Mountain Light: A Middle Earth Fan-Fiction
The wind howled a hollow wail across Firgus’ cheeks, stricken red and raw from the biting cold atop the mountain ridge. It was his turn to sit and watch in the off chance there would be a flame produced from Crestemor Peak. The beacons had never ben lit in Firgus’ lifetime which was totally devoted to this sole purpose of watching and waiting. He, along with Kira and Manuel guarded the beacon of Almiran, a single link in the chain between Rohan and Gondor if one should call to the other for aid in a desperate hour of war. The three of them were totally cut off from the rest of society up there, so there was no way for them to know when to expect a flame in the chain to be ignited. They had to be vigilant, ever watching for a light from the other peaks that would be the first news they got.
Firgus was to stay up and watch, a grueling task as one spent hours doing nothing but staring at the other mountains. Kira tended to like it, but remaining stationary made Firgus shiver even more. Despite the small fire he had for warmth in the small half-build shelter to protect him against most of the wind, the cold still rattled deep into his bones. It wouldn’t get to him so much if he could only move, Firgus thought. He much rather preferred to be the one out hunting or collecting firewood or water. While doing so, whoever was on that rotation had something to actually think about, a task they had to complete. They were free to be present in their surroundings and go lower, off the top of the mountain out of the winds, to find a hare or elk perhaps on a good day. Firgus wished he could stay on that part of the rotation indefinitely, but that was not the job. In six hour shifts each man would either be sent to go collect wood, water and food, stay and watch for a signal from the adjoining beacons, or they would get to sleep in the stone dome they constructed and covered in furs to keep it warm and dark.
Firgus heard a shuffling of small rocks to his right. His heart rate shot up as he glanced over, the noise having taken him by surprise. It was Manuel returning from his shift on the hunt. Firgus felt slightly embarrassed as he should have recognized Manuel’s heavy feet kicking around the rocks in his path. Manuel always seemed to make noise whenever he stepped. It was a wonder how he ever caught anything. He was not a tall man, but he was large, his legs stout and tight from the years out hiking the mountain terrain. They looked even thicker wrapped in the layers of fur and cloth they wore to keep warm. Firgus had never seen either Manuel or Kira fully naked, or even in just one layer of clothing. Even in the stone hut they needed two or three to keep warm.
Firgus’ embarrassment turned to a quiet resentment, even though Manuel did not see his surprise, nor did he have any idea it had happened. Manuel was too busy huffing out his breath just to get up the ridge with the bucket of water he had filled up. He moved slowly and carefully, for if he dropped or spilled the bucket it would mean it was up to him to go back down and refill it again. Manuel placed the bucket on a flat stone near the fire that crackled around Firgus. He didn’t say anything at first. His breath was deep and forced. Manuel stretched his back into an arch cracking it in a few places, groaning as he did so.
“No food?” Firgus said.
“Not this go ‘round. Still no signal fire.”
“No.”
“I am afraid the game is getting smarter.”
“Then so must we.”
“They’re going away, leaving the mountain. We should follow them. There is no likely-hood of war. There never has been since our great forebearers, and never will be again.”
Manuel took a drink from the bucket. Firgus’ eyes bore into him. How dare he say such a thing? Each beacon was strategically placed, using only as many as were needed to stretch the lengths of the kingdoms. If they were not there when a beacon was lit and war was declared, then all of one kingdom, if not all of Middle Earth, could be thrown into ruin, for wars that would demand the joining of the kingdoms of men would not be subtle. They would be gruesome. Both the steward of Gondor and the king of Rohan were stubborn rulers and would rather fight down to a handful of men than admit to the other they needed help. They would not call for aid from another unless the need was truly dire, and an immeasurable, unseen force or orcs were at their gates that honor in a few men’s hearts could not save them from. It would have to be the end of days.
“We are here because we must be here,” Firgus said, looking deep into Manuel’s eyes, who showed no remorse for his statement. That blank expression, the unwavering face, the pursed lips, Manuel’s seething hatred of how persistent Firgus was, all of it only made Firgus resent him more. It was not the first time Manuel spoke like this, of abandoning their post and trailing down the mountain to find a life in some settlement, but none of them could make the trek on their own. The mountain terrain was too rigid and rough for one man to navigate alone. They would need at least one other partner to make it past the steepness of the slopes, using a rope and the other’s body weight for support and balance. Without one, death was assured. They were stuck on the mountain top, unless all of them decided to leave together.
