healing from my father, when I was but a child, and now I am 74. Thank you for the offer, though."

With that, he said farewell, and picked up his canteens, both filled with the water from the spring. He intended to bring them back to Barret and then seek the man who had hired him, for he still had many questions which he thought only reasonable to have answered. Barret, he found waiting for him. Once again he told his dwarf companion that he would be back soon. On this occasion, though, the two left together, to seek Heir. Barret carried both canteens.

[~Arathorn III]

A few feet away from the wagons sat a man named Beregor. Activity surrounded him; people eating, some renewing their water supply, others tending the horses. He rationed a small bit of the precious waybread kept in his pack, and slowly chewed. It was not satisfactory, but it would have to last. The journey over the mountains was a long one, and bad weather or enemies could delay the trip. And where would they go after crossing the range? At present their only thought had been to get out of the land suppressed by the Easterlings.

Beregor thought about the events leading to this day. Though young, he had experienced many hardships. He had been lost in the wilderland south and west of Brethil, some short time after the Dagor Bragollach. For many years he laboured to survive, until finally making his way west, he crossed the mountains and came back to his home in Dor-Lomin. By chance as it seemed he became deadly ill at the time Húrin led the forces of Dor-Lomin to the great defeat that was the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. He only survived by the great healing skill of a friend. When at last he recovered, he cursed his luck, for he wished to fight for his lord and country. But when news eventually came of the tragedy that had befallen before the gates of Thangorodrim, he realized how fortunate he was, though still he would have fought and died beside Húrin and Húor. In the days following the Nirnaeth Arnoediad he had resided in the small village of Hamed-Harend, working as a tradesman. When the man who wished to be known as "Heir" asked him to be a guard for a journey to freedom, Beregor had accepted without much thought. He wished to do something for his fellow Edáin.

He was brought back to reality by a deep voice - "I believe you are the guide of this company?" The voice belonged to that of a tall man standing in front of him. A Dwarf stood beside the man. "Yes, I am he" Beregor asserted, with a nod. He recalled passing the two on the road a few days ago. One could hardly forget such a strange pair, he thought, with a smile. The man spoke again, "Allow me to introduce myself and my companion. I am Follnor Laurent, and this is Barret Horn. I am looking for Heir. Do you know where he is?"
"Well met, Follnor and Barret!" Beregor pointed in the direction of a wagon nearby. "You will find Heir over there I believe."
"Thank you" replied Follnor, and with a smile went to search for Heir, the Dwarf following behind.

Beregor prepared to leave. He would go on ahead while the others were still resting. The road must be safe for four wagons and nigh on seventy people to traverse.

[Eowyn Elfsheen]

Glóredhel had looked at Follnor and thought there was no way he could be over age 35. She looked at him and his Barrett and wondered where Follnor learned his healing skills from, perhaps the same place as she? She felt a bit unusual among the new company. She had followed them to search for her father.

Glóredhel had not learned her skill with herbs from him, but from an old elf lady who had died of grief in a time when Glóredhel was still a very young. Glóredhel had great repect for this woman, and listened to her words well. She also had a high interest in horses, and she would sometimes teach Glóredhel new things. Sometimes, if you looked at Glóredhel carefully, it was as if you could see this old happy elf still enflamed inside her own unhappy mortal body, glimmering in the sun because she had had such a profound influence on her. Her heart was telling her much was about to come and her skills were going to be needed before the night was over. She touched her two daggers in the dark, hoping nothing would disturb the peaceful star-filled night.

She then prepared the last of her packages and boarded with the wagons.

Farther off sat an elf. Fearohir he was named. He was sitting in the shadow of the mountains, away from everyone else. He battled with his thoughts about his inaction in the battles of Beleriand, and his transformation from a prince to a mercenary who would make heads roll for the highest bidder. He finally pushed such thoughts aside and looked around. Nothing but gathering of men, he thought. He had seen the small group of Noldor, and he would be extremely wary of them.

[~Theodred]

***

Gethred son of Gundor finished admiring the night sky before beholding what was going on around him. Everyone had busied themselves in various activities suited to them. The expatriate men busied themselves mending the wagons, for the journey over the mountains had succeeded in damaging them, while the women and children utilized the opportunity to move around. Some of the warriors wandered restlessly around the glade as if they were just waiting for a reason to be needed while others occupied themselves by refilling their canteens and sharpening their weapons.

Many of the mercenaries worried Gethred. There were some that he just did not trust, such as the more savage looking men and the Easterling. From his vantagepoint in front of his wagon, he could see Steirna sulking around the fringes of the glade by himself, and he became greatly troubled. There were so many people fleeing Dor-Lomin with his party, and he feared that one of them would wander off and be left behind when the wagons continued onward. He deeply regretted hiring many of the dangerous looking mercenaries and he deeply regretted allowing so many people to follow him. But there would be no other way for all of these people to flee with the luxury of armed guards, and braving the wilds could possibly be much safer than facing the cruel sons of Ulfang.

Worrying about Easterlings suddenly reminded him of Gloredhel, who had dismounted her horse and wandered off as soon as the company had stopped. He loved her dearly, and he hated to think of what the swarthy men would do to her if they had somehow captured her. Lately, since her brother’s death, she had been rather distant and impassive; showing none of the affection that she normally characterized. He looked around carefully, but found her not. Gethred had been too deeply involved in his thoughts to stop her, and he regretted that as well. Breathing slowly, he tried to calm himself. “I regret so much and nothing has even gone wrong yet,” he said to himself. Then he crossed the glade toward the eastern edge where the spring was suppose to be, hoping that he would find his daughter along the way.

Walking as steadily as his legs would let him, he approached the treeline. There, he came face to face with two figures in the shadows. At first Gethred started, but then as the forms entered the moonlight, he found that it was only Follnor and his dwarf companion.

