Nin

The Will Behind WOrds

Vales of the Anduin

It is here that the rugged, unforgiving terrain of the Misty Mountains gives way to the lush green pastures and fertile lands of the Anduin Vales. The smell of fresh grass is emminent, and the wind blows lightly creating a fresh breeze. To the west the foothills of the mountains begin in earnest, the rocky formations jutting out of the landscape like broken teeth. To the East the Anduin Vales continue, drawing closer to the river that marks their centre. Not far to the south a modest settlement can be seen, an out post of some kind it would seem, and to the northeast spans the great Northern Plains of Rhovanion.

The sky is clear. The midnight autumn air is warm around you. The moon is not visible.

The autumn night is warm and clear, a kind of false summer in this harvest season of the year. Stars burn with a brilliance of diamonds upon a field black. And upon the open fields of the Anduin Vales, night rests heavy and silent. The wind alone makes sound as it parts the tall grasses, just browNing now with autumn, parts them like hair or waves of the sea.

And upon these fields, barely visible in the night, elven tents stand gray and dim as the grass around them. Some are loppsided and in need of repair.

At the edge of this encampment the Gondramind, master mason and tracker, stands watch over the camp of artisans, one of several shadows that keep guard. His left arm is wrapped tight to his body under his light cloak and he stands leaNing upon his ebony spear. His face is hard and cragged with worry, looking not unlike the moutain they have just left.

Duinlas is walking nearby the camp, his right hand bandaged with a pure-white clothe, no mark of blood seeping through, although the bandage has not been changed. He walks with two parchments in his hands, although the light is low, it can be seen they are discolored, and he waves them slowly in the air, as if drying them. He spots Gondramind near the edge and walks slowly toward him, still going about his task of waving his parchment.

Waving parchement in the night air... Gondramind sees him coming from far off and simply stands, cheek leaNing upon his hands that hold the spear, and watches the poet approach. He says nothing. The silence of the night is broken by the rustle of parchement paper as Duinlas draws nearer. And Gondramind still stays nothing but looks upon the poet with a narrowed gaze and a furrowed brow. When Duinlas is well nigh to him, the Hirdan at last speaks. "How's the hand?" he asks languidly, voice betraying none of his private thoughts.

Duinlas nods at the question, adding his agreement to his assessment, to make it seem more true, "It's well. Well enough anyway. Ailiell told me not to write with it for a day. So I write with my other. Worse injury is the parchment. It is wet, and dyed pink with wine."

Gondramind's gaze bounces lighly across Duinlas' face. "Well. Glad to hear your hand has suffered less injury than you paper. If only your parchements were the worst among the wounded." He says not more and looks to the camp, clear unblinking eyes scanNing the horzion. "The harm was not as bad as it could have been. And it could have been so much worse. Only the discipline of the Ethirian and the Cuthalion truly saved us."

With a nod of agreement, Duinlas tests the paper and places them together on top of each other, looking at his friend, "Well, would it be any other way? The passes are not safe, and will not be safe for many years. So we take our risks, or we become hermits. Whichever is more fitting for the person."

"Whichever is more fitting" Gondramind repeats and looks at the young poet. "And what is fitting for you my friend? Risk-taker or hermit say you. Aye. And further that. In battle choices are made. To become an asset or a detriment. And I ask you again, mellon. Which are you?"

Duinlas returns Gondramind's gaze levelly, betraying neither hot nor cold a temperment, instead smiling at the Hirdan and speaking softly, "I am a risk-taker more than a hermit to answer the first. And an asset to answer the second. An able bodied ellon with knowledge ans skill in battle."

"Aye, an accurate assesment on both counts." The elder elf and herald of their house stands upright and spins the spear casually in one hand, bring point to earth before continuing. And when he speaks now the easy tone is gone from his voice and a glimer of something few have seen shines from his eye... an older self long familiar with battle... "But you are not reliable, Duinlas. And that is the most necessary of skills in a warrior. You disobeyed my direct order in the battle of the foothills. That is unacceptable. A breach of discipline. And it puts those around you in jeapardy. What say to this?"

Duinlas takes a small step back and frowns, "I followed your orders close as I could understand them to be. I spoke for you to 'go' and you then said that I must 'go' as well. So therefore, I went. Not in a way you may have wished for me. But you did not forbid me. And none turned me away. Would you chill the warm heart that gives sacrifice for others?"

Gondramind raises a brow. "Indeed? And you thought you had a place among a line of trained swordsmen? With your spear? Huh." He narrows his gaze upon Duinlas. "Then I now must consider which is more egregious breach of discipline or lack of common sense. I ordered you to 'go' not come with me. And the next time you see fit to order one of higher rank in the middle of battle as you did today... I should think you will have more to answer for than even this..."

Duinlas raises both his eyebrows in surprise, the words of Gondramind sting him, and though he struggles to control it, his response is less than composed, "If you hold yourself above all the advise of your friends, perhaps you have given over to folly. You speak of worry, and responsibility, yet I am faulted for wishing to remain behind to make sure my betrothed is not slain while I make my way to safety. Despite your years, Gondramind, I wonder if you have thought that others may have concerns too, even concerns about your own safety, which was..." he points toward the slung arm of the older elf, "in danger today. Though you ban me from wishing to help the Tirith, neither are you a member of the tirith, yet you stood with them!"

