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It was near dawn when Arondir stood atop the watchtower, listening to the whispers of the villagers gathered in the courtyard below. They were frightened. And the ones who left the fireside hoping to put the approaching threat out of their mind could still be heard tossing fitfully on their bedrolls.
He had to remind himself that these were the brave ones. Even if they spoke in hushed tones of the threat to come, sharing their fears with one another might help to keep them strong.
Men were curious, that way. For most of them, succumbing to despair and marching into the Enemy's clutches was easier than waiting here—in the dark—for evil to visit them.
Arondir thought it might help to keep them occupied, but they had long finished every task he could think of to prepare the watchtower for battle. And he knew they would hardly feel better standing guard on the battlements. With the moon hidden behind clouds, the line of torchlights spreading from the eastern horizon would have been as clear to mortal eyes as his own.
For hours now, he had watched the column march across the shadowed fields, twisting from side to side around unseen obstacles like a monstrous snake. The distant torches mingled into one flickering band of fire, but Arondir was keenly aware that each pinprick of light belonged to one of Adar's minions, like a star shining in a hateful constellation.
The scowling faces of the Orcs he had seen in the trench swam through Arondir's mind in vivid clarity, and their memory brought even more painful glimpses from the past with them. Revion. Médhor. All his other comrades who, just a few days past, had thought their long watch was ended, and that they would soon return to the homelands of their people as heroes.
The Orcs drew ever closer. When the wind picked up, Arondir thought he could hear the thunderous stamp of feet echoing from the valley.
A new sound, much closer at hand, made his pointed ears twitch. To his sharp senses, every touch of a hand or foot on the ladder behind him was unmistakable, even with the hatch closed overtop of it and a torch crackling in the sconce beside him. Someone was climbing the tower, trying their hardest to make the ascent quietly using only one hand. Arondir kept his gaze on the valley and his back to the hatch. One hand gripped the hilt of his sword. He counted down each rung as the intruder slowly closed the distance between them.
Arondir spun on his heel, crouched and threw open the hatch—ready to draw his sword in the same heartbeat—just as a familiar, floral scent wafted up to him. His shoulders relaxed as he leaned over the ladder, meeting Bronwyn's eyes in the dim light.
"I brought you something," she whispered, clutching a bundle to her chest.
He reached down and took Bronwyn's free hand to help her up the final rungs, sensing instantly how her pulse quickened at his touch. The day he came to Bronwyn's homestead to say his goodbyes had dispelled Arondir's last doubts of her affection for him. But somehow it meant more tonight, knowing that even at such a grim hour one touch could set both their hearts racing.
"You startled me," he told her.
A smile crossed Bronwyn's face as her brown eyes widened. "Really? I never would have thought it possible."
"All night, I have felt as if my mind was elsewhere."
"I know what that's like." Bronwyn ambled to the railing then leaned over it, looking down on the courtyard. As Arondir followed he saw Theo near the palisade below, still practicing with his bow.
"His aim is getting better."
"I'll… take your word for it," Bronwyn said, squinting. "I'm just glad he has something to keep him occupied. Everyone down there is making themselves frantic."
"We've done all we can."
"I'm glad to hear you say it."
Bronwyn took his hand. As her thumb stroked over his knuckles, the peace of mind that Arondir had sorely lacked since his return from the trench finally visited him. It felt as if every muscle of his body relaxed at once. But, as always, a part of him was still on guard for watchful eyes.
He slid his hand down the railing and Bronwyn frowned.
"We don't need to hide anymore," she said with obvious annoyance.
"You don't know that," he told her. "Everything is uncertain until the darkness is gone. In a few days time, you might be punished if another villager can claim that you showed kindness to me."
"I thought you said that we were ready?"
"I said we have done all we can. The Enemy outnumbers us, and their hatred makes them strong. Even if we defeat them, the Southlands will still be full of fearful Men who don't think highly of outsiders. You have to think of yourself. And Theo."
"I am," Bronwyn said through clenched teeth. "I always felt the strength of your affection for me, Arondir. Long before either of us could acknowledge it. But if you truly believe that I climbed this watchtower in the dead of night to see you, without a thought of what that could mean for me and my son, then you're not nearly as perceptive as I thought."
A sigh left Arondir's lips and he turned his head to the east again, watching the slow spread of shimmering torchlight in the valley. When Bronwyn laid her hand on his arm, he realized how long he had let the silence linger between them.
"I won't be much company tonight, I'm afraid."
Bronwyn laughed softly. "You never were any good at sweet nothings. But that's alright. I'm not here just to pass the time. I never got the chance to thank you properly, for bringing Theo back, and then you've been run ragged looking after all of us."
As she spoke, she unwrapped her bundle and set the contents on a small table meant for the watchman's bow and quiver. There was a flask and a stone bottle plugged with a cork, both awash in the enticing scent of herbs.
"Tea and soup?"
"Just broth, really. The deserters didn't leave much, but I've done my best."
"You should save them both for someone down below. The old, or the children. Or have them yourself, you…" He trailed off abruptly, catching the sharp look that Bronwyn gave him.
"Is that what you see me as, just another helpless human?" Arondir was ready to protest, but the slight curl of her lips reassured him. "Everyone's had their fill. You're the one who needs to keep your strength up if you'll see this through with us."
"I am fine."
"Are you?"
