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Chapter Text

Spring was at its zenith. Bluebells carpeted the forest floor and pink rhododendrons stretched out over the banks of the Forest River, which went leaping and burbling over mossy rocks as it traveled from its source in the Grey Mountains down through the Greenwood.

Here and there, a bluebell cluster crept onto the well-trod mountain paths in optimistic disregard for the borders imposed by civilization. Not even the Wood-Elves could avoid wearing footpaths along familiar trails, and the paths to and from their summer abodes in the mountain were among the most frequently traveled.

Barangolf whistled as he wound his way through the familiar forest paths toward the glade where his cooperage was nestled between several other workshops. The scent of tanning leather greeted him long before sunlight dappled the ground, heralding the transition from wilderness to civilization. 

As he reached the clearing, the branches rustled above him, and a figure dropped onto the ground in front of him. Taller and fairer than Barangolf, the Elf had silver-ash hair and robin's egg-colored eyes. A wooden flute hung at his side. 

“Good morning to you!” Barangolf said, slinging an arm around his friend as they fell into step together.

Nengeldor shielded his eyes as they broke cover. “Have you heard? There was a strange woman seen leaving Amon Lanc,” he said.

“A strange woman?” Barangolf repeated. “'I’ve heard nothing of this.”

“The beech trees have talked of nothing else all day,” Nengeldor chided. “Haven’t you been listening to them?” 

Absently, Barangolf glanced back at the beech trees outlining the glade. “I suppose I haven't," he confessed. "I was engrossed in my own music. The trees are always such gossips."

"Nonsense! The trees would be insulted to hear you say that!” Nengeldor retorted.

“Tell me about this strange woman,” Barangolf prompted. “What is so strange about her that has the trees in an uproar?”

“Well, she was unusually tall,” Nengeldor said. “And she had a funny accent. And she rode a horse.”
“Perhaps she was a Maiar,” Barangolf mused. “They choose abnormally tall embodiments.”

“The trees said she was an Elf,” Nengeldor said.

Not that this meant much; the Maiar could take on any form they wished, whether an ant or an Elf.

“You don’t suppose she was a High Elf?” Barangolf asked, and then laughed at the absurdity of that thought. Long before his birth, King Oropher and the Doriathrin refugees arrived in the Greenwood. Their wariness of High Elves was notorious—and entirely understandable.

The two Elves paused before a stack of lumber at a distance from the cooperage; the coopers left the wood here until it was pliable enough for use. Bringing it into the cooperage would risk destructive infestations.

“No High Elf would dare approach Amon Lanc,” Nengeldor said swiftly. And then, “But it would explain the funny accent.”

Barangolf lifted the lumber stack and slid the bottom stave out, startling a beetle from its hiding spot. “Assuming she was a High Elf,” he said. “Why come here? To apologize for slaughtering Oropher’s people?”

“High Elves? Apologize? Unheard of,” Nengeldor retorted. “Perhaps they’ve sworn another oath over a jewel and sent someone to demand we hand it over.”

“Oropher would laugh them out of the forest if they tried,” Barangolf said. He skipped over the threshold of the cooperage, kicking up wood shavings strewn across the earthen floor. Nengeldor followed at his heels.

The cooperage was a maze of barrels occupying nearly the entire front. A long wooden counter lined the back wall, interrupted only by a window with open shutters, allowing sunlight to illuminate the shop. A sleeping cat sprawled across the windowsill, paws twitching. The wall above the shelf was lined with wood and stone tools that marched right up to the edge of the window; The wooden drawknife hung crooked.

“Tsk, Tevildo, have you been playing with my tools again?” Barangolf chided. He snatched the drawknife and a ruler off the wall and sawed the stave to size with a careful, steady hand. If the length was even the slightest fraction wrong in either direction it would be unable to fit with the rest of its fellows. 

Nengeldor perched on one of the finished barrels and lifted his flute to his lips.

The shop cat lifted its head to peer at the two Elves before dropping its chin back onto its paws in drowsy disinterest. 

Barangolf had only just begun tapering the ends when a leather-clad head and shoulders thrust through the window. The cat leaped to the floor, hissing in fright. 

The intruder spoke in a hurried whisper. “What ho, brother. Have you heard the news?” 

Barangolf ceased whistling but continued shaping his stave rather than turn round to look at the Elf he addressed. “And you tell me to learn to use the door!” He said with affectionate exasperation. “What am I supposed to have heard that has you so impatient to tell me?” 

Torvrethil remained stretched across the windowsill, although he had the grace to loosen the straps of his helmet, removing it out of courtesy. His hair was cropped in the same short style as his younger brother’s, and was just as dark. “Oropher has declared war.” 

“War?” Nengeldor echoed with a trace of laughter. He spun around on the barrel to face the window. 

Torvrethil scowled at him. “Do you take me for a liar?” 

Barangolf’s attention remained on his stave rather than his brother as he asked, “What cause have we to make war? Long has it been since the Noldor set foot in Eregion.” 

“It is not the Noldor on whom we make war. Nay, they are our allies in this fight.” Torvrethil sounded as if he didn’t quite believe this himself. 

Barangolf lifted his face to the window at last, searching Torvrethil’s face for any hint of admittedly unlikely teasing. “Our allies? The Noldor? Have you taken leave of your senses?” 

“Do not make light.” Torvrethil’s fingers dug so hard into the leather of his helmet they made indentations. “An enemy greater than any Elf has returned to Middle-Earth.” 

Barangolf schooled his face into passivity but that was as far as he could manage in pretending he believed his brother. Torvrethil had always been honest to a fault, but the presence of any enemy powerful enough that the Woodland Elves would make peace with the Noldor was too impossible to credit. 