“Well met, Follnor Laurent,” he said in a relieved tone. “You sent my heart racing as you stepped from the shadows just now.”

“Well met, Heir,” was the tall man’s warm reply. “I have been meaning to speak with you.”

“Then by all means, speak,” replied Gethred genially. “And while we converse, have you seen my daughter Glóredhel recently? I’m afraid that she has wandered off, and I am not sure in what direction.”

[~Barahir]

"I saw Gloredhel earlier. She is your daughter, then?" Follnor mused.

"Indeed she is. And all that I have left, now," replied Gethred, seeming distant. "Where did you see her last, might I ask?"

"When I was refilling my canteens over at the spring, and she came up behind me. We did not talk much, for I was tired, and also in a hurry to see you."

"You have found me. What is it you would ask?" said Gethred.

"All I wish to know, for the present is what exactly the purpose of this company is, and who exactly you are; one does not ordinarily go around by the name of 'Heir,' does he?" inquired Follnor.

"I am afraid, then, that your questions must go unanswered a little longer. Just know that you are helping many people by accompanying us. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must find my daughter," said Gethred.

With that, Gethred and Follnor said farewell, and parted. Follnor and Barret decided to "see if anyone else around would be more forthcoming than Heir had been," and set off toward another small group of people.

***

[~Theodred]

Tarendur meandered aimlessly around the glade, feeling out of place in the crowd of men. Weaving around the carts, he passed several bustling servants near Heir’s wagon who were trying to reattach a wagon wheel after changing an axle. It was clear that they were having no luck, for they were about to drop it. Tarendur eagerly joined them to help out. He added his strength to theirs to lift the heavy wheel back into place and then slumped to the ground panting from exertion. One of the exhausted servants slid down beside him, smiling wearily as he did so.

“Thank you kindly, good elf,” the servant said gratefully. “I don’t know what would have done had you not come to our aid.”

“Glad to be of service,” said Tarendur as he stood up and brushed the dirt from his green garments and cloak.

“My name is Ranor, and I live in the household of Gethred,” said the servant proudly, as he too stood. “What is your name?”

“I am Tarendur son of Taerwë, but the many of the Edain call me Atanion,” Tarendur replied. “Who is this Gethred, for isn’t this the wagon of Heir?”

Ranor’s eyes widened as he realized the slip that he had made. He began to stutter and attempting to correct the statement he made, and Tarendur immediately saw that the identities of this servant’s lord and Heir were one and the same. He recognized the name Gethred from long ago, he was one of the men he had fought beside at Eithel Sirion.

“Save your explanation, good Ranor,” he said wisely. “If you wish for the true name of your lord to remain secret, then secret it shall remain.”

“Thank you,” gasped the servant in relief. As Tarendur began to walk away, he called out, “Perhaps we will be able to speak again sometime.”

“That would be very pleasant,” returned the Sindarin elf politely. Then, he continued his wanderings around the clearing.

Tarendur decided to search for some elven company. He loved the race of men, but he sometimes speaking with his own kindred was more satisfying. He hadn’t spoken to another elf since the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and he yearned to speak with one of the Sindar to learn if his friends had survived the battle. Tarendur knew that there were several elves among the ranks of the mercenary-guards, but he was unsure if they were of Sindarin or Noldorin brethren. They could possibly even be some Green Elves of Ossiriand.

As he neared the other side of the glade, he saw Heir speaking with Follnor in the shadows by a large boulder, his dwarf friend remaining silent by his side. By the time he had approached the close vicinity of the rock, Heir had hurried off into the woods, leaving Follnor and the dwarf by themselves. Tarendur continued moving around the perimeter of the glade, noticing that Follnor followed him. Seeing that he desired to speak, Tarendur acknowledged him.

“Greetings Follnor Laurent,” he said, reaching out to clasp the tall man’s hand. The man of Bëor’s noble house grasped his hand and shook firmly.

“Greetings elf,” he replied, his gray eyes peering through the dark into Tarendur’s almost similarly colored ones. “In dangerous times such as these, it is good to make friends on the road. I see that you know my name, but I do not yet know yours.”

“I am Tarendur son of Taerwë the elf said for the second time that night, “though I am often known to men as Atanion. Now I seek elven company, for I wish to hear news concerning the fate of my friends after the great battle not three months ago. You are welcome to accompany me if you wish.”

“I have nowhere else to be at the moment, so I will follow you,” responded Follnor. “That is, if my companion Barret can join as well.”

“Yes, both of you can come,” said Tarendur. “It seems as if there is a small gathering of some sort near that fallen tree,” he said carefully, his elven eyes peering into the night.

“Then let us head over there,” said Barret with a deep laugh.

The man, elf, and dwarf slowly sauntered over to the group by the fallen tree. As they got closer, they could see that the small group consisted of seven young elves clad in cloaks of deep brown with hoods. They sat on the log conversing in low tones until the three others stood before them. Then, the one who appeared to be their leader stood up and stepped forward. He was also a very tall elf with sharp blue eyes and a square-jaw. His hood was down, and his red hair shone in the moonlight. He was most certainly a Noldorin elf, perhaps one of Fëanor’s people.

“A beautiful night, is it not?” he said pleasantly, his way of greeting them. “I am Iridon, called Staredal by my people. This is my war-band. Who are you?”

[~Barahir]

"I am Barret Horn, of Nogrod," said the dwarf, boldly.

"Well met, then, Barret," replied Iridon. "And what are your names?" he said, directing the question toward the elf and the man.

“I am Tarendur son of Taerwë, and a Sindarin," responded the elf for the third time that night.

"And I am Follnor Laurent, of the House of Bëor," said the tall man.

