A Little Legolas Story
Beta'd by Sarah AK - italics=thoughtsPart Four: Fuin Gar Hin Venig (The Night has a Thousand Eyes)
Warning: There is a rather gruesome battle scene at the end, very violent behaviour described.
A/N: My thanks to tina, who left a nice review at aff.net recently and encouraged me to post the story on my home page.
Like the soft rich caress of damasked silk the formless curtain of Ithil's atramentous garments enveloped the forest and the roadside glen where the travellers reposed. The darkened firmament descended to earth and the woods seemed more a part of the tapestry of night and its adamantine embroidery than of ground and stream and sunlit wind. Somehow the trees did not shy from the breathless, close embrace of empty welkin, welcoming the sombre stillness, the subdued sonance, the sedate, ambling pace of the twilight time.
Banished was the tension and dread of the previous evening's allotted span of hours, for the sweet remnants of the immortal's soul-song lingered among the limbs and leaves, held bound as the weald refused to relinquish the gentle peace granted by the Elf child's lament. The flora and fauna of the diurnal interval in Arda's unceasing cycle slept in dreamless and contented slumber; while their nocturnal counterparts slipped through the adumbral landscape with reverent respect for the music's memory.
The watches languidly passed in long lazy tracts, unwilling to hurry the departure of the serenity savoured by all of nature. Scattered around the cheery winking flames of the camp's fumeless fire, the travellers rested better than on any of the previous nights since their embarkation upon the Forest Road. Yet among them the lone guard kept vigil with heightened awareness.
Restless and alert best described Iomhar's attitude as the night hours wore on. He wanted more than anything to sleep, but could not allow himself the luxury for fear of leaving the company at risk, and if he could not doze he needed companionship to ward off the weariness. He paced the perimeter of their clearing, passing by Legolas seated against the tree, still staring wide eyed into the darkness, and stopping, turned back to look at him.
Something about that expression was just not right and while the child's song had left him peacefully contented, this vacant gaze left his skin writhing in aversion. Iomhar followed the direction in which the Elf's features faced, but found only trees and black air there. The Ranger returned his attention to the immortal and shuddered just the smallest amount as he cautiously approached.
He knelt next to Legolas but still the Elf took no notice of his presence. Iomhar extended his hand, gently grasping the shoulder and shaking him to get his attention. The response was unexpected and the Ranger, caught off his guard, shouted anxiously as the child grasped the hand upon him with a steely grip far stronger than his stature and appearance would suggest possible.
Legolas wrenched the limb in a twisting motion as he rose and moved behind the man, and the pain inflicted by the torsional force made Iomhar cry out in surprise and discomfort. Before the Ranger quite knew what was happening, he felt the cold sharp pressure of a blade at his throat, and he became utterly immobile. He could feel Legolas' panting breath upon his neck.
"What is this?" the words were from Arathorn, for his comrade's surprised shout had roused him immediately and he leaped from his bedding, halting in confusion at the scene before him.
The Elf looked up at him, returned his gaze to his prisoner and gasped. At once he released the man's arm and the knife vanished back into whatever hidden place he stowed it. He began speaking in rapid fluidity and there was a pleading sound to his words as he moved to face Iomhar and knelt on the ground in front of him.
"Goheno nin, saes! Goheno nin! Avon harno le! Nauthannen Yrch tellin! Olthannen uin Yrch! Goheno nin!" His distress and fear evident in his voice, Legolas repeated these phrases over and over.
"I do not know, Arathorn." Iomhar rubbed his throat as he gazed at his comrade. "I must have startled him; he took me by surprise!" the man was embarrassed to have been bested by a child. "Hush, lad! No need for all this!" he cautioned for the child was now shaking with dread.
"Legolas?" Arathorn squatted beside them calmly and tentatively reached for the Elf's hands, clasping them within his own. "All is well; there is nothing to fear. Iomhar will not hurt you, alright?" The man tried to make his words sound comforting, and the immortal child transferred wide eyes to his then darted a glance back at Iomhar. The flustered bowman smiled awkwardly and reached out to gently pat the Elf's shoulder.
Legolas stiffened as the initial contact was made and then relaxed when it was obvious he was not going to be punished for his terrible indiscretion. He smiled wanly at Iomhar.