“Of what enemy do you speak? If it be Tevildo, I am surely in trouble.” He glanced at the cat currently hiding beneath his workbench, affectionate smile turning into a grin again, unable to hide his mirth at what he considered Torvrethil’s dramatics. Between the brothers, Torvrethil had always been the one most prone to a sort of earnest pessimism, which had clashed more than once with Barangolf’s frivolity. 

Nengeldor mirrored Barangolf’s grin. “If you require a noble hound to aid you in your quest, I offer Nimdog’s assistance. He’ll put Huan to shame. I swear on it.” 

The two younger Elves collapsed into fits of laughter at their own jokes, unmoved by Torvrethil’s disapproving expression.

“Sauron is abroad once more.” Torvrethil raised his voice so that it rang throughout the cooperage, and for a moment the light appeared to dim. 

Barangolf set down both stave and drawknife, suddenly bereft of the levity he had displayed only moments prior. “Sauron?” He repeated, dismay etched across his face. There, indeed, was a reason to forge alliances with even the treacherous Kinslayers. And yet it seemed incredible that an enemy not heard from since his conception could have returned. 

“But surely not! He was vanquished by the Valar ere we were born.” Nengeldor scoffed, but his expression was as troubled as either of the brothers. 

Torvrethil heaved a weary sigh. “It seems not. The High King, Gil-Galad, sent a messenger to Amon Lanc to request aid in vanquishing him from Middle-Earth.”

“A messenger!” Nengeldor gave Barangolf a meaningful look. “So the beeches were right, she was an Elf after all. One of the High Elves. It’s a wonder Oropher gave her an audience.”

Torvrethil twirled his helmet between his hands. “Laerorn has proposed seeking recruits to turn the guard into a proper army. Oropher approves.” Laerorn was a scarred Elf who had accompanied Oropher during his flight from Doriath. It was no surprise she would jump at the opportunity to train more Elves in arms; she was suspicious at the best of times; the scars from the sack of Doriath were not only physical. 

“Are you here to enlist me, brother?” Barangolf’s dismay turned to amusement at the thought. Even as a child he had preferred song and dance to hunting or playing knight. “Oh, but you jest. Do you wish to teach me archery?” He lifted a hand to the bluebells tucked behind his ear. “Or to wear a helm?” 

“I’m here only to inform you of what is needful,” Torvrethil said, his voice quiet now that he had finally imparted the seriousness of his news to the two younger Elves. “I would not wish you to endanger yourself. If we go to war we shall need you for your woodworking skills, not your inexpert fighting.”

“Who would you have enlist, then? Not Glanvir, surely.” The third of the brothers was as unlikely a soldier as Barangolf. 

“Not Glanvir, no. You ought to know that. He’ll want to ensure his children have one parent left alive should all go poorly.” 

Barangolf fell silent, but Nengeldor was not as easily cowed. “Is Anwiel enlisting, then?” 

Barangolf resumed his woodworking with a despairing shake of the head. Anwiel was Glanvir’s wife, and a member of the Woodland Guard alongside Torvrethil. She was brave to the point of foolhardiness, but she had only given birth to her second child a few scant years ago and was currently still on leave. 

Torvrethil snorted in amusement at such an unnecessary question. “Glanvir would have to leash her if he wanted to keep her home.” 

“And Laerorn will allow that?” Barangolf asked.

“Must you ask?”

“And Hwinnion?” Barangolf hazarded, glancing at Torvrethil long enough to see how his brother’s face went doe-eyed at the mention of his husband. 

“Hwinnion will only be along to help manage the pack dogs,” Torvrethil said. 

Barangolf suspected his true motivation was to remain near Torvrethil. Glanvir had been similarly besotted when he and Anwiel had first become betrothed, and it had taken the arrival of children to return them to their senses. 

He exchanged a wordless but judgmental look with Nengeldor.

Torvrethil flushed. “One day you shall fall in love, and then you shall understand.”

Barangolf shook his knife at Torvrethil.  “I have seen how wholly love robs you of your senses,” he said. 

“I have no senses to rob,” Nengeldor laughed as he pocketed his flute. “So I shall be safe enough from love’s ruinous snares.” He hopped off his barrel, inclining his head at the brothers. “I’ll take my leave now, before Laerorn comes round to do her own recruiting.”

Barangolf laughed. “If she’s handpicking recruits you have nothing to fear,” he said, and as his friend disappeared out the door he shouted, “Take care!”

Torvrethil stretched and hit his head against the top of the window. He winced as he pulled himself back outside. “I’ve got to get going, myself. Laerorn wants us to begin training our new recruits tomorrow, and a poor show it will be if I have no recruits.”

Barangolf waved as his brother retreated into the dark shadows of the forest, then glanced down at his cat. “What do you make of that? War! And allying ourselves with the Kinslayers despite Oropher’s warnings. ‘Tis a marvel indeed!” 

But he returned his attention to his barrel, casting away thoughts of war.

Chapter Text

Spring melted into summer, and the bluebells gave way to purple dog violets. Orange fritillary butterflies had emerged from their cocoons. Cream-colored woodbine wove throughout the trees, casting its sweet fragrance over the whole of the woodland. Fuzzy yellow bumblebees buzzed at the borders of the woodland. 

Yet, this idyllic bloom contrasted starkly with the bustling Elves preparing for war. Tanners rushed, crafting armor for the growing army. Fletchers and bowyers, swamped, crafted more than hunting gear, and even Barangolf's cooperage hummed with unusual activity.