"I see," Iridon said. "What brings such an unusual combination of warriors together? Have you known one another before this company's gathering, or was it just chance which brought you together just now?" he further inquired.

"I for one have known Barret for 14 years," answered Follnor, "though Tarendur we met only today."

[Eowyn Elfsheen]

After leaving the spring, Glóredhel had been feeding the horses, not very much concerned about anyone else. She was feeling empty and removed, but it was not because she did not care for others, only that it did not appear as if they needed aid. She stayed with the horses to keep watch on them and to calm herself. She was in no mood to talk to anyone. She soon fell asleep after a short time. She hoped her father would not be anxious too much since she has been so cold and distant, but in her heart she knew he would care significantly. That thought alone made her colder inside.

Glóredhel watched all the people go by and was glad that they reached the glade safely. There were many people in the wagon camp; many people she did not want to associate with.

At length, she stood up and went back to her wagon. When she found that her father was not there, she wandered into the cold night looking for him. At last, she saw him over by the spring.

"Father!" she exclaimed. "I have been seeking for you a while. I am glad to see we arrived safely!"

"Finally I have found you! Where have you been?" he implored, relieved to see her.

"I have an important matter to speak with you about, but we have not the time now, as the carts needs to be fixed and we must make haste. We shall speak early tomorrow morning when we are going again, if not, we will speak briefly anyway,” she said cryptically.

I was really worried about you. Tell me now if you deem it urgent enough." Gethred said carefully.

"I have been watching the horses, Father, and you may find me there if you wish to speak with me. I figured you would feel so." Glóredhel replied with a sad smile and nodded.

"Very well then, you always were good with the horses, but we may need you for other duties,” he warned sullenly. “I will come after the work is done.”

After speaking with her father, Glóredhel went back to where the horses were tied. She got anxious after a short while; she decided to cloak herself and wander across the safe glade. She saw Follnor and Barret conversing with some strange Elven company by a fallen tree. At first she decided to hide herself, but then she moved closer to observe more. She saw a Sindarin elf with them, then she noticed an Elf that was slightly different in appearance. He was introducing himself as Iridon, and the rest of his company of Noldor was rather silent. Iridon asked the name of the company, and Barret introduced himself first, then the Sindar who was named Tarendur, then Follnor. They seemed to be conversing calmly with one another, but she sensed tension. She decided to move forward and join them.

In the dark, a cloaked Glóredhel came forward, whispering in a deep voice, concealing everything but her blue-gray eyes: "I am Glóredhel, the daughter of Heir. I see the stars are very beautiful tonight. I named my horse after the Elven constellation of Remmirath, which follows the same path of the sky as the stars do now."

[~Theodred]

“Very…intriguing,” said Iridon smoothly. “Interesting circumstances have brought us all together, have they not? I came to this land as a warrior to fight in the battle and found myself becoming the leader of my kinsman’s depleted military unit. Who would have thought that I would be the leader at this point? I suppose they do not deserve to be called a military unit now, more of a war-band, my war-band.”

“I suppose so,” Tarendur said slowly, a little hesitant. Iridon spoke with a haughty tone and arrogant demeanor, and the Sindar was not sure that he liked him. Part of his speech seemed to show that he was truly in awe that past events had landed him as a leader, but others showed that he wished to boast of his achievements. Tarendur assumed that it was both. Iridon seemed prideful, overbearing, and difficult to tolerate, but he wished to reach out to him all the same. Desiring to move the conversation from Iridon’s detached ramblings, he tried to think of subjects for idle discourse.

“So, Lord Iridon,” he said, indulging the red-haired elf with the high title, “what lands do you hail from, for you are no doubt one of the Noldor.”

Iridon smiled wistfully at being address as “Lord Iridon.” He was obviously pleased by his position as an elven “Captain” so to speak, even though he did not look the part of a courageous leader. Tarendur did not doubt his fighting skill, for though he was thin, he was also very muscular, and he wore a heavy looking greatsword by his side. But somehow, the Sindarin warrior doubted that he was the type that led men into battle. He listened as Iridon began to speak about his home.

“I originally come from the region of…” he began before he was interrupted by the appearance of another figure from the shadows. The form outlined by the moonlight was almost completely covered by a cloak, but her blue-gray eyes were left exposed, seeming to shine eerily out of the dark. Iridon and his men stepped back quickly, traces of fear on their tight-drawn faces. The moonlit silhouette began to speak, and Tarendur realized that the cloaked shadow was a woman.

"I am Glóredhel, the daughter of Heir. I see the stars are very beautiful tonight. I named my horse after the Elven constellation of Remmirath, which follows the same path of the sky as the stars do now."

Tarendur was also slightly startled by Gloredhel’s sudden appearance, but he recognized her to be Heir’s daughter. She had made a rather out of place statement, but he understood that she was somewhat nervous in introducing herself to a large group of people. Seeing that the others did not know what to make of her, he smiled reassuringly and moved forward to greet her.

“Welcome Gloredhel,” he said kindly, smiling at her encouragingly. “I know that I have noticed the splendor of this night as well. It reminds me of the stories my father used to tell me of Beleriand before the rising of the moon. If you know not already, I am Tarendur son of Taerwë, a Sindarin warrior of Doriath.” He was beginning to become slightly tired of continually introducing himself. “From now on I shall let others do the introducing for me,” he thought.

“Yes, I am aware of all your names, so save your introductions. I have been listening to your conversation since it began,” said Gloredhel with a laugh. The atmosphere had lightened considerably, and it seemed as if the woman of the Edain was no longer uneasy. She removed the cloak hood to reveal a beautiful pale face with golden hair. Noticing that the others were enamoured with her beauty, she giggled softly. This was followed by another short period of silence, as the others smiled bemusedly.

