Retreat to Osgiliath

Dusk sets upon the land but enough light lingers such that a small gathering might assemble around the center of camp. And though the camp be quite large, numbering many rows of tent, the entire attention of the host seems to collect around the emerging scene. Scouts return from the north, south, and east, desperately fatigued and some bearing great alarm upon their faces some hide it better than others. Their reports are heard by a group of the highest ranking officers.

Elsewhere around the camp, heavily armed soldiers rush to man the many earthworks and fortifications hastily built in the days past. Watch-scouts keep a keen eye trained in all directions. Amidst the officers is veteran Ranger, Endaerion, his arms crossed and countenance stolid.

Ceredir is among those scouts still in the camp itself, and as the commotion grows he comes hurrying over so that he comes up near to Endaerion. 

"What is it?"

Even the healers poke their heads out of their tents to see what is going on. Morwen Mormegil steps out of the pavilion, wide-eyed and curious, but she stays by the tent and does not go near the officers. 

Joining her cousin outside the tent, Midhwen watches the activity, eyes open wide. "Has there been an attack?"

Laeraelin emerges from the healer's pavilion a few moments after the apprentice healers. "What is it Morwen, Midhwen?"

Her storm-gray eyes rest upon the returning men of Ithilien. Their manner is unmistakable, even from a distance, and she frowns. 

Joining her cousin outside the tent, Midhwen watches the activity, gaze drinking everything in. "Has there been an attack?"

 

Bor yawns, sitting aside a nearby flame. He stretches out his legs and watches the growing commotion about the scene with idle amusement.

Arms still crossed and soon flanked by Ceredir and Midhwen, Endaerion gestures silently his head towards the speaking men

There is some alarm to the southern perimiters of the encampment.

An attack?

Nay, but a handfull of men returned from a trek come thither, their path bent straight toward the center where council is held. Their gear marks them as scouts, hooded and cloaked and bearing bows of their own height all saves one who walks in their midst cloakless, with singed garb and unarmed but for his sword and shield a splotch of soot on his cheek. No scout that.

Amrundirn Carmayar.

 

Arms still crossed and soon flanked by Ceredir and Midhwen, Endaerion gestures silently his head towards the speaking men, and ultimately to the approaching Amrundirn. "Listen and you will soon see."

To the later he calls, "Amrundirn, how fare the South?"

So ordered, silent is Ceredir's reply to Endaerion. He only waits for the scouts to make their report, though more so is his attention drawn to the arrival of the Ranger Amrundirn.

And that is cause for breaking his silence. "The fires we smelled in the distance?" he asks toward Amrundirn.

"I am not sure, Lady Azrabar," Morwen says, letting her lip out from between her teeth and looking toward Laeraelin. But Endaerion has said to listen and she says no more. 

Bor crosses one leg over the other.

Following the Cold Lord's order, Midhwen stays silent, her attention going swiftly to Amrundirn when he's addressed by both Endaerion and Ceredir.

"Come along," Laeraelin says to Morwen and Midhwen softly. "I may need you."

With that she passes the two young apprentice healers and crosses the yard to join Endaerion and the other men of Ithilien.

The scout Ceredir is awarded a glance.

His rangerly brother, however, Amrundirn answers with words delivered on a voice that is a little hoarse: "We've a problem, brother."

"The plains to the south are ablaze and the south wind blows."

 

Endaerion leans inward, a severe frown forming upon his brow. "Patrols report Uruk war parties roaming throughout the area, we suspect a an entire army may be nearby. Do you tell me now that the way South is blocked to our escape?"

With a face gone pale, Morwen follows Laeraelin, stopping only to take Midhwen's hand in her own. Her self-possession seems nowhere in evidence now she looks only young. 

Origin unseen, a water droplet slugs Bor's cheek.

"Indeed. And there is more."

Amrundirn nods in turn, grim of face as of tone. "A force of orcs marches on the wildfire's wake -- it is of their making, in truth -- how many, I cannot say, but suffice to say there are plenty."

"How far and how wide ranges this fire? and how large a force?" Ceredir says, directing his question again to Amrundirn. A frown deepens on his forehead at Endaerion's assessment of the situation. "Leaving...north, east or west only."