Putting barrel work aside, Barangolf crafted dog-pulled sleds for long-distance goods transport - wagons were impractical in their dense forest, and horses few. This task depleted his lumber, forcing him to gather fallen branches before the coppicing season. Nengeldor joined him, picking berries or helping with the lumber collection.

Now, it happened on this day that the two friends set out to wander in the forest together. Nengeldor gathered dewberries as he went, whilst Barangolf searched for fallen branches in the wood. Onwards through the trees they went, seeking out their treasures amongst nature's bounty.

There had been a summer storm the night before, stripping many branches from the trees. Although it had been many hours since the storm had passed, water dripped from overhanging leaves onto the heads of the two foragers. Brown and white mushrooms poked their caps up from beneath the damp loam. A tan and white hound bounded between the two Elves, yapping every time the brush shifted with some small animal movement. 

Newly enlisted soldiers flitted in and out of view between the trees as they marched to the hastily constructed training field. “I wonder when they’ll leave,” Barangolf mused, bending over to pick up a lichen covered oak branch that had fallen into the dewberry bramble Nengeldor was examining.

“Before Sauron’s forces arrive at our doorstep, I hope.” Nengeldor’s fingertips were stained purple from the dewberries filling the woven basket at his hip. He tugged another berry free and, after a furtive look at his friend, popped it into his mouth.

A squirrel's sudden dash startled the hound; it chased after the intruder, barking as it disappeared up a tree

“Easy, Nimdog.” Nengeldor placed a hand on the dog’s back and leaned closer to the dewberries. “Have you heard the way Laerorn talks? It’s as if she thinks she won’t be coming back.” 

“That’s nothing new,” Barangolf said, shifting the branch in his arms. “Laerorn always talks as if Doom is right around the corner. She’s probably glad to have a reason to predict misfortune.”

“My father speaks as if he agrees with her. I suppose they could be right. Not everyone returns from war.”

A shadow fell across them and a familiar voice said said, “They’d best return. I’ve already warned Torvrethil I won’t forgive him if he doesn’t.”

Both friends turned to the newcomer, Hwinnion. He was short for an Elf, and dark of skin and hair. A grey feathered goose rested in his arms. The rest of the flock weren’t in sight.

Barangolf scanned the surrounding forest for sign of the missing flock as he addressed Hwinnion. “If anyone returns, it will be Torvrethil. I’m amazed he can leave your side long enough to fight.” 

Hwinnion’s face flickered with a smile, but before he could respond, Nimdog lunged, snapping at his goose. The goose reared up, spread its wings, and honked defiantly, causing Hwinnion to drop it. The two animals focused on each other, ignoring their masters' desperate calls.

'Nimdog!' Nengeldor moved quickly, spilling berries from his basket. 'Heel!' He snapped his fingers, while Hwinnion cried out for his goose, 'Gurbess!' But the animals paid no heed, too engrossed in their standoff."

Barangolf kept his eyes trained on the goose as he backed away from the impending violence. “I wouldn’t wish to get in the middle of this fight.” He said, watching the two animals circle one another. “A goose is worth ten Saurons. Especially one named…what did you call this one? Gurbess?” 

Hwinnion nodded.

Death-feather seemed an unusually apt name for a goose.

“We ought to send geese to fight Sauron in our stead,” Barangolf suggested as the goose thrust its snake-like neck forward with a honk like a battle cry. “Not even he could survive against such a foe.”

The goose’s onslaught forced the hound backward. Gurbess grabbed hold of Nimdog’s back with his beak. The hound growled and turned in a circle, trying to snap at the goose’s neck. Gurbess turned with the dog, remaining tantalizingly out of reach and doggedly maintaining his grip on Nimdog’s fur. 

“Serves you right for trying to outfight a goose,” Nengeldor chided. But like Barangolf he remained well clear of the goose.

“Where is the rest of the flock?” Barangolf asked, not taking his eyes off the snarling animals. “I don’t suppose you’ve enlisted them in the army?”

Hwinnion made a series of clucking sounds at Gurbess and the goose released Nimdog with a frustrated hiss. The hound slunk back to Nengeldor’s side.

Hwinnion picked Gurbess up. The goose nuzzled his neck. “Gurbess wishes to come,” he said. “But if all the hounds are so ill-bred as Nimdog it mightn’t be wise.”

Nengeldor gingerly ran his fingers through Nimdog’s fur. “You’re all right,” he said, then glanced up at Hwinnion. “He’s not ill-bred. Your bird is a demon.”

Hwinnion lifted Gurbess higher. “Who attacked whom?”

Nengeldor grumbled wordlessly as he stroked Nimdog.

Before Nengeldor could answer, a high-pitched echoed, “Who attacked whom?” and an Elf-child skipped into view.  Seeing the spilled berries, she tsked, wagging a finger at Nengeldor. “Clumsy Nengeldor! Have you been drinking wine so early in the morning?”

“Not this morning,” Nengeldor responded, releasing Nimdog, who enthusiastically greeted the newcomer.

“Mithuial!” Barangolf waved the oak branch at the girl. She was, of course, his brother Glanvir’s daughter. “Are you here alone?”

“No,” Mithuial said, pushing the hound away. “Papa is here.”

As she spoke, Glanvir, her father and Barangolf's brother, emerged, mushroom-filled basket in hand. “I thought you might be about,” Glanvir said when he spied his younger brother. “We stopped by the cooperage.”

“We’re out of wood,” Barangolf said by way of explanation.

“A pity, that.” Glanvir’s gaze was drawn to the shifting figures in the trees beyond. “It’s nigh impossible to use when it isn’t properly seasoned.”

“Well do I know it!” Barangolf replied.

At his feet Nengeldor cleared his throat. “I’m sure your craft is very interesting, but would you mind helping me with these berries?”

