Fiction -- "Blood Ties" (full version)

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Chris Russo
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Fiction -- "Blood Ties" (full version)

Post by Chris Russo »

Here's the full-length version of the story--you get to find out what happens to Faelon, and a little more character development, plus a few cameo appearances. Hope you enjoy!


Blood Ties

Year 2908 of the Third Age

The autumn storm had been brewing for two days, away up by Weathertop. Not long after sundown it broke upon the Bree-lands like a great grey wave of the ocean. Rain pattered on the thatched roofs of houses and barns, or spattered among the brown leaves of the forests, pooled in ditches or trickled along roads.

Under the eaves of the Chetwood, Randirion sagged under his burden, and paused a moment for rest. The hood of his green cloak was pulled up against the rain. His tall boots were caked with the mud of many miles, and the shaking in his legs showed the fee those miles had taken. With his every strained breath a jet of steam writhed through the cold night air. The burden he carried was an old man, attired just as he was in varied hues of brown and green. The man lay unmoving across Randirion’s shoulders; grey hair hung down in dripping strings alongside the younger man’s darker hair, and his cloak dragged behind.

“A little further,” Randirion whispered, though he was no longer certain that the old man could hear. With a groan he started forward again, step by laborious step.

It may have been hours later, or only minutes, miles, or a few ells—he could no longer tell, the discipline of counting paces forgotten in a blur of cold and exhaustion—but suddenly the trees and thickets gave way to a twin-rutted road. The young Ranger paused, blinking blearily, then turned westward along it, staggering his way between the ruts. Not far ahead, a red light glimmered in the darkness: firelight, as seen through thick-paned windows. By the side of the road, a wall of blackness loomed up, a hedge or stockade. A paler shape against it turned out to be a gate. Carefully, without setting the old man down, Randirion felt along the gatepost until his fingers touched the eight-rayed star carved there.

His sigh carried relief and weariness. He slipped open the gate and stumbled into the farmyard.

###

It was late when a black-haired woman stepped out of the farmhouse, wrapped up against the rain. Her lantern cast a circle of light on the muddy ground.

“Naerwen?” Randirion called softly from the darkness.

The woman froze, dropping the kettle she had been carrying to the well. She raised the lantern higher. “Who’s there? Ran?”

He stepped closer, pushing his hood back. The rain ran down from his hair and cloak. “I need your help. Master Faelon has been wounded; he's hidden in your barn.”

“Keep your voice down!” she whispered, and looked back at the farmhouse. After a moment of listening, she sighed, and said, “Show me.”

He led Naerwen to the barn. Inside smelled of hay and chickens, but it was dry. Up a ladder’s climb in the hayloft lay the old man, wrapped in his cloak and dripping, on a thick pile of straw. His face was flushed beneath its grey beard.

“Naerwen,” said the old man softly, and a weak smile spread across his face.

“Hello, Master Faelon,” she said lightly. “I hear you’ve let some orc get the better of you.”

“Only a scratch,” said Faelon.

“It was a raid,” Randirion said. “Away by Midgewater. How they came so far from the mountains unassailed, I do not know. We lured them into the marshes, and drowned as many as we slew. But half a score remained when it came to battle.”

“And so you set upon five apiece,” said Naerwen, shaking her head, “like boys playing at being kings of old.” She hung her lantern on a peg and crouched down beside Faelon. Carefully she peeled away the rough bandage that was wrapped around his thigh and studied the jagged gash beneath.

Randirion muttered. “What peace would your husband's lands know if Rangers did not play at kings?"

She looked at him, her grey eyes like chips of flint, but all she said was, “You washed it out with athelas, I trust?”

“I did.”

"That will do for now." She stood up. “I cannot linger. My husband will look for me. I will return when he is asleep.”

“I understand.”

She rose, and pulled her shawl close about her. “Good night, roquen Faelon. And you, keep him warm, brother.” Then she was gone, leaving the lantern behind, and the only sound was the rain pattering against the thatch.

He covered the old man in his own cloak as well. Then, with many a sigh, he pulled off his boots. His knife he unstrapped from his belt, and last of all came the long sword at his hip, its scabbard dark and weather-stained. These he propped against the wall, close at hand.

“Where have you brought me, my ohtar?” Faelon asked. He had watched Randirion's movements silently. "If your sister is here, then surely this is Archet."