This was also not the first time Manuel had returned with no food, which meant Firgus would go to sleep on an empty stomach, and Kira would have to venture the wild only on whatever energy rest alone had given him. It was likely that Manuel had some nuts or berries squirreled away in hidden folds of his jacket, for he often was able to go for long stretches of time off of very little food, which Firgus found to be rather suspicious. None the less it was time for them to switch and Firgus was ready to get out of the cold. Sitting motionless for 6 hours was surprisingly draining. Firgus stood, cracking his back and knees. He moved to the stone hut they had constructed as Manuel took his place by the fire. The flap of fur covering the entrance was heavy. It was bear fur they had saved for exactly that purpose, anything else would have been too thin, letting in the cold. Kira was still asleep when Firgus entered. He nudged Kira who awoke with a snort.
“You’re up,” Firgus said. The Air in the hut was close and humid, but Firgus kept his layers on to let it sink into his chilled bones.
“What did Manuel get?”
“Nothing. Just some wood and water again.”
Kira groaned as he rubbed his face and put on his layers of thick wool and fur. He had a lost expression on his face. It was nearly pitch black in the stone hut so there was absolutely no way for anyone inside to know what time it was, or how much time has passed. It was great for sleeping during the day, unaffected by the light, but often they would wake up periodically, or have to be forced awake at the turn of their shifts.
After Kira had gone outside Firgus settled into their makeshift bed. He was nearly too exhausted to take off his layers, but he knew if he left them on, he would overheat while he slept and get dry mouth. His body would burn more energy trying to cool him down rather than keep him warm, and he would have no strength or stamina to hunt, so Firgus took off his outer jacket and wraps. He was asleep before he knew he was laying down.
Firgus opened his eyes to pitch darkness. He felt an odd mixture between being well rested and feeling the deep ache of needing more rest. The latter was normal to him as six hours was often not enough to recuperate from the twelve hours awake, but he was unsure as to how long he had slept. That was an issue with the forced darkness of the hut. He sat awake for a little while and heard no movement to come rouse him, so he figured it was not yet time for the shift. Firgus laid back down, but could not find his eyes closing, despite his immeasurable aching exhaustion. He couldn’t tell how long he laid there waiting to fall asleep again, but Firgus had an increasing sense that he had slept too long rather than not enough, and Manuel should have come in to wake him for the shift by now. He closed his eyes again but could not fall asleep, and now was sure that he had been sleeping too long. Manuel was always early to enter the hut and slow to rise, and Firgus could not even hear the usual rustling of Manuel moving around outside. He moved the uncut furs off of him and clothed himself in his own wraps.
Outside, the sun was lowering on the opposing mountains. It was about to get even colder. The watcher’s fire was still burning, but Manuel was not at his post. Firgus huffed. The watcher should not abandon his position. What would happen if he was not there and the beacons were actually lit? They would miss it and all their lives and the lives of their fathers would have been a waste. Firgus knew Manuel was lazy and untrustworthy, and finding an unmanned watch post on Manuel’s shift was unexpected but it was not surprising. Firgus looked over to Crestemor Peak. Like, every other time he looked throughout his whole lifetime, the beacon there was unlit. He looked to their own beacon. Stacked high, it was a procession of smaller kindling and dried grass on the inside which grew into larger logs towards the outer tiers. Perhaps he would never get to light it. His father never did, nor his grandfather, both of whom spent their entire lives as he had, waiting for the signal.
Perhaps Manuel had gone to help Kiren. Perhaps he had heard a shout from the mountains and left his post to go help. Firgus wanted to believe Manuel had a good reason for abandoning his post. He wanted to believe in the best situation, but the thought that Manuel had up and left over selfish reasons started in the back of his mind, and grew until it engulfed his head entirely. Firgus felt a deep anger now seeping from his seams. How dare Manuel do such a thing. Firgus was nearly shaking with rage rather than from the cold. He had always disliked Manuel, but this would be the last straw.
Firgus checked the ground nearby for any sort of clue he could get as to what happened, or where they had gone. The dirt around the fire was freshly upturned. It naturally was the spot where the most footprints were left, aside from the paths made to and from the hut, but what Firgus had found was far too much for simply walking around during one six-hour shift. Stark streaks and small divots had been made from dragged feet and someone kicking. Firgus’ mind immediately went to the idea that Manuel had killed or at least attacked Kiren. But there was no blood, no sign of a fight, just the streaks and divots which Manuel could have made if he were bored.