Barangolf knelt beside his friend, picking dewberries out of the loam. “You ought to have more control over Nimdog,” he teased.

Nengeldor’s brushed dirt from a dewberry before dropping it back into his basket. “I was considering that.”

There was an indignant squawk from Hwinnion at that. “And yet you blamed Gurbess!”

Nengeldor ignored the accusation. “I was thinking about enlisting. They asked for hounds, you know, and I couldn’t bear sending Nimdog alone. Nor could I entrust his training to another.”

Barangolf stared in astonishment at his friend, all pretense of helping forgotten. “Enlisting!”

“And why not?” Nengeldor glowered at the berries as he returned them to the basket. “If Sauron is not stopped then we may have to fight him even at the eaves of the Greenwood.”

It was Hwinnion who answered. “There is work to be done that is not waging war. Not all need fight.”

“But some must,” Nengeldor argued. “And I do not have children to tend.”

Glanvir rested a hand on Mithuial’s shoulder. The Elf-girl’s expression was sad as she looked at Nengeldor.

“Lognir also wished to enlist,” Glanvir said into the silence.

Barangolf looked from Nengeldor to Glanvir. “Did he…?”

Glanvir shook his head. “Laerorn had the good sense to turn him away.”

“I didn’t think she’d turn anyone away,” Barangolf said, recalling Torvrethil’s statement about Anwiel.

“She will if they’re not yet of age.”

Glanvir and Hwinnion turned to stare at Nengeldor.

“But we’re both of age!” Barangolf objected, recognizing their expressions too well.

“Barely,” said Hwinnion. Gurbess honked in agreement.

“A mere ten years,” Glanvir added.

“And yet still of age.” Nengeldor caressed the weave of his basket before standing.

Barangolf rose, wrestling with unease and an unexpected sense of guilt. Was he being selfish by not volunteering? And the hint that they were still children irked him. A burgeoning need to prove his maturity flared.

He gave Nengeldor a grin. “Well! I can’t let you have all the fun. Where do we enlist?”

Glanvir and Torvrethil ambushed Barangolf early the next morning at the cooperage. They hemmed him in with solemn faces.

Glanvir crossed to the counter, setting down the basket in his hands. Torvrethil barricaded the door with unfinished barrels, then turned to Barangolf with folded arms and narrowed eyes. “There are matters we must discuss.”

Barangolf reached longingly for his drawknife, just out of reach behind Glanvir. “We have a lot of work to do today,” he said.

“It will wait,” Glanvir said, gently pushing Barangolf’s hand away from the tools.

Torvrethil gestured toward a cluster of waist-high barrels near the window. “Please, sit.”

Barangolf complied, settling onto the nearest barrel while looking between his two brothers in suspicion. “What is it you wish to discuss?”

“Hwinnion tells me you’re enlisting.”

Tevildo leaped into Barangolf’s lap and began kneading his stomach. Barangolf scratched behind the cat’s ears. “He told you true,” he muttered, inwardly cursing his brother-in-law.

“Even Anwiel says you’re being foolish.” Glanvir peeled back the blanket covering the basket, allowing the savory fragrance of mushroom pies to waft throughout the cooperage, overpowering the smell of sawdust. Barangolf’s stomach growled, but he didn’t look at the pies. His attention was trained on his brother.

“There is no reason for this,” Torvrethil said. “You’ve skills we need for other purposes. Put these thoughts out of your mind.”

Barangolf stroked Tevildo’s fur with hands far calmer than the foot that tapped impatiently against the side of the barrel he was seated upon. “But you’re going!”

Torvrethil’s expression was foreboding. “I’ve been with Oropher’s guard longer than you’ve been of age,” he said.

Barangolf frowned sullenly. His foot continued to tap against the barrel. “And shall you also tell Nengeldor not to enlist?”

“If Nengeldor wishes to make foolish decisions that’s none of my business.”

“Foolish!” Barangolf said. “Is it foolish to wish to aid in the war? Sauron is not so easy a foe to defeat if even the Valar could not drown him.”

“Foolish indeed, if you wish to meet such a foe,” Torvrethil answered.

Over by the counter, Glanvir nodded his agreement as he parceled out pies onto wooden plates. “You’re too young to risk your life so heedlessly.”

Barangolf dropped his gaze to the cat on his lap. Tevildo purred in contentment, unconcerned with the troubles of Elves and Men. “I’m old enough to decide for myself,” he said at last. “And I wish to enlist.”

Glanvir thrust a plate in front of Barangolf. “You ought to be old enough to know when to listen to your elders.”

“I am,” Barangolf said, taking the plate and staring down at the succulent pie. “I’ve listened to Laerorn. And if she won’t have me then I won’t go.”

Chapter Text

For three years the Wood-Elves prepared for war: Stockpiling supplies, training recruits, crafting weapons, and exchanging missives with Lord Elrond and King Elendil.

And then the message came. Elendil and Gil-Galad would wait no longer. The armies were to meet in the Vale of Anduin. 

Bears and lynxes, thrushes and eagles, bats and hedgehogs and all manner of other wild beasts swelled the ranks of the woodland army during that long, slow march through the forest. The Elven army even picked up a few Woodmen who resided in the Eaves of the forest. They had no King around whom to rally but desired to take up arms against Sauron and the threat of thralldom.

Now the armies of the Free People camped within sight of the Morannon. 

Barangolf wound his way arm in arm with Nengeldor towards the baggage caravan at the back of the camp, Nimdog trotting at their heels. 

Colorful pavilions gave way to sturdy wagons and tumbrils, as well as the simpler sleds of the Wood-Elves. The smell of manure intensified. Grooms lathered down pack dogs while other Elves and bearded Woodmen ferried provisions and supplies across the camp. 