“I originally come from the region of Himring,” Iridon began again, seeing now that he had the opportunity to speak, “However since the Dagor Bragollach I have abided in many places, some of which I wish to keep secret.”

It was obvious from his emphasis that he wanted someone to ask about the secret places he had lived in, but Tarendur wished to indulge him no longer, and he did not inquire more into the matter. Instead, he desired to ask him about his heritage, for his appearance and homeland gave the impression that he was of the people of Finwë’s eldest son. Turning towards Iridon, he said:

“Who are you akin to Iridon Staredal, for your hair, home, and prideful demeanor lead me to believe that you are of Fëanor’s people.” Tarendur regretted adding “prideful demeanor” immediately after he had said it. He hoped that it did not sound as if he was trying to offend him, he only meant that Iridon showed the pride of his people. However, he knew that the Noldorin warrior would take thing the wrong way.

“Demeanor? Prideful Demeanor? Whatever is that supposed to mean,” he said coldly.

“I am sorry my choice of words,” Tarendur said carefully, not wishing to offend him further. “I only meant that…”

“What did you mean?” Iridon exploded, his eyes a fire with indignation. “Yes I am of the people of Maedhros, but does that make me a bad person? It is true that Fëanor and his sons committed tremendous atrocities upon fleeing Valinor, but am I to be blamed for it? I was born here in Beleriand, and I had no part in their wicked deeds. And yet you condone me for being prideful like Fëanor, being cruel like Fëanor, being cursed like Fëanor.

“Do not judge me on the deeds of my forefathers, for I am not them. I am free to choose my own path without pursuing their terrible oath. I am proud to be of the lineage of the Noldor, but I have no pride in being accused of being like the evil ones before me. Come now my warriors, I no longer wish to speak with those that accuse me of malevolence.” And with that, Iridon began to storm away in anger, his men shuffling away behind him. Much of the activity on that side of the camp had stopped as those who were working turned to watch the elven prince hurry away. Gloredhel looked deeply disturbed, and Tarendur glanced over at Follnor who had his mouth open in surprise.

“Iridon, forgive me, I did not mean it like that at all. I did not accuse you of being anything like your forefathers. Please come back, I am very sorry.”

However, Iridon did not come back, instead, he continued walking with his prized war-band in tow, and he did not turn around. Tarendur, Follnor, Barret, and Gloredhel all stood still in shock, watching him until the wagons in the camp obscured their view. After he had gone, they continued to stare in his direction in silence.

“Well, the heritage problem seems to be a pressing issue on his mind,” said Barret at last with a frown.

[~Barahir]

"Indeed it does, my friend," said Follnor, still slightly surprised at the way that Iridon's anger had erupted.

"He is, however he may deny it, just as his forbearers...very prideful," Tarendur thought aloud. "Let us hope it is not the death of him."

"Humph... I for one wouldn't loose sleep over it," muttered the Dwarf, shaking his head.

Barret and Follnor began to pick up their things, and Tarendur shifted. Gloredhel pulled her cloak over her head again, covering her beautiful hair. All of them seemed uneasy.

"Well," said Gloredhel, after some period of silence, "that was by far the most surprising event of the night!" She was no longer smiling.

Tarendur nodded in response.

"I suppose we must be on our way," said Follnor.

"Then I wish you a very fond farewell, Follnor Laurent, and Barret Horn," Tarendur said warmly.

"I shall be going as well," Gloredhel said, turning away from the felled tree.

"Would you mind if I accompanied you?" asked Tarendur. "I would like to have someone to talk with, and since Barret and Follnor are heading off, I was wondering if perhaps you would not mind company."

"I would not mind if you came with me. I am going to tend to the horses, right now, and I shall speak with my father later tonight, but you are welcome to join me in conversation on the way there," said Gloredhel.

"Then let us be off," Tarendur replied.

Tarendur and Gloredhel then went off in one direction, and Follnor and Barret in another.

***

Fearohir sprang up from his spot, and walked off to the edge of the camp. He peered at the stars for a while, singing softly to himself of the lands beyond the sea, and of the great sea itself. A little later, he decided to retire for the night, but when he turned around he accidentally bumped into someone, and was knocked on the ground.

"You clumsy man! Watch where you're going!" said a voice.

Under his hood Fearohir laughed silently. He rose, and casting back his hood, said in a somewhat proud voice:

"I am no man. I am Fearohir, and a prince beyond these shores. Who might you be?"

"Iridon. Iridon Staredal," the voice retorted.

"I suppose you are Sindarin, Iridon Staredal."

"No, Noldorin." He said with a twisted smile that seemed to suggest loathing.

Fearohir brooded silently with his head bowed. The nightmarish and horrific memories of the Kinslaying rushed back into his thoughts again to torment him. In an otherworldly and tortured voice he said:

"Be gone son of Fëanor, lest it turn to your evil and I slay you, as you slew my people."

Iridon’s face was contorted with rage, and it looked as though he would respond, but he didn't and he and his war-band left Fearohir to brood in peace.

***

[~Theodred]

After tending to all of the work that needed to be done to get the wagons into shape, Gethred began to head over to the center of the glade where all of the horses were tied to one of the wagons. He was very worried about Gloredhel, for his daughter had voiced a warning in her heart that something was amiss, and he knew her feelings to often be true. She had behaved very strangely over the last few days, shunning the company of all save their steeds. He remembered the times that seemed long ago when she had ran over hill and dale, laughing and playing. Those days were gone now.

As Gethred reached his destination, he found nobody there. He looked carefully around, but Gloredhel was not in the nearby vicinity. Terrible thoughts came to him as he wondered if she had again ventured into the woods, the dark perilous woods. Slowly, he sat down on the edge of the wagon to wait for her, wincing as he bent his knees. Eithel Sirion had left his body as a wreck. Though he was middle-aged he no longer had the physical prowess of his youth because of it. Taking a deep breath, he looked upward once more at the stars. Why couldn’t things have just stayed simple?