More so, Firgus found light footprints leading towards the opening to the mountainside, which meant that Manuel had simply walked away. If Kiren had screamed, Manuel surely would have run, leaving heavier, more defined prints. If he had hurt Kiren and tried to dispose of the body or drag him away, there would be signs of that, like around the fire. But these tracks were light and they were normally spaced, which meant a calm steady walk. They were also fresh, not even a full hour old, which along with the still burning fire meant Manuel had left a short time ago. Manuel could have gingerly waited before following Kiren down the mountain, but what would be that purpose? Manuel had no reason to dislike Kiren, or want to do him harm. If he did then he would be stuck with Firgus who did hate him. Just then Firgus was reminded of what Manuel had attempted to convince him of earlier, to leave the mountain. Manuel wouldn’t kill Kiren, because then he would be left alone with Firgus who had absolutely no intention of leaving the mountain. He left his post at the watch to either go convince or force Kiren to belay him down, which would leave Firgus all alone. If Kiren did agree, or was forced to, Firgus would be left to man the watch every minute of every day without time to collect food, water, fuel, or to sleep.
Firgus’ heart raced and he felt his face flush with blood, making it hot from anger. He took off down the mountain after the freshly placed tracks. Firgus was weary of leaving the post unattended, but this held precedence. If Manuel left before they were officially relieved towards the ends of their lives, then the chain in this all-important link would be broken. And if war was declared during such time, then all of Middle Earth could fall to ruin.
Firgus’ feet slipped and skidded on the snow and ice kissed leaves, breaking branches and twigs in his rapid decent. There was only one place they could repel down from, and Firgus was flying straight there. Firgus’ foot slipped on some wet leaves and he tumbled down the steep slope until his body rammed against a protruding rock. Pain shot through his chest and back as his throat felt as though it had swelled up. He struggled to breathe as it felt like the air was hitting the back of his mouth and staying there. Firgus forced himself to his feet and looked down to the plateau of a larger rock face. It was where they had climbed up and the only way one could climb down. On the edge of the rock face stood Manuel and Kiren, rope harnesses tied around their waists.
“Manuel!” Firgus’ voice cried out on the growing wind.
Manuel barely having heard, turned to look for what made that vague noise. He was stricken with a surge of anger when he saw Firgus leaning on the rock a little way up the mountain.
“Firgus!” It was Kiren’s voice. He was obviously ecstatic to see him, but Manuel gripped the nape of Kiren’s fur collar and pulled him close enough to smell his rancid breath.
“Hurry up and get down there!” Manuel sneered. He was trying hard to cover his humiliation with what he hoped was a threatening tone. It along with the knife Manuel pulled out and pressed against Kiren’s belly was enough to get Kiren moving. Nearly trembling, Kiren pulled the rope through the hole in his harness and let it drop down the mountain face. He knew if they started before Firgus made it to them, then Firgus would be stuck on the mountain all alone, but if he didn’t move as fast as Manuel demanded, he would probably find the big knife halfway inside of his stomach.
Firgus coughed and started to move again. It was still a good distance between him and the pair which he would have to ease through in order to not break a leg, twist an ankle, or slip on more leaves and get hurt worse than just knocking the wind out of himself. The slopes were usually fine to go down, as they would usually walk, but Firgus found his feet moving faster and faster, carefully watching where they planted themselves. He could feel the fury deep within his chest, but it was not what was pushing him forward, and he was oddly calm, focusing on his feet. He was a little too focused and he did not see or hear the fist sized rock that cracked against his shoulder, sending him back. His head hit the ground with a THUD and his world went black for a split second. Firgus’ body immediately slid further down the mountain, scraping his back and legs.
Manuel watched triumphantly. Kiren shouted and wrapped the rope around Manuel’s neck. His eyes bulged and he gritted his teeth as the rope tightened around his throat and burned his skin. Kiren just pulled the rope back rather than twisting it around again, leaving an opening on the side which Manuel slipped his knife into and cut the rope with one trust. Kiren fell back and before he could regain his stance Manuel leaped on him like a wild dog. His eyes ablaze with rage and his neck red, Manuel swiped the knife across Kiren’s throat cutting it open.
