Disaster.
It was a disaster from the start. The scouts tasked with reconnaissance along the northern borders reported the enemy’s army to be of “manageable” size, whatever the hells that meant when there was a dragon among them. The horde they were facing however was way, way larger than expected, yet despite this the host of Nargothrond went forth with King Artaresto leading alongside Túrin. Needless to say none could withstand the assault of the dragon Glaurung and the elves were driven back into the field of Tumahalad.
Carniquessë was furious at the northern scouts for failing so blatantly in their duty. Had it been her own unit, she was sure things would have gone differently for them. With exact reports they could have at least prepared a better strategy and saved more lives. Now they were routed, their flanks broken, the plains scorched and worst of all, their King slain. The mortal was trying to rally any soldier still fighting to him and somehow stage a retreat but the flames and acrid smoke all around them only served to scatter them all apart in small groups. She had lost sight of her comrades, pressed between a pile of burning corpses and a patch of grass set aflame by dragon fire. It had been quite obvious that arrows were useless in the fight with all the smoke making it difficult to take aim, the chance of hitting an ally in the fray too high to be worth the risk. She crouched and slashed with her daggers at an orcish grunt as the creature attempted to jump over one of the corpses to impale her with his crude sword. Blood sprayed everywhere and she cursed for the hundredth time. Taking swift cover behind the pile of bodies she took deep breaths, taming the frustration, anger and hopelessness that threatened to break her focus; looking frantically around for any sign of her companions. A group of Nargothrondim were still standing not far from her, trying to drag a couple wounded companions away from the brunt of the action. Springing to her feet she rushed to help them, slinging one of the injured’s arms over her shoulders.
“Hantanye*! We attempted to reach Hir Túrin but we have been cut off from the main host… a handful of our riders managed to keep their horses safe and were trying to regroup on the eastern flank. If they are still alive…”
“Eastern flank… if their intention was to flee towards Doriath… well, you know what, that is the most sensible decision I have heard since the start of this madness”. The injured warrior she was carrying turned his head to stare at her for a second with rounded eyes.
Carniquessë knew that what she just said probably bordered on insolence towards their King’s orders but in that precise moment she did not care one bit. Her words sounded bitter to her own ears and tasted of the same acrid smoke swirling around her. She was battered, bruised and in a foul mood. Limping along, she followed the warriors letting the wounded elf lean on her shoulders while supporting him as best she could. The others around them still in fighting shape fending off any orc who stood in their path.
What irony she thought, the main host kept together by Túrin attracted most of the enemy’s attention, involuntarily providing their small group with enough room to scurry away utilizing the cover of smoke and flames to their advantage. Secrecy and shadows, that is what works, what always worked for us. Useless to muse about it now, as her captain said to them:
There won’t be anywhere to hide if we lose… or win
She wondered if perhaps he had spoken in such a way because of premonition, or ominous feelings. Whatever the case, he was right. She really hoped that those who stayed back in Nargothrond had the common sense of evacuating the fortress, whether they expected the King’s victory or death. There was no way that the small company she found herself in was able to make it back, not cut off from the main body of their army. So eastward it was. Perhaps, if by some miracle they managed to reach Doriath, Thingol could muster some pity and shelter them. Carniquessë did not fool herself for anything more, in no way he would send his own marchwardens to die against Glaurung.
The smoke and flames slowly, gradually subsided as they put distance between themselves and the brunt of the battle, Taking turns carrying the wounded elves, lashing out at any orc that would block their path, until they came to a little clearing, a few charred trees miserably still standing and…
“Ai! Eldar!”
A few more elves emerged behind a mound of scorched carcasses. Such crude sight would have frozen the blood in her veins in any other circumstance, but not now, after a whole day of horror. She was instead relieved to find somebody else still alive and even more relieved she was to see three of her own unit, one of them being Cúnion. A severely injured Cúnion. She urged one of the riders to take the elf she’d been carrying and sprinted towards her captain.
“Tauciel! Hrávo! Hesto**!”
Exchanging brief embraces with the other two scouts, she crouched next to Cúnion. Her was in really bad shape, burnt, one leg splintered, a wound on the shoulder that was seeping blood through the bandages. “The blade that slashed his shoulder was poisoned… we did what we could with the little athelas we had but…” Tauciel’s words vanished from her lips as Hrávo shook his head. Carniquesse turned pale. “… sse” murmured the captain. His breath was shallow, opening his eyes seemed like an immense task for him, yet he did at the sound of her voice “Knew you’d live… can’t say the same for me…”
“Captain please… do not waste energy talking. We’ll take you to safety, alright?”. Tauciel turned around to hide the tears on her face. “I know… I’m done for…”
“No you are not, stop talking and let us help you”. The other elves were preparing to retreat, hoisting those with more grievous wounds on the horses with their riders. The poor animals were just as tired as the elves but there was nothing to do about that. By sheer willpower they all still stood, broken but alive, and defiant to the last they’d either take refuge in Doriath, or die trying. Hrávo hoisted their captain on a bay horse, giving the reins to Carniquessë. “Tauciel and I shall scout ahead. You know that…” he stare at the limp form of their hesto, breathing with difficulty, hanging onto life by a thread. She nodded and whispered “It would take a miracle for him to make it… but we have to try”. Her friend just nodded, sprinting ahead as the riders spurred the horses to a gallop.
The elleth allowed herself to drop her resolute facade for a moment. Something else added to her frustration and that was trying to convince herself that they’d come out of this… not alright, but at least alive. She hated feeling insecure, not knowing what to do and not being able to think logically, all of which felt like a luxury in that moment. She didn’t know what to do, she was too worried to think clearly and she was afraid most of all, to lose Cúnion. He did not deserve this end, none of them did. She gritted her teeth, a lone tear rolling down her face in spite of her attempt to regain composure. It tasted bitter and felt hot on her skin. Her hands gripped the reins so much that the skin broke. Her blood felt boiling with rage.
She turned her head around to look upon the battlefield. Ashes and smoke still billowed on the plains, the deafening sound of battle fading as they galloped away from it, away and defeated. She dared look at her captain.
Broken swords and broken arrows, is all that’s left of us. But if by chance we get out of this, I shall fletch new arrows and carve a new bow that I may hunt each and every filth walking upon this soil, as long as I draw breath.
She raised her head to look ahead and shut her mind to everything else.
*hantanye: thank you, quenya
**hesto: captain, quenya