As they passed a group of bearded Dwarves tending pack ponies, Nengeldor stared avidly. “I’ve always wanted to meet–” 

He broke off as a small elf-girl leaped out at them from behind a nearby stack of crates.  

Barangolf caught her one armed, but the force of her attack toppled all three of them to the ground. “Hullo, Mithuial,” he said from his place on the ground. “Does your father know you’re waylaying innocent travelers?”

Nengeldor pushed himself gingerly to his feet. “Never mind armies. We ought to send little girls to defeat Sauron’s forces.” 

The girl slipped a flower crown over Barangolf’s dark hair, taking great pains to adjust it until she was satisfied. Only once she had finished decorating him did she answer.

“Papa and Lognir are fishing. Lognir didn’t want to go,” She whispered conspiratorially into her uncle’s ear. Her older brother made no secret that he wished to march with the soldiers rather than remain confined to the baggage train.

Barangolf glanced towards the river. The dark silhouettes of rafts bobbed in the river and shadowy figures dangled fishing lines into the water. “They’ll never catch anything with all those ships about.”

“Papa is the best fisher in the whole world,” Mithuial puffed out her chest in proud confidence in her father’s abilities. “Even better than Uncle Torvrethil. Where is Uncle Torvrethil?” She peered over Barangolf’s shoulder intently as if she could will her other uncle into materializing. 

“He’s with Hwinnion.” Barangolf answered promptly. The lack of privacy on the march South hadn’t suited the couple at all, and he was sure they’d slipped away in the vain hopes of being undisturbed.

Mithuial wiggled out of Barangolf’s arms and bounded behind the crates once more, only to emerge holding a basket of flower crowns. “But I wanted to give him his present. Nengeldor, would you like one?” She plucked a crown from the basket and held it out to Nengeldor, who quickly placed it atop his silver hair. Then she looped a flower crown around Nimdog’s neck. The hound licked her face. She pushed his muzzle away, giggling. 

Barangolf bent over to inspect her handiwork more closely. “You’ve been busy.” 

But before she could answer her attention was drawn toward two dark figures trudging up the path from the shore, each holding the end of a large wicker basket. The contents gleamed like silver, but the odor that emanated from them was undeniably that of freshly caught fish. 

Glanvir grunted as he and his son lowered the basket to the ground. “Ah! Barangolf! I thought I heard your voice. Mithuial, love, help me and Lognir gut these fish.”

“Her talents are wasted gutting fish,” Barangolf said. He couldn’t help feeling sympathy for Mithuial and Lognir; he was, after all, only ten years out of his own childhood, and he remembered quite well his youthful rebellion against chores. His niece flashed him a grateful smile over the top of her basket and began to creep away.  

He looped his arm back through Nengeldor’s and tugged his friend nearer. “If Lognir and Mithuial will find kindling for the fire, I’ll help with the fish.” 

Lognir’s glare remained firmly in place as he skulked away to collect sticks for their campfire. Mithuial’s sulkiness, however, vanished at once into a grateful smile and she skipped after her brother, whistling. 

“I suppose you’re volunteering me for fish duty, as well,” Nengeldor said, but he made no move to leave.

Barangolf grinned at him without answering, then turned toward his brother. “This was a good haul. All those ships didn’t scare the fish away?”   

“I had a bit of help.” Glanvir jerked his head towards the edge of the river, where the dark outline of a bear was just barely visible. 

“One of the skin-changers?” Barangolf dropped his voice to a whisper, even though the bear wasn’t near enough to hear any of their exchange. 

“Should I know that?” Glanvir grunted. His attention remained on the knife in his hands. 

Barangolf gave up his attempted conversation and instead sang to himself as he beheaded silver scaled fish. At first he sang beneath his breath, but before long he was singing at full volume, with no concern for those camping around them. Only a few notes in and Nengeldor’s voice joined the harmony. 

They sang all the way until supper, and resumed again as they cleared away their dishes. 

“I ought to have known it’d be the two of you singing your way to the grave,” The raspy voice of Captain Laerorn grunted from behind them. 

“Don’t be so gloomy, Captain,” Barangolf laughed, one arm flung round Nengeldor’s shoulder affectionately. 

Her one eye transfixed him with a disapproving look. “We fared ill against the kinslayers, and they are our own kind. Sauron is greater still at the arts of war.” 

This was not at all reassuring, but Barangolf did his best to pretend he was unbothered.  “All the more reason to sing while we may!” 

Nengeldor disentangled himself from his friend and held out a hand to the captain with a flourish. “Even you can’t be serious all the time, Captain. Dance with me.” 

Her frown deepened at the invitation and one hand strayed to the hilt of her sword. “I will not.” 

“Oh! Laerorn! You should have one, too!” Mithuial edged past Barangolf and Nengeldor, her arms encircling a basketful flower crowns. She set the basket down beside her father and then scooped the crowns from the top into her arms. “They’re for good luck,” she explained as she held one out to Laerorn.  

To Barangolf’s surprise the captain lowered her head, allowing Mithuial to crown her. “May your well wishes bring us fortune tomorrow.” She inclined her head at the little girl and departed. 

They had been dancing for so long that the campfire had blown out and the children had been sent to bed when a  bark of warning drew their attention. The Wood-Elves looked round, startled, and saw a tall Elf approaching. Her long, honey brown braid hung almost to her waist. Her gleaming turquoise and green steel armor and the sword buckled at her hip made it abundantly clear she had accompanied some other Elven army. 