"It is," said Randirion as he eased himself down to the straw nearby.

Faelon's chuckle was dry. "I crave your pardon for the miles you bore me."

“You would have done the same for me. You should rest, roquen Faelon.” Randirion felt the old man’s forehead: it was warm to the touch.

Faelon laughed softly, but it sounded more like a cough. “When I was a warrior of fifty winters,” he said, “A poisoned dart struck me, when came the orcs down into the Coldfells. Lord Argonui himself carried me on his horse to Imladris, for the elves’ healing. I slept for almost three days before I woke.” He laughed again. “That is the scar on my back. So let fear grip you not, young ohtar. I have encountered far worse.”

Randirion managed a smile, but did not reply.

Eventually the old man nodded, and closed his eyes. Soon his breathing came slower, if still shallow.

There was a creak from down in the barn, and Randirion stiffened. It was his sister, however, returning from the house. She carried a steaming pot, and the aroma of broth filled the barn. Her mouth was set in a tight line, but she said nothing, only placed the pot on the floorboards. "When he wakens, feed him this."

"Thank you sister," said Randirion, climbing down the ladder.

“He isn’t good,” she whispered. “You should have taken him to Rivendell; I have no elvish medicine.”

“Rivendell was too far." His eyes flitted to the hayloft. “That blade was poisoned, then? The wound seemed shallow.”

“He has a chance, if his body is strong enough. All we can do is keep him warm and fed, and wait." She looked to the door. "I cannot linger."

“It has been long since I saw you last: stay and talk with me. Your soft Breelander can wait.”

Naerwen's eyes turned hard and she drew away. Randirion held up a hand. “Forgive me, sister,” he said quickly. “I spoke in jest.”

“You spoke of what you know not,” she snapped. “Hob is a good man. And I need not wait up at night, wondering whether he will return alive!” Her finger stabbed towards Randirion’s great sword, leaning against the wall. "There is a reason you carry that sword, and Father carries it no longer."

Randirion opened his mouth, hesitated, and closed it again. He could not bring himself to answer.

She held his gaze for a moment longer, before dropping down the ladder to the barn floor. Randirion heard the door close behind her.

###

By early morning the rain had drifted away across the Barrow-Downs, leaving the Bree-lands glistening wet. A thin fog wrapped itself about the trees. All was still, save the chattering of birds and the rustle of squirrels, and the morning chores of Hob Pickthorn.

Hidden in the wheat-field, Randirion watched the short farmer—not two feet taller than a hobbit—bustling about his tasks; milking goats, feeding chickens, drawing water from the well. Hob’s hair was sandy brown, and his beard was scanty, and he whistled a cheery tune. He seemed entirely unaware of his inadvertent guests.

The Ranger snorted, and moved on. He had left Faelon sleeping the hayloft, twitching in the grip of some uneasy dream. But Randirion could not stay to stare at the old man all day. A quick crawl through the wheat, a scramble over the stockade fence, and he was out in the free air of the forest again.

The rain had erased much of last night’s trail, he noted with satisfaction. Still, he backtracked for many miles, just as he had been trained to do. He could remember Faelon’s creaking voice explaining how to lay false trails, loop about, and keep from being caught off-guard. His father’s long battle-blade swung and bumped against his hip. His back ached, and his feet were blistered. But he was a Ranger of the North, a Dunedan of Arnor, so he grit his teeth and marched on.

He was deep in the heart of the Chetwood when the birdsong died. Almost without thinking he swung himself up into the branches of a sprawling maple and lay quiet.

They came loping through the shadows and brush, noses to the ground, eyes glittering. Two great wolves with coats of shaggy grey. Clinging to the back of each was a squat figure, bent low over the saddle. Orcs do not love the sun, and even here in the Chetwood the light must have seared their eyes and pounded their heads.

Randirion stilled his breathing and wished for his bow. It had been lost, however, in the Marshes.

The Wargs were perhaps twenty fathoms off when one of them stopped and made a coughing, snarling sound. “Gar!” said the orc on its back. “Track on. The trail will only get colder if you don’t.”

The wolf replied in the same dreadful language, and the other orc added, “He’s right. The rain’s gone and washed the blood away besides.”