Glancing at his surroundings again, he breathed a sigh of relief as he saw Gloredhel coming towards him. With her was a gray-eyed Sindarin elf clad in green, the one he knew from somewhere. Why couldn’t he remember?

He decided to abandon his fears and misgivings for now and greet Gloredhel as she arrived. Grimacing as he stood, Gethred welcome his daughter back with a grin saying: “I thought you were the one who had urgent news for me. Why then have you kept me waiting?”

“I am sorry, dear father,” said Gloredhel, her face brightening with a now rare smile, “but I was off exploring more of the camp-site. I have brought with me an elven warrior who I have been conversing with.”

Turning to the Sindar, she introduced him as Tarendur son of Taerwë. The name brought forth a stream of images to Gethred’s mind, and at once he remember this elf. He had known him as Tarendur Atanion, the only elf fighting with the men of the Haladin at Eithel Sirion. This warrior had been with him in Galdor’s foreguard and he had fought over his broken body after he had fallen. This elf was good and noble, but Gethred still did not wish to divulge his name to him. He figured that Tarendur would not remember him anyway, and so Gethred introduced himself as Heir. However he immediately spied a flicker of recognition in the Sindar’s eyes, and he knew he was remembered. The elf might have known him, but he did not press the matter.

Turning to Gloredhel, he said: “Daughter, what is it that you wished to warn me of? You told me that there was something wrong and that you would speak to me in private. Should Tarendur stay for your secrets, or is it only my ears that must hear of it? Tell me now, so that I may know if we are to depart quickly!” he said, his face taking on a new expression of urgency.

[Eowyn Elfsheen]

Glóredhel looked at her father gravely and spoke quickly and said "I must speak with you alone."

After leaving Tarendur by the wagons she told her father what she saw by the tree and of the Noldorin who called himself "Iridon" and his actions and reactions to others introductions. Also she said her heart told her to stay near the Sindar until she felt it was safe for their kin. He would need her aid if the Noldor were to do something unusual. She felt the Noldor too proud and did not trust him or his war-band.

Glóredhel was a fighter, and quite accomplished in her skills to heal and kill, but only her father knew to what extent, and had no idea that she spent a lot of time between the horses practicing with those daggers. But fighting was not a thing she wanted to do unless she felt she needed to protect her kin.

There was something strange about this Elf, she had seen her father glance at him quite unusual, wondering what he was thinking of him, and why he had such an unsure look that she was with him. She felt he was no harm to her, maybe just some company, it is after all, nice to converse with someone and find interest in what they have to say about such simple things that most Men did not. In a way, it seemed to invite her curiosity to what his exact mission was, and she really wanted to go and do something meaningful. She wished she could get out of this place and go back home and be safe again as well, but yet all the circumstance was filled with terror and a growing fear overall. She did not know what "home' was anymore.

Glóredhel told her father "I foresee something terrible is about to happen, it is not clear to me, I am no Elf-kind, but can I not help and fight? I normally do not feel this, but the tension is like a fog and we must save the others and ourselves! We must make haste!"

Gethred looked silently and said nothing; he did not want to lose his daughter as well, knowing they must move on, not wanting to answer.

Glóredhel walked over to Tarendur and asked him: "Would you please help my father fix these wagons so we can go on from here? He will greatly reward you for your service if we can make plenty haste."

Tarendur looked slightly daunted by the idea, but seeing Glóredhel's tears of urgency, he could not help but to bequest her and help her father.

Glóredhel cloaked herself and went to get some fresh water and food for the horses for the day while Tarendur started helping to fix the wagons.

[Arveleg]

A good distance away east from the wagons and the crowd, on the borders of the wood, stood a man deep in thought; his black cloak shrouding his presence from all but those who were wary. His name was Caldárus, one of the "mercenaries" given the task of protecting the caravan of wagons as they traveled through the mountains. He was left undisturbed in the night, pondering the events that led him to this very spot, and wondering if he had in fact made the right choice.

Originally from the forest of Brethil, he lost his mother to illness and his father to a band of orcs at a young age, and was raised in part by an old smith of Brethil, known as Dursay. He it was who taught Caldárus the art of forging blades, and the basics of wielding them. Dursay was the only friend that Caldárus had, and the only friend he needed. He was a wise man, and would often give advice when asked for.

Caldárus often spoke with Dursay throughout his youth of recurring dreams that plagued him in the night. Dreams of a mysterious cloaked maiden; "fair and radiant" he would say, "like a bright star in defiance of the darkened sky. In her eyes I see her soul, yet no face can I remember, as it is shrouded by the mystery of the dream." Dursay regarded this as important, but had not quite understood how serious Caldárus was.

Eight years before the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, when Caldárus was but seventeen, he suddenly disappeared from Brethil, and was missed by none, save Dursay, who had seen him off the night of his departure.

"I do not understand your decision friend," he said, "but you have never let that stop you before." Then he smiled. "Return to Brethil one day, and we shall speak of your adventures!" He clasped his young friend's shoulder. "I name you 'Arscúveth' 'Follower of dreams'; may you return with your dream fulfilled!"

Caldárus' thoughts were then interrupted as he watched a tall man with deep gray eyes pass him in the night. He was dressed in battle gear and a tattered cloak. In either hand he carried a canteen, and a magnificent helm he carried under his arm, which gleamed in the light of the full moon. He gave Caldárus a friendly nod as he walked by. When the man had passed into the darkness, Caldárus sighed and looked into the night sky. "Ah, good old Dursay." he thought, "You were always an understanding fellow."