The Wood-Elves scrutinized the strange Elf warily. Anwiel fingered the knife at her hip, her expression unfriendly. Barangolf and Nengeldor continued with their music until the silence around them grew too great to ignore. Barangolf’s singing trailed off and he offered the newcomer an uncertain smile. 

The stranger bent down to offer Nimdog a hand. The hound licked her fingers. 

“What a good boy,” She cooed. “And such a wee little thing.” She looked up at the Wood-Elves, smiling. “Is he a pack-dog?” 

“He’s a scent hound,” Nengeldor informed her, placing a hand on Nimdog’s head with a challenging glare.

She looked again at the hound, her smile vanishing. “And you brought him with you to war? You’ll send him to his death. We brought warhounds, but they have armor, and have been trained for–” 

“Well we know the use the Kinslayers put their hounds. Those tales are not yet forgotten by us.” Barangolf warned, the smile now gone from his face. 

“Kinslayers?” The Elf woman’s eyes flashed in anger. “You slander–” 

Anwiel leapt to her feet, looking all too eager for blood. “Is it slander? My mother was there, she saw your hounds drag infants from their mothers arms.” 

The other woman blanched but remained defiantly facing her accuser. “Yes, slander! Do you think Lord Elrond a Kinslayer because he was raised by them? He knows better than most the cost of allowing old grievances to come between allies.” 

Glanvir placed himself between his wife and the High Elf. “Let us save fighting for our common foe.” he urged. Anwiel’s expression made it clear he would hear about this betrayal later. 

“I Only wanted to greet the hound,” the High Elf said, turning abruptly. “I had no intention of fighting.” 

But as she departed, the hostile eyes of the Wood-Elves remained trained upon her as if she were the foe they would meet in battle on the morrow. 

Chapter Text

The armies of Sauron stretched o’er the plains before the allied Free Peoples - Trolls and Giants cast long shadows over the ranks of the enemy: Evil Dwarves and Men , goblins astride Wargs, and Balrogs with flaming whips, and beasts that Barangolf had no name for.  And behind them all loomed a vast gate of blackest iron, stretched from hill to hill in menacing strength. 

Barangolf and Nengeldor exchanged jittery smiles. As reserve infantry, they were spectators for this initial meeting of armies, but now that they had their first look at the enemy’s forces, the enormity of what they faced dawned on them. 

Barangolf reached up to touch his flower crown. “For luck,” he whispered. 

Nengeldor mimicked his friend’s gesture. “We’ll need it,” he muttered, his blue eyes fixed on the monstrous army awaiting them. Nimdog stood at Nengeldor’s heel, salivating expectantly, as if this were nothing more than the gathering of a hunting party back home. 

Here and there could be seen the other recipients of Mithuial’s blessings - Anwiel, staring straight ahead, fingered the flower crown her daughter had given her. Torvrethil  held a bow as tall as he was. Even Laerorn’s leather helmet was encircled with the flower crown she had accepted. 

Oropher sprang forward with a shout. The first row of Wood-Elves and hounds thundered after with an answering cry that echoed across the plains. 

Arrows arced across the sky to meet the Wood-Elves, shrieking with eerie voices, as if they were living creatures. Some among the advancing Elves faltered. Others fell as the arrows found their mark. 

Nimdog and the other hounds broke out in fearful whines and agitated howls while their masters tried unsuccessfully to calm them. 

Barangolf’s fist tightened around his club. He understood how the hounds felt; those arrows made him want to whine in terror, too. Now he understood why Torvrethil had wanted him to remain behind. 

His heart constricted as what remained of the first row of Elves clashed with the front lines of the enemy. Hounds launched at Wargs in a snarl of fur and teeth. Clubs broke upon enemy shields. Oropher’s pale hair streamed out from behind his helm as he smote down enemy after enemy with ferocity, but so few other Elves still stood. 

Their king fought alone. 

And then Laerorn signaled that their company should advance. Nengeldor caught his eye and winked.  Barangolf’s heart hammered as they marched out into the open. Another volley of the deadly, screaming arrows showered down. Elves toppled sideways to lay still; Those who had not been cut down continued their relentless march forward. 

“My liege!” Laerorn swept her club beneath the feet of Orcs and bashed in Warg skulls until she was at the Woodland King’s side. Her regiment struggled after.

Nimdog snarled at Nengeldor’s side. A Man raised his sword to stab the Elf, but Nimdog’s jaws clamped around his ankles. Nengeldor’s club met the Man’s sword. The steel bit into the wood, and the blade was wrenched from his hands. 

Oropher’s pennant wavered up ahead. Hope flared in Barangolf’s heart at the sight. But then the pennant was dragged out of sight beneath a writhing mass of enemy soldiers, and Barangolf’s hope sank with it. 

 But there was no time for despair. A sword rushed toward his face, and it was all he could do to bring his club up in time to parry. He was forced relentlessly backward, trying to avoid being skewered. All around him were other clashes between Elves and the enemy, but whether those clashes were with his own company or with companies that had joined the fray after, he couldn’t tell. 

A horn blew, and Torvrethil cried, “Retreat!” 

The order was difficult to hear over the noise of battle, but as the words were relayed up and down the battlefield, the surviving Wood-Elves staggered after. But there was no retreat; cats as tall as trees with enormous tusks like boars flanked by Balrogs and swarms of Orcs stood between the Wood-Elves and their camp. 

They fell back, pushed into the valley between the Emyn Muil and the jagged teeth of the Ephel Duath. The ground became soft and spongy. Unwary feet sank and were held fast, making easier targets. Tiny white blossoms peeked defiant heads above the blood-soaked marsh. Ragged petals fallen from Barangolf’s flower crown lay scattered near their hale brethren.