Holding on tight to Morwen's hand, the other apprentice healer turning as white as her colleague as the import of the announcement is revealed.

 

Bor brushes the droplet of water from his teeth and looks up to the sky.

The Cold Lord shakes his head. "East is no escape, and to the North we would only be driven into the marshes, if we were to even get so far. There is only now one escape. West."

 

Thingalad enters the camp looking disheveled as if much of his time recently has been spent in the bush and constantly on the move. The master scout pulls off his hood to get some air across his face as he looks around for the most important person he can find. "Is there a lord or a captain, I need to see one!"

Arriving to stand near Endaerion, Laeraelin says, "When the smokes come, the men need to wear damp cloths over their mouths and noses."

She turns to the young healers beside her, and speaks quietly, "We will need to provide such for the wounded in our care."

 

Looking at Midhwen, Morwen swallows hard. "We cannot go east," she says to her cousin almost soundlessly. Then she looks past her fellow apprentice at Laeraelin and bends her head swiftly. "Yes, Lady Azrabar," she says promptly. "There is water ready, and linen enough." 

 

"Waste no time!" commands Endaerion to the arriving Thingalad. "There are Captains aplenty right here. What news from the East?"

 

Thingalad's gaze falls upon Endaerion and he calls out, "Ranks upon ranks of evil soldiers descend from Morgul. Even now, they are but a few hours time from this camp and are on the march!"

Amrundirn's gaze milden as it fleets over the faces of the women yonder, in its passage from Endaerion to Ceredir. "The grass grows dense and dry, and the wind is unhindered for leagues southward. We too will burn, if we do not act quickly."

He pauses then, a glance sent to the arrival of Thingalad.

"Quickly? Then we must fly and to the west it would seem," Ceredir says, grim-faced at the reply from Amrundirn. He checks further thoughts on it, though, as Thingalad hurries in, and takes a step that way to listen.

 

Bor rises lazily from his spot. He stretches out his arms.

Arathis, tallest among the gathered, booms out: "Ithilien burns, her dirts marred again by yrch, and her Company wishes escape?

"Shall the flame leap our trenches?"

He regards the Ranger and women flatly.

 

"Do they mean us to run?" Morwen asks her companions, pitching her voice low so it will not carry. But she looks increasingly frightened, dark eyes darting around the darkness. 

Midhwen shakes her head, leaning in close to whisper to her younger cousin. "Is there any other choice?"

 

"Do not run, ladies," says the Knight-Captain, stepping now to the fore.

"Bor arrives."

With a glance on Arathis then: "There is no cover from this fire, Isilrim. If the flames by chance spare you, the smo--..." Amrundirn's hoarse answer is pauses by a fit of racking cough.

Point in case.

He bends, palms on his knees.

"We've done it before, Morwen," Laeraelin says, reassuringly, "In Harondor. We will be safe enough."

The Master Healer returns her attention to the Rangers and their discussion, sparing the Knight-Captain only a glance.

 

There have been coughs aplenty of late, what with smoke and long journeying, and Morwen notes Amrundirn's cough with a frown. "Yes, Lady," she says, then lets go her cousin's hand to go to the Cold Lord. She takes something from her pocket, a little ball that smells pungently of mint and other things to soothe coughs. "Here," she murmurs, holding it surreptitiously forth to her Carmayar kinsman. 

"If the earthenworks are deep and wide enough, they may serve as a way to break the fire. If. But coupled with ranks of orcs marching upon us, a few hours from us? If they manage to maneuver to our west, then we will have no way out at all," Ceredir says. "So yes, sir Knight," continues to Arathis, "we must escape."

 

Thingalad notes well the healers and one among them as he listens to the talk.

Gardirion has connected.

With little evident concern, Arathis observes the bend of the Ranger.

"We have dug ditches according to standard. Speak none of chance."

Impatience pivots then against Ceredir. "The fire that encircles us is a path for our Enemy, then? For what shall they gain the west?" He does not await an answer.

 

"We run again?" asks the Knight-Captain, coming upon the gathered.

"What madness is this?"

Morwen's help is taken without question if with no subterfuge. Amrundirn breathes deeply, only moments later. His brow creases as he looks to his aid then, eyes slightly narrow a thoughtful expression. "I know that face..." He murmurs in turn.