“I’m not going back,” said the first orc, “to tell the Great One we don’t even know what slew our company. He’ll skin you alive if you show him cowardice, see? He’ll want to know who to pay back for this: elves, beardlings, or filthy tarks.”

“I don’t care who the boldog pays back,” the second orc groaned. “I wish to be out of this blasted light.”

“Ai! More cowardice from a sniveling wretch!” spat the first.

Keeping the trunk of the tree between him and the orcs, Randirion lowered himself quietly to the ground. His soft boots made scarcely any noise as he began to crawl away into the thickets. His mind was concocting a plan of action: decoys and deadfalls, lures and snares. But before he had gotten very far, a breeze sighed up from the South, swaying the crowns of trees and ruffling through his hair. He stiffened and held his breath.

Downwind, now out of sight, he heard one of the Wargs snarl something, and an orc say, “Where?”

He sprang to his feet and took off running, dodging bole and ducking bough. Behind, he could hear the rustling sounds of pursuit, the cursing of the orcs, and a long quavering howl.

The chase felt like it lasted for hours, though it probably was no longer than a few minutes. Randirion could never see his enemy, nor they him, but always he knew they were not far behind. If he could put enough distance between them, he could escape, or find an advantage, but for the moment he was the prey, and the hunters pressed him close. His breath labored in his chest, and his heart pounded.

At last he saw an opportunity: a great boulder, like some smaller cousin of the distant Weather Hills, surrounded by a stand of saplings.

Sliding to a halt, he pulled a length of wild vine from a tree, and, sliding out his knife, quickly lashed it to a sapling. It took another vine to tie the sapling back. He ripped out the leather thong that laced the throat of his tunic and strung it between two trees as the trigger. Behind him, the cries of the Wargs drew nearer. Quickly he clambered up onto the boulder and drew his sword, sliding into the guard of elenath with the blade pointed skyward: living bait for the trap.

He did not have long to wait. The first of the great wolves came crashing through the brush, the second close on its heels. They let up a yell when they saw him, and rushed upon him, so intent on their attack that they paid no heed to the tripwire in their path. The sapling snapped back like a bowstring, and the foremost Warg went down, throwing its rider as its howl died away in a gurgle.

The second wolf, however, did not slow, but leapt over its fallen comrade and scrambled up the boulder. Randirion kicked gravel in its face as it reached him: its fangs snapped blindly at the empty air. Its rider struck out with its spear, but Randirion danced back, his sword knocking the spear aside and taking the orc’s hand at the wrist.

The Warg whirled, snarling, and though Randirion again evaded those snapping jaws, it struck him hard with its furred shoulder. He stepped back but his foot met only empty air: he had reached the edge of the boulder. The Warg, too, had stepped too far. Wolf, orc and Ranger together fell the six feet to the ground below. Randirion tried to hit the ground rolling and was only partially successful—he landed with his shoulder and rolled onto his back, but a great tree-root jarred against his tailbone. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Warg land on its back with a sickening crunch, its rider beneath it.

Get up, said a voice in his head, which sounded almost like Faelon’s and almost like his own. Get up, you fool! He tried, but it seemed his legs would not obey.

Riderless now, the Warg rolled to its feet, and in an instant was lunging at Randirion. He pulled himself up half-sitting and thrust his sword out desperately. Its point met the Warg in the chest, but it came on anyway, its teeth closing around his boot. Pain shot up his leg. He kicked at the wolf with his other foot, pushed at it until he could pull his sword free, and hewed at its head. The great beast was thrown to the ground, its jaws releasing Randirion’s foot. It did not rise again.

It was some moments before Randirion could rise. His leg did not seem badly hurt—the thick leather had stopped the Warg’s teeth. His back still lanced pain, and his chest burned when he breathed deep, but everything seemed to be moving and working fine. He pushed himself carefully to his feet, stifling a groan.

A footstep scraped behind him. It was the first orc, the one that had been thrown from its mount, its face black with its own blood, its blade bare in its hand. It glared at him. “Bagronk tarkglob,” it growled, and came at him.

Randirion pulled his sword free of the Warg’s carcass, and years of training took over. He flowed up into the guard of circu and caught the orc’s sword on his cross-hilts. Then a thrust out into andras, a side step, and a sweep around into amlugtal, his blade singing through the orc’s shoulder before coming to rest behind him.