Swarms of midges obscured the combatants’ vision, and the sulfurous smell of the marshes mixed sickeningly with the odor of sweat and recent death. 

With each step Barangolf took, frigid water seeped into his boots. Blood trickled down his forehead where a craban’s sharp beak had pecked at the exposed skin. The flower crown no longer adorned his leather helmet; the petals were scattered across the battlefield, trampled beyond recognition. 

Nengeldor fought beside him, thwacking with relentless desperation at the enemies surrounding them. The far side of the marsh remained impossibly far away. 

Barangolf parried, turning his opponent’s sword only just in time. His arms were leaden, and he wondered how much longer this would last. How much longer it could last. 

“Ha!” Nengeldor lunged forward, his club connecting with his opponent’s skull. The Orc crumpled to the ground, senseless. Flecks of blood splattered along the white blossoms that dotted the marsh as Nimdog leapt forward, snarling, to rip out the unfortunate Orc’s throat. 

His friend’s success rekindled the fire of hope in Barangolf’s heart. He fought with renewed vigor, slashing at his opponent with the sharp end of his wooden club until he cut through his opponent’s defenses, slapping the sword from its hand. The blade sank into the bog. 

The Orc bared its fangs at the two Elves, but before it could reach for the knife at its hip it was dragged, shrieking, beneath the ground after its sword. 

Barangolf stared in shock at the now smooth ground where the Orc had just been standing. “What–” he began. 

Nengeldor nudged him. “Let’s keep moving.” 

Barangolf nodded, his expression uncertain as he backed away from the treacherous marsh. 

They stumbled away, undisturbed by foes more dangerous than midges. Barangolf was too grateful for the reprieve to question their luck until he saw the creature lumbering through the marsh weeds. It looked like some small, wingless dragon–a long, reptilian body with leathery skin that blended in with the swamp. 

It may have been small compared to a dragon, but it was large enough. From snout to tail it was at least as long as Barangolf was tall, and its yellow eyes glinted with malice. Its maw opened, revealing wickedly sharp teeth meant for tearing meat and crunching bones. 

Barangolf shouted in terror. His wooden club felt suddenly useless, a child’s toy rather than a valiant weapon. 

Wind whistled past his ear and an arrow sprouted from the monster’s eye. It  thrashed wildly, churning up blood and flowers in its death throes. 

Before Barangolf could look for their savior something reverberated through the swamp, causing him to stumble. Through the veil of midges something huge came crashing down right in front of his face, and Nengeldor was swept aside in a splatter of blood and gore.  

He staggered to remain upright, dazed and breathless. His head tilted back, taking in the troll towering over him. It roared in triumph, lifting its club again. 

More arrows soared through the air. The troll swatted them aside. 

Without thinking, Barangolf reached for Nengeldor’s hand.  His fingers closed around air at the same time the club dropped. He scrambled out of the way with barely enough time to avoid being flattened, the force of the club slamming into the ground sending him sprawling. 

The effort of pushing himself upright sank his feet deep into the mire. He desperately  struggled to haul himself free before he was swatted like a fly, but his boots were stuck fast. He cast a desperate glance toward the troll, which was lazily lifting its club for the third time, grinning at the trapped Elf. He grabbed his boot with both hands, pulling with all his might. 

It was no use. 

He closed his eyes, bracing for impact. 

There was a resounding thud. The whole marsh shook, rattling Barangolf’s teeth. He cracked open an eye. The troll lay dead, a sword jutting through its middle. The swordswoman placed one foot on the troll and yanked her sword free. 

“Don’t make me regret this, Wood-Elf,” the woman warned, turning to Barangolf. She grabbed him by the wrist, yanking him out of the muck. 

“You…!” he gasped, staring into the face of the High Elf woman from the campfire. He was too numb to feel guilty over the accusations he’d slung at her last night. He was too numb to even feel grateful for her assistance. 

“Come,” she said, pulling the stunned Wood-Elf away from the sight of Nengeldor's death. 

After a moment, he regained enough sense to run without being dragged. He lashed out blindly with his club, occasionally feeling the jolt up his arm as it connected with something solid. 

If it hadn’t been for the High Elf, he would have died there in the marshes. She cleaved through foes with admirable tenacity and lightning quick reflexes, heading with grim determination toward safety. 

As they ran, Barangolf’s foot snagged against something solid and he stumbled. As he righted himself, he realized he’d tripped over a hand. Its fingers were outstretched, reaching silently in one last, unanswered plea. 

His eyes traveled from the hand all the way to the unseeing face. His heart sank as he recognized the fallen soldier. “Anwiel,” he whispered. 

“Keep moving! We’ll come back for the dead tonight!” the High Elf said. 

Barangolf knelt beside his sister-in-law, picking up the few remaining petals from her flower crown. He closed his fist around them and hurried after the High Elf.

He didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

Barangolf was numb with shock as he stumbled into camp with the other survivors. Civilians crowded round, anxiously seeking out familiar faces. One by one the soldiers were spirited off by their loved ones, until only those awaiting the dead remained. 

Barangolf’s gaze landed on Glanvir and Hwinnion, who stood apart from the crowd. Glanvir had one hand on Lognir’s shoulder. In the other, he held Mithuial’s hand while the little girl danced impatiently on her toes, straining to catch a glimpse of Anwiel. 

Hwinnion cast a worried smile at Barangolf before his eyes lit up as he spied Torvrethil. He rushed forward with a cry of relief and the two snuck away to reassure one another that their reunion wasn’t an illusion. 

Mithuial broke away from her father and flung her arms around Barangolf’s knees. “Where is Mama?” she demanded. 