A sigh of both pity and exhaspiration slips from Gondramind's lips. "Mellon," he begins and the word contains a downward fall which hangs in the air when, for a moment, Gondramind finds himself unsure where to begin as there is so much.... "I will take your words point by point. Alright? First. I do not hold myself above the advice of friends. This, mellon, was not about friends. Or advice. It was /battle/ and in this battle I hold rank over you. It is /battle/. And a person of rank does not abandon their position. And I did not ask for your advice. Nor did you offer advice. "Hirdan you must go..." Not advice.
Second. This is battle. Not a hike. No matter who is lost or left behind if an order is issued you must obey it. You must Duinlas. This is not time for the democatic mind. Battle. I know you worry over your betrothed. But in battle, you cannot wander looking for her to protect her. Battle, mellon.
Third. Thank you for your care of me," a note perhaps of sarcasm as he looks to his arm. "But my saftey is my own affair. In battle we follow the chain of command. You were commanded.
Fourth. You were not and are not banned from assisting the tirth. You were given an order. To use your skills eslewhere. This is battle. And my position /was/ with them, mellon, as I and the commander," He nods his head toward the red haired leader of the Ethiriath "hold sway over the squad of scouts. And I am a swordsmen.
Last... I hope you know the care I show you now, as I would never explain myself this way to any who had so broken an order.... "

Duinlas turns away, silent for a moment, "I will not argue with you about whether I disobeyed an order. Although I may have intentionally interpreted a different meaNing from your words. But whether any order is wiser followed than the instinct of the heart when a beloved is in danger, that is folly. For now you would look to history, of Beren and Luthien, who assailed the enemy himself, and Luthien against the orders of her father. And their time much more dire than ours. And the Herions o Imladris, who were not disobeying orders, but were still moving with a wrath borne from love. Would you ask me to sacrifice my beloved for an order, you would be asking the impossible."

Gondramind leans against his spear and listens to the poet with a veiled gaze and a firmly impassive mein... but the light within his eyes betrays his growing disbelief at the poet's logic. His face grows hard as an ancient cliff face when Duinlas is through and he stares that the poet for a long moment before speaking.

"And now you worry me. Deeply." His voice reflects and authority long unused, long hidden, rarely heard in this Third Age of the world. "Aside from the illogic of your statement, the sentiment of it is... wrong. Wrong. The commands of the individual heart do not hold sway in the battle field. Command holds sway. Chain of command. And you are proving yourself less than reliable. If I cannot trust that you will you obey an order, then I cannot trust you in battle."

He pushes away from his spear and stands to full height, a cold light glinting in his colorless eyes. "Until you can prove to me that you will follow orders to the letter, you are now, indeed, barred from service." He says no more, but prepars to go join the Ethiriath leader. Then he pauses and casts a final sidelong glance to Duinlas. "Luithien was never in open battle and so disobeyed no orders. And the Sons of Elrond would be appalled at any breech of discipline mellon."

Duinlas listens to Gondradmind's words, and at their completion lets both his dried parchments fall, a breeze picks them up, carrying them off into the distance. He remains silent, for a while, "Very well, if that is your decision as Commander. I best obey it. Perhaps you have forgotten what it is I feel. But I know my songs well enough to know when I speak truth. If you worry so much, why bring along a courier? If I was to be nothing more than deadweight to you, never to be even brought forward to speak with our allies who I someday hope to reach out to."

He lets out a harsh breath and shakes his head, "All I see is worry that has overcome your senses. You invited me on this journey, with words of meeting new cultures, and forging good relationships. Yet now in our first meeting with others, you have excluded me, and then again ordered me back while you look after my beloved. You can have my spear, Hirdan. And anything else of mine that you wish."

Gondramind takes a deep breath and turns back to the poet. "I did not exclude you from the meeting with the BeorNings but judged that at this, the /first/ meeting, it would be best to keep the speakers few... And as for bringing you, I asked you to come so you could learn. To help you reach your goal of Ambassador... to mingle with other cultures and speak with them and exhange knowledge and thought and the light of friendship, first steps to union...." He knits his brow. "You were not and are not dead weight in /that/ capacity. But mellon. Battle. /Battle/ War. War is not diplomacy but the death of diplomacy. And in the battlefield only /one/ imperative matters: Chain of command. I must trust that you will follow the chain of command. That you will not, by foolhardy individual actions, jeopardize the lives and the goals of the battle." His voice grows gentler, quieter, tempered by pity. "I brought you with me to learn, mellon. And so you shall. Indeed, so you have." He holds up his hand in a motion of denial... "Keep your spear. You will likely have need of it."

Duinlas nods once, gazing back over his shoulder toward the tents, "We shall see when I learn. I shall grow larger ears to hear from the back. I will not keep you any further from your duties, Hirdan," He bows to his waist and turns back toward the tents, walking with very little spring in his step. The night will darken before it gets brighter.

And Gondramind watches him go, his own face a landscape in conflict with itself, the war of an older, warrior nature long hidden, long denied, struggling against one that is over fond of the the foolish younger edhel. He turns, takes his spear, and heads toward the Ethiriath.