But whatever softness has come over him is then dispersed he stands erect to look on both Knights in turn. "If burn you will, then burn."

"The earthworks shan't hold men, women and supplies all."

"Lirael is my mother," Morwen says to Amrundirn before moving away, back toward Laeraelin and Midhwen, her steps slow. As she passes Bor, she looks up at him to let him see the fear in her eyes before she is past him. 

"Ranger," issues the Isilrim Lord sternly, matching the eyes of the addressed, "With calm.

"Wind itself does not burn we shan't flee into holes, but they shall impede the flame. For smoke, let us prepare linens. Or would you trade ground for breath?"

Endaerion considers all that has been said thus far and steps forward. He looks between many faces.. the Knight-Captain, the Master, his fellow Rangers, and the Hostmen Captains and their Lieutenants. Rabazgar, nephew of the fallen Phazganun is among the later. An ominous tone springs forth from the Lord Cuthalion's cold bitter utterance. 

"Amrundirn speaks news graver than perhaps even that of Thingalad here the way South is shut. If we move West, we might regroup behind the refortified walls of Eastern Osgiliath, and there await the coming onslaught. I see no other way. But such a retreat will require a degree of haste that we cannot perhaps all afford, for there many wounded still from our campaigns in the South, and they cannot be moved easily, I would deem." He looks to Laeraelin for aknowledgement.

"The men of Belfalas," he continues, his voice rising to interrupt those of Bor and Arathis, "speak ever with a valiancy unmatched by the words of any others... but the time for reckless valor is not now. Mark my words, our situation is severe. Any man who believes otherwise is fooling himself."

Thingalad laughs slightly at the hyperbole. "Trade ground for breath. Are you implying that if we stay, we'll run out of breath? Because in that case, we'll run out of breath and then give away ground anyway."

The master scout nods to Lord Cuthalion. "I volunteer for the rearguard."

Defering to the Cuthalion Ranger with a nod, jaw set and with an exhale through the nose, Amrundirn speaks no answer, but his gaze remains on Arathis all the same.

Emerging from the healer's pavillion, the Lady Cuthalion wipes her hands off on her apron apparently having finished a shift by the vaguely weary look upon her face.

However passage towards the sleeping tents is aborted when eyes of varigated grey espy the impromptu gathering in the middle of the camps... And the worried, frantic looks on the faces of some of those gathered. Spotting her Lord Husband in the thick of it, she turns her steps then towards him. And upon arriving at his shoulder, she listens silently for the moment to Healers, Rangers, and Knights alike.

"Set the Nardukan as rearguard," she suggest calmly, perhaps only for Endaerion's ears. "They will protect the women and injured. There are none better suited to stave off the Uruk from attacking our weakest flank."

"There are but a few more days until I am fit to fight. I stand with Master Scout Thingalad if I may," Ceredir says, first to Endaerion and then looking toward the healers.

Bor interrupts Endaerion interrupting him.

"Belfalas will man the rearguard."

Mirth features the Isilrim Lord widened eyes find the Knight-Captain, wry in their temper. So he speaks afterwards, in a volume cold and unashamed:

"Alas, those who would defend Ithilien mark only words."

Heeding a scout Thingalad, he adds: "And these, poorly."

"Most from the southern campaign are well enough," the Master Healer answers. She pauses for a few heartbeats, looking at her healers with unfocused eyes as she tallies in her mind. "But we have several from the latest encounter, men of Ithilien Company, all. I believe I could get by with only two wagons."

Bor looks at Morwen and smiles.

He then whispers to her nearness: "Fear is for cowards, little one."

"You must go ahead, Lady Azrabar," Morwen says as she draws up beside the lady and lightly touches her belly. "You are too far gone to risk staying with the wagons. Find a man to carry you on his horse and go. We will care for the injured." Then she lifts her chin, casting her gaze back to the Knight-Captain and smiling back. 

"So too folly, Isilrim," Amrundirn says then his tone leveled, but in check. His glance wanders then to Morwen, briefly, 'ere returning.

The Lord Isilrim assesses the men of Ithilien.

Then he departs for the stables.