"Aye, no harm done! I should not have frightened you so," the man said in good spirits, for he was upset that the child truly thought he would strike him. The Ranger felt guilty for having startled the elfling; his was an instinctive reaction and one the man should have expected given the horrors Legolas had endured.
"Is everything alright over there?" Alberic called from his mat, alert but not alarmed for Arathorn had given no signal to attack.
"Yes, nothing amiss; the child was only startled for a moment. All is well!" Iomhar replied quickly.
Alberic grunted his frustration at having been roused without reason and snuggled back deeply into his blankets, asleep nearly at once.
"If you tell anyone about this," Iomhar met Arathorn's eyes atop the golden-haired head. "I will reveal the tale of the first time we came through here and you bathed in the Enchanted River!" His voice was less than a murmuring sigh.
"Why, Iomhar, I am shocked that you think I would make jokes at your expense! I would never call attention to the fact that a mere babe held you captive at knife point, though you ridiculed my keen senses when I warned about our guest here," Arathorn quietly rejoined with mock innocence as he chuckled.
"Babe! You did not feel the iron grip with which he jerked my arm! And he moved with a speed my eyes could not follow. Truly he must be using some magic or sorcery. How else could a child escape from Orcs?" Iomhar resorted to superstition and exaggeration to account for his humiliation.
Both men looked into Legolas' concerned eyes, for he had been silently trying to follow their conversation, listening to know if they really would let this pass. When the Rangers turned their scrutiny upon him he shifted about a little and blushed faintly. Abruptly he jumped up and darted out of the clearing before either man could blink, and for a second or two they just sat staring dumbly at the spot where he had been kneeling.
"Legolas! Wait, there is no need to run; we are not angry with you!" Arathorn recovered first and was on his feet, chasing after the child.
Iomhar rose and came after, nearly colliding with Arathorn just beyond the boundary of the firelight. They stared in apprehensive astonishment at the immortal. The Elf's fair features were cast in starlit shades, his form outlined in an eerie glow against the pitch background of the forest night. The men feared to approach, for they had not beheld such fey luminance before. The enchantment was dispersed by the unmistakable sound of the youth relieving his bladder. Each man exhaled when the noise registered coherently and they waited a polite distance away until Legolas finished and returned to them.
He had restrained his body's demands as long as he could for he knew the Orcs would be searching for his scent now that he had stopped bleeding. Also, he had given in to his sorrow and sung for his fallen friends, and surely the foul demons had heard him. Legolas was very distraught with himself for unwittingly attracting harm to his benefactors and longed for a means to get them all safely back to his city.
As fate would have it, the group was moving towards the location of the attack. Legolas could sense the beasts' nearness and remained tense and watchful. Every instinct cautioned him to take to the trees and flee, but he did not want to leave the humans, and in truth he was afraid to face the Orcs alone. The Rangers, he reasoned, had weapons and had faced the fearsome creatures before. He glanced longingly at Iomhar's bow and quiver; his own had been taken from him and destroyed. With sudden inspiration he turned to the archer.
"Iomhar, anna enni cu lin? Bedin am ned 'elaith ar maethon Yrch ned ennas. Saes?" He spoke in coaxing tones and pointed at the fine weapon the Ranger carried strapped to his back.
The Ranger exchanged astonished looks with Arathorn. "He seems to be asking something about my bow, Arathorn," Iomhar said.
"Aye, perhaps you should give the warrior child your weapon; no doubt he would be able to wield it with elven magic and every dart would find its way into our enemies' hearts!" the Ranger could not resist the small gibe.
"Nay, Legolas," Iomhar replied, ignoring his friend's snide remark. "You are not tall enough to draw a bow this long! Worry not; I will protect us should the need arise."
Legolas stared with hopeful eyes a moment and then his brow wrinkled and he gave a muttered remark that was highly reminiscent of a curse in tone and force. Without another look at them he made his way back to the tree where he had reposed earlier and with the agility only a Wood Elf could demonstrate leaped with consummate grace and ease up into the branches.
The humans stood looking after him and then Iomhar shrugged apologetically as he moved to lay out his bedding. Now that Arathorn was awake, he saw no reason to refrain from his own rest. Finding a clear spot not too far from the fire, he set aside his weapons and nestled into the inviting warmth of his wool blanket. The archer was soon plunged into his long awaited repose.