The orc reeled, staggering, and Randirion struck for the final blow. It never came. He swung, but found that the long blade of his father’s sword had become tangled in the tree-branches behind him.

A heavy blow to his sternum hammered him back. The orc had rushed into him head first, knocking the entangled sword from his hands. A moment later it swung its own curved sword up and about. Randirion evaded the first swing but the second opened a line of fire at his ribs. He caught the orc's wrists before it could strike again—it struggled with him, its sword waved wildly back and forth in the air, but he held it back.

The orc made a twisting motion with its knee, and Randirion heard a soft snick.

He spun frantically, pulling the orc against his hip and throwing it to the ground. Before it could recover, he plunged its own sword into its chest.

The forest was quiet. Distant birdsong seemed loud in the sudden silence; his own breathing was thunderous.

###

Naerwen did not look up as she stitched up the cut in his side. It was dim in the hayloft, but she had lit a second lantern to see by. Randirion tried not to watch what she was doing.

"It's a clean cut," she said. "And will mend well. This blade wasn't envenomed."

"I was lucky." His eyes flitted towards the old man, sleeping in the corner shadows, and he lowered his voice. "And Faelon?"

She bit her lip, and stitched in silence for a while. "The poison has spread," she said at last, but said no more.

The silence stretched on for a while, and Randirion ventured, "Before I returned to Archet, I walked to the Inn at Bree. Our kinsmen come there sometimes. I left a message with the proprietor." His lips twisted up in a half-smile. "Mattuck Butterbur was loath to bear messages for a Ranger."

"Is there a point to this story?" She pulled the thread up through the flap of his skin. "Or will you complain about my husband's countrymen all night?"

She knotted the thread, and pulled Randirion's tunic back down. As she began to stand, he suddenly blurted, "Why did you leave, Naer?"

She blinked, but did not look at him. "I fell in love."

"I mean before that. You had left us in heart and body before you ever met Hob Pickthorn. Why came you to Archet to forsake your friends and kin?"

"Do you not know?" She turned away, her back to him, and spoke to the slope of the ceiling. "I never wished to take up the cloak of a Ranger, to tread the houseless hills. But nor did I wish to sit in idleness in the hidden villages, waiting for those I love to return, when some never may." Her head bowed. "The first was your path, Ran; the second was Mother's."

"Naerwen…"

"I came to Archet to live in peace," she continued, raising her voice to be heard over him. She turned, and her cheeks glistened in the lamplight. "I married a man who will be home at my side, not off hunting orcs for endless weeks, while I wait up long nights for him."

"The Bree-lands would know no peace," Randirion broke in, "if the Rangers did not watch the borders."

"If you want to protect the Bree-lands, your time would be better spent on the fences, or guarding the gates, than as hunters in the wild."

"We cannot. It is not only Bree-land's fences that we guard. We live and die for the honor of all that once was the North-Kingdom—you know this."

"The honor," she groaned, and threw up her hands. "Arnor is gone. Ardethain and Cardolan are ruins. Our people are ragged beggars in the forests. What honor is there in dying for the ashes of a long-dead dream?"

"I cannot abide such talk, sister," Randirion protested, "not even from y—"

He broke off, listening. After a moment the soft sound came again, a voice from outside, calling, "Naerwen?"

Naerwen's head turned, and she stood. "I will return later," she whispered, and went to the ladder, taking one of the lanterns with her.

Randirion followed his sister down from the hayloft and watched, his eye to the crack in the barn door, as she approached the short Breelander in the house's doorway. "What were you doing?" Hob Pickthorn asked.

"One of the goats is almost ready to birth," she answered lightly. "I was walking her."

Hob blinked at her for a moment. Then he grinned. "Oh. That's good. Here, it's cold out." He pulled the blanket from his shoulders and held it out to her.

"Thank you, but I'm coming in. I'll check on her again later."

Together they passed into the farmhouse; Randirion saw their figures framed against the warm lamplight. Then the door closed, leaving only darkness.

###

Faelon no longer spoke, and seldom looked around. Most of the time he spent sleeping, his breathing loud and raspy. His wound, when Randirion changed its bandage, had a foul smell to it, and greenish blotches surrounded it. Randirion and Naerwen washed it often with athelas, but its cleansing properties could not overcome the poison inside.

