Marchwarden: Son Of Guilin 1

Marchwarden: Son Of Guilin

Part 1

Posted: March 2005
Title: Marchwarden: Son of Guilin
Author: Kenaz

*****

The Dagorlad, Second Age, 3434

Galion swabbed sweat from his brow with his sleeve, his hands fouled with blood. Exhaustion crept over his bones like frost on a vine while the unrelenting flood of wounded and moribund into the healers' tents leached his dwindling reserves of energy and disheartened his spirit. Since the siege on the Black Gate had begun, he had set more broken bones, stitched more gaping wounds, and closed more lifeless eyes than he dared contemplate.

Across the arid plain, two archers stumbled toward him, bracing a third between them. They covered the distance quickly despite their encumbrance, and Galion sped to meet them. Dense and foul-smelling smoke belched from chthonic vents and ground fires, but even with his eyes half occluded, Galion well knew Haldir's form, and Taurnil's beside it. Orophin hung limply from their shoulders, blood sluicing from beneath his helm where mangled metal bit cruelly into his scalp.

The great range of Elven bows allowed the archers to keep to the rear of the formations, and for this they counted themselves fortunate. Yrch, though imbued with comparable strength, possessed more primitive weapons than their assailants, though their tainted bolts were every bit as deadly. The fortune of the archers had not held, however, the ranks shielding them growing thinner as men and elves fell to the enemy scourge.

The slashing blades of Eryn Galen and Lorien pushed forward, flanked by Gil-Galad's forces, armed as their king with long, vicious spears. Following the advancing companies, the Silvan archers drew closer to the Morannon. The adversary bade his time before letting loose a barrage from monstrous trebuchets concealed behind the ironclad walls. Orophin had been knocked from his feet as ballast crushed the men beside him. He had been, by Taurnil's account, only inches away from bearing the brunt of the assault himself.

"That will be little consolation when he wakes to find Vandilas and Otaróm dead," Haldir muttered, his face stricken.

Stiff metal proved a formidable opponent to Galion, who labored to dislodge the battered plate without inflicting further damage or pain. Orophin's cries diminished to low moans as he grew insensate, unconsciousness claiming him at last. Galion debated rousing him with smelling salts, for although the young archer was spared a cracked skull, the blow was hard enough to spur the healer's concern. Too often he had seen elves with deceptively minor injuries fall into a sleep from which they never awoke. But as Orophin's breathing was strong and even, the healer decided against it. The wound will be easier to tend, he reasoned, it if he is not awake to feel it.

The archers could ill afford to tarry among the wounded, but Haldir was loath to leave his brother's side. Galion was not blind to the fear and uncertainty in his eyes. Disoriented by the chaos of battle and Orophin's injury, his usual mask of confidence had slipped; Galion ached for his friend.

"He's in good hands, Haldir." Taurnil's voice was ever familiar and reassuring, and Haldir nodded, turning once more to Galion with a face as grave as stone, recovering once again his look of certitude.

"If anything goes amiss with him, find me."

He touched his brother's cheeks and placed a kiss to the bloody brow, then sprinted back toward the lines with Taurnil close at his heels. Only Galion marked how the archer's hands had trembled.

For months the Alliance struggled, and for months they held. Finally, the tide turned: as the sun began its slow descent below the fire-blackened horizon, Gil-Galad and Elendil harried Mordor's armies. Heartened by the retreat of the enemy, they fought with renewed vigor. By nightfall, the Black Gate was breached and Sauron owned himself bested, fleeing to his stronghold in Barad-dûr. Those still able roared their triumph to the starless skies.

But the ultimate victory was not yet in hand. Sauron would regroup in haste from within his dark keep, and the losses to the Alliance had been devastating. The Silvans bore the brunt of the war dead: Oropher's elves had been all but decimated in their premature assault. Thranduil, with grief obscured by righteous anger, took up Greenwood's banner and vowed to fight on until the Master of Treachery had been brought to his knees. Lothlorien, too, lost its king, and Amroth wept bitterly for his beloved father even as he assumed his helm and sword.

Long into the night, Galion toured the field of battle, littered with unnumbered corpses of every race, scanning the parched land for any living ally mingled with the dead, though few were found. The dark plain held little life and ample death, the latter providing a grand feast for the swarming flies that descended to consume their spoils of war.

A mewling sound turned him to a ghastly sight: an elf impaled on his own spear, his legs swimming futilely in the dust. Hot bile rose in Galion's throat; this wound could not be healed. The soldier's face was a landscape of mottled grey interrupted only by the vibrant crimson trail issuing from his mouth.

He collected himself before kneeling at the warrior's side, forcing his face into a semblance of neutrality in spite of his utter horror. 'His final vision,' the healer counseled himself, 'Should not be the face of disgust.'

"Please..."

The voice was barely audible, the breath coming in short, wheezing gasps; Galion was amazed to find he still drew breath at all. The smell of rot had already begun to rise from his punctured entrails, his listless, shaking hands clutching at the pike. Dark blood pooled thickly at his back.

"...Take it out..."

Galion reached into his pouch and his fingers found the one phial he had hoped never to use. Its amber broth promised swift mercy, but it was not a mercy he savored dispensing. Gentle hands pushed back strands of filth-clotted hair from the ashen face, and Galion felt a guilty tide of relief that this elf was a stranger to him.

"Drink this. It will dull the pain, and then I will pull it out."

The elf regarded him with clouded eyes, and Galion knew that though his vision diminished with each failing breath, he saw the bitter truth behind the honeyed words. Death was upon him, and the draught Galion offered bought only swifter passage. He shut his eyes and gave a weak nod, the healer finding some measure of absolution in that his patient understood what it was he offered.

"I'm sorry 'tis bitter," he whispered, speaking as much of his succor as of the draught he proffered.

...Your fate, my friend, is most bitter, indeed.

The elf grimaced as the vile liquid slipped down his throat. His eyes rolled again to Galion, face lost to some unknowable emotion. The healer cradled the warrior's head in his lap, stroking the clammy cheek and whispering fruitless words of comfort as the raspy breath slowed to a terminal hiss and the twitching legs ceased their dance.

It took more strength than Galion anticipated to dislodge the spear. The Noldo's body rose from the ground as he pulled it, but he refused to suffer this soldier the indignity of having a foot planted on his chest for leverage. Finally freed, Galion laid the weapon in the cold hands of its wielder, closed the elf's blank, staring eyes, and turned away.

The only other survivor to be found was a man of the Numenor with shattered legs whom Galion helped convey, screaming in agony, back to the camp. Haldir awaited him there anxiously, seeking word of his brother. There was little to tell: Orophin stirred intermittently but fell quickly back into impregnable slumber, thus there was aught to do but wait. Haldir squatted next to the cot, gingerly holding an unresponsive hand.

It was Taurnil who first beheld Elemmakil slowly crossing the Dagorlad, cradling a lifeless body. He surreptitiously nudged the healer, brown eyes wide with dismay, and Galion reckoned at once the elf he carried. Haldir, engrossed with his brother's still form, did not look up until the Marchwarden stood nearly at their feet.

The anguished cry broke over them like a wave. With a howl of grief more animal than Elven, the eldest son of Guilin crumpled as Elemmakil returned bearing the body of his father in his arms.

Mercifully, Orophin did not wake, and was spared his own grief for a few hours more.

* * * Translations * * *

Tangado haid
Hold the lines

*****

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