"Blood Ties" -- Story Contest Entry -- Chris Russo

[Chris Russo]

(Note: after misreading the contest rules, I wrote a four thousand word story, which I then had to trim down to meet the requirements. This is the short version of what was originally a much longer story.)

"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. Rain pattered on the thatched roofs of Archet's houses and barns.

Wrapped up against the rain, a black-haired woman stepped out of the farmhouse. 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. “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.

“We lured the raid into the marshes,” Randirion added, “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 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.”

Naerwen rose. “My husband is waiting. Keep him warm, brother.” Then she was gone, and the only sound was the rain pattering against the thatch.

He covered the old man in his own cloak as well. Faelon coughed. “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." He smiled. "Be at ease, ohtar. I have encountered worse.”

Randirion managed a smile, but all he said was, "You should rest, roquen."

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."

“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."

She turned towards the door, and Randirion suddenly blurted, "Why did you leave, Naer?"

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

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

"Do you not know?" She kept her back to him, and spoke to the barn wall. "I never wished to take up the cloak of a Ranger, to tread the pathless 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."

"Naerwen…"

"I came here to live in peace," she said, turning, 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."

"Archet has peace," Randirion broke in, "only because we guard its borders!"

"If you want to protect the Bree-lands, your time would be better spent on the fences, guarding the gates."

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

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

"I cannot abide such talk, sister," Randirion began, but broke off, listening. After a moment the sound came again, a voice from outside, calling Naerwen's name.

Naerwen's head turned, and she opened the door. Randirion watched, his eye to a crack in the barn wall, as she approached the short Breelander outside. "What were you doing?" Hob Pickthorn asked.

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

Hob grinned at her. "Oh. That's good. Here, it's wet out." He pulled the blanket from his shoulders and held it out to her.

"Thank you, but I'm coming in."

Together they passed into the farmhouse; Randirion saw their figures framed against the warm lamplight. Then the door closed, leaving only rain and darkness without.

[Mirimaran]

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

Awesome line. Awesome entry!

[Willrett]

great story I have a small idea im working on.

[Greg]

That was fantastic. I Echo Ken's sentiments about that line. That's worthy of translating into elvish and etching into a blade, (after tweaking for context, of course.)

[dwayne davis]

i agree with the others, a very good story indeed. if nothing else comes from this contest we shall all be entertained with wonerfull stories.