Firgus reached the rocky plateau just in time to see the horrendous sight of Kiren’s lifeless body go limp, but the momentum from his fall rolled Firgus forward and he was unable to grab himself. He stopped when he hit Manuel’s legs, which gave a hefty kick to Firgus’ stomach. The plume of breath that came from Manuel’s mouth and reeled around his eyes, burning with crazed hatred, made him look as fierce as a dragon awoken from slumber. Fear gripped Firgus and his shortness of breath returned. He tried to speak, but either the lack of oxygen, the hit to his head, or primal fear kept all words within him. Firgus felt Manuel’s thick hands seize his hair and chest. Manuel pressed his face close to Frigus’ and with a low, gravelly growl said, “Take Kiren’s place. I’m getting off this mountain.” Firgus felt a rising pain in his chest and brow, though, he did not know why. It felt like his muscles were all tightening up around him in an attempt to fill some giant holes that had been punched into him. Firgus was furious. He grabbed Manuel and the two of them grappled with each other, tugging and pulling, hitting each other with their elbows and forearms where they could, some strikes on purpose, others just seemed to happen.
The two tumbled over rocks that dug into their backs though their layers of fur. Firgus found himself on top of Manuel, the edge of the plateau a few feet from them. He scraped Manuel’s face against the harsh stone and felt a jab of pain surge into his own side. He grabbed either side of Manuel’s head and threw it against the rock. Manuel’s eyes shook and he swiped his knife at Firgus’ throat. Firgus launched backwards just in time to dodge the singing blade. He saw that it was already drenched in blood, the same blood that rushed from Firgus’ side. He touched it finally realizing the pain he had felt was Manuel stabbing him. Before he could look up Manuel was on top of him again, and Firgus felt the searing pain enter and exit his stomach twice again. His arms clenched up, but his feet kicked out, hitting Manuel right in the jaw, pushing him back towards the cliff side. Dazed, Manuel staggered, lost his balance, and slipped. His nose crunched on the rock, leaving a splatter of blood, and he disappeared over the edge.
Firgus spat blood. His stomach tensed and relaxed beyond his control. Although he did not understand it, he was going into shock. His muscles burned, and he realized he was sweating profusely despite his lungs feeling like they were freezing from the mountain air. Perhaps he could recover, he thought. Perhaps if he waited a while and covered his wounds he could return to camp. The lifeless body of Kiren send a grave feeling to his soul. He was all alone on the mountain, and there was now no way to get word to anyone below. Even if he could get back to camp, he felt he would die there soon after. The sun was set on the hills around him, and the beautiful sky had turned black. The night cold would surely freeze the blood coming from his body, and Firgus resolved that he was dying there.
His chin quivered as his stomach stopped. The wind tussled his hair into his face, and with it, brought the smell of a roaring fire. It couldn’t have been a fire, for the only fire was the one he left at camp, which was much too small to make such a large smell. He tried to ignore it, but the stench of smoke molested his senses. Firgus turned his head to the side and out on Crestmor Peak he saw it. A blinding yellow and white flame rose against the black skyline. The beacon from had been lit! War had been declared, a war with the power to end all of Middle Earth!
Firgus could not believe this. Now!? After generations of silence; now, when he was bleeding out on the side of the mountain, his post totally abandoned, the beacon of war rose high. A great force stirred within him. Any idea of dying on that plateau left his mind and he was driven by the pride of duty within his heart. Firgus forced himself to his hands and knees. The pain was too much to bring him to his feet, but he crawled his way back up to their camp. His bloody hands gripping every rock and tree branch they could find, his boots digging into footholds. The wounds tore at his muscles as he tried to pull himself higher and higher. He spat up blood and had to stop for the pain in his stomach was too great. The wound from hitting the back of his head also throbbed and his vision blurred. He could tell he was dying still and he worried that he would die before he made it back. He felt he would not make it to the top, he would not light the beacon, and the free world would burn at the hand of evil. But it was this exact thought that made Firgus push on.
With all his might Firgus found himself clawing at the path as it opened up to reveal their little hut. His vision blurred and began to blacken but he was still able to see the small fire was still barely alive. He was dragging himself at this point, filling his stab wounds with dirt and snow. His breath was nearly gone, and his chest raged in pain with each short, quick breath he took. Firgus could not support himself, and he felt his life slipping away, so he reached into the fire to grab as much fame as he could. The embers and burning sticks he grabbed seared his palm and with his last bit of life threw it into the brambles and kindling of their beacon fire. His eyes closed and he had died.
The kindling remained silent for a while, unaffected by the sticks Firgus had thrown. But the wind blew breath into it and the beacon went almost immediately ablaze. From there the next beacon shone across the sky, and for the next full the chain of fire travelled from peak to peak, until finally in the dawn of the third day it came upon watchful Dunedine eyes under a thatched roof in Edoras.