Not much is known among the peoples of Beleriand of Caldárus Arscúveth after his departure from Brethil. He wandered for eight long years, and the Nirnaeth Arnoediad began and ended in his absence. He was seen from time to time in the south, and it was there that he was given his title by the people who dwelt there: It was "Caldárus" which means "The Melancholy." He was seen as a cold man, for he was silent and kept to himself. Neither a laugh, nor even a happy expression ever crossed his face. He was misunderstood by all.

Through many perils, many battles, and many adventures he at last returned to the forest, now a skilled swordsman and survivalist, and a grown man of twenty-five years. He returned to hear that Dursay had gotten very ill a few years back, and had died not long after. Anger and despair had consumed Arscúveth at that time, with the loss of his friend, and naught gained from his long journey. He then wandered in the west for a while; not sure where he was going or why.

Arscúveth was once again disturbed from his thoughts as the man passed him by again, nodding a second time in a friendly manner. Caldárus returned the nod, and watched as the man disappeared in the darkness again, only to return a third time. This time there was a dwarf at his right side. After they had passed, Caldárus returned his eyes to the sky. The stars were brilliant, and reminded him of many nights in the south when he had camped out in the wilderness, with naught but the low crackling of the fire to listen to.

After wandering aimlessly for a great while in the west of Beleriand, in time his traveling led him over the mountains into the east of Nevrast. His knowledge of the north was only through tales told to him by Dursay in his youth, and he had unknowingly made his journey much longer by having to cross the perilous mountains twice before he finally entered into the lands of Hithlum and Dor-Lómin.

There he hoped in vain to find rest and perhaps a good meal; but that idea was soon shattered as he beheld the legendary house of Hador in ruins. In a village on the outskirts of Dor-Lómin, he beheld men killing men, and enslaving them while they mocked and laughed at their plight.

These oppressors went boldly about the town, shouting, drinking and boasting; Caldárus did not like the feel of them from the start. Foolhardy men they were, with a demeanor that made him sick. In the days that followed, Caldárus spent much time hiding in the shadows and observing the situation; only revealing himself when an opportunity arrived for him to aid someone in need.

On one such day, he witnessed a couple of drunken men beating an old man in the street; mocking him and laughing at his apparent attempt to stand up to them. A dagger was produced by the larger of the two men, and his intent to kill the helpless old man was made obvious.

Caldárus charged from his hiding place swiftly, taking the men by surprise. He slew the attacker where he stood, and the other man, looking quite surprised, drew his weapon and charged in anger. He was outmatched, and soon fell beside his companion. Caldárus turned to help the old man up out of the dirt.

Just then a call was heard from behind him, and he suddenly realized that he had been rash. In his haste, he did not bother to plan his attack very well, and as he turned towards the call, he beheld at least a dozen more men running in his direction. Most of them were carrying weapons, some shouting in anger, others shouting with joy at the idea of an easy battle. It appeared that Caldárus had walked into a gathering place for these men. Most likely they were training nearby, or battling one another merely for the thrill. "You had better make haste friend!" said the old man that he had saved. "Their numbers will only grow!" Then he scrambled to his feet and moved out of the way as fast as he was able. Caldárus looked at the man hesitantly for a moment. "Do not worry about me!" The man shouted in anger. "It is you they are after!" With that, Caldárus fled to the south, and being much faster than these men, he was able to gain much more ground and soon had eluded them entirely.

At last in time he came to a small village known as Hamed-Harend. It lay at the edge of the mountains and the base of Ered Wethrin. There the people of the house of Hador were hiding, hoping to avoid the occupation of the Easterlings, as Caldárus soon learned they were known by. There he heard much of the war and the events that had passed while he was away in the south of Beleriand. Eventually, he was asked to help defend a group of fleeing townspeople by a man known only as "Heir".

Caldárus was reluctant at first, as he had long traveled alone, and did not wish for the company of a large group of people, but when he thought about it for a while, he eventually agreed to help. As it was, he had no destination on his long journey, and seeing these great people going through such hard times made him sad. He would help as much as he could.

"Yes, perhaps it was meant to be." he thought.

He had set out with them on that fateful day, walking alongside the second wagon from the rear, all the time keeping a vigilant watch on the mountains, as well as his new companions. One in particular he distrusted immediately; the Easterling. Yes, he was noticed right away. Caldárus could not imagine what he was doing here, but perhaps there was a good reason.

As he concluded his thoughts, Caldárus reached into his cloak to retrieve his canteen, and set out towards the spring.

[~Barahir]

***

Follnor Laurent and Barret Horn made their way back from the trees. Follnor had a long confident stride and his companion a quick trot of sorts. Coming to the edge of the wood they stood for a moment and gazed at their surroundings. It was a beautiful land and the reflection of the night sky and stars could be seen in the winding stream nearby. It would be almost peaceful were it not for the presence of the caravan and all the clamor it brought.

The two walked toward the river, Barret to wash his face, since he had not done so or even seen his reflection for nigh a week, and Follnor simply to contemplate without further strife. Although the last remarks of Iridon still laid heavily upon their minds, Follnor found it not difficult to remain at peace of mind. Drawing his breath he took in the crisp night air. How refreshing it was to spend a night out of doors in the open air, he thought, smiling.

They came upon the stream, and Barret set his canteen upon the tall grass and knelt down to wash his face. Follnor set down his canteen as well, and also removed his bow and greatsword from off of his back. Turning around he could see Barret drying off already. He could also see the stars more clearly, mirrored in the clear water. A way down the stream there was another man filling his canteen. Farther off he could see the shadowy silhouette of three antlered creatures grazing calmly in the rocky foothills of Ered Wethrin, whose tall peaks bent over the surrounding area, casting long shadows across the land. He could not tell what kind of creature it was that stood along with two others. Only that it was now moving away and back into the shadows of the mountains.