Barangolf stared down at her, his gray eyes filled with sorrow, but his tongue resisted speaking the words out loud. If he just refrained from saying it, then perhaps it would turn out not to be true. 

“No!” Mithuial pushed herself away from her uncle. Her lower lip trembled.  “Why would you leave her behind? Go back and get her!” 

Lognir clenched and unclenched his fists. “I should have gone. I could have—” 

“Perished with her,” Glanvir interrupted. He folded Mithuial into his arms. Her shoulders shook as she buried her face in his tunic. 

Barangolf took a shaky breath. “You do not know what you wish for,” he says numbly. His vision blurred as his best friend’s death began to truly sink in.

Guilt stabbed at him, sharp as any craban's beak. It wasn’t fair that he lived and Anwiel didn’t; she was a seasoned member of the Woodland Guard. She had a husband and children. More people needed her. 

And he’d failed Nengeldor. He should have argued his friend out of enlisting, not joined him. He should have been more aware of what they were doing out there in the marshes. He should have realized what was happening, pushed Nengeldor out of the way. 

Lognir’s shoulders heaved as he glared first at his father, then at his uncle before abruptly turning on his heel and storming off in silence. 

Tears shimmered on Glanvir’s cheeks. He made no move to brush them away. “I ought to go after him,” he murmured, watching his son’s departure. “Come, Mithuial.” 

“No!” Mithuial pulled away. “Mama is coming back. She is! I’m going to wait for her right here.” 

Glanvir started forward, but Barangolf settled onto the ground beside her. “I’ll wait with her,” he told his brother. “Go find Lognir.” 

Mithuial turned her back on him, scowling. He busied himself picking up the petals she’d dropped. He wanted to comfort his niece, but he knew nothing could ease her grief. 

She had cried herself to sleep on the trampled grass by the time night fell. Barangolf gingerly lifted her in his arms, intending to return her to Glanvir’s wagon. 

He hadn’t made it five steps before he saw her–his rescuer. 

The lack of armor gave her a deceptively fragile appearance. She still bore the marks of battle - scratches from crebain talons gouged her cheeks, and strands of hair had come loose from her braid. 

She was accompanied by a towering, faintly glowing Elf. When she noticed Barangolf watching her she broke off the conversation she’d been having.

She approached with an expression of faint amazement.  “I didn’t realize you were old enough to be a father, Wood-Elf.” 

“I’m not,” he hastened to assure her, alarmed at the idea anyone might mistake Mithuial for his offspring. “Not a father, that is. Mithuial is my brother’s daughter. And my name isn’t Wood-Elf. I’m Barangolf, son of Daerchen.” 

“Well met, Barangolf son of Daerchen. I am Dirthandeth, daughter of Orluthiel.” She gazed at the sleeping child with an inscrutable expression. “Is she orphaned?” 

Barangolf’s throat tightened. “She lost her mother. Her father is here to assist the war efforts within the supply camp. He’s no fighter. And neither am I,” he admitted, his gray eyes clouding over in silent self-recrimination. “I would be dead if you had not come to my aid. I never properly thanked you for that.” 

“Perhaps we shall all be dead before this war is through,” she mused, staring off into the distance as if she could see the future rising over the horizon and knew it was bleak. 

“Perhaps,” he agreed uneasily. It wouldn’t take many more battles like the one today to wipe out the entire Woodland army. He stared down at the sleeping Elf-child in his arms, his mind filled with visions of what would happen to her if the army she’d accompanied was destroyed. 

Dirthandeth followed his gaze. “May Mandos release our dead quickly from his halls,” she said. “But with one as young as she, what reason would he have to keep her? If we fail to hold Sauron at bay, she has greater hope of a quick rebirth than the rest of us.” 

Barangolf angled his body away from her to hide the skepticism in his eyes. 

 The Wood-Elves knew of the Valar, of course, but they had no personal experience with the re-embodiment the Eldar spoke of. Not all of the younger among them believed it was true. None of their dead had ever returned from the West; surely if they could be reborn they would return to Middle-Earth rather than remain among the Eldar in the fabled Valinor. Especially those who had been slaughtered by the Kinslayers in Doriath; why would they willingly choose to live with those who had killed them? If they could have come back, they would have. 

Perhaps that was why the Eldar were so cavalier about other people’s deaths; if he believed that Nengeldor would be reborn, would he grieve for him the way he now grieved? Or would the loss be easier to bear? 

"Maybe there’s hope in that,” he murmured. His gaze shifted toward the star scattered skies above them. Somewhere up there it was said that the Vala Elbereth watched over the Elves, extending an invisible hand of protection during times of need. Barangolf wasn’t sure he believed that any more than he believed in rebirth, but hymns to Elbereth were a frequent source of comfort for the  Wood-Elves during times of trouble. He cast a tentative glance over his shoulder. “Do you sing, Dirthandeth?” 

“On occasion,” she said, watching him with unsettling intensity. 

“Today my hope died,” he confessed haltingly. “I wondered if perhaps singing to Elbereth would lift my spirits. She’s said to watch us, is she not?” 

Dirthandeth’s nod was almost imperceptible. “Let us sing.”

Their song was a mere whisper, at first, but as they began the second stanza their voices grew stronger. Deep voice and high twined together in harmony. The Elves seated around the nearest campfires joined in, and soon the song rippled across the supply camp. 

Whether Elbereth listened, Barangolf didn’t know. The heavens were silent in the face of the Elves' offering, giving no indication anyone listened beyond the borders of their camp. 

But as their chorus swelled to fill the night sky hope reignited within his heart. He didn’t need a missive from some distant, faceless spirit. He had his people–greatly diminished in number, bereaved, poorly armed but as determined and valiant as ever. 

And that was enough.