Arathorn moved to stand under the tree where Legolas was perched and stared up into the high slender branches where he knew the Elf child would be hiding. Sure enough, the bright gleam of those unearthly eyes aimed in his direction for a moment and then turned away. {Or perhaps he sleeps.}, the Ranger thought and decided not to attempt any conversation with the skittish youth. He did not want to repeat Iomhar's error. He made a thorough patrol of the area encircling the camp and then, having found nothing of importance, returned to the fireside to enjoy its radiating comfort. As was his habit, he took out his dagger and scraped it with monotonous concentration against the whetstone.
Yet the comfort he usually derived from this activity failed to find him, and as the hour wore on the Ranger became vaguely concerned and agitated. Something was wrong, and he could not tell what it was. A tension of nervous energy was building among the trees, he felt, and the Ranger knew better than to disregard such instinctive sensations. He got up and began quietly rousing his fellows, leaving the travellers asleep for the time.
None of the Rangers troubled to ask what was wrong; long experience had taught them that Arathorn's visceral reactions were seldom erroneous. All moved to ready themselves and took up defensive positions encircling the little clearing, and it was then that Iomhar missed his bow. He swore a foul epithet as he fumbled about, striving to see if he had inadvertently kicked it beyond the firelight, though never had he done such a thing in all his long years as an archer. There was only one conclusion, and the thought angered and perplexed him.
"Arathorn! We have a thief among us, and I think you know who I mean!" he whispered harshly, for they all knew not to alarm the travellers with their worries. "Call to Legolas and make him return my bow and quiver. This is no child's game!"
Arathorn frowned, disappointed, for he would not have thought that the Elf child would be capable of such deceit. The Ranger stood beneath the tree.
"Legolas! Come down now and bring back Iomhar's bow," he called softly with hurried insistence colouring his speech. The glint of elven eyes flashed briefly in his direction.
"Nay, Arathorn!" the Elf trilled back, for he had observed Iomhar's search for the weapon and had no doubt about the man's demand. He did not wait for any further words to wend their way through the leaves toward him, though, and silently glided through the branches until he was far into the dense forest too distant from the camp to see more than the faint glow of the campfire. He chose a likely spot, high enough in the canopy to ensure invisibility until he chose to be discovered, yet not so great a height that his aim would suffer.
Once settled he inspected the bow and tested its draw. The graceful weapon was indeed nearly as tall as he and Legolas had to move to a spot with greater clearance beneath the low limbs to keep it from entangling in the tree. Satisfied, he adjusted the quiver, loosely slung across his small frame, and drew from it an arrow, setting it to the string to be ready.
Legolas knew they were coming, for his keen ears had picked up the Orcs' movements at last. The creatures thought they were being quiet, and in truth they were, yet the immortal could discern them easily. It was the same group that had attacked his camp before, his sense of smell told him so, and he was determined to prevent the humans from making the mistake his comrades had made that night. For these Orcs had set a clever trap, knowing the adults would try to get him out of harm's way, and had driven the First Born into an unexpected ambush.
While three of the five Elves had remained to face the attack, comprised of twelve of the vile mutations, Legolas and the remaining two adults had mounted their horses and ridden for home. By the time they realised that the frontal assault was but a feint, the main force of the loathsome troop overwhelmed them, killing the horses out from under them and surrounding the three lone fighters. The Orcs outnumbered them nearly eight to one, yet even so it had taken some time for the beasts to prevail, and not without the loss of many of their comrades and their youngest prey. With his last breath and strength, one of the two Elves had snatched the elfling literally out of the teeth of death and tossed him into the branches, his final word a command to fly.
Legolas had obeyed, racing through the branches with speed born of his terror, knowing he would never see either of his friends again.
He watched now as the shadows came to life, creeping along in a hunched over nearly crawling stance as the Orcs advanced upon the little clearing. Involuntarily he shuddered and had to wilfully squelch his desire to run. He counted twenty; these he knew were all that remained of them after the attack on his camp. He held himself rigidly still and allowed them to approach closer. Timing was paramount; if he was revealed too soon the ploy would fail; too late and the humans would be killed.
The skulking demons were flowing like a fog of black and pestilent smoke, shrouding the base of his tree, moving outward in a widening fan as they sought to surround the clearing revealed by the glow of the campfire.
Legolas deemed the moment opportune and loosed his first arrow.