Follnor's thoughts began to wander. Looking back upon his life, he recalled his ancestry. He was originally a Man of the Edain. More specifically, he was of the House of Bëor, one of the first three houses. He could honestly not be called a "Man of Edain," now, though, because of the fact that he only lived with his Kinsmen for a short time. At 26 he became estranged from his people, seeking a different life. He found this different life secretly fighting Morgoth with four of his dearest friends. Together they sharpened their skills as woodsmen; rangers they were called, by some. Steadily they became further adept in the use of the bow. They became unparalleled hunters and marksmen, rarely missing a shot, and over time, developed techniques for nearly flawless hiding and stalking, and with their naturally keen eyes, could spot and mark any foe within a quarter of a mile.

Follnor looked around. Nothing seemed to be happening. A gentle breeze blew, and he drew his cloak close around himself. Returning to his ruminating he recalled how his seamless lifestyle fell apart. By the time he was 51, he was the most cunning and quiet warrior of the five, and fearless also. On one fateful day, the group headed to an enemy encampment, intending to raze it, kill its denizens, and take what supplies would be of use. On horseback they rode, for speed, but as they came suddenly upon the camp (sooner than they had expected), they were spotted by enemy watchers. The five scattered. One was shot in the neck, just above the line of the iron collar that he wore for just that purpose. Another was caught by surprise by two orcs who were hiding in the shadows of the overhanging rocks of their camp. One orc put his scimitar deep into the brown horse's side, throwing off it's rider, and the other orc took advantage of this and stabbed him in his unprotected back. The other three riders, including Follnor, himself kept riding in their separate directions, save for Baldor, who had seen Follnor and followed him.

The other rider was soon removed from the fray, being shot by Orc archers. Soon, Baldor caught up with Follnor. The two rode forward, then, once again toward the camp, this time, more quietly, though, as they badly needed supplies. Closer they came, without any sign of their presence being acknowledged. The orcs had apparently thought they had killed off all the raiders. But lo! Follnor saw above him a group of stealthy orcs lying in wait in the trees above. It was a trap! The enemy had not been blind to their presence. In an instant, three black-feathered arrows pierced his horse's neck, and he had just enough time to leap off his felled steed, Holdwine, to miss another aimed at his chest. Dashing to the nearest tree, as had his companion Baldor, he took cover and quickly used his long bow to pick off two archers in the trees just across from where he was. Just then, a large and particularly tough looking orc came down out of a tree and landed less than a meter in front of him. A white-feathered arrow protruded from his thigh and two more in his stomach, apparently having been felled by Baldor. Another came crashing out of the trees, and as he spotted the last one, he marked it and let fly his white arrow. The dull sound of its impact could be heard some distance off, followed soon by crash of a body hitting hard the ground below it. They had survived the trap, so he thought. However, Follnor only had enough time to find Baldor again, before his friend died in the arms of his captain, pierced by many arrows.

After this incident, he wandered far, in some dismay. He chanced upon a group of Dwarves from Nogrod, whom he aided, and received aid from in turn, including a steel breastplate fitted just for him, and a helm of the same like. This was where he had met Barret. He glanced over at his Dwarf friend who was now cleaning his tall axe. Barret would not be parted with him when he took his leave of the others, after a year, setting off again, this time in hopes of encountering the Firstborn. He had been lucky when he chanced upon the realm of the Sindar of Beleriand, at the age of 65. Here, he improved still his skill with the bow, in time, becoming their ally. Follnor even became apprentice of a smithy, and it was there that he forged his sword Laureandune. He had received his greatsword Randirvilya from his father when he became 20. His new sword’s name meant "Golden Sunset" for obvious reasons: all along the blade, golden tracings could be noted, and its hilt was encrusted with gems that shone bright red in the light of a sunset. He fingered the sword at his side. Its gems were dull in the sullen gray shadows even though the stars illuminated them somewhat. Starlight was not what they were meant to reflect in, so they remained dull, as one would even find ordinary stones from a pond. Follnor sighed. Living with the elves, he passed his life story on and gained their honor and compassion. Nine years later he decided to leave again. As a parting gift, the elves gave him a hunting dagger called Thaliongalad, which means "Strong Light," as it emits a bright white glow when orcs are present, much like many of the swords forged in Gondolin. Months later he encountered a party of travelers heading down the South Road out of Hithlum. Having been employed by a man who went by the recondite name of Heir, he found himself sitting here, ultimately.

"Fairly uneventful," he thought to himself. Casting his glance back toward the waters he noticed that Barret was no longer sitting on the bank. Follnor stood up to his full height, stretching his worn muscles. Looking about he saw no sign of his companion in the nearby vicinity. Barret's belongings were also gone.

"Strange that he should leave without first telling me," Follnor said to himself. "I don't know where he would have gone to in this wilderness."

Slinging his sword upon his back and his bow in the same, he surveyed the surroundings more closely with his keen eyes. At the lead wagon he saw a tall figure and two average sized figures trying to hammer a metal strip around one of the wheels for better endurance through the mountainous terrain. There was a third shorter figure, also, whom he thought to be Barret, perhaps.

Follnor walked toward the wagon, and upon drawing closer he saw that the short one was indeed Barret. The tall one was Tarendur whom he had met just earlier. The other two he did not recognize, and they were men, dressed in like raiment.

[Bregor]

As Tarendur gave a final stroke upon the metal band, Follnor strode up.

"Greetings," said Follnor. "So this is where you went, Barret?"

"Ah, yes, my friend," responded the dwarf. "It seemed as though these people were having some difficulty with the repairing of the wagon wheels, so I came to lend a hand - and hammer."

"And your help was most welcome, Barret," said Tarendur, "as it still is."

"Well, then," said one of the two men, "if you're quite finished, we could still use some help here!"