Bronwyn raised her hand to stroke Arondir's face. The bruise on his cheek ached as her fingers brushed across it, but he shut his eyes and held her touch there, savoring the sense of warmth that filled his body.
"This looks as bad as when you arrived," she said. "I should make a salve."
"It will fade on its own."
Bronwyn clucked her tongue. "Then you should rest. That would speed things along."
"My body is fine. It's my spirit that needs time to heal." Seeing the look of confusion in her eyes, Arondir leaned on the tower's railing and held her hand, gazing off toward the distant fires. "My people speak of the hröa and fëa, or the house and the dweller. Both are part of one essence, but among Elves it's the fëa that dominates, and when the spirit is wounded—"
"—the body suffers." Bronwyn turned Arondir's face away from the torchlights, and as he met her eyes he felt they both could see more of each other than ever before. "It must have been horrible, coming back without them… But that's something I don't know how to fix."
Arondir squeezed her hand, and it warmed his heart to see Bronwyn smile in response. "You do," he assured her.
She flushed and flapped a hand dismissively, circling behind Arondir to the table. "If you really think I can be any help, I'll tell you what I tell all my patients: a tonic only works if you take it."
As she uncorked the stone bottle, the scent of the broth within surrounded Arondir. Hints of Angelica root, goldberry, thyme, wild onion and garlic drifted around him on the gentle breeze. He took the bottle eagerly and held it under his nose, breathing in the aroma.
"You have to drink it," Bronwyn said with a laugh.
"It would almost be a shame."
But Arondir brought the bottle to his lips and took a long draught. The broth inside was still warm from the kettle, and as he tasted its rich flavors Arondir wondered if he had ever enjoyed a single mouthful so perfect, let alone in his last eighty years of modest meals cooked over campfires and the watchtower's hearth.
He wiped his lips and gazed at Bronwyn.
"You made this?"
Her eyebrows shot up. "Is it that bad?"
"This is the single—"
"Well," she interrupted with a playful sigh. "If you don't like it, there's no need to spare my feelings. Just give it back and I'll pour out the dregs."
She grabbed for the bottle and Arondir pulled it out of reach, trying to stammer out assurances before he noticed Bronwyn's mischievous smile.
"You'd have to kill me to take this back."
He swung the bottle behind his back as Bronwyn tried to snatch it again, pressing close to him and stretching her arms around him.
"But I thought the old ones needed it more? Or was it the young ones? And as you said I've been working so, so hard… don't I deserve the last of it?"
"Maybe we could make a trade."
The suggestion made Bronwyn freeze, with one hand resting on Arondir's carved chest piece and her other arm wrapped around him. He thought it must be his imagination, a trick of his mind as he stared into her deep brown eyes, but in that moment Arondir would have sworn that Bronwyn could read his burning desire. Just as he saw hers written on every inch of her body.
"And what," she asked, "do I have that would interest you?"
Her head snapped to one side. Arondir was taken aback. He reached hesitantly for her shoulder. When Bronwyn spoke again, the fear in her whispering voice was palpable.
"Do you hear that?"
Arondir cocked his head.
If anyone but Bronwyn was standing in front of him, he might have wondered how he had overlooked the rising note of a shrill whistle for so long. The sound came from the east, growing with every second until its keening enveloped him and Bronwyn.
She clutched his armor fearfully. Arondir wrapped her in his arms while he swept the dark valley with his gaze.
The whistle grew louder and louder, attacking the stillness of the watchtower until Bronwyn clapped her hands over her ears. Then it was gone. For an uneasy moment, Bronwyn looked up at Arondir.
He realized she was searching his face for some sign of how to react—recognition, fear or assurance. He only stared back, just as puzzled as she was.
A gust of wind swept over them, too fierce and sudden to be natural. The air shrieked terribly and as it billowed Arondir's cape he felt a chill that touched him deeper than mere cold ever could. A pained cry left Bronwyn and she buried her face in his shoulder. Without a second thought he pulled her tighter, laying his hand on her head of soft brown hair.
The wind surged again, extinguishing the campfires in the courtyard and the braziers on the palisade. The hanging torch beside Bronwyn and Arondir was the last to die. Its flame shriveled into nothingness with a final sigh and then the air was still again.
Worried murmurs rose from the courtyard. In the profound darkness, the torchlights of the advancing army were almost glaring, and Arondir raised a hand to shield his eyes.
He felt Bronwyn shiver against him.
"It's passed," he assured her. Still, she hid her face. Arondir gently stroked her back. "It will be dawn, soon. The darkness can't last much longer."
"But I don't know what dawn will bring." Bronwyn's voice was muffled against his armor. When she leaned back, and pulled Arondir's hand to her cheek, he felt the cool paths of fresh tears. "I can't keep hoping and waiting until the dark is gone. We're here, now. Both of us."
All the old objections came to mind. Arondir couldn't bring himself to voice them. He leaned down to press his lips on Bronwyn's and she met him on her tiptoes, reaching behind his back to curl her hands around his shoulders.
For the first time since he had climbed the watchtower that night, Arondir put his dread out of mind. With Bronwyn in his arms, he could not do otherwise.
She was warm sunlight, wildflowers and sweet herbs. She was all the good that filled the valleys of the Southlands, the things that moonless nights and blazing torches could only hide for a few brief hours.
It would be sunrise, soon. And the Men of the Southlands would need them both to face the perils of the day. But Arondir curled his fingers through the ends of Bronwyn's hair, kissed her, and let their troubles wait awhile.