In the morning, Naerwen found Randirion kneeling by the old man's side, staring blankly. Faelon was cold and stiff, his face ashen grey.

They drew his hood low over his face, and sewed him up in his cloak. The hayloft ladder served as a makeshift litter, and together they carried him out into the morning mists.

A stone-lined stream ran through the Chetwood half a mile from the Pickthorn farm. They laid Faelon on a bank above it, by the roots of a spreading linden tree. They laid his sword at his side, but Randirion took the star-shaped brooch from his cloak and slipped it into his belt.

"Navaer, Faelon," Randirion said. "I Melian berio le."

He felt his sister's hand on his shoulder. "Navaer," she said. "Geril hidh."

They stood there for a moment in silence. Then one by one they gathered round stones from the river-bed and began to raise a cairn over the old man's body.

It had not yet grown waist-high, and the sun had ridden high into the fields of the sky, when Randirion looked up, his hand drifting to his sword-hilt. Naerwen followed his gaze, but both relaxed, as two green-cloaked men came striding out of the tree shadows. Recognition dawned. "My lord Arador," said Randirion, and he bowed his head before the son of his people's Chieftan.

Arador strode forward, a dark-haired Ranger in his prime, tall of stature and broad of shoulder. "Randirion," he said curtly, nodding. "My lady Naerwen," he said, and bowed slightly. His eyes, however, were on the low mound of river-rocks.

"I did for him what I could, my lord," stammered Randirion. "If I had been able to—"

"Peace," said Arador softly. "You did well. Sad tidings indeed! For Faelon was my father's brother in arms. I wish we had come sooner." He moved closer, passing between Randirion and Naerwen, and stood looking down upon the cairn.

Arador's companion, a man with a bristling black beard, said, "We came down the Greenway this morning, and your message reached our ears. We had been away in the North Downs by fallen Fornost, hunting the rumor of white wolves."

"White wolves?" echoed the young Ranger, puzzled. "Are there such things?"

"Aye, up by Forochel, not around here." The bearded man spat into the undergrowth. "We found naught but rumor, and no track of any wolf, white or gray."

"This is a good place," Arador said suddenly. He was looking out at the stream, and the eaves of the Chetwood all around. "Long may his spirit defend the borders of Archet, while the Sun and Moon last! Losto vae, Faelon."

"Forgive me, Arador," said his companion, "but we cannot linger." Arador did not respond, lost in some private thought.

"Where are you going?" Randirion asked.

He smiled. "We journey now to Taurdal, to the Cheiftan's seat. And you must come with us, that Lord Argonui may hear your tale in full. For you have done well, ohtar Randirion."

Randirion nodded. Naerwen, who had been listening silently, stirred and said, "My farewell to you, masters."

Arador did not turn, but the bearded man bowed. "My thanks lady, for the kindness you show we who were once your people."

She curtseyed in return, and turned to Randrion. "Farewell, brother," she said. "May you find peace." She hesitated, then drew him into an embrace.

"Farewell, sister," he murmured into her shoulder, and found that he could not speak for the unshed tears welling up within him. He swallowed, and managed, "May you be blessed in the life you have chosen."

She kissed his forehead and pulled away. Her grey eyes, so like his mother's, met his own. "And you in yours," she whispered.

He felt a hand on his shoulder; he of the black beard smiled at him. He turned to Arador, still bent over Faelon's grave, and said, "We should go, ere the shadows lengthen."

"Yes, said Arador hoarsely. "Thank you, Dirhael."

Naerwen watched as the three Rangers walked off into the trees, following no path. She saw their green-cloaked forms blend in with branch and brush, until they could no longer be seen. Yet still she waited, and watched, there beside the silent grave.
"If you bring a Ranger with you, it is well to pay attention to him."
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Mirimaran
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Re: Fiction -- "Blood Ties" (full version)

Post by Mirimaran »

Outstanding! You should submit that, I think that the Tolkien Society takes fiction in their newsletter.
"Well, what are you waiting for? I am an old man, and have no time for your falter! Come at me, if you will, for I do not sing songs of dastards!"
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Peter Remling
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Re: Fiction -- "Blood Ties" (full version)

Post by Peter Remling »

Excellent tale, I throughly enjoyed it.
kaelln

Re: Fiction -- "Blood Ties" (full version)

Post by kaelln »

Very nice! You should consider a career in writing!
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