"My apologies," said Barret, crawling under the wagon. He then pushed up and lifted it off the ground. "Hurry!" he cried. "Mount the wheels while my arms last!"

Follnor jumped in and helped, sliding one of the new wheels onto the axle, and the two men sliding the other wheel on the opposite side. Tarendur put them into place properly, and then Barret let it back down, with the help from Follnor and Tarendur.

"Whew!" exclaimed Barret. "Could you have worked any slower? I thought my arms would give way," he laughed.

"Sorry about that, friend," said Follnor.

"Ah, not a problem. At least I needn't worry about the rear wheels. They are in no need of repair, thankfully," he said smiling.

[~Theodred]

“For one of such small stature, you possess considerable strength!” said Taradan with a grin, his gray eyes shining with mirth.

“Size is of no importance in regard to strength,” said Barret gruffly, still panting from his exertions. “Though you may be considerably taller than me, I could certainly stand you on your head if I chose to do so.”

The laborers all had a good laugh at that remark. Along with Barret and Follnor, two servants of Heir’s household worked with Tarendur to help with the wheels. One was Ranor, the servant he had aided almost an hour earlier. Just then, Heir returned from supervising the re-loading of the other wagons. He looked anxious, and he seemed to want to get the company moving once again. Tarendur did not blame him. Though they meant to rest for an hour, they had tarried past their time limit. Seeing that the work was done, Heir strode up as quickly as he could to speak with them.

“Everything done?” he asked apprehensively.

“Yes, milord,” answered Ranor. “All of the wagons are re-fitted and ready for travel.”

“That is good,” said Heir, looking less stressed and more relieved. “Prepare the wagons for departure immediately. And Tarendur, Follnor, and Barret: thank you very much for your help tonight. Beregor says that we must cross this next mountain soon or else we will not find shelter before daybreak.” With that, he quickly marched off to manage more business.

The servants dispersed to their various duties, leaving Tarendur, Follnor, and Barret standing in the middle of the bustle. The horses were being re-harnessed and those who had gotten out of their carts to stretch began to get back in. The chaos was similar to when they had first stopped; only everything seemed to happen in reverse.

“Well, it has been enjoyable jesting with you Master Dwarf,” said Taradan flashing another quick grin at Barret. Then his voice adopted a more serious tone. “However, we must join our separate positions among the guards of this company.”

“We would willingly walk with you,” said Follnor warmly. “The rearguard is an often tedious and lonely responsibility.”

“I welcome the company,” replied Tarendur, happy that he had found friends during this dangerous endeavor. “Come, let us go now, for the wagons are preparing to leave!”

The four wagons had already formed their single file column, but they were still at rest, and the several mercenaries hired by Heir were stationed at various points around them. When the three reached the last wagon, they found Iridon’s war-band already there. They heard the rash Noldorin captain proudly boasting to his men that they were performing the most important duty to the party by guarding the rear from attack.

“It seems that our hot-tempered friend has already chosen this post,” Tarendur whispered to the others.

“Well, if he wants it, then let him have it!” exclaimed Barret, moving in the opposite direction.

“I agree with that resolution,” laughed Follnor. “Let us make our way to the front of the column and see if more amiable company lies there.”

They quickly strolled down to the head of the procession where the least amount of mercenaries seemed to be. There seemed to be no one else there except for a young man who kept to himself, but they were soon joined by a young elf with a beautiful white mare. The elf was clad in garments of dark brown, and from his shoulder dangled an expertly crafted wood harp. He was tall and dark-haired, with a friendly face and high brow, and he seemed overall very peaceful in nature. However, his weaponry betrayed that he was not entirely passive, for a longsword was slung behind his back and a dwarf-forged dagger hung from his belt. When he arrived, his thoughtful facial expression brightened.

“Greetings,” he said with a genuine smile. “I am Daedhel of the Sindar. Who might you be?”

Tarendur was too weary of introductions, however it seemed that Barret and Follnor were, as well. When no one responded, he put on a cheerful smile and stepped forward to introduce himself. “Forgive us, Daedhel, for we have given our names to many this night. I am Tarendur son of Taerwë, also of the Sindar. My companions are Follnor Laurent of the House of Bëor and Barret Horn of Nogrod. Do you hail from Doriath as I do?”

“Indeed I do,” said Daedhel gently. He seemed too kindly to be among a band of warriors. “I come from the eastern fringes of the Forest of Neldoreth, so I do not believe that we have been previously acquainted.”

“Perhaps we might have, many years ago,” Tarendur suggested. “Who were your kin? My father could have known them.”

“I have a long and dark past that I do not wish to reveal as of yet,” said Daedhel softly, hardness for the first time entering his gentle tones. “Please do not persist in questioning me more in the matter.”

“I am sorry if I offended you, fellow Sindar, for I did not mean to,” Tarendur said cautiously, desperately hoping that the kind elf would not explode like Iridon. He glanced quickly over at Follnor, his eyes entreating him to relieve the sudden tensions. The tall warrior understood what he was trying to communicate, and immediately asked a casual question.

“So Daedhel,” he began before pausing. “Where did you get that fine horse?”

Daedhel laughed melodiously. It was crystal clear like a bubbling brook. “Do not worry, friends, I do not take offense at small matters as such. My mare is named Nimroch, and I received her as a present from the Elu Thingol because he liked my harp playing.”

Tarendur smiled, knowing now that he enjoyed the company of this kind and considerate elf. “Perhaps in safer lands you can show us your musical talent.”

“I would do so gladly,” replied Daedhel happily.

Suddenly, they heard a low rumble behind them. The procession of wagons was slowly moving again, intent on climbing yet another mountain.

“Well, let us be off then,” said Barret. The party once more resumed their journey.