 

Thingalad looks at the Isilrim lord and smiles. "It is a sad day when /all/ the ancient arts of Gondor are realized to have fallen into the dust. Perhaps the men of Dol Amroth are so infatuated with their weapons and using them that they have not at all studied the books of our forefathers who taught of prudence in battle and knowing when a tactical retreat can lead to later, greater strategic victory..." He shrugs.

"Sir." Ceredir steps forward with eyes on fire as Arathis speaks of Thingalad. But Thingalad's reply beats him to whatever angry retort was on his tongue. He shuts his mouth abruptly, glaring at the Knight's departing back, and then once more looks to the healers for their response.

 

Thingalad looks at Ceredir. "Fear not. We need not his respect if he judges his fellow Men of Gondor by how well they wield weapons. We of Ithilien know better that one man with a sword may kill tens of his enemies, but one general with his mind may kill hundreds and thousands."

"I could not leave others to take this risk," Laeraelin replies, shifting her gaze to the young Mormegil healer. And though she denies the suggestion, a look of great worry shadows her countenance.

She catches Ceredir's glance. "I am sorry, Master Scout. Let us see...You are to be released in twelve days, yes?" She looks to Midhwen for confirmation.

"I could not leave others to take this risk," Laeraelin replies, shifting her gaze to the young Mormegil healer. And though she denies the suggestion, a look of great worry shadows her countenance.

She catches Ceredir's glance. "I am sorry, Master Scout. Let us see...You are to be released in twelve days, yes?" She looks to Midhwen for confirmation.

 

Endaerion looks about all who address him. Suddenly he finds himself the subject of many gazes. It is Zaira's, however, that he sees ere he speaks again. His words come slow, but deliberate. "There are none among us who can claim the title Captain of Gondor, and as such there are none who can issue command over all. The sum of our wisdom must guide us now, and may our resolve unite us in action."

"Many have spoken bravely here," his eyes linger on Thingalad, but also to Bor and others, "and I say to all that none doubt your courage, but personal honor must be set aside now for the sake of our higher purpose the defense of Osgiliath!"

 

"My mother," Morwen says to Laeraelin, "will skin me -alive- if you remain. Lady Azrabar, see us organized if you must, then -go-. For your child's sake, if not your own." It is clear that Morwen, daughter of Phallanath, is afraid no longer. 

"You may out-rank us all within the Healers, but when it comes to your own health, lady, you are subject to the rest of us." Midhwen tries to summon a smile but fails. "How can we ask the men to listen to us if our leader will not?"

Zaira barely contains a snort in Bor's direction at his mention of taking the rearguard, but she covers it masterfully with a sneeze.

But when she hears her husband speak, her hand comes up to rest on his arm but for the faintest of moments. An unspoken communication that likely means little to anyone save the Cold Lord. But she turns back, an eyebrow raised at Laeraelin's words. "Aunt," she says, her voice full of the cold command of attention found in her late Father and the gentle empathy of a woman. "Surely enough children have died in this campaign. Go."

"Twelve days, yes, but it seems, Master Healer, that this situation deems stretching the rules? If Mordor has unleashed its army at us, what does it matter if I die from wounds old or new? I would choose new wounds and the chance to hold the enemy back."

A nod, then, to Thingalad, along with a chuckle at his remark. "All too true, alas. In any case, whether I fight or not in the rearguard, there is packing to be accomplished and the process of moving must start now. So I will take my leave."

 

Endaerion looks about all who address him. Suddenly he finds himself the subject of many gazes. It is Zaira's, however, that he sees ere he speaks again. His words come slow, but deliberate. "There are none among us who can claim the title Captain of Gondor, and as such there are none who can issue command over all. The sum of our wisdom must guide us now, and may our resolve unite us in action."

"Many have spoken bravely here," his eyes linger on Thingalad, but also to Bor and others, "and I say to all that none doubt your courage, but personal honor must be set aside now for the sake of our higher purpose the defense of Osgiliath!"

"The Daughter of Phazganun speaks rightly, I deem the Nardukan regiments, heavy infantray as they are, seem best fit for this task. Hir Knight," he then says after a pause, addressing Bor, "cavalry is wasted upon this terrain. Let foresight compel you, take flight for the city and ready its defense. You need not wait long for the hour of battle!"