In the silence of the quiescent woods the sound of the bowstring seemed deafeningly loud and was followed by the surprised grunt of an Orc as the Elf child's dart sliced into the foul demon's heart. The entire troop halted in confusion as another, and then another of their colleagues fell, pierced by the immortal's unerring aim. They turned in rage upon the vicinity of the attack and bellowed to one another in their horrid speech as they blindly fired black fletched arrows into the air.
Legolas shifted quickly and silently through the branches so that when the darts were near to his initial spot, he was safely perched in another. With concentrated effort he began again and four more of the beasts dropped to the ground with Iomhar's white feathered arrows embedded in their chests.
Thirteen remained.
In the clearing, Arathorn's Rangers easily detected the guttural shouts that passed for language among the spawn of Melkor, and quickly arranged their defence. Iomhar, now armed with a cumbersome sword he had found in Dacre's baggage, Esmond, and Baldwin would remain behind to protect the travellers. Arathorn and Alberic slithered silently out of the glade toward the sounds of the skirmish.
Legolas continued his shoot and run strategy, firing off two more bolts before moving on, but the Orcs began to understand his technique. Some held back and waited as two of their fellows died, then let loose a barrage of missiles in the direction from which the deadly strike was made. Already climbing up and out of the tree, the Elf child narrowly escaped injury and a fresh surge of adrenaline pulsed through him as an Orc's arrow embedded in the trunk just below his feet.
Only eleven still breathed, and Legolas was determined that before dawn not one would live to return to its filthy cave. He heard the humans shout and leap into the fray, and all at once he was not the principal target anymore.
Now the vicious beasts were split, fighting on two fronts as the Rangers vigorously slashed and hacked their way through the unprepared Orcs. A massive roar erupted as they realised the little elfling had tricked them well, allowing these fearsome and fierce battlers to encroach too closely to employ their bows. The beasts had thought to sneak up and cut down their quarry from beyond the reach of the firelight, safe within the distance provided by their arrows' flights. They were still encumbered with the long-range weapons, not expecting to have to engage in hand-to-hand battle. Now beset from above as the Elf flitted from tree to tree and rained death upon them and from the rear by the wily human warriors, the grotesque soldiers hovered on the fringes of desperate panic.
In a trice, two more were slain and each of the men had another engaged, as three more of Iomhar's arrows found their targets. The remaining pair fled, heading in a mad rush for the camp.
Legolas saw this and immediately pursued them, dropping the long bow as he ran through the limbs. Just as the demons broke through the cover of the trees, Iomhar charged and fought with one. The Ranger was proficiently dangerous and it was clear his opponent would not survive the match. The last Orc saw the error of their wild retreat and turned to escape only to meet the lithe form of the Elf child blocking his path, dagger in hand, staring up in unmasked hatred upon the loathsome beast.
Baldwin and Esmond hurriedly herded their charges to the far side of the camp, for by now all were awake and wide-eyed with terror and dread. Gilraen and her mother were both screaming shrilly and the distraught father kept trying to silence them, as though that would cause the situation to right itself. Hannah fell to her knees and covered her eyes, whispering her prayers and chants. Dacre was avidly trying to get free of his brother and Berkeley's grasp so that he could take vengeance upon these vile monsters for his wife's murder.
The Orc laughed at the challenge of the immortal child and growled some taunting phrase in its barbaric tongue, fingering with its long-clawed hands a sort of talisman about its neck. It unsheathed its cruelly curved, imbrued sword.
"Elendil!" Esmond shouted and sprang away from the knot of humans, sword drawn and already lifted above his head for a fatal slice through the demon's neck. The Orc wheeled to face the threat but the two combatants' blades never rang steel.
A wild incoherent shriek escaped Legolas' throat as he darted between them and launched himself upon his foe, attacking with a frenzy of fearsome viciousness and speed unmatched. Before the Orc could lift its scimitar, the Elf's dagger had penetrated its black heart twice and still Legolas slashed and stabbed as the beast crumpled down in a gurgling flailing heap.
Esmond halted and watched the flash of surprise that spent a brief moment upon the creature's hideous features as its life drained away.
Legolas was unsatisfied and the quick demise of his enemy appeared to enrage him even more. He was screaming in elvish, damning the vile thing, calling words for the Orc's twisted soul to carry back to its Master in Mordor. The black flow of blood had not even begun to slow before Legolas dropped his dagger and took up the Orc's own scimitar. With two vigorously brutal blows he sundered the ugly head from the oozing body. The Elf continued the dismemberment, uncaring that fluids and particles of flesh sprayed up upon him with every stroke of the blade, unmindful of the shocked observation of the humans witnessing this, unresponsive to Iomhar's pleas to stop and come away.
Arathorn and Alberic raced back into the clearing in time to see Legolas yank something from the decapitated remains. With this token in hand, his energy suddenly vanished and he let the sword slip from his hand as he staggered away from the unholy mess on the ground. He sank to the earth and gave way to soul-searing mourning of wails and tears as he clutched the bloodied object close to his chest. He cried out in elvish, but the humans did not understand him, and in truth they feared to approach him, so violent had his attack been.
At last he curled up tight upon the earth and lay sniffling and sobbing more quietly, rocking himself every now and then, seeming more like the child the humans had befriended. Arathorn approached and sat down beside him, gently patting his back.
"It is alright now, Legolas; they are all dead," he said needlessly, since the elfling could not understand anyway, but could not really think of what else to do. He gave his weary voice the most reassuring timbre he could generate and when Legolas stared up at him with such raw anguish and despair the man cringed.
"Nay! Ûvaer! Nae an nyssen! Linnathon naergyn an mellynen an uir bân!" he spoke these tear choked words between his gasping shuddering sighs, and held up for the man's inspection the token he had ripped from his foe's neck.
Arathorn recoiled in disgust and Iomhar gasped. Alberic turned away and clamped a hand over his mouth. Baldwin shifted quickly to screen the sight from the women while Esmond bared his teeth and swore between them.
In his fist Legolas clutched a gruesome necklace consisting of a rough leather thong on which were strung numerous slender, elegant, elven fingers.
Gradually the high emotion ebbed and the tension receded leaving behind the exhausted despair of the immortal child as replacement.
Gilraen and her mother calmed, Hannah struggled to her feet with Berkeley's help, and Dacre stilled and sat with his hands buried in his hair, softly weeping as his brother stood near, a hand upon his shoulder. Baldwin, Esmond and Iomhar dragged the revolting remains of the battle from the camp and Alberic took care to scoop up and throw fresh dirt over the blood-drenched earth.
Legolas sat up and examined the necklace, carefully removing three mithril rings from various digits. Then he pulled off the gore-smeared shirt and carefully wrapped up the awful remains, tying the bundle securely with the sleeves of the garment. He found his dagger and thrust the tainted blade into the earth until the stain was gone and the mithril knife shone bright again. Moving the few weary steps to the tree where he had rested earlier, the child sat against the trunk. Arathorn followed, settling nearby. They shared a long look of sorrow and relief for each other's victory.
The Elf child carefully selected a section of his hair and sliced it free with his dagger. With skilful fingers he began to weave a braided rope, and Arathorn was struck by the paradox of the brutal slaughter wrought just minutes ago by such exquisite hands.
As he worked, Legolas began to sing for his lost friends, and soon everyone in the camp was reduced to mourning and tears. He ended the song as he completed the braid, and slipped this through the rings before tying it off to form a loop. He it pulled over his head to wear round his neck as a testament of remembrance to counter the odious one the Orc captain had flaunted. The elfling sighed heavily as tears slipped silently down his face but he neither sang nor spoke again.
Somehow in all the panic and excitement, Ithil had finished his turn through the heavens and the dusky peach of early sunlight began playing among the leaves. The clear notes of a lark sounded through the clearing and Legolas jumped to his feet. At that same moment, an Elf warrior dropped down from the trees to the right of the clearing and with relief and joy called to him.
"Malthen!" Legolas shouted and raced to leap into the Wood Elf's embrace, burying his face against the strong shoulder as he was lifted up and encircled in a breath-stealing hug.
Malthen sat down on the ground and stood the child before him, carefully examining him from top to toes and frowning at the bandaged wounds. Distraught, the ageless warrior tried to wipe away the tear-streaked grime from the elfling's face. All the while Legolas was pouring out his story in a fluid torrent of lilting Sindarin marred by the terror, anguish and sorrow of the events they described.
Arathorn stood and gazed up into the surrounding trees, for each seemed to hold a grim yet relieved Elf warrior. The rest of the humans drew closer together for they followed the Ranger's line of vision and met the curious scrutiny of the Wood Elves. While the fair folk did not seem angry or unfriendly, there was a palpable flow of energy between and around them and the intensity of their inquisitive stares was unsettling to the overwrought travellers.
Arathorn heard Legolas speak his name and, returning his attention to the two elves in the camp, met the grateful expression of Malthen's countenance as the child continued the tale.
Finally, the grisly end of the narrative was spoken, and Legolas presented both the shrouded remnants of immortal life and the circle of rings. Several of the Elves in the trees exclaimed in anger and muttered together in outrage. The child began crying again and Malthen snatched him close, for he was weeping now as well. The warrior rose with the child in his arms and stepped up to Arathorn.
"I thank you for the aid you have given to Legolas. His mother has been beside herself in dread and fear, and you have in this selfless act earned our eternal friendship. I am Maltahondo of the Woodland Realm, and I will carry word of your kind and brave deeds home to my Queen. All that travel with you have the sanction of the Greenwood," he said in perfect if softly accented Westron, to the amazement of Arathorn and all the mortals alike.
Before the Ranger could even formulate an appropriate reply, Malthen turned and walked out of the clearing. Legolas lifted his head and looked over the warrior's shoulder as they retreated, gazing a moment with a mournful smile at the man.
"Namarië, Arathorn!" the youthful voice rang out clearly through the dawn-lit air, "Galu-en-Tawar am le!" and before the sound had dispersed amid the sighing breeze the Elves were gone.
The End
Glossary:
Names: (These are not elvish names! Mostly Old English.)
Alberic = [Elf Power]
Iomhar = [Bow Warrior]
Baldwin = [Bold Friend]
Esmond = [Graceful Protector]
Dacre = [Trickling Stream]
Berkley = [Birch Wood]
Elvish Phrases: (Not an expert, apologies for errors!)
"Saes, nen? Saes!" = "Please, water? Please!"
"Hannad nîn" = "My thanks"
"Geril hannad nîn ar rîn an uir," = "You have my thanks and remembrance for eternity."
"Hammad nîn?" = "My clothing?"
"Man cerithon an hammad?" = "What will I do for clothing?"
"Berkeley! Boe ammen baded sí! Le tegitha men an ost nin? Avradon. Men beriatha uin Yrch ennas!" = We must go now! Will you lead us to my city? I cannot find the way. We will be protected from the Orcs there!"
"Bedin bar si, erui, Arathorn?" = "I will go home now, alone, Arathorn?"
"Bedo, Alberic, roch tad-dal nîn!" = "Go, Alberic, my two-legged horse!"
"Yrch! Leben oer io, teraid nîn ar im farol vi taur. Yrch toll an estolad. Ti baug ar coru ar rem! Maethennem beren ar breg. Pân dant. Erui, cuinon. Ti aphadatha nin, ti telitha si!"
= "Orcs! Five days ago, my guards and I were hunting in the forest. The Orcs came to the camp. They were cruel and cunning and many! We fought bravely and fiercely. All fell. Alone, I live. They will follow me; they will come here!"
"Alberic, man adel hen rûth Dacre gâr?" = Alberic, what is behind this anger Dacre has?
"Ai! Nestai hery nîn; avo prestad nin!" = Ah! My wounds are healing, do not trouble me!
"Hannad nîn ab, Arathorn. Boe amin mabed," = Thank you again, Arathorn. I must eat.
"Aragorn, rancen nestant!" = Arathorn, my arm healed!
"Yrch aphadatha men! Boe ammen baded am ned 'elaith!" = The Orcs will follow us! We must go up in the trees!"
"Goheno nin, saes! Goheno nin! Avon harno le! Nauthannen Yrch tellin! Olthannen uin Yrch! Goheno nin!" = Forgive me, please! Forgive me! I would not harm you! I thought the Orcs had come! I dreamed of the Orcs! Forgive me!
"Iomhar, anna enni cu lin. Ir Yrch telir, bedithon am ned 'elaith ar maethathon hain od ennas. Saes?" = Iomhar, give me your bow. When the Orcs come, I will go up in the trees and fight them from there. Please?
"Nay! Ûvaer! Nae an nyssen! Linnathon naergyn an mellynen an uir bân!" = No! It is not good! Alas for my kin! I will sing laments for my friends for all eternity!
"Namarië, Arathorn. Galu-en-Tawar am le!" = Farewell, Arathorn. The blessings of Tawar upon you!"