The Lord Cuthalion's voice has nearly risen to a shout as commotion begins to spread through the growing crowd, and more patrols - many bloodied and lesser in numbers than those set out with - return with haste to the camp. The hour of darkness approaches...

Bor scans the faces around him.

Then he walks away wordlessly.

Laeraelin looks at each of her rebellious young healers in turn. Then she tilts her head back and laughs. "I have trained you well, I see. If it is possible, I will be among those that ride ahead. But mind you, it may not be in my hands nor yours."

She sighs and turns back to Ceredir. Smiling she replies, "They are not rules so much as guidelines drawn from centuries of observation and experience on the needs of a body to heal - however, you are correct. The situation is dire and demands certain sacrifices. Listen to your body - that is all I ask."

Thingalad takes a moment to speak with one healer he knows, walking over to her and whispering quietly for her alone amid the din. "... ..., ... ... another ... ... ... you. ... ... ... ... ... prospects than ... ... ... ...?"

Morwen's face spreads into a smile too, then turns to her cousin. "Midhwen, you see to the water barrels. I..." 

 

She breaks off and turns to listen to Thingalad. "Who?" she asks aloud, frowning in confusion. "I cannot imagine that anyone would. You have heard him." She lowers her voice now, and is careful not to be too specific. "Are you well?" 

"Thank you, my lady," Ceredir nods to the Master Healer, pausing before he leaves the group. "And I would say the same to you, as well." With a small smile, Ceredir inclines his head to Laeraelin and then to the others, and turns, hurrying away into the camp.

Thingalad nods in both affirmation and leave-taking before making his way off into the camp to see to his duties this day.

Zaira detaches herself from her husband's side and moves to Laeraelin to press a kiss into the older woman's cheek. "Grandfather would be livid if you risked this," she murmurs. "Family, after all." She sighs and smiles a little. "Do it for both of us?"

 

Frowning bemusedly, Morwen watches Thingalad go. She opens her mouth once as if she will call out to him, but matters are far too pressing and instead she gives herself a sharp shake and turns to go about her own duties, hiking up her skirts to run toward the pavilion where the wagons are already being readied. 

 

Endaerion watches the Knight-Captain turn and walk. Nothing is said, but his gaze lingers for a moment.

"I will not argue with that," Laeraelin replies, smiling at her niece. "We will see if it is possible, however."

"Do you have a moment, Zaira? I would speak to you in private."

"Done!" The Ranger Amrundirn answers the plan laid out by the Cuthalion. "Let us get on with it time grows short. Fell the tents and send the wagons."

There is a little smile on Zaria's lips and she nods at Laeraelin. "Of course. I'll help you get ready while we speak."

Saying nothing in return, Laeraelin merely gives her niece a tired smile and turns to walk towards her pavilion.

 

The Marcher Lord looks to Laeraelin ere she too departs. "My Lady, you should take as much of your women as you can with the main retreat, but I fear some might need remain with the rearguard, lest the men they would tend to might as well be left for the orcs." His eyes turn to Zaira, knowing well what this request might mean. 

And that moment might last, but for the wisdom of Amrundirn. "Agreed." he replies, turning to face his kinsman. "In the South our Company followed the will and command of the Cuthalion. And though we are in grounds once considered neutral, we are North enough. If the Carmayar wish to serve the rearguard, I will direct what of my own kin are present and can be spared to fight alongside that banner. Thingalad would be a worthy bearer of that standard. As for me.."

Again Endaerion's eyes track the departure of Bor. "I depart for Osgiliath."

Laeraelin has left.

"Perhaps it would be wise for those healers who have brought their own mounts to stay with the rearguard." Having been quiet for some time, Midhwen addresses her cousin once his lady has left with the Master Healer. "In case there is need of a swift retreat."

"Very well. Take your woman-folk and go, Lord Cuthalion," says Amrundirn, with the briefest hint of mirth a gleam on his eye and a light bend on his mouth. But it is spent as quickly as the remark: "I go with my kinsmen."

He turns thus, eastward.

"That is for your Order to decide, cousin." he regards Midhwen with a nod. The Carmayar's words earn no reaction. The Lord Cuthalion turns